# More Lives Than One/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII
#### THE PUBLIC INQUIRY

When Hutchins reached the Locke apartment the inquiry was already in progress. Doctor Babcock was conducting it, and though an able and shrewd questioner, he was glad of Hutchins’s presence.
For Lieutenant Hutchins was looked upon as one of the most far-seeing and quick-witted of the Homicide Squad of the Detective Bureau, and Babcock wanted him to hear every word of the evidence.
Not that there was much evidence. It was a baffling case.
Thomas Locke seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, and yet except for the fact of that vanishing there was no reason to connect him in any way with the murder of Madeleine Barham.
No proof; indeed, no suggestion of acquaintance between the two could be discovered.
The medical examiner well knew that it was not an unknown case for a wife to have friends of whom her husband knew nothing, but that fact couldn’t prove any thing in the present instance.
All the guests of the night before had been allowed to go to their homes because of the utter absence of any sort of evidence to warrant their detention or even further questioning, except for three friends, who were said to be Locke’s intimates.
These three, Miss Vallon, Miss Cutler and Mr. Post, had been summoned to the inquiry, and Rodman Jarvis, of course, was there. ​
Nick Nelson, present in the interests of Barham, looked about curiously.
The pleasant, roomy studio, with its untheatrical furnishings, attracted him, and he marveled at the absence of the conventional claptrap. He sat next to Jarvis, and the two struck up a passing acquaintance.
Chinese Charley was interviewed first.
“He’ll tell nothing, whether he can or not,” Nelson said to his neighbor.
“If he knows anything, they’ll get it out of him,” Jarvis argued.
And they did. It wasn’t very much, but by dint of threats and hints of punishment they succeeded in getting what seemed like a straight story from the Chinaman.
It was to the effect that Locke had, about half past ten, come down the front stairs, found Charley, and given him the monk’s robe, with orders to hang it in the closet. Locke had then taken his hat and light topcoat and had walked out of the front door, as the caterer’s doorman had told Hutchins.
But after that, Charley knew no more concerning the doings of his master. He, himself, had run away home at sight of the policeman, but next morning, from a sense of duty, or from force of habit, had turned up at his usual hour of six o’clock.
“Isn’t that very early?” asked Babcock. “I thought artists were a late crowd.”
“I have much to do,” Charley returned, gravely. “I clean all—I sweep, dust—make all pleasant. Then the breakfast.”
“I see. And was Mr. Locke always ready for his breakfast?”
“If here. Not always here.”
“Ah, away part of the time?” ​
“Yes. Away part of the time.”
“Where did he go?”
The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, with a mere “No,” but no words could have expressed a more utter absence of information on that subject.
A few further questions and he was set aside as a hopeless source of enlightenment.
Rodman Jarvis was called next, and he also knew but little. His acquaintance with Locke dated perhaps from six months back. He knew him in a social and casual way, but not at all intimately or confidentially. He himself was a lawyer, but he had artistic leanings and in his leisure hours preferred to consort with painters or art students rather than learned members of his own profession.
He said there were perhaps a dozen or so who met occasionally for a social evening or afternoon, but the occasions were not very frequent, and they rarely saw each other in the intervals.
His estimate of Locke was all to the good, though avowedly superficial. He said Locke was something of a dreamer, rather intellectual, a fair artist, and a good pal. He was more inclined to listen than to talk, Jarvis said, when the crowd held their pow-wows, but when he did speak, he usually said something worth listening to. Oh, not highbrow, or erudite, but original and interesting.
All of which put the absent Locke in a pleasant light, and gave no impression of a sinister character.
But Babcock sighed, as he realized that this, after all, meant very little. He asked Henry Post for further description of the missing man.
“Locke is a good sort,” Post declared. “But I know little about him. He kept to himself—as we most of us do, down here. We are not inquisitive about our neighbors, ​so it is only as a fellow artist that I can tell you much about him. He is a chap who enjoys himself wherever he is. Who is ready to take his part and do his share always. But I’ve never known him to talk about himself or to draw attention to himself—except as it might follow a discussion of his work. He is an earnest and a painstaking painter, though as yet he has not made a name for himself in the Art world. Perhaps once a week, a few of us congregate here and jabber on art topics. A party, such as was held last night, is most unusual for Locke to give though he often has smaller gatherings. He goes away a great deal—I don’t know where, but I fancy off on sketching tours—or perhaps to visit friends. I have often telephoned him here and received no answer. But that is the way with most of us down here. We are a lawless lot, so far as the laws of convention are concerned.”
