The Abandoned Room Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE CASE AGAINST BOBBY

  Bobby hurried down the road in the direction of the Cedars. Always hetried desperately to recall what had occurred during those black hourslast night and this morning before he had awakened in the empty housenear his grandfather's home. All that remained were his sensation oftravel in a swift vehicle, his impression of standing in the forest nearthe Cedars, his glimpse of the masked figure which he had called hisconscience, the echo in his brain of a dream-like voice saying: "Take offyour shoes and carry them in your hand. Always do that. It's the onlysafe way."

  These facts, then, alone were clear to him: He had wandered, unconscious,in the neighbourhood. His grandfather had been strangely murdered. Thedetective who had met him in the village practically accused him of themurder. And he couldn't remember.

  He turned back to his last clear recollections. When he had experiencedhis first symptoms of slipping consciousness he had been in the cafe inNew York with Carlos Paredes, Maria, the dancer, and a strange man whomMaria had brought to the table. Through them he might, to an extent,trace his movements, unless they had put him in a cab, thinking he wouldcatch the train, of which he had talked, for the Cedars.

  Already the forest crowded the narrow, curving road. The Blackburn placewas in the midst of an arid thicket of stunted pines, oaks, and cedars.Old Blackburn had never done anything to improve the estate or itssurroundings. Steadily during his lifetime it had grown more gloomy, lesshabitable.

  With the silent forest thick about him Bobby realized that he was nolonger alone. A crackling twig or a loose stone struck by a foot mighthave warned him. He went slower, glancing restlessly over his shoulder.He saw no one, but that idea of stealthy pursuit persisted. Undoubtedlyit was the detective, Howells, who followed him, hoping, perhaps, that hewould make some mad effort at escape.

  "That," he muttered, "is probably the reason he didn't arrest me atthe station."

  Bobby, however, had no thought of escape. He was impatient to reach theCedars where he might learn all that Howells hadn't told him about hisgrandfather's death.

  A high wooden fence straggled through the forest. The driveway swung fromthe road through a broad gateway. The gate stood open. Bobby rememberedthat it had been old Blackburn's habit to keep it closed. He entered andhurried among the trees to the edge of the lawn in the centre of whichthe house stood.

  Feeling as guilty as the detective thought him, he paused there andexamined the house for some sign of life. At first it seemed as dead asthe forest stripped by autumn--almost as gloomy and arid as thewilderness which straggled close about it. He had no eye for the symmetryof its wings which formed the court in the centre of which an abandonedfountain stood. He studied the windows, picturing Katherine alone,surrounded by the complications of this unexpected tragedy.

  His feeling of an inimical watchfulness persisted. A clicking sound swunghim back to the house. The front door had been opened, and in the blackframe of the doorway, as he looked, Katherine and Graham appeared, and heknew the resolution of his last doubt was at hand.

  Katherine had thrown a cloak over her graceful figure. Her sunny hairstrayed in the wind, but her face, while it had lost nothing of itsbeauty, projected even at this distance a sense of weariness, of anxiety,of utter fear.

  Bobby was grateful for Graham's presence. It was like the man to assumehis responsibilities, to sacrifice himself in his service. Hestraightened. He must meet these two. Through his own wretched appearanceand position he must develop for Katherine more clearly than everGraham's superiority. He stepped out, calling softly:

  "Katherine!"

  She started. She turned in his direction and came swiftly toward him. Shespread her hands.

  "Bobby! Bobby! Where have you been?"

  There were tears in her eyes. They were like tears that have beentoo long coming. He took her hands. Her fingers were cold. Theytwitched in his.

  "Look at me, Katherine," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

  Graham came up. He spoke with apparent difficulty.

  "You've not been home. Then what happened last night? Quick! Tell us whatyou did--everything."

  "I've seen the detective," he answered. "He's told you, too? Be careful.I think he's back there, watching and listening."

  Katherine freed her hands. The tears had dried. She shook a little.

  "Then you were at the station," she said. "You must have come from NewYork, but I tried so hard to get you there. For hours I telephoned andtelegraphed. Then I got Hartley. Come away from the trees so we can talkwithout--without being overheard."

