CHAPTER XIV
CAUGHT IN THE NET
Doris looked down in great, dry-eyed horror upon the body of this withered old man whom she had loved, and the thin thread of life within her all but snapped. It had come; the premonition of disaster had been fulfilled; the last of her blood had been sacrificed to the mercilessly glittering diamonds—father, brother and now him! Mr. Wynne's face went white, and his teeth closed fiercely; he had loved this old man, too; then the shock passed and he turned anxiously to Doris to receive the limp, inert figure in his arms. She had fainted.
"Well, what do you know about it?" inquired Chief Arkwright abruptly.
Mr. Wynne was himself again instantly—the calm, self-certain perfectly poised young man of affairs. He glanced at the chief, then shot a quick, inquiring look at Mr. Czenki. Almost imperceptibly the diamond expert shook his head. Then Mr. Wynne's eyes turned upon Mr. Birnes. There had been triumph in the detective's face until that moment, but, under the steady, meaning glare which was directed at him, triumph faded to a sort of wonder, followed by a vague sense of uneasiness, and he read a command in the fixed eyes—a command to silence. Curiously enough it reminded him that he was in the employ of Mr. Latham, and that there were certain business secrets to be protected. He regarded the coroner's physician, hastily summoned for a perfunctory examination.
"Well?" demanded the chief again.
"Nothing—of this," replied Mr. Wynne. "I think, Doctor," and he addressed the physician, "that she needs you more than he does. We know only too well what's the matter with him."
The physician arose obediently. Mr. Wynne gathered up the slender, still figure in his arms, and bore it away to another room. The doctor bent over Doris, and tested the fluttering heart.
"Only shock," he said finally, when he looked up. "She'll come round all right in a little while."
"Thank God!" the young man breathed softly.
He stooped and pressed reverent lips to the marble-white brow, then straightened up and, after one long, lingering look at her, turned quickly and left the room.
"I have no statement to make," Mr. Czenki was saying, in that level, unemotional way of his, when Mr. Wynne reentered the room where lay the dead.
"We are to assume that you are guilty, then?" demanded Chief
Arkwright with cold finality.
"I have nothing to say," replied the expert. His gaze met that of Mr. Wynne for a moment, then settled on the venerable face of the old man.
"Guilty?" interposed Mr. Wynne quickly. "Guilty of what?"
Chief Arkwright, without speaking, waved his hand toward the body on the floor. There was a flash of amazement in the young man's face, a sudden bewilderment; the diamond expert's countenance was expressionless.
"You don't deny that you killed him?" persisted the chief accusingly.
"I have nothing to say," said the expert again.
"And you don't deny that you were Red Haney's accomplice?"
"I have nothing to say," was the monotonous answer.
The chief shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Some illuminating thought shone for an instant in Mr. Wynne's clear eyes and he nodded as if a question in his mind had been answered.
"Perhaps, Chief, there may be some mistake?" he protested half-heartedly.
"Perhaps this gentleman—what motive would—"
"There's motive enough," interrupted the chief briskly. "We have this man's description straight from his accomplice, Red Haney, even to the scar on his face—" He paused abruptly, and regarded Mr. Wynne through half-closed lids. "By the way," he continued deliberately, "who are you? What do you know about it?"
"My name is Wynne—E. van Cortlandt Wynne" was the ready response. "I am directly interested in this case through a long-standing friendship for Mr. Kellner here, and through the additional fact that his granddaughter in the adjoining room is soon to become my wife." There was a little pause. "I may add that I live in New York, and that Miss Kellner has been stopping there for several days. She has been accustomed to hearing from her grandfather at least once a day by telephone, but she was unable to get an answer either yesterday or to-day, so she came to my home, and together we came out here."
Mr. Birnes looked up quickly. It had suddenly occurred to him to wonder as to the whereabouts of Claflin and Sutton, who had been on watch at the Thirty-seventh Street house. The young man interpreted the expression of his face aright, and favored him with a meaning glance.
"We came alone," he supplemented.
Mr. Birnes silently pondered it.