“Then you know nothing, Mr. Post, concerning Mr. Locke’s family, relatives or more intimate friends?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And you have no idea where he is at this moment?”
“Not the slightest.”
Both Jarvis and Nick Nelson watched Post carefully as he made this last statement, but neither could detect by so much as the quiver of an eyelash that the man was telling other than the exact truth. Indeed, his whole manner and attitude was frank and straightforward, and Nelson, who was a good reader of character, felt that Post knew no more of Locke than he had declared.
Miss Vallon was questioned next.
Her story was much the same as Henry Post’s.
She gave the impression that she and Miss Cutler, Mr. Post and Mr. Locke formed a sort of informal quartette. That they dined together perhaps once a fortnight or so, and afterward spent the evening in Locke’s studio, discussing ​the subjects in which they were all interested. Miss Vallon was already an illustrator of books or magazines. Miss Cutler was still studying—while the two men painted pictures without any definite idea of their ultimate bestowal.
“Did you never hear Mr. Locke mention a relative or a near friend outside your circle?” Babcock asked.
“No, not that I remember,” Miss Vallon replied, thoughtfully. “I may have heard him speak of his mother once or twice, but only in a reminiscent way; I don’t know whether she is living or not.”
So Miss Vallon’s knowledge was of no more help than Post’s.
The examiner turned hopefully to Pearl Jane Cutler.
That young woman had recovered her normal poise, and faced the listening group calmly, even coolly.
Hutchins watched her intently, for he had left her rather abruptly that morning earlier, finding his time was so short.
“Can you tell us, Miss Cutler, any more concerning the family or friends of Mr. Locke, than the other witnesses have?”
“No,” she said, quietly, shaking her bobbed hair and raising her wistful eyes to the face of the questioner.
Her intent regard disconcerted him a trifle, but he went on:
“You know him, casually, as Miss Vallon does?”
“Precisely in the same way,” she replied. “I have never seen Mr. Locke except in Miss Vallon’s company. We live in the same house.”
“Then I will ask you concerning another phase of the matter. Will you tell me of your finding Mrs. Barham’s body on the smoking-room floor?”
“Finding—What! I—I didn’t find——” ​
“Be careful, Miss Cutler—you will only make trouble for yourself by withholding the truth. You were seen—seen, bending down over the body of Mrs. Barham! Do you still deny it?”
Partly to intimidate his witness, and partly to hide his own disinclination to pursue this subject, Babcock frowned, sternly and spoke with severity.
But to his surprise, Pearl Jane threw up her head defiantly, and said: “Who saw me?”
“I see no reason to refuse an answer to that question,” Babcock returned; “it was the Chinaman, Charley.”
“Where was he?” said Pearl Jane, speaking almost conversationally and looking sharply at the Chinese boy.
Hutchins regarded the girl with surprise. What had so changed her attitude? Also, what revelations were about to be made?
“Where were you, Charley?” and Babcock turned to the servant.
“Light behind Missee Cutler,” he replied, stolidly staring straight ahead of him.
“And where was Miss Cutler?”
“In smokee loom—lookee allee time at dead lady.”
It was characteristic of the boy to use the broken English in time of embarrassment or emotion—and to use almost perfect English when calm and unperturbed.
“Was Miss Cutler alone in that room?”
“Gentleman at door. Lookee out on studio.”
“I will tell,” said Pearl Jane, speaking clearly and steadily. “I was in the small hall back of the smoking room—where the back stairs come up.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Only fixing my cap which had become disarranged—and assuring myself that my costume was all in order. There is a mirror there and a light.” ​
“Go on.”
“And I heard an exclamation or two in the den—that is, the smoking room. The door was almost closed. I pushed it open, and looked in. I saw some one on the floor. Impelled partly by curiosity, partly by a desire to be of assistance, I went to look—yes, I did bend over the body—I did, I dare say, get a smear of blood on my sleeve—” the girl shuddered, “but that’s the whole truth. I ran away at once, when I saw what it was.”
“Why did you run away?”