  As they moved to the centre of the open space Graham indicated Bobby'sevening clothes.

  "Why are you dressed like that, Bobby? You _did_ come from town? Youcan tell us everything you did last night after I left you, and earlythis morning?"

  Bobby shook his head. His answer was reluctant.

  "I didn't come from New York just now. I was evidently here last night,and I can't remember, Hartley. I remember scarcely anything."

  Graham's face whitened.

  "Tell us," he begged.

  "You've got to remember!" Katherine cried.

  Bobby as minutely as he could recited the few impressions that remainedfrom last night.

  When he had finished Graham thought for some time.

  "Paredes and the dancer," he said at last, "practically forced me awayfrom you last night. It's obvious, Bobby, you must have been drugged."

  Bobby shook his head.

  "I thought of that right away, but it won't do. If I had been drugged Iwouldn't have moved around, and I did come out somehow, I managed toget to the empty house to sleep. It's more as if my mind had simplyclosed, as if it had gone on working its own ends without my knowinganything about it. And that's dreadful, because the detective haspractically accused me of murdering my grandfather. How was it done?You see I know nothing. Tell me how--how he was killed. I can't believeI--I'm such a beast. Tell me. If I was in the house, some detail mightstart my memory."

  So Katherine told her story while Bobby listened, shrinking from somedisclosure that would convict him. As she went on, however, his sense ofbewilderment increased, and when she had finished he burst out:

  "But where is the proof of murder? Where is there even a suggestion? Yousay the doors were locked and he doesn't show a mark."

  "That's what we can't understand," Graham said. "There's no evidence weknow anything about that your grandfather's heart didn't simply give out,but the detective is absolutely certain, and--there's no use mincingmatters, Bobby--he believes he has the proof to convict you. He won'ttell me what. He simply smiles and refuses to talk."

  "The motive?" Bobby asked.

  Graham looked at him curiously. Katherine turned away.

  "Of course," Bobby cried with a sharpened discomfort. "I'd forgotten. Themoney--the new will he had planned to make. The money's mine now, but ifhe had lived until this morning it never would have been. I see."

  "It is a powerful motive," Graham said, "for any one who doesn'tknow you."

  "But," Bobby answered, "Howells has got to prove first that mygrandfather was murdered. The autopsy?"

  "Coroner's out of the county," Graham replied, "and Howells won't have anassistant. Dr. Groom's waiting in the house. We're expecting the coroneralmost any time."

  Bobby spoke rapidly.

  "If he calls it murder, Hartley, there's one thing we've got to find out:what my grandfather was afraid of. Tell me again, Katherine, everythinghe said about me. I can't believe he could have been afraid of me."

  "He called you," Katherine answered, "a waster. He said: 'God knows whathe'll do next.' He said he'd ordered you out last night and he hadn'thad a word from you, but that he'd made up his mind anyway. He was goingto have his lawyer this morning and change his will, leaving all hismoney to the Bedford Foundation, except a little annuity for me. He grewsentimental and said he had no faith left in his flesh and blood, andthat it was sad to grow old with nobody caring for hi
m except to covethis money. I asked him if he were afraid of you, and all he answeredwas: 'You and Bobby are thicker than thieves.' Oh, yes. When I saw himfor the last time in the hall he said there was nothing for me to worryabout except you. That's all. I remember perfectly. He said nothing moreabout you."

  "I wonder," Bobby muttered, "if a jury wouldn't think it enough."

  Katherine shook her head.

  "There seemed so much more than that behind his fear," she said. "As I'vetold you, he gave me a feeling of superstition. I never once was afraidof a murderer--of a man in the house. I was afraid of something queer andactive, but not human."

  Bobby straightened.

  "Would you," he asked, "call a man going about in an aphasia quitehuman? Somnambulists do unaccountable things--such as overcoming lockeddoors--"

  "Don't, Bobby! Don't!" Katherine cried.

  "Sh--h! Quiet!" Graham warned.

  A foot scraped on gravel.

