Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (16 page)

The young man picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, sought for
his hat, which had rolled under the table. Then he turned on Billy
furiously.

"Damn you—what do you mean by this?"

"Jiu-jitsu," said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled. "Pretty
good stuff. Found on terrace with searchlight," he added.

"With searchlight?" barked Anderson.

The young man turned to face this new enemy.

"Well, why shouldn't I be on the terrace with a searchlight?" he
demanded.

The detective moved toward him menacingly.

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?" said the young man with cool impertinence, giving him
stare for stare.

Anderson did not deign to reply, in so many words. Instead he
displayed the police badge which glittered on the inside of the right
lapel of his coat. The young man examined it coolly.

"H'm," he said. "Very pretty—nice neat design—very chaste!" He took
out a cigarette case and opened it, seemingly entirely unimpressed by
both the badge and Anderson. The detective chafed.

"If you've finished admiring my badge," he said with heavy sarcasm,
"I'd like to know what you were doing on the terrace."

The young man hesitated—shot an odd, swift glance at Dale who ever
since his abrupt entrance into the room, had been sitting rigid in her
chair with her hands clenched tightly together.

"I've had some trouble with my car down the road," he said finally. He
glanced at Dale again. "I came to ask if I might telephone."

"Did it require a flashlight to find the house?" Miss Cornelia asked
suspiciously.

"Look here," the young man blustered, "why are you asking me all these
questions?" He tapped his cigarette case with an irritated air.

Miss Cornelia stepped closer to him.

"Do you mind letting me see that flashlight?" she said.

The young man gave it to her with a little, mocking bow. She turned it
over, examined it, passed it to Anderson, who examined it also, seeming
to devote particular attention to the lens. The young man stood
puffing his cigarette a little nervously while the examination was in
progress. He did not look at Dale again.

Anderson handed back the flashlight to its owner.

"Now—what's your name?" he said sternly.

"Beresford—Reginald Beresford," said the young man sulkily. "If you
doubt it I've probably got a card somewhere—" He began to search
through his pockets.

"What's your business?" went on the detective.

"What's my business here?" queried the young man, obviously fencing
with his interrogator.

"No—how do you earn your living?" said Anderson sharply.

"I don't," said the young man flippantly. "I may have to begin now, if
that is of any interest to you. As a matter of fact, I've studied law
but—"

The one word was enough to start Lizzie off on another trail of
distrust. "He may be a LAWYER—" she quoted to herself sepulchrally
from the evening newspaper article that had dealt with the mysterious
identity of the Bat.

"And you came here to telephone about your car?" persisted the
detective.

Dale rose from her chair with a hopeless little sigh. "Oh, don't you
see—he's trying to protect me," she said wearily. She turned to the
young man. "It's no use, Mr. Beresford."

Beresford's air of flippancy vanished.

"I see," he said. He turned to the other, frankly. "Well, the plain
truth is—I didn't know the situation and I thought I'd play safe for
Miss Ogden's sake."

Miss Cornelia moved over to her niece protectingly. She put a hand on
Dale's shoulder to reassure her. But Dale was quite composed now—she
had gone through so many shocks already that one more or less seemed to
make very little difference to her overwearied nerves. She turned to
Anderson calmly.

"He doesn't know anything about—this," she said, indicating Beresford.
"He brought Mr. Fleming here in his car—that's all."

Anderson looked to Beresford for confirmation.

"Is that true?"

"Yes," said Beresford. He started to explain. "I got tired of waiting
and so I—"

The detective broke in curtly.

"All right."

He took a step toward the alcove.

"Now, Doctor." He nodded at the huddle beneath the raincoat. Beresford
followed his glance—and saw the ominous heap for the first time.

"What's that?" he said tensely. No one answered him. The Doctor was
already on his knees beside the body, drawing the raincoat gently
aside. Beresford stared at the shape thus revealed with frightened
eyes. The color left his face.

"That's not—Dick Fleming—is it?" he said thickly. Anderson slowly
nodded his head. Beresford seemed unable to believe his eyes.