“Fright, horror, shock. I have never seen anything like that before and I scarcely knew what I was doing. I ran and hid in a closet—for no reason but that I was beside myself with fear and terror.”
“Who was in the den?”
“I saw no one but some man, who was looking out of the door into the studio.”
“You touched nothing in the room? Moved nothing?”
“N-no,” but Pearl Jane dropped her eyes, and Hutchins thought he noted a little gasp of alarm. Yet, who could connect this child with crime? Moreover, her story tallied with Charley’s. He said he saw her bend over the body. She admitted it. Henderson was in the room at that time—at the studio door calling for some one to find a doctor.
Doubtless the girl did exactly as she recounted, doubt less, too, the Chinaman’s story was true and he did see her as he described.
There was, so far, not the slightest reason to suspect either of these two of any connection whatever with the crime itself.
To the question, “Who did it?” there could be no convincing answer until Thomas Locke could be found and made to speak for himself. ​
However, there was one point on which Hutchins felt he must have light.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, easily, “are you and Mr. Locke especially good friends?”
The girl’s cheeks took on a deeper color, but she said coldly, “Will you state what you mean by that term?”
“Whew!” Hutchins thought to himself. “What has come over her? She’s been coached by somebody—and a mighty good job, at that.”
Aloud, he said, “I will—since you ask it. I mean, is there any romantic attachment between you?”
“No,” she replied, and her air was almost judicial; “no, not that. We are pals—good chums—fellow-workers—that is all.”
Except for the sudden blush the question had called up, the girl seemed entirely unmoved.
But Hutchins said to himself, “She’ll bear watching. She has turned from a hysterical baby to a self-composed young woman altogether too quickly! I believe she has had some word from Locke, somehow. Of course he will telephone to some one, as soon as he can manage it. Unless he is really the criminal and has vamoosed for good and all.”
“Well,” Nick Nelson said to his new friend, Jarvis, after hearing some more of this futile querying, “I don’t see as anybody can get anywhere. It isn’t the Examiner’s fault—nor yet Hutchins’—but they have nothing to work on. So far as we can gather, Locke is a proper, well-behaved citizen—but he mayn’t be at all. Now, he’s got to be found! Hang it all, man, nobody can drop out of existence like that!”
“Oh, it isn’t so difficult to hide,” Jarvis reflected. “I know Tommy, and I like him—in this casual way we all know him—but if he is a deep-dyed villain, and he may ​be for all I know, he could easily keep himself hidden—even if he stayed right here in New York. Why, if he were to cut his hair short and raise a mustache, say, and lose his big glasses—his own mother wouldn’t know him. He is in no way a distinguished looking man—I mean, he isn’t distinctive looking.”
“Even as you and I,” Nelson said smiling.
Jarvis looked at him.
“Either you or I would find it harder to disguise ourselves than Locke,” he said; “we’re of stronger peculiarities.”
“But why do you think Locke is under necessity of such procedure?” Nelson asked; “do you assume that he is responsible for the crime?”
“I don’t quite say that,” Jarvis returned, slowly, “but I don’t see any other way to look.”
“What about that girl?” Nelson asked; “the little, pretty one?”
“Pearl Jane? Oh, she’s an innocent baby. I know her. She did get into the room—and she doubtless felt curiosity—or maybe wanted to be helpful, thinking some one had fainted. She’s all right—that child, but she is in love with Tommy.”
“And he with her?”
“That I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s nothing positive about it. I’m romantic—and I’ve thought lately I sensed a dawning romance there; but maybe not—maybe not.”
And now the authorities were looking over the trinkets found at or near the scene of the crime.
No one present claimed the glove or the fan or the mask or the vanity case—but the examiner was not surprised.
They were all of small value, and to claim them might ​lay an innocent guest open to annoying questions that would mean nothing after all.
The only thing that the detective had any hope of using was the glove. He felt vaguely that much could be learned from a woman’s glove, but though he had examined it carefully inside and out, he could read nothing from it. To him it was a glove—a long, white kid glove—that was all.
The beads, the spangles, too, all merely meant the presence of various guests who had worn them—they were in no way indicative.
Hairpins—what could be read from them?
Had any of the other women a chance to enter and lean over the body?
Not that Babcock knew of.
Then there was the foolish little tinsel dagger, there was a man’s glove, several cigarette stubs—oh, pshaw, none of these things could mean anything. The thing to do was to find Thomas Locke, and it must be done.
