I stared in. Williams had put the cabin to rights, as nearly as he could. The soaked mattress was gone, and a clean linen sheet was spread over the bunk. Poor Vail’s clothing, as he had taken it off the night before, hung on a mahogany stand beside the bed, and above, almost concealed by his coat, was the bell. Jones’s eyes were fixed on the darkish smear, over and around the bell, on the white paint.
I measured the height of the bell from the bed. It was well above, and to one side—a smear rather than a print, too indeterminate to be of any value, sinister, cruel.
“He didn’t do that, Charlie,” I said. “He couldn’t have got up to it after—That is the murderer’s mark. He leaned there, one hand against the wall, to look down at his work. And, without knowing it, he pressed the button that roused the two women.”
He had not heard the story of Henrietta Sloane, and, as we waited, I told him. Some of the tension was relaxing. He tried, in his argumentative German way, to drag me into a discussion as to the foreordination of a death that resulted from an accidental ringing of a bell. But my ears were alert for the voices near by, and soon Miss Lee opened the door.
Turner was sitting on his bunk. He had made an attempt to shave, and had cut his chin severely. He was in a dressing-gown, and was holding a handkerchief to his face; he peered at me over it with red-rimmed eyes.
“This—this is horrible, Leslie,” he said. “I can hardly believe it.”
“It is true, Mr. Turner.”
He took the handkerchief away and looked to see if the bleeding had stopped. I believe he intended to impress us both with his coolness, but it was an unfortunate attempt. His lips, relieved of the pressure, were twitching; his nerveless fingers could hardly refold the handkerchief.
“Wh-why was I not—called at once?” he demanded.
“I notified you. You were—you must have gone to sleep again.”