Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (11 page)

"Jack! Why isn't it the nephew who is trying to break in?"

"He wouldn't have to break in. He could make an excuse and come in any
time."

He clenched his hands despairingly.

"If I could only get hold of a blue-print of this place!" he muttered.

Dale's face fell. It was sickening to be so close to the secret—and
yet not find it. "Oh, Jack, I'm so confused and worried!" she
confessed, with a little sob.

Brooks put his hands on her shoulders in an effort to cheer her spirits.

"Now listen, dear," he said firmly, "this isn't as hard as it sounds.
I've got a clear night to work in—and as true as I'm standing here,
that money's in this house. Listen, honey—it's like this." He
pantomimed the old nursery rhyme of The House that Jack Built, "Here's
the house that Courtleigh Fleming built—here, somewhere, is the Hidden
Room in the house that Courtleigh Fleming built—and
here—somewhere—pray Heaven—is the money—in the Hidden Room—in the
house that Courtleigh Fleming built. When you're low in your mind,
just say that over!"

She managed a faint smile. "I've forgotten it already," she said,
drooping.

He still strove for an offhand gaiety that he did not feel.

"Why, look here!" and she followed the play of his hands obediently,
like a tired child, "it's a sort of game, dearest. 'Money,
money—who's got the money?' You know!" For the dozenth time he
stared at the unrevealing walls of the room. "For that matter," he
added, "the Hidden Room may be behind these very walls."

He looked about for a tool, a poker, anything that would sound the
walls and test them for hollow spaces. Ah, he had it—that driver in
the bag of golf clubs over in the corner. He got the driver and stood
wondering where he had best begin. That blank wall above the fireplace
looked as promising as any. He tapped it gently with the golf
club—afraid to make too much noise and yet anxious to test the wall as
thoroughly as possible. A dull, heavy reverberation answered his
stroke—nothing hollow there apparently.

As he tried another spot, again thunder beat the long roll on its iron
drum outside, in the night. The lights blinked—wavered—recovered.

"The lights are going out again," said Dale dully, her excitement sunk
into a stupefied calm.

"Let them go! The less light the better for me. The only thing to do
is to go over this house room by room." He pointed to the billiard
room door. "What's in there?"

"The billiard room." She was thinking hard. "Jack! Perhaps Courtleigh
Fleming's nephew would know where the blue-prints are!"

He looked dubious. "It's a chance, but not a very good one," he said.
"Well—" He led the way into the billiard room and began to rap at
random upon its walls while Dale listened intently for any echo that
might betray the presence of a hidden chamber or sliding panel.

Thus it happened that Lizzie received the first real thrill of what was
to prove to her—and to others—a sensational and hideous night. For,
coming into the living-room to lay a cloth for Mr. Anderson's night
suppers not only did the lights blink threateningly and the thunder
roll, but a series of spirit raps was certainly to be heard coming from
the region of the billiard room.

"Oh, my God!" she wailed, and the next instant the lights went out,
leaving her in inky darkness. With a loud shriek she bolted out of the
room.

Thunder—lightning—dashing of rain on the streaming glass of the
windows—the storm hallooing its hounds. Dale huddled close to her
lover as they groped their way back to the living-room, cautiously,
doing their best to keep from stumbling against some heavy piece of
furniture whose fall would arouse the house.

"There's a candle on the table, Jack, if I can find the table." Her
outstretched hands touched a familiar object. "Here it is." She
fumbled for a moment. "Have you any matches?"

"Yes." He struck one—another—lit the candle—set it down on the
table. In the weak glow of the little taper, whose tiny flame
illuminated but a portion of the living-room, his face looked tense and
strained.

"It's pretty nearly hopeless," he said, "if all the walls are paneled
like that."

As if in mockery of his words and his quest, a muffled knocking that
seemed to come from the ceiling of the very room he stood in answered
his despair.

"What's that?" gasped Dale.

They listened. The knocking was repeated—knock—knock—knock—knock.

"Someone else is looking for the Hidden Room!" muttered Brooks, gazing
up at the ceiling intently, as if he could tear from it the secret of
this new mystery by sheer strength of will.