Doctor Babcock voiced this as his ultimate conclusion. He declared that, in his opinion this consideration and discussion of hairpins and men’s gloves got them nowhere. Now, he would only ask questions that definitely concerned the personality, the character, and the possible whereabouts of Locke himself. And he asked that if anybody knew anything—anything at all, bearing on those things, he would immediately disclose such knowledge.
There was a slight stir in the back part of the room, and a feminine voice said, “I may be able to tell something of interest.”
The speaker was a quiet looking little woman, who gave her name as Eleanor Goodwin. She stated that she lived in the house next door, and that being often lonely, she frequently amused herself looking out of her windows at her neighbors. ​
“And you did this last evening?” Babcock asked hopefully.
“Yes—all during the arrival of the guests and off and on afterward.”
“You saw anything of interest?”
“It all interested me,” said Miss Goodwin, who seemed to be a pathetic creature, “because I have little excitement in my own life. I watched the guests arrive, because I caught many a glimpse of the beautiful or funny costumes, and it gave me a glimpse of gay life.”
“And later,” Babcock did not wish to hurry her unduly, but he did want to know if she had seen anything of any importance.
“Well, later, I should say about ten-thirty, I saw Mr. Locke come out and come down the steps.”
“You know him?”
“By sight, oh, yes. I do not know him to speak to. Well, he went over west, toward Fifth Avenue, and he got on to a Fifth Avenue bus.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Positive.”
“Inside, or on top?”
“He went up on top. I saw him ascend the stairway as the bus moved on.”
“Thank you. Miss Goodwin, this may be helpful. Now did you see anything after that?”
“Yes, very soon after I saw a lady come out and go away all alone. I thought it strange she had no escort and I watched her.”
“Did she get on a bus?”
“No; she went in the other direction—over east. I lost sight of her at once.”
“Can you describe her at all?”
“Only that she was not very tall—a little plump—no, ​not that, but not so overly slender as some—and she had on a dark cape. However, it blew apart a little and I could almost discern her costume.”
“What was it?” and more than one person present listened intently for the answer.
“I shouldn’t want to swear to this, but I rather fancy she represented ‘Winter.’ Her dress was white and sparkling, and her slippers were white with spangles like hoarfrost. And on her head was a sort of glistening headdress that sparkled, too.”
“Yes?” and the examiner turned quickly to Kate Vallon. “Do you know of any one who came dressed as ‘Winter’?” he said, hoping to catch her off her guard.
But Miss Vallon was seemingly quite ready to answer.
“There were three or four ‘Winters’ here,” she said, thoughtfully. “Two of them I know, but I don’t think they went home early. I can give you their names.”
Babcock was a bit regretful at her willingness, for he feared it meant merely a case of a “Winter” who went early to keep another engagement. Also, this tallied with the doorman’s story of the lady in white who left, frankly saying she was “going on” to keep another appointment.
He sighed, thanked Miss Goodwin again, assured her that he would call on her if he felt she could tell him anything more, and then returned to his statement that Mr. Locke must be found.
He declared that there was no conclusion possible but that Mrs. Barham had come to her death by the blow of the bronze book-end, at the hands of some person or per sons unknown. But that evidence pointed strongly to the supposition that Mr. Locke was implicated in the matter.
He said further that there "was a stain on the monk’s robe worn by Mr. Locke, which had been practically proved to be a stain of blood. ​
He therefore urged every possible effort on the part of any one desirous of furthering the ends of justice to do anything in his power to find the missing man, and stated that the insistent efforts of the police would be made toward that end.
He ordered a continuous guarding of the premises by the police, for he felt it quite likely that Mr. Locke would try to effect a clandestine entrance to his home on some errand.
And he warned his hearers that it was possible that Mr. Locke had already disguised himself, and that when or if found, he might be a decidedly different looking man.
He said further that he was empowered by Mr. Barham, through his friend and counsel, Mr. Nelson, then present, to offer a reward for any information that would lead to the discovery and capture of the murderer.
He said the details of this reward were not yet ready for the public, but he mentioned it in hope of bringing out some otherwise unavailable data. And, he added that though all present were now dismissed, yet some would be questioned again, and he asked them to be in readiness at any time for such interviews.