Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (21 page)

"Doctor, I'll have that blue-print!" he said sternly, his eyes the
color of steel.

The Doctor gave him a wary little glance.

"But I've just made the statement that I didn't find the blue-print,"
he affirmed flatly.

"I heard you!" Anderson's voice was very dry. "Now this situation is
between you and me, Doctor Wells." His forefinger sought the Doctor's
chest. "It has nothing to do with that poor fool of a cashier. He
hasn't got either those securities or the money from them and you know
it. It's in this house and you know that, too!"

"In this house?" repeated the Doctor as if stalling for time.

"In this house! Tonight, when you claimed to be making a professional
call, you were in this house—and I think you were on that staircase
when Richard Fleming was killed!"

"No, Anderson, I'll swear I was not!" The Doctor might be acting, but
if he was, it was incomparable acting. The terror in his voice seemed
too real to be feigned.

But Anderson was remorseless.

"I'll tell you this," he continued. "Miss Van Gorder very cleverly got
a thumbprint of yours tonight. Does that mean anything to you?"

His eyes bored into the Doctor—the eyes of a poker player bluffing on
a hidden card. But the Doctor did not flinch.

"Nothing," he said firmly. "I have not been upstairs in this house in
three months."

The accent of truth in his voice seemed so unmistakable that even
Anderson's shrewd brain was puzzled by it. But he persisted in his
attempt to wring a confession from this latest suspect.

"Before Courtleigh Fleming died—did he tell you anything about a
Hidden Room in this house?" he queried cannily.

The Doctor's confident air of honesty lessened, a furtive look appeared
in his eyes.

"No," he insisted, but not as convincingly as he had made his previous
denial.

The detective hammered at the point again.

"You haven't been trying to frighten these women out of here with
anonymous letters so you could get in?"

"No. Certainly not." But again the Doctor's air had that odd mixture
of truth and falsehood in it.

The detective paused for an instant.

"Let me see your key ring!" he ordered. The Doctor passed it over
silently. The detective glanced at the keys—then, suddenly, his
revolver glittered in his other hand.

The Doctor watched him anxiously. A puff of wind rattled the panes of
the French windows. The storm, quieted for a while, was gathering its
strength for a fresh unleashing of its dogs of thunder.

The detective stepped to the terrace door, opened it, and then quietly
proceeded to try the Doctor's keys in the lock. Thus located he was
out of visual range, and Wells took advantage of it at once. He moved
swiftly toward the fireplace, extracting the missing piece of
blue-print from an inside pocket as he did so. The secret the
blue-print guarded was already graven on his mind in indelible
characters—now he would destroy all evidence that it had ever been in
his possession and bluff through the rest of the situation as best he
might.

He threw the paper toward the flames with a nervous gesture of relief.
But for once his cunning failed—the throw was too hurried to be sure
and the light scrap of paper wavered and settled to the floor just
outside the fireplace. The Doctor swore noiselessly and stooped to
pick it up and make sure of its destruction. But he was not quick
enough. Through the window the detective had seen the incident, and
the next moment the Doctor heard his voice bark behind him. He turned,
and stared at the leveled muzzle of Anderson's revolver.

"Hands up and stand back!" he commanded.

As he did so Anderson picked up the paper and a sardonic smile crossed
his face as his eyes took in the significance of the print. He laid his
revolver down on the table where he could snatch it up again at a
moment's notice.

"Behind a fireplace, eh?" he muttered. "What fireplace? In what room?"

"I won't tell you!" The Doctor's voice was sullen. He inched,
gingerly, cautiously, toward the other side of the table.

"All right—I'll find it, you know." The detective's eyes turned
swiftly back to the blue-print. Experience should have taught him
never to underrate an adversary, even of the Doctor's caliber, but long
familiarity with danger can make the shrewdest careless. For a moment,
as he bent over the paper again, he was off guard.

