“I was; and I used oxalic acid because its symptoms are similar to those produced by heart disease,” explained Norcross, no touch of feeling in his voice. “Thinking Tilghman’s death would be attributed to heart failure, I removed the flask—for if it had been found, it might have been tested and suspicion aroused of foul play. Frankly, if I had realized that Tilghman’s death would be instantly investigated by Dr. Shively, I would have left Barclay’s flask to incriminate him. Instead, I flung it under the car, thinking the train would crush it beyond recognition when we moved out of Atlanta.”
Ethel shuddered at the cold-blooded confession, and they all stared at Norcross, whose defiant manner repelled the faintest spark of sympathy.
“Well, you are a cool one!” Detective Mitchell looked at his prisoner in amazement. “Was it just the desire to kill, or had you some grudge against James Patterson which made you murder him?”
Norcross glared at his questioner. “It was not murder,” he protested, “but chance. I overheard Miss Ogden ask James Patterson to get her miniature out of the burning room.”
“Did you know I had your miniature?” gasped Ethel.
“No, but not finding it among Tilghman’s effects, which I searched under Dr. Shively’s intelligent supervision,” with an evil smile, “I was desperate, and any miniature of you interested me. I decided to take a look at this miniature; bolted up the staircase, and accidently ran against Patterson, knocking a photograph out of his hand. We both stooped for it and managed between us to tear it, the upper half remaining in my grasp,” he stopped and bowed to Ethel, mockingly, “I sent it to you,” then continued to the others. “Patterson cursed me and ran on, first into Ogden’s bedroom and then into the burning room.”
“So he beat you to it,” commented Mitchell.
Norcross shrugged his shoulders. “What need for me to enter the burning room when Patterson would obligingly rescue what I wanted? I waited in Ogden’s bedroom, but being half-blinded by the smoke, Patterson slipped by me unseen, and my intention of jerking the miniature out of his hand and disappearing was frustrated. Since Tilghman’s death I have always gone armed for any emergency, and catching a glimpse of Patterson as he raced out of the door, I fired my revolver at him.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mitchell turning to look at the safe before which they were standing.
“I missed, the blinding smoke spoiling my aim,” finished Norcross. “As you know, the bullet struck the safe, ricocheted down the hall and hit Patterson in a vital spot. When I reached the hall I made out Patterson lying on the floor and another man stooping over him, a man who helped himself to the miniature and the torn photograph which Patterson dropped in his fall.” Norcross’ eyes traveled suggestively toward Barclay.