Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (14 page)

Eerily, through the tense silence, a sudden tinkling sounded—the
sharp, persistent ringing of a telephone bell.

Miss Cornelia rose to answer it automatically. "The house phone!" she
said. Then she stopped. "But we're all here."

They looked attach other aghast. It was true. And
yet—somehow—somewhere—one of the other phones on the circuit was
calling the living-room.

Miss Cornelia summoned every ounce of inherited Van Gorder pride she
possessed and went to the phone. She took off the receiver. The
ringing stopped.

"Hello—hello—" she said, while the others stood rigid, listening.
Then she gasped. An expression of wondering horror came over her face.

"Somebody groaning!" gasped Miss Cornelia. "It's horrible!"

The detective stepped up and took the receiver from her. He listened
anxiously for a moment.

"I don't hear anything," he said.

"I heard it! I couldn't imagine such a dreadful sound! I tell
you—somebody in this house is in terrible distress."

"Where does this phone connect?" queried Anderson practically.

Miss Cornelia made a hopeless little gesture. "Practically every room
in this house!"

The detective put the receiver to his ear again.

"Just what did you hear?" he said stolidly.

Miss Cornelia's voice shook.

"Dreadful groans—and what seemed to be an inarticulate effort to
speak!"

Lizzie drew her gaudy wrapper closer about her shuddering form.

"I'd go somewhere," she wailed in the voice of a lost soul, "if I only
had somewhere to go!"

Miss Cornelia quelled her with a glare and turned back to the detective.

"Won't you send these men to investigate—or go yourself?" she said,
indicating Brooks and Billy. The detective thought swiftly.

"My place is here," he said. "You two men," Brooks and Billy moved
forward to take his orders, "take another look through the house—don't
leave the building—I'll want you pretty soon."

Brooks—or Jack Bailey, as we may as well call him through the
remainder of this narrative—started to obey. Then his eye fell on
Miss Cornelia's revolver which Anderson had taken from beside Fleming's
body and still held clasped in his hand.

"If you'll give me that revolver—" he began in an offhand tone, hoping
Anderson would not see through his little ruse. Once wiped clean of
fingerprints, the revolver would not be such telling evidence against
Dale Ogden.

But Anderson was not to be caught napping. "That revolver will stay
where it is," he said with a grim smile.

Jack Bailey knew better than to try and argue the point, he followed
Billy reluctantly out of the door, giving Dale a surreptitious glance
of encouragement and faith as he did so. The Japanese and he mounted
to the second floor as stealthily as possible, prying into dark corners
and searching unused rooms for any clue that might betray the source of
the startling phone call from nowhere. But Bailey's heart was not in
the search. His mind kept going back to the figure of Dale—nervous,
shaken, undergoing the terrors of the third degree at Anderson's hands.
She couldn't have shot Fleming of course, and yet, unless he and Billy
found something to substantiate her story of how the killing had
happened, it was her own, unsupported word against a damning mass of
circumstantial evidence. He plunged with renewed vigor into his quest.

Back in the living-room, as he had feared, Anderson was subjecting Dale
to a merciless interrogation.

"Now I want the real story!" he began with calculated brutality. "You
lied before!"

"That's no tone to use! You'll only terrify her," cried Miss Cornelia
indignantly. The detective paid no attention, his face had hardened,
he seemed every inch the remorseless sleuthhound of the law. He turned
on Miss Cornelia for a moment.

"Where were you when this happened?" he said.

"Upstairs in my room." Miss Cornelia's tones were icy.

"And you?" badgeringly, to Lizzie.

"In my room," said the latter pertly, "brushing Miss Cornelia's hair."

Anderson broke open the revolver and gave a swift glance at the bullet
chambers.

"One shot has been fired from this revolver!"

Miss Cornelia sprang to her niece's defense.

"I fired it myself this afternoon," she said.

The detective regarded her with grudging admiration.

"You're a quick thinker," he said with obvious unbelief in his voice.
He put the revolver down on the table.

Miss Cornelia followed up her advantage.

"I demand that you get the coroner here," she said.