The Doctor seized the moment with a savage promptitude and sprang.
There followed a silent, furious struggle between the two. Under
normal circumstances Anderson would have been the stronger and quicker,
but the Doctor fought with an added strength of despair and his initial
leap had pinioned the detective's arms behind him. Now the detective
shook one hand free and snatched at the revolver—in vain—for the
Doctor, with a groan of desperation, struck at his hand as its fingers
were about to close on the smooth butt and the revolver skidded from
the table to the floor. With a sudden terrible movement he pinioned
both the detective's arms behind him again and reached for the
telephone. Its heavy base descended on the back of the detective's
head with stunning force. The next moment the battle was ended and the
Doctor, panting with exhaustion, held the limp form of an unconscious
man in his arms.

He lowered the detective to the floor and straightened up again,
listening tensely. So brief and intense had been the struggle that
even now he could hardly believe in its reality. It seemed impossible,
too, that the struggle had not been heard. Then he realized dully, as
a louder roll of thunder smote on his ears, that the elements
themselves had played into his hand. The storm, with its wind and
fury, had returned just in time to save him and drown out all sounds of
conflict from the rest of the house with its giant clamor.

He bent swiftly over Anderson, listening to his heart. Good—the man
still breathed; he had enough on his conscience without adding the
murder of a detective to the black weight. Now he pocketed the
revolver and the blue-print—gagged Anderson rapidly with a knotted
handkerchief and proceeded to wrap his own muffler around the
detective's head as an additional silencer. Anderson gave a faint sigh.

The Doctor thought rapidly. Soon or late the detective would return to
consciousness—with his hands free he could easily tear out the gag.
He looked wildly about the room for a rope, a curtain—ah, he had
it—the detective's own handcuffs! He snapped the cuffs on Anderson's
wrists, then realized that, in his hurry, he had bound the detective's
hands in front of him instead of behind him. Well—it would do for the
moment—he did not need much time to carry out his plans. He dragged
the limp body, its head lolling, into the billiard room where he
deposited it on the floor in the corner farthest from the door.

So far, so good—now to lock the door of the billiard room.
Fortunately, the key was there on the inside of the door. He quickly
transferred it, locked the billiard room door from the outside, and
pocketed the key. For a second he stood by the center table in the
living-room, recovering his breath and trying to straighten his rumpled
clothing. Then he crossed cautiously into the alcove and started to
pad up the alcove stairs, his face white and strained with excitement
and hope.

And it was then that there happened one of the most dramatic events of
the night. One which was to remain, for the next hour or so, as
bewildering as the murder and which, had it come a few moments sooner
or a few moments later, would have entirely changed the course of
events.

It was preceded by a desperate hammering on the door of the terrace. It
halted the Doctor on his way upstairs, drew Beresford on a run into the
living-room, and even reached the bedrooms of the women up above.

"My God! What's that?" Beresford panted.

The Doctor indicated the door. It was too late now. Already he could
hear Miss Cornelia's voice above; it was only a question of a short
time until Anderson in the billiard room revived and would try to make
his plight known. And in the brief moment of that resumee of his
position the knocking came again. But feebler, as though the suppliant
outside had exhausted his strength.

As Beresford drew his revolver and moved to the door, Miss Cornelia
came in, followed by Lizzie.

"It's the Bat," Lizzie announced mournfully. "Good-by, Miss Neily.
Good-by, everybody. I saw his hand, all covered with blood. He's had
a good night for sure!"

But they ignored her. And Beresford flung open the door.

Just what they had expected, what figure of horror or of fear they
waited for, no one can say. But there was no horror and no fear; only
unutterable amazement as an unknown man, in torn and muddied garments,
with a streak of dried blood seaming his forehead like a scar, fell
through the open doorway into Beresford's arms.

"Good God!" muttered Beresford, dropping his revolver to catch the
strange burden. For a moment the Unknown lay in his arms like a
corpse. Then he straightened dizzily, staggered into the room, took a
few steps toward the table, and fell prostrate upon his face—at the
end of his strength.

"Doctor!" gasped Miss Cornelia dazedly and the Doctor, whatever guilt
lay on his conscience, responded at once to the call of his profession.

He bent over the Unknown Man—the physician once more—and made a brief
examination.

"He's fainted!" he said, rising. "Struck on the head, too."

