“That will do, Mr. Garder, thank you,” Detective Frake said. “You may return to your chair. If you wish to return home, you may do that. You are not under suspicion, of course.”
“Unless you object, I’d like to remain,” Garder said. “I was her attorney, and, if there are any developments—”
“I understand. You may remain, of course.”
Sam Frake consulted the ceiling of the room again. Then he beckoned Mrs. Howard Crend to take the chair beneath the light She was nervous beneath the detective’s scrutiny, but then the dead woman had been her sister, of course, and she was shaken by the tragic death.
“When did you see your sister alive last?” Frake asked.
“Day before yesterday. We were to a matinée together,” Mrs. Crend replied.
“She seemed to be all right then?”
“She was in good health and spirits, if that is what you mean. In too good spirits, in fact.”
“What do you mean by that?” Frake asked.
“She was like a silly schoolgirl. She was in love with a man. I tried to tell her that she would be foolish to marry again at all, especially to the man with whom she was infatuated.”
“And what did she say?”
“She refused to listen to me,” Laura Crend replied.
“She telephoned you to-day?”
“At half past three, as I told you.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said that she had just called up to tell me good-by,” Mrs. Crend replied. “I tried to ask her what she meant, and she rang off. I was afraid she meant an elopement, and my husband and I hurried over here at once.”
“What then?”
“The front door of her suite was standing open about half a foot,” Mrs. Crend went on. “We rang, and nobody came. We thought it was peculiar, and so we went inside. And — and there we found her—”
“What did you do?” Frake asked.
“We were horror-stricken, of course. I— I scarcely can remember.”
“Did you rush right out of the room again and meet Mr. Garder, or did you remain in the boudoir?”
“We came right out. We met Mr. Garder at the turning in the hall, as he said.”
Detective Sam Frake cleared his throat and sat forward suddenly, alert for the first time since he had begun his questioning.
“Mrs. Crend,” he said, “are you sure that you did not remain in that apartment at least ten minutes before leaving it and meeting Mr. Garder?”
“I— I scarcely think so,” she replied, bit confused.
“The clerk, Mrs. Crend, has assured me that you and your husband went up to Mrs. Lennek’s apartment at least ten minutes before Mr. Garder arrived. He told Mr. Garder that you were up there.”
“It — it didn’t seem that long,” Mrs. Crend said.
“You found your sister dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take any steps to make sure that she was dead?” Frake asked.
“No. One glance was enough. The expression on her face, her open and glazed eyes—”
“So you did not touch her?”
“No, sir. I— I was too shocked.”
“You cannot tell me, then, whether she had just passed away, or whether she had been dead for some time?”
“No.”
“Did you touch anything in the boudoir?”
“Nothing. My husband led me out of the room into the living room immediately.”
“How long has it been since you were in the boudoir, before this last visit?”
“Possibly a week,” Mrs. Crend replied.
“Sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Crend,” said Detective Frake, “I have ascertained that the furniture polisher connected with this apartment house was working in Mrs. Lennek’s rooms yesterday — Saturday. I learned that from the maid, from the superintendent, and from the polisher himself. He polished that desk in the corner of the boudoir, for instance. You say that you have not been in there for a week or so. Then how does it happen, Mrs. Crend, that your finger prints are on the polished surface of the desk?”
“What are you saying?” she cried.
“Merely pointing out an — er — an error in your answers,” Detective Sam Frake said. “I had the finger-print expert take prints of all of you a short time ago. They have been compared with prints found in the boudoir. For Instance, the glass tumbler shows prints made by Mrs. Lennek, her maid, and Mr. Garder. The maid says she handled the glass, and Mr. Garder told us that he picked it up.”
“But—”
“And your finger prints, Mrs. Crend, are on the polished surface of that desk. Fortunately it took prints very well indeed. Those prints, Mrs. Crend, were made by you since the polisher handled that piece of furniture Saturday afternoon — within twenty-four hours. Yet you say you did not touch the desk today, and that you had not been in the boudoir for possibly a week before.”
“What are you trying to do?” Howard Crend cried suddenly, springing to his feet. “Are you accusing my wife of killing her sister?”
“Sit down!” Frake commanded. “I am merely showing you that I want the truth, the whole truth, and that you can easily be caught in a lie.”
“There must be some mistake —” Mrs. Crend began.
“There is no mistake about those finger prints,” Detective Frake told her. “You were in your sister’s apartment ten or fifteen minutes, Mrs. Crend, before you came out again and ran into Mr. Garder. To speak brutally, you had ample time to kill your sister. You might have been running away when you stumbled into Mr. Garder. Nobody touched the body until the coroner’s man came, so we do not know whether the crime had been done within a few minutes.”
“You —” Crend began again.
“Silence,” Detective Frake commanded. “Now, Mrs. Crend, you are in a bad position. Telling a lie to me hasn’t got you much, has it? Mrs. Lennek died from poison. But the doctor and I have reason to believe that she did not drink it — that she was forced to swallow it. There are marks on her throat, her chin — finger marks. They show that she was roughly handled. You could have slain her, Mrs. Crend—”
“My sister? Why should I do such a thing?” the woman cried.
“Motive? One of the greatest. By your sister’s death you come into a million or a million and a half, according to what Mr. Garder has told me.”
“You think that I—”
“A million or more, simply by removing one human being,” Frake said, interrupting her. “And there is another angle, of course. You were afraid, you admit, that your sister might marry a certain man. In that case you would cease to be her heiress, of course. By removing her before the marriage could take place—”
“Beast! Beast!” Mrs. Crend cried.
Her husband hurried to her and tried to quiet her. Crend’s race was deathly pale.
“No, Mrs. Crend, perhaps you’d better tell me the truth,” Frake said. “Lies get you into trouble, you see, and place you under suspicion. You do not have to speak, of course, unless you wish. Anything you say may be used against you—”
“I’ll talk!” Laura Crend cried. “I did touch that desk! But I never killed my sister. You’re a monster to suggest such a thing!”
“Suppose you try to be calm and speak the truth,” Frake told her.
“When we found her dead, it flashed into my mind that she had quarreled with the man with whom she was infatuated, or that she was despondent because we did not want her to marry again. Then I— I was afraid of scandal. I was afraid she had written something, left it behind, something that would put my husband and me in a bad light. I rushed to the desk and looked there, but found nothing. And then we left the boudoir. And that is all. I swear it!”
“Crend, is that true?” Detective Frake asked.
“Yes. My wife merely glanced at the desk, turned over some sheets of paper and envelopes that were on it. Then I got her away.”