"It's upstairs!" Dale took a step toward the alcove stairs. Brooks
halted her.

"Who's in this house besides ourselves?" he queried.

"Only the detective, Aunt Cornelia, Lizzie, and Billy."

"Billy's the Jap?"

"Yes."

Brooks paused an instant. "Does he belong to your aunt?"

"No. He was Courtleigh Fleming's butler."

Knock—knock—knock—knock the dull, methodical rapping on the ceiling
of the living-room began again.

"Courtleigh Fleming's butler, eh?" muttered Brooks. He put down his
candle and stole noiselessly into the alcove. "It may be the Jap!" he
whispered.

Knock—knock—knock—knock! This time the mysterious rapping seemed to
come from the upper hall.

"If it is the Jap, I'll get him!" Brooks's voice was tense with
resolution. He hesitated—made for the hall door—tiptoed out into the
darkness around the main staircase, leaving Dale alone in the
living-room beset by shadowy terrors.

Utter silence succeeded his noiseless departure. Even the storm lulled
for a moment. Dale stood thinking, wondering, searching desperately
for some way to help her lover.

At last a resolution formed in her mind. She went to the city
telephone.

"Hello," she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder now and
then to make sure she was not overheard. "1-2-4—please—yes, that's
right. Hello—is that the country club? Is Mr. Richard Fleming there?
Yes, I'll hold the wire."

She looked about nervously. Had something moved in that corner of
blackness where her candle did not pierce? No! How silly of her!

Buzz-buzz on the telephone. She picked up the receiver again.

"Hello—is this Mr. Fleming? This is Miss Ogden—Dale Ogden. I know
it must seem odd my calling you this late, but—I wonder if you could
come over here for a few minutes. Yes—tonight." Her voice grew
stronger. "I wouldn't trouble you but—it's awfully important. Hold
the wire a moment." She put down the phone and made another swift
survey of the room, listened furtively at the door—all clear! She
returned to the phone.

"Hello—Mr. Fleming—I'll wait outside the house on the drive. It—it's
a confidential matter. Thank you so much."

She hung up the phone, relieved—not an instant too soon, for, as she
crossed toward the fireplace to add a new log to the dying glow of the
fire, the hall door opened and Anderson, the detective, came softly in
with an unlighted candle in his hand.

Her composure almost deserted her. How much had he heard? What
deduction would he draw if he had heard? An assignation, perhaps!
Well, she could stand that; she could stand anything to secure the next
few hours of liberty for Jack. For that length of time she and the law
were at war; she and this man were at war.

But his first words relieved her fears.

"Spooky sort of place in the dark, isn't it?" he said casually.

"Yes—rather." If he would only go away before Brooks came back or
Richard Fleming arrived! But he seemed in a distressingly chatty frame
of mind.

"Left me upstairs without a match," continued Anderson. "I found my
way down by walking part of the way and falling the rest. Don't
suppose I'll ever find the room I left my toothbrush in!" He laughed,
lighting the candle in his hand from the candle on the table.

"You're not going to stay up all night, are you?" said Dale nervously,
hoping he would take the hint. But he seemed entirely oblivious of
such minor considerations as sleep. He took out a cigar.

"Oh, I may doze a bit," he said. He eyed her with a certain approval.
She was a darned pretty girl and she looked intelligent. "I suppose you
have a theory of your own about these intrusions you've been having
here? Or apparently having."

"I knew nothing about them until tonight."

"Still," he persisted conversationally, "you know about them now." But
when she remained silent, "Is Miss Van Gorder usually—of a nervous
temperament? Imagines she sees things, and all that?"

"I don't think so." Dale's voice was strained. Where was Brooks? What
had happened to him?

Anderson puffed on his cigar, pondering. "Know the Flemings?" he asked.

"I've met Mr. Richard Fleming once or twice."

Something in her tone caused him to glance at her. "Nice fellow?"

"I don't know him at all well."

"Know the cashier of the Union Bank?" he shot at her suddenly.

"No!" She strove desperately to make the denial convincing but she
could not hide the little tremor in her voice.