"All that being true," Chief Arkwright suggested tentatively, "perhaps you can give us some information as to the diamonds that were stolen? How much were they worth? How many were there?" He held up the uncut stones that had been found on the floor.
"I don't know their exact number," was the reply. "Their value, I should say, was about sixty thousand dollars. Except for this little house, and the grounds adjoining, practically all of Mr. Kellner's money was invested in diamonds. Those you have there are part of an accumulation of many years, imported in the rough, one or two at a time."
Mr. Czenki was gazing abstractedly out of a window, but the expression on his lean face indicated the keenest interest, and—and something else; apprehension, maybe. The chief stared straight into the young man's eyes for an instant, and then:
"And Mr. Kellner's family?" he inquired.
"There is no one, except his granddaughter, Doris."
Some change, sudden as it was pronounced, came over the chief, and his whole attitude altered. He dropped into a chair near the door.
"Have a seat, Mr. Wynne," he invited courteously, "and let's understand this thing clearly. Over there, please," and he indicated a chair partly facing that in which Mr. Czenki sat.
Mr. Wynne sat down.
"Now you don't seem to believe," the chief went on pleasantly, "that
Czenki here killed Mr. Kellner?"
"Well, no," the young man admitted.
Mr. Czenki glanced at him quickly, warningly. The chief was not looking, but he knew the glance had passed.
"And why don't you believe it?" he continued.
"In the first place," Mr. Wynne began without hesitation, "the diamonds were worth only about sixty thousand dollars, and Mr. Czenki here draws a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year. The proportion is wrong, you see. Again, Mr. Czenki is a man of unquestioned integrity. As diamond expert of the Henry Latham Company he handles millions of dollars' worth of precious stones each year, and has practically unlimited opportunities for theft, without murder, if he were seeking to steal. He has been with that company for several years, and that fact alone is certainly to his credit."
"Very good," commented the chief ambiguously. He paused an instant to study this little man with an interest aroused by the sum of his salary. "And what of Haney's description? His accusation?" he asked.
"Haney might have lied, you know," retorted Mr. Wynne. "Men in his position have been known to lie."
"I understood you to say," the chief resumed, heedless of the note of irony in the other's voice, "that you and Miss Kellner are to be married?"
"Yes."
"And that she is the only heir of her grandfather?"
"Yes."
"Therefore, at his death, the diamonds would become her property?"
For one instant Mr. Wynne seemed startled, and turned his clear eyes full upon his interrogator, seeking the hidden meaning.
"Yes, but—" he began slowly.
"That's true, isn't it?" demanded the chief, with quick violence.
"Yes, that's true," Mr. Wynne admitted calmly.
"Therefore, indirectly, it would have been to your advantage if Mr.
Kellner had died or had been killed?"
"In that the diamonds would have come to my intended wife, yes," was the reply.
Mr. Czenki clasped and unclasped his thin hands nervously. His face was again expressionless, and the beady eyes were fastened immovably on Chief Arkwright's. Mr. Birnes was frankly amazed at this unexpected turn of the affair. Suddenly Chief Arkwright brought his hand down on the arm of his chair with a bang.
"Suppose, for the moment, that Red Haney lied, and that Mr. Czenki is not the murderer, then—As a matter of fact your salary isn't twenty-five thousand a year, is it?"
He was on his feet now, with blazing eyes, and one hand was thrust accusingly into Mr. Wynne's face. It was simulation; Mr. Birnes understood it; a police method of exhausting possibilities. There was not the slightest movement by Mr. Wynne to indicate uneasiness at the charge, not a tremor in his voice when he spoke again.
"I understand perfectly, Chief," he remarked coldly. "Just what was the time of the crime, may I ask?"
"Answer my question," insisted the Chief thunderously.
"Now look here, Chief," Mr. Wynne went on frigidly, "I am not a child to be frightened into making any absurd statements. I do not draw a salary of twenty-five thousand a year, no. I am in business for myself, and make more than that. You may satisfy yourself by examining the books in my office if you like. By intimation, at least, you are accusing me of murder. Now answer me a question, please. What was the time of the crime?"