Night Shots
by
The house was of red brick, large and square, with a green slate roof whose wide overhang gave the building an appearance of being too squat for its two stories; and it stood on a grassy hill, well away from the country road upon which it turned its back to look down on the Mokelumne River.
The Ford that I had hired to bring me out from Knownburg carried me into the grounds through a high steel-meshed gate, followed the circling gravel drive, and set me down within a foot of the screened porch that ran all the way around the house’s first floor.
“There’s Exon’s son-in-law now,” the driver told me as he pocketed the bill I had given him and prepared to drive away.
I turned to see a tall, loose-jointed man of thirty or so coming across the porch toward me — a carelessly dressed man with a mop of rumpled brown hair over a handsome sunburned face. There was a hint of cruelty in the lips that were smiling lazily just now, and more than a hint of recklessness in his narrow gray eyes.
“Mr. Gallaway?” I asked as he came down the steps.
‘Yes.” His voice was a drawling baritone. “You are —”
“From the Continental Detective Agency’s San Francisco branch,” I finished for him.
He nodded, and held the screen door open for me.
“Just leave your bag there. I’ll have it taken up to your room.”
He guided me into the house and — after I had assured him that I had already eaten luncheon — gave me a soft chair and an excellent cigar. He sprawled on his spine in an armchair opposite me — all loose-jointed angles sticking out of it in every direction — and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“First off,” he began presently, his words coming out languidly, “I may as well tell you that I don’t expect very much in the way of results. I sent for you more for the soothing effect of your presence on the household than because I expect you to do anything. I don’t believe there’s anything to do. However, I’m not a detective. I may be wrong. You may find out all sorts of more or less important things. If you do — fine! But I don’t insist upon it.”
I didn’t say anything, though this beginning wasn’t much to my taste. He smoked in silence for a moment, and then went on, “My father-in-law, Talbert Exon, is a man of fifty-seven, and ordinarily a tough, hard, active, and fiery old devil. But just now he’s recovering from a rather serious attack of pneumonia, which has taken most of the starch out of him. He hasn’t been able to leave his bed yet, and Dr. Rench hopes to keep him on his back for at least another week.
“The old man has a room on the second floor — the front, right-hand corner room — just over where we are sitting. His nurse, Miss Caywood, occupies the next room, and there is a connecting door between. My room is the other front one, just across the hall from the old man’s; and my wife’s bedroom is next to mine — across the hall from the nurse’s. I’ll show you around later. I just want to make the situation clear.
“Last night, or rather this morning at about half-past one, somebody shot at Exon while he was sleeping — and missed. The bullet went into the frame of the door that leads to the nurse’s room, about six inches above his body as he lay in bed. The course the bullet took in the woodwork would indicate that it had been fired from one of the windows — either through it or from just inside.