Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 43: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE DUKE overhead was reflected from a silver- mounted pistol with an ivory handle, He did not pick it up for a police reason. The finger-print experts would deal with it gin- gerly, until they knew who had last handled it. “ How did this happen?” asked O’Brien. Mr. Fitch’s look of disdain relaxed only long enough for him to reply, as he inclined his head toward the body on the rug: “ Ask him—he knows.” “What do you mean?” ‘“T heard a report. I saw something fall. I saw him sag down. That’s all I know.” “Who is he?” “Took at him yourself. you come in for?”’ O’Brien was rather mystified by the di- abolic irony in the tone, until he stepped around the corner of the table. From the tail of his eye he warily watched Claude Cutler Fitch. He might be heir to much money, or flat broke—it was all one to O’Brien, until this matter was explained m court, unless the man on the floor was a cK yegg.” However, he reflected that Mr. Fitch didn’t seem to regard the situation as ser- iously as one would expect; at least he had been privileged to flee the house before O’Brien arrived. There might be a per- fectly rational explanation. And still, with it all, there was something mighty odd-—if nothing else—in Mr. Fitch’s facial expres- sion, notwithstanding the last statement he had made, implying the other had destroyed himself. If the man on the floor was not quite dead, as yet, O’Brien’s inspection disclosed that he would be, long before medical or surgical aid could arrive. O’Brien looked down into the face of the prone man. His eyes were already glazing and the blood which had streamed from his mouth was clotting on his pallid lips. His imperial and mustache were enough to identify him to almost any one in Down- ington. O’Brien, in his first shock, would have instinctively saluted or at least removed his cap ii he had not done so on entering the house; for he was looking down on what had been, earlier that evening, the mayor 3 A What else did OF DISDAIN. 193 of Downington, in private life Attorney Ordway Marshall. O’Brien’s first thought, when he could think at all, bore no relation to time or place. It concerned the push-cart or- dinance which he had sponsored before the police commission and the mayor, and which, with his statistics of complaints, he had rescued. Mr. Fitch still sat where he had been when O’Brien had entered. He still re- frained from speaking. And the incredible expression of disdain, if anything, was more rampant than ever. Mechanically O’Brien reached out his hand for the extension telephone on the corner of the library tabie, immediately above the projecting legs of the dead man. His movement elicited as little response from Claude -Cutler Fitch as jiggling the receiver evoked from “ central.” Then the officer remembered the chauffeur’s statement: “The phone seems not to be in order,” replaced it and glanced at his watch. It was exactly 11:10 P.M. Without either a word or a look toward Mr. Fitch, O’Brien stepped out of the library back down the hall and toward the side entrance, where he had left the chauffeur and the two ladies. The chauffeur was still there. “* Where are the ladies?” Mordaunt thumbed toward the stairway. “You stay here,” said O’Brien to the chauffeur. “I’m going out a minute.” He slid through the side door, ran down the steps and skirted the front of the house. Being a devotee of routine, O’Brien knew that Callahan, if “‘ on the job,” should now be on his way past this very house to “pull the box” some squares below, at 11:15, the scheduled “ring in.” He whipped out his whistle and blew three soft blasts, the signal of the “inspection ser- geant”’ who had “lost his patrolman.” Near-by a night stick clattered in response, and Callahan, in mackintosh, loomed up. “ Hello, Sarge!” “ Come wid me,” said O’Brien gruffly. “ Hist me up in front of that windy!” Callahan complied. O’Brien saw that Mr. Fitch had not changed his position or his expression. EOPNICLOOC (C (EO)