4

"ALL THE KING'S HORSES"

The Negress uttered one horrified shriek, so piercing that it was distinctly audible through the heavy glass window, rolled her eyes wildly, and fell fainting at the side of the body.

The spectators outside still presented a tableau—they were stricken into silence, petrified with fright. Then a woman on the sidewalk, her face pressed immovably to the glass, screamed. Immobility became frenzy, silence a dull unpunctuated roar. The crowd surged away from the window, pushing madly backward, stampeding in terror. A child fell and was trampled in the crush. A police whistle blew, and a bluecoat ran shouting through the crowd, using his club freely. He seemed bewildered by the uproar—he had not yet seen the two still figures in the exhibition-window.

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 Negress, felt her pulse, hesitantly touched the skin of the other woman, rose and ran back to the door. A growing crowd of sales-girls 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, broad-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 coon, Mr. Lav-ery?" 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. Lav-ery 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. Lav-ery? Who in 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. Lav-ery. 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 Negress 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 Negress 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 Negress and carried her to the divan. A floorwalker outside was dispatched for a glass of water and reappeared in a twinkling. The Negress 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!"