"Doctor Wells is the coroner," offered Lizzie eagerly. Anderson
brushed their suggestions aside.

"I'm going to ask you some questions!" he said menacingly to Dale.

But Miss Cornelia stuck to her guns. Dale was not going to be bullied
into any sort of confession, true or false, if she could help it—and
from the way that the girl's eyes returned with fascinated horror to
the ghastly heap on the floor that had been Fleming, she knew that Dale
was on the edge of violent hysteria.

"Do you mind covering that body first?" she asked crisply. The
detective eyed her for a moment in a rather ugly fashion—then grunted
ungraciously and, taking Fleming's raincoat from the chair, threw it
over the body. Dale's eyes telegraphed her aunt a silent message of
gratitude.

"Now—shall I telephone for the coroner?" persisted Miss Cornelia. The
detective obviously resented her interference with his methods but he
could not well refuse such a customary request.

"I'll do it," he said with a snort, going over to the city telephone.
"What's his number?"

"He's not at his office; he's at the Johnsons'," murmured Dale.

Miss Cornelia took the telephone from Anderson's hands.

"I'll get the Johnsons', Mr. Anderson," she said firmly. The detective
seemed about to rebuke her. Then his manner recovered some of its
former suavity. He relinquished the telephone and turned back toward
his prey.

"Now, what was Fleming doing here?" he asked Dale in a gentler voice.

Should she tell him the truth? No—Jack Bailey's safety was too
inextricably bound up with the whole sinister business. She must lie,
and lie again, while there was any chance of a lie's being believed.

"I don't know," she said weakly, trying to avoid the detective's eyes.

Anderson took thought.

"Well, I'll ask that question another way," he said. "How did he get
into the house?"

Dale brightened—no need for a lie here.

"He had a key."

"Key to what door?"

"That door over there." Dale indicated the terrace door of the alcove.

The detective was about to ask another question—then he paused. Miss
Cornelia was talking on the phone.

"Hello—is that Mr. Johnson's residence? Is Doctor Wells there? No?"
Her expression was puzzled. "Oh—all right—thank you—good night—"

Meanwhile Anderson had been listening—but thinking as well. Dale saw
his sharp glance travel over to the fireplace—rest for a moment, with
an air of discovery, on the fragments of the roll of blue-prints that
remained unburned among ashes—return. She shut her eyes for a moment,
trying tensely to summon every atom of shrewdness she possessed to aid
her.

He was hammering at her with questions again. "When did you take that
revolver out of the table drawer?"

"When I heard him outside on the terrace," said Dale promptly and
truthfully. "I was frightened."

Lizzie tiptoed over to Miss Cornelia.

"You wanted a detective!" she said in an ironic whisper. "I hope
you're happy now you've got one!"

Miss Cornelia gave her a look that sent her scuttling back to her
former post by the door. But nevertheless, internally, she felt
thoroughly in accord with Lizzie.

Again Anderson's questions pounded at the rigid Dale, striving to
pierce her armor of mingled truth and falsehood.

"When Fleming came in, what did he say to you?"

"Just—something about the weather," said Dale weakly. The whole scene
was, still too horribly vivid before her eyes for her to furnish a more
convincing alibi.

"You didn't have any quarrel with him?"

Dale hesitated.

"No."

"He just came in that door—said something about the weather—and was
shot from that staircase. Is that it?" said the detective in tones of
utter incredulity.

Dale hesitated again. Thus baldly put, her story seemed too flimsy for
words; she could not even blame Anderson for disbelieving it. And
yet—what other story could she tell that would not bring ruin on Jack?

Her face whitened. She put her hand on the back of a chair for support.

"Yes—that's it," she said at last, and swayed where she stood.

Again Miss Cornelia tried to come to the rescue. "Are all these
questions necessary?" she queried sharply. "You can't for a moment
believe that Miss Ogden shot that man!" But by now, though she did not
show it, she too began to realize the strength of the appalling net of
circumstances that drew with each minute tighter around the unhappy
girl. Dale gratefully seized the momentary respite and sank into a
chair. The detective looked at her.