"If you've looked over the ground," said the Doctor in a low voice to
Anderson, "I'll move the body where we can have a better light." His
right hand fluttered swiftly over Fleming's still, clenched
fist—extracted from it a torn corner of paper....

Still Beresford did not seem to be able to take in what had happened.
He took another step toward the body.

"Do you mean to say that Dick Fleming—" he began. Anderson silenced
him with an uplifted hand.

"What have you got there, Doctor?" he said in a still voice.

The Doctor, still on his knees beside the corpse, lifted his head.

"What do you mean?"

"You took something, just then, out of Fleming's hand," said the
detective.

"I took nothing out of his hand," said the Doctor firmly.

Anderson's manner grew peremptory.

"I warn you not to obstruct the course of justice!" he said forcibly.
"Give it here!"

The Doctor rose slowly, dusting off his knees. His eyes tried to meet
Anderson's and failed. He produced a torn corner of blue-print.

"Why, it's only a scrap of paper, nothing at all," he said evasively.

Anderson looked at him meaningly.

"Scraps of paper are sometimes very important," said with a side glance
at Dale.

Beresford approached the two angrily.

"Look here!" he burst out, "I've got a right to know about this thing.
I brought Fleming over here—and I want to know what happened to him!"

"You don't have to be a mind reader to know that!" moaned Lizzie,
overcome.

As usual, her comment went unanswered. Beresford persisted in his
questions.

"Who killed him? That's what I want to know!" he continued, nervously
puffing his cigarette.

"Well, you're not alone in that," said Anderson in his grimly humorous
vein.

The Doctor motioned nervously to them both.

"As the coroner—if Mr. Anderson is satisfied—I suggest that the body
be taken where I can make a thorough examination," he said haltingly.

Once more Anderson bent over the shell that had been Richard Fleming.
He turned the body half-over—let it sink back on its face. For a
moment he glanced at the corner of the blue-print in his hand, then at
the Doctor. Then he stood aside.

"All right," he said laconically.

So Richard Fleming left the room where he had been struck down so
suddenly and strangely—borne out by Beresford, the Doctor, and Jack
Bailey. The little procession moved as swiftly and softly as
circumstances would permit—Anderson followed its passage with watchful
eyes. Billy went mechanically to pick up the stained rug which the
detective had kicked aside and carried it off after the body. When the
burden and its bearers, with Anderson in the rear, reached the doorway
into the hall, Lizzie shrank before the sight, affrighted, and turned
toward the alcove while Miss Cornelia stared unseeingly out toward the
front windows. So, for perhaps a dozen ticks of time Dale was left
unwatched—and she made the most of her opportunity.

Her fingers fumbled at the bosom of her dress—she took out the
precious, dangerous fragment of blue-print that Anderson must not find
in her possession—but where to hide it, before her chance had passed?
Her eyes fell on the bread roll that had fallen from the detective's
supper tray to the floor when Lizzie had seen the gleaming eye on the
stairs and had lain there unnoticed ever since. She bent over swiftly
and secreted the tantalizing scrap of blue paper in the body of the
roll, smoothing the crust back above it with trembling fingers. Then
she replaced the roll where it had fallen originally and straightened
up just as Billy and the detective returned.

Billy went immediately to the tray, picked it up, and started to go out
again. Then he noticed the roll on the floor, stooped for it, and
replaced it upon the tray. He looked at Miss Cornelia for instructions.

"Take that tray out to the dining-room," she said mechanically. But
Anderson's attention had already been drawn to the tiny incident.

"Wait—I'll look at that tray," he said briskly. Dale, her heart in
her mouth, watched him examine the knives, the plates, even shake out
the napkin to see that nothing was hidden in its folds. At last he
seemed satisfied.

"All right—take it away," he commanded. Billy nodded and vanished
toward the dining-room with tray and roll. Dale breathed again.

The sight of the tray had made Miss Cornelia's thoughts return to
practical affairs.

"Lizzie," she commanded now, "go out in the kitchen and make some
coffee. I'm sure we all need it," she sighed.