  "Maybe the detective," Bobby suggested.

  He stared at the bend, expecting to see the stiff, plain figure of thedetective emerge from the forest. Instead with a dawning amazement hewatched Carlos Paredes stroll into view. The Panamanian was calm andimmaculate. His Van Dyke beard was neatly trimmed and combed. As headvanced he puffed in leisurely fashion at a cigarette.

  Graham flushed.

  "After last night he has the nerve--"

  "Be decent to him," Bobby urged. "He might help me--might clear uplast night."

  "I wonder," Graham mused, "to what extent he could clear it up ifhe wished."

  Paredes threw his cigarette away as he came closer. Solemnly he shookhands with Katherine and Bobby, expressing a profound sympathy. Even thenBobby remarked that those reserved features let slip no positive emotion.The man turned to Graham.

  "Our little difference of last evening," he said suavely, "will, I hope,evaporate in this atmosphere of unexpected sorrow. If I was in the wrongI deeply regret it. My one wish now is to join you in being of use toBobby and Miss Katherine in their bereavement. I saw the account in apaper at luncheon. I came as quickly as possible."

  Graham answered this smooth effrontery with a blunt question.

  "Do you know that Bobby is in very real trouble, that he may beimplicated in Mr. Blackburn's death?"

  Paredes flung up his hands, but Bobby, looking for emotion in the sallowface then, found none. Paredes's features, it occurred to him, wereexactly like a mask.

  Bobby checked himself. In his unhealthy way Paredes had been a goodfriend. The man's voice flowed smoothly, demanding particulars.

  "But this," he said, when they had told him what they could, "changes thesituation. I must stay here. I must watch that detective and learn whathe has up his sleeve."

  Graham turned away.

  "I've tried. Maybe you'll succeed better than I."

  "Then you'll excuse me," Paredes said quickly. "I should like yourpermission to telephone to my hotel in New York for some clothing. I wantto see this through."

  The three looked at each other. Katherine and Graham seemed about tospeak. Bobby wouldn't let them.

  "Carlos," he said, "you might help me. I'm almost afraid to ask. Whathappened in the cafe last night? The last thing I remember distinctly issitting there with you and Maria and a stranger she had introduced. Ididn't get his name. What did I do? Did any one leave the place with me?"

  Paredes smiled a little, shaking his head.

  "You behaved as if Mr. Graham's earlier fears had been accomplished. Youinsisted you were going to catch your train. I didn't think it wise, so Iwent to the cloak room with you, intending to see you home. Somehow, justthe same you gave me the slip."

  "You oughtn't to have let him get away," Graham said.

  Paredes shrugged his shoulders.

  "You weren't there. You don't know how sly Bobby was."

  "I suppose it's useless to ask," Graham said. "You saw nothing put inhis wine?"

  Paredes laughed.

  "Is it likely? Certainly not. I should have mentioned it. I should havestopped such a thing. What do you think I am, Mr. Graham?"

  "Sorry," Graham said. "You must understand we can't let any lead slip.This stranger Maria brought up?"

  "I didn't catch his name," Paredes answered.

  "I'd never seen him before. I gathered he was a friend ofhers--connected with the profession. Now I shall telephone with yourpermission, Miss Katherine; and don't you worry, Bobby. I will see youthrough; but we can't do much until the coroner comes, until thedetective can be made to talk."

  Katherine hesitated for a moment, then she surrendered.

  "Please go with him, Hartley, and--and make him as comfortable as you canin this unhappy house."

  Katherine detained Bobby with a nod. He saw the others go. He shrank, inhis mental and physical discomfort, from this isolation with her. As soonas the door was closed she touched his hand. She burst out passionately:

  "I don't believe it, Bobby. I'll never believe it no matter whathappens."

  "It's sweet of you, Katherine," he said huskily. "That helps when youdon't know what to believe yourself."

  "Don't talk that way. Such a crime would never have entered your headunder any conditions. Only, Bobby, it ought never to have happened. Youought never to have been in this position. Why have you been friendlywith people like--like that Spaniard? What can he want, forcing himselfhere? At any rate, you'll never lead that sort of life again?"

