Suddenly the door in the window burst open and a lean man wearing a short pointed beard and a monocle ran into the room. His staring eyes took in the two motionless figures on the shining floor, traveled jerkily to the milling crowd outside and the policeman swinging his club, and returned with dazed disbelief to the floor. With a soundless oath he sprang forward, grasped a heavy silk cord in a corner near the plate-glass window, and pulled. A translucent curtain fell immediately, shutting off the view of the frantic people in the street.
The bearded man knelt at the side of the model, felt her pulse, hesitantly touched the skin of the other woman, rose and ran back to the door. A growing crowd of salesgirls and shoppers was collecting on the main floor of the department store, just outside the window. Three men — floorwalkers — rushed through as if to enter.
The man in the window spoke sharply: “You — get the head store detective at once — no, never mind — here he comes — Mr. Crouther! Mr. Crouther! This way! Here!”
A heavy-set, abroad-shouldered man with a mottled complexion shoved his way, cursing, through the crowd. He had just reached the entrance of the window when the policeman who had dispersed the crowd on the sidewalk ran up and dashed after him into the window. The three men disappeared, the bluecoat slamming the door shut behind them.
The bearded man stood aside. “There’s been a terrible accident, Crouther... Glad you’re here, officer... My God, what an affair!”
The head store detective pounded across the room and glared down at the two women. “What happened to the girl, Mr. Lavery?” he bellowed at the bearded man.
“Fainted, I suppose!”
“Here, Crouther, let me take a look,” said the policeman, unceremoniously pushing Lavery aside. He bent over the body of the woman who had tumbled from the bed.
Crouther cleared his throat importantly. “Listen here, Bush. This is no time to make an examination. We oughtn’t to touch a thing until Headquarters is notified. Mr. Lavery and me — we’ll stand guard here while you use the ’phone. Go ahead now, Bush, don’t be an egg!”
The policeman stood undecidedly for a moment, scratched his head, and finally left the room with hurried steps.
“This is one sweet mess,” growled Crouther. “What happened here, Mr. Lavery? Who the hell is this woman?”
Lavery started nervously and plucked at his beard with long thin fingers. “Why, don’t you know? But of course not... Good Heavens, Crouther, what are we to do?”
Crouther frowned. “Now don’t go getting yourself all excited Mr. Lavery.” This is a police job, pure and simple. Lucky I was on the scene so quick. We gotta wait for the detail from Headquarters, Just take it easy now—”
Lavery regarded the store detective coldly. “I’m perfectly all right, Mr. Crouther,” he said. “I suggest—” he weighted the word with authority — “that you immediately marshal your store forces to keep order on the main floor. Make it appear as if nothing out of the way has happened. Call Mr. MacKenzie. Send somebody to notify Mr. French and the Board of Directors. I understand they’re having a meeting upstairs. This is — an affair of a grave nature — graver than you know. Go now!”
Crouther looked at Lavery rebelliously, shook his head, and made for the door. As he opened it a small dark man with a physician’s bag stepped into the room. He glanced quickly around and without a word crossed to the side of the two bodies.
He favored the model with a scant glance and a feeling of the pulse. He spoke without looking up.
“Here — Mr. Lavery, is it? — you’ll have to help — get one of the men outside to give you a hand — the model has merely fainted — get her a glass of water and put her on that divan there — send somebody for one of the nurses from the infirmary...”
Lavery nodded. He went to the door and looked out over the whispering crowd on the floor.
“Mr. MacKenzie! Here, please!”
A middle-aged man with a pleasant Scotch face hurried up and into the room. “Help me, please,” said Lavery.
The doctor busied himself over the body of the other woman. His movements concealed her face. Lavery and MacKenzie picked up the reviving form of the model and carried her to the divan. A floorwalker outside was dispatched for a glass of water and reappeared in a twinkling. The model gulped, groaned.
The doctor looked up gravely. “This woman is dead,” he announced. “Has been for quite a while. What’s more, she’s been shot. Got it in the heart. Looks like murder, Mr. Lavery!”
“Nom du chien!” muttered Lavery. His face was sickly white.
MacKenzie scurried across the room to look down at the huddled corpse. He fell back with a cry. “Good God! It’s Mrs. French!”
5
“And All the King’s Men”
The window-door opened quickly and two men stepped in. One, a tall lanky individual smoking a blackish cigar, stopped short, peered about him, and then, catching sight of the body, immediately advanced to the farther side of the wall bed, on the floor by which lay the dead woman. He favored the little physician with a keen glance, nodded and without further ado dropped to his knees. After a moment he looked up.
“The store doctor, are you?”
The physician nodded nervously. “Yes, I’ve made a superficial examination. She’s dead. I—”
“I can see that,” said the newcomer. “I’m Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner. Stand by, doctor.” Again he bent over the body, opening his bag with one hand.
The second of the two men who had arrived was an iron-jawed giant. He had stopped at the door, softly prodding it shut behind him. Now his eyes flickered over the frozen faces of Lavery, MacKenzie and the store doctor. His own face was cold and harsh and expressionless.
It was not until Dr. Prouty began his examination that this man vitalized into action. He took a purposeful step forward toward MacKenzie, but stopped suddenly as the door shivered under a violent pounding.
“Come in!” he said sharply, standing between the door and the bed, so that the body was hidden from the newcomers.
The door was flung aside. A small army of men surged forward. The tall man blocked their path.
“Just a moment,” he said slowly. “We can’t have so many people in here. Who are you?”
Cyrus French, flushed and choleric, snapped: “I am the owner of this establishment, and these gentlemen all have a right to be here. They are the Board of Directors — this is Mr. Crouther, our head store detective — stand aside, please.”
The tall man did not move. “Mr. French, eh? Board of Directors?... Hello, Crouther... Who is this?” He pointed to Westley Weaver, who hovered about the edge of the group, a trifle pale.
“Mr. Weaver, my secretary,” said French impatiently. “Who are you, sir, What’s happened here? Let me pass.”
“I see.” The tall man reflected a moment, hesitated, then said firmly, “I’m Sergeant Velie of the Homicide Squad. Sorry, Mr. French, but you’ll have to abide by my orders here. Come in, but don’t touch anything and let me give the orders.” He stepped aside. He seemed to be waiting for something with unwearying patience.
Lavery ran forward, his eyes distended as he saw Cyrus French stride toward the bed. He intercepted the old man, grasped his lapel.