"I think she knows more than she's telling. She's concealing
something!" he said with deadly intentness. "The nephew of the
president of the Union Bank—shot in his own house the day the bank has
failed—that's queer enough—" Now he turned back to Miss Cornelia.
"But when the only person present at his murder is the girl who's
engaged to the guilty cashier," he continued, watching Miss Cornelia's
face as the full force of his words sank into her mind, "I want to know
more about it!"

He stopped. His right hand moved idly over the edge of the
table—halted beside an ash tray—closed upon something.

Miss Cornelia rose.

"Is that true, Dale?" she said sorrowfully.

Dale nodded. "Yes." She could not trust herself to explain at greater
length.

Then Miss Cornelia made one of the most magnificent gestures of her
life.

"Well, even if it is—what has that got to do with it?" she said,
turning upon Anderson fiercely, all her protective instinct for those
whom she loved aroused.

Anderson seemed somewhat impressed by the fierceness of her query. When
he went on it was with less harshness in his manner.

"I'm not accusing this girl," he said more gently. "But behind every
crime there is a motive. When we've found the motive for this crime,
we'll have found the criminal."

Unobserved, Dale's hand instinctively went to her bosom. There it
lay—the motive—the precious fragment of blue-print which she had torn
from Fleming's grasp but an instant before he was shot down. Once
Anderson found it in her possession the case was closed, the evidence
against her overwhelming. She could not destroy it—it was the only
clue to the Hidden Room and the truth that might clear Jack Bailey.
But, somehow, she must hide it—get it out of her hands—before
Anderson's third-degree methods broke her down or he insisted on a
search of her person. Her eyes roved wildly about the room, looking
for a hiding place.

The rain of Anderson's questions began anew.

"What papers did Fleming burn in that grate?" he asked abruptly,
turning back to Dale.

"Papers!" she faltered.

"Papers! The ashes are still there."

Miss Cornelia made an unavailing interruption.

"Miss Ogden has said he didn't come into this room."

The detective smiled.

"I hold in my hand proof that he was in this room for some time," he
said coldly, displaying the half-burned cigarette he had taken from the
ash tray a moment before.

"His cigarette—with his monogram on it." He put the fragment of
tobacco and paper carefully away in an envelope and marched over to the
fireplace. There he rummaged among the ashes for a moment, like a dog
uncovering a bone. He returned to the center of the room with a
fragment of blackened blue paper fluttering between his fingers.

"A fragment of what is technically known as a blue-print," he
announced. "What were you and Richard Fleming doing with a
blue-print?" His eyes bored into Dale's.

Dale hesitated—shut her lips.

"Now think it over!" he warned. "The truth will come out, sooner or
later! Better be frank NOW!"

If he only knew how I wanted to be—he wouldn't be so cruel, thought
Dale wearily. But I can't—I can't! Then her heart gave a throb of
relief. Jack had come back into the room—Jack and Billy—Jack would
protect her! But even as she thought of this her heart sank again.
Protect her, indeed! Poor Jack! He would find it hard enough to
protect himself if once this terrible man with the cold smile and
steely eyes started questioning him. She looked up anxiously.

Bailey made his report breathlessly.

"Nothing in the house, sir."

Billy's impassive lips confirmed him.

"We go all over house—nobody!"

Nobody—nobody in the house! And yet—the mysterious ringing of the
phone—the groans Miss Cornelia had heard! Were old wives' tales and
witches' fables true after all? Did a power—merciless—evil—exists
outside the barriers of the flesh—blasting that trembling flesh with a
cold breath from beyond the portals of the grave? There seemed to be
no other explanation.

"You men stay here!" said the detective. "I want to ask you some
questions." He doggedly returned to his third-degreeing of Dale.

"Now what about this blue-print?" he queried sharply.

Dale stiffened in her chair. Her lies had failed. Now she would tell
a portion of the truth, as much of it as she could without menacing
Jack.

"I'll tell you just what happened," she began. "I sent for Richard
Fleming—and when he came, I asked him if he knew where there were any
blue-prints of the house."