The detective mused.

"Fellow of good family, I understand," he said, eyeing her. "Very
popular. That's what's behind most of these bank embezzlements—men
getting into society and spending more than they make."

Dale hailed the tinkle of the city telephone with an inward sigh of
relief. The detective moved to answer the house phone on the wall by
the alcove, mistaking the direction of the ring. Dale corrected him
quickly.

"No, the other one. That's the house phone." Anderson looked the
apparatus over.

"No connection with the outside, eh?"

"No," said Dale absent-mindedly. "Just from room to room in the house."

He accepted her explanation and answered the other telephone.

"Hello—hello—what the—" He moved the receiver hook up and down,
without result, and gave it up. "This line sounds dead," he said.

"It was all right a few minutes ago," said Dale without thinking.

"You were using it a few minutes ago?"

She hesitated—what use to deny what she had already admitted, for all
practical purposes.

"Yes."

The city telephone rang again. The detective pounced upon it.

"Hello—yes—yes—this is Anderson—go ahead." He paused, while the
tiny voice in the receiver buzzed for some seconds. Then he
interrupted it impatiently.

"You're sure of that, are you? I see. All right. 'By."

He hung up the receiver and turned swiftly on Dale. "Did I understand
you to say that you were not acquainted with the cashier of the Union
Bank?" he said to her with a new note in his voice.

Dale stared ahead of her blankly. It had come! She did not reply.

Anderson went on ruthlessly.

"That was headquarters, Miss Ogden. They have found some letters in
Bailey's room which seem to indicate that you were not telling the
entire truth just now."

He paused, waiting for her answer. "What letters?" she said wearily.

"From you to Jack Bailey—showing that you had recently become engaged
to him."

Dale decided to make a clean breast of it, or as clean a one as she
dared.

"Very well," she said in an even voice, "that's true."

"Why didn't you say so before?" There was menace beneath his suavity.

She thought swiftly. Apparent frankness seemed to be the only resource
left her. She gave him a candid smile.

"It's been a secret. I haven't even told my aunt yet." Now she let
indignation color her tones. "How can the police be so stupid as to
accuse Jack Bailey, a young man and about to be married? Do you think
he would wreck his future like that?"

"Some people wouldn't call it wrecking a future to lay away a million
dollars," said Anderson ominously. He came closer to Dale, fixing her
with his eyes. "Do you know where Bailey is now?" He spoke slowly and
menacingly.

She did not flinch.

"No."

The detective paused.

"Miss Ogden," he said, still with that hidden threat in his voice, "in
the last minute or so the Union Bank case and certain things in this
house have begun to tie up pretty close together. Bailey disappeared
this morning. Have you heard from him since?"

Her eyes met his without weakening, her voice was cool and composed.

"No."

The detective did not comment on her answer. She could not tell from
his face whether he thought she had told the truth or lied. He turned
away from her brusquely.

"I'll ask you to bring Miss Van Gorder here," he said in his
professional voice.

"Why do you want her?" Dale blazed at him rebelliously.

He was quiet. "Because this case is taking on a new phase."

"You don't think I know anything about that money?" she said, a little
wildly, hoping that a display of sham anger might throw him off the
trail he seemed to be following.

He seemed to accept her words, cynically, at their face value.

"No," he said, "but you know somebody who does." Dale hesitated,
sought for a biting retort, found none. It did not matter; any
respite, no matter how momentary, from these probing questions, would
be a relief. She silently took one of the lighted candles and left the
living-room to search for her aunt.

Left alone, the detective reflected for a moment, then picking up the
one lighted candle that remained, commenced a systematic examination of
the living-room. His methods were thorough, but if, when he came to
the end of his quest, he had made any new discoveries, the reticent
composure of his face did not betray the fact. When he had finished he
turned patiently toward the billiard room—the little flame of his
candle was swallowed up in its dark recesses—he closed the door of the
living-room behind him. The storm was dying away now, but a few
flashes of lightning still flickered, lighting up the darkness of the
deserted living-room now and then with a harsh, brief glare.