Lizzie bristled at once.

"Go out in that kitchen alone?"

"Billy's there," said Miss Cornelia wearily.

The thought of Billy seemed to bring little solace to Lizzie's heart.

"That Jap and his jooy-jitsu," she muttered viciously. "One twist and
I'd be folded up like a pretzel."

But Miss Cornelia's manner was imperative, and Lizzie slowly dragged
herself kitchenward, yawning and promising the saints repentance of
every sin she had or had not committed if she were allowed to get there
without something grabbing at her ankles in the dark corner of the hall.

When the door had shut behind her, Anderson turned to Dale, the corner
of blue-print which he had taken from the Doctor in his hand.

"Now, Miss Ogden," he said tensely, "I have here a scrap of blue-print
which was in Dick Fleming's hand when he was killed. I'll trouble you
for the rest of it, if you please!"

"The rest of it?" queried Dale with a show of bewilderment, silently
thanking her stars that, for the moment at least, the incriminating
fragment had passed out of her possession.

Her reply seemed only to infuriate the detective.

"Don't tell me Fleming started to go out of this house with a blank
scrap of paper in his hand," he threatened. "He didn't start to go out
at all!"

Dale rose. Was Anderson trying a chance shot in the dark—or had he
stumbled upon some fresh evidence against her? She could not tell from
his manner.

"Why do you say that?" she feinted.

"His cap's there on that table," said the detective with crushing
terseness. Dale started. She had not remembered the cap—why hadn't
she burned it, concealed it—as she had concealed the blue-print? She
passed a hand over her forehead wearily.

Miss Cornelia watched her niece.

"It you're keeping anything back, Dale—tell him," she said.

"She's keeping something back all right," he said. "She's told part of
the truth, but not all." He hammered at Dale again. "You and Fleming
located that room by means of a blue-print of the house. He
started—not to go out—but, probably, to go up that staircase. And he
had in his hand the rest of this!" Again he displayed the blank corner
of blue paper.

Dale knew herself cornered at last. The detective's deductions were
too shrewd; do what she would, she could keep him away from the truth
no longer.

"He was going to take the money and go away with it!" she said rather
pitifully, feeling a certain relief of despair steal over her, now that
she no longer needed to go on lying—lying—involving herself in an
inextricable web of falsehood.

"Dale!" gasped Miss Cornelia, alarmed. But Dale went on, reckless of
consequences to herself, though still warily shielding Jack.

"He changed the minute he heard about it. He was all kindness before
that—but afterward—" She shuddered, closing her eyes. Fleming's
face rose before her again, furious, distorted with passion and
greed—then, suddenly, quenched of life.

Anderson turned to Miss Cornelia triumphantly.

"She started to find the money—and save Bailey," he explained,
building up his theory of the crime. "But to do it she had to take
Fleming into her confidence—and he turned yellow. Rather than let him
get away with it, she—" He made an expressive gesture toward his hip
pocket.

Dale trembled, feeling herself already in the toils. She had not quite
realized, until now, how damningly plausible such an explanation of
Fleming's death could sound. It fitted the evidence perfectly—it took
account of every factor but one—the factor left unaccounted for was
one which even she herself could not explain.

"Isn't that true?" demanded Anderson. Dale already felt the cold clasp
of handcuffs on her slim wrists. What use of denial when every tiny
circumstance was so leagued against her? And yet she must deny.

"I didn't kill him," she repeated perplexedly, weakly.

"Why didn't you call for help? You—you knew I was here."

Dale hesitated. "I—I couldn't." The moment the words were out of her
mouth she knew from his expression that they had only cemented his
growing certainty of her guilt.

"Dale! Be careful what you say!" warned Miss Cornelia agitatedly. Dale
looked dumbly at her aunt. Her answers must seem the height of
reckless folly to Miss Cornelia—oh, if there were only someone who
understood!

Anderson resumed his grilling.

"Now I mean to find out two things," he said, advancing upon Dale. "Why
you did not call for help—and what you have done with that blue-print."