"But who is he?" faltered Miss Cornelia.

"I never saw him before," said the Doctor. It was obvious that he
spoke the truth. "Does anyone recognize him?"

All crowded about the Unknown, trying to read the riddle of his
identity. Miss Cornelia rapidly revised her first impressions of the
stranger. When he had first fallen through the doorway into
Beresford's arms she had not known what to think. Now, in the brighter
light of the living-room she saw that the still face, beneath its mask
of dirt and dried blood, was strong and fairly youthful; if the man
were a criminal, he belonged, like the Bat, to the upper fringes of the
world of crime. She noted mechanically that his hands and feet had
been tied, ends of frayed rope still dangled from his wrists and
ankles. And that terrible injury on his head! She shuddered and
closed her eyes.

"Does anyone recognize him?" repeated the Doctor but one by one the
others shook their heads. Crook, casual tramp, or honest laborer
unexpectedly caught in the sinister toils of the Cedarcrest affair—his
identity seemed a mystery to one and all.

"Is he badly hurt?" asked Miss Cornelia, shuddering again.

"It's hard to say," answered the Doctor. "I think not." The Unknown
stirred feebly—made an effort to sit up. Beresford and the Doctor
caught him under the arms and helped him to his feet. He stood there
swaying, a blank expression on his face.

"A chair!" said the Doctor quickly. "Ah—" He helped the strange
figure to sit down and bent over him again.

"You're all right now, my friend," he said in his best tones of
professional cheeriness. "Dizzy a bit, aren't you?"

The Unknown rubbed his wrists where his bonds had cut them. He made an
effort to speak.

"Water!" he said in a low voice.

The Doctor gestured to Billy. "Get some water—or whisky—if there is
any—that'd be better."

"There's a flask of whisky in my room, Billy," added Miss Cornelia
helpfully.

"Now, my man," continued the Doctor to the Unknown. "You're in the
hands of friends. Brace up and tell us what happened!"

Beresford had been looking about for the detective, puzzled not to find
him, as usual, in charge of affairs. Now, "Where's Anderson? This is a
police matter!" he said, making a movement as if to go in search of him.

The Doctor stopped him quickly.

"He was here a minute ago—he'll be back presently," he said, praying
to whatever gods he served that Anderson, bound and gagged in the
billiard room, had not yet returned to consciousness.

Unobserved by all except Miss Cornelia, the mention of the detective's
name had caused a strange reaction in the Unknown. His eyes had
opened—he had started—the haze in his mind had seemed to clear away
for a moment. Then, for some reason, his shoulders had slumped again
and the look of apathy come back to his face. But, stunned or not, it
now seemed possible that he was not quite as dazed as he appeared.

The Doctor gave the slumped shoulders a little shake.

"Rouse yourself, man!" he said. "What has happened to you?"

"I'm dazed!" said the Unknown thickly and slowly. "I can't remember."
He passed a hand weakly over his forehead.

"What a night!" sighed Miss Cornelia, sinking into a chair. "Richard
Fleming murdered in this house—and now—this!"

The Unknown shot her a stealthy glance from beneath lowered eyelids.
But when she looked at him, his face was blank again.

"Why doesn't somebody ask his name?" queried Dale, and, "Where the
devil is that detective?" muttered Beresford, almost in the same
instant.

Neither question was answered, and Beresford, increasingly uneasy at
the continued absence of Anderson, turned toward the hall.

The Doctor took Dale's suggestion.

"What's your name?"

Silence from the Unknown—and that blank stare of stupefaction.

"Look at his papers." It was Miss Cornelia's voice. The Doctor and
Bailey searched the torn trouser pockets, the pockets of the muddied
shirt, while the Unknown submitted passively, not seeming to care what
happened to him. But search him as they would—it was in vain.

"Not a paper on him," said Jack Bailey at last, straightening up.

A crash of breaking glass from the head of the alcove stairs put a
period to his sentence. All turned toward the stairs—or all except
the Unknown, who, for a moment, half-rose in his chair, his eyes
gleaming, his face alert, the mask of bewildered apathy gone from his
face.