  Her fingers sought his. He clasped them firmly.

  "If I get past this," he said, "I'll always look you straight in theeye, Katherine. It was mad--silly. You don't quite understand--"

  He broke off, glancing at the door through which Graham had disappeared.

  "Then remember," she said softly, "I don't believe it."

  She released his hand, sighing.

  "That's all I can say, all I can do now. You're ill, Bobby. Go in. Restfor awhile. When you've had sleep you may remember something."

  He shook his head. He walked slowly with her to the house.

  As he climbed the stairs he heard Paredes telephoning. He couldn'tunderstand the man's insistence on remaining where clearly he wasan intruder.

  He entered his bedroom which he had occupied only once or twice duringthe last few months. The place seemed unfamiliar. As he bathed anddressed his sense of strangeness grew, and he understood why. The lasttime he had been here he had stood in no personal danger. There had beenno black parenthesis in his life during the stretch of which he mighthave committed an unspeakable crime. For he couldn't believe as firmly asKatherine did. Since he couldn't remember, he might have done anything.

  "Come!" he called in response to a stealthy rapping at the door.

  Stealth, it occurred to him, had, since last night, become a sterncondition of his life.

  Graham entered and noiselessly closed the door.

  "I had a chance to slip in," he explained. "Paredes is wandering aboutthe place. I'd give a lot to know what he's after at the Cedars.Katherine is in her room, trying to rest after last night, I fancy."

  "And," Bobby asked, "the detective--Howells?"

  "If he's back from the station," Graham answered, "he's keeping low. Iwonder if it was he or Paredes who followed you through the woods?"

  "Why should Carlos have followed me?" Bobby asked. "I've been thinking itover, Hartley. It isn't a bad scheme having him here, since you think hehasn't told all he knows."

  "I don't say that," Graham answered. "I don't know what to think aboutParedes. I've come to talk about just that. I'm a lawyer, and I've hadsome criminal practice. Since this detective will be satisfied with youfor a victim, I'm going to take your case, if you'll have me. I'll beyour detective as well as your lawyer."

  Bobby was a good deal touched.

  "That's kind of you--more than I deserve, for I have resented youat times."

  Graham, it was clear, didn't guess he referred to his friendship forKatherine, for he answered quickly:

  "I must have seemed a nuisance
, but I was only trying to get you back onthe straight path where you've always belonged. I can't believe you didthis thing, even unconsciously, until I'm shown proof without a singleflaw. Until the autopsy the only thing we have to work on is that partylast night. I've telephoned to New York and put a trustworthy man on theheels of Maria and the stranger. Meantime I think I'd better watchdevelopments here."

  "Please," Bobby agreed. "Stay with me, Hartley, until this man takes somedefinite action."

  He picked at the fringe of the window curtain. "If the autopsy shows thatmy grandfather was murdered," he said, "either I killed him, or else someone has deliberately tried to throw suspicion on me, for with only amotive to go on this detective wouldn't be so sure. Why in the name ofheaven should any one kill the old man, place all this money in my hands,and at the same time send me to the electric chair? Don't you see howabsurd it is that Carlos, Maria, or any one else should have had a handin it? There was nothing for them to gain from his death. I've thoughtand thought in such circles until I am almost convinced of the logic ofmy guilt."

  He drew the curtain farther back and gazed across the court at the roomwhere his grandfather lay dead. One of the two windows of the room was alittle raised, but the blinds were closely drawn.

  "I did hate him," he mused. "There's that. Ever since I can remember hedid things to make me despise him. Have--have you seen him?"

  Graham nodded.

  "Howells took me in. He looked perfectly normal--not a mark."

  "I don't want to see him," Bobby said.

  He drew back from the window, pointing. The detective, Howells, hadstrolled into the court. His hands hung at his sides. They didn't swingas he walked. His lips were stretched in that thin, straight smile. Hepaused by the fountain, glancing for a moment anxiously downward. Then hecame on and entered the house.

  "He'll be restless," Graham said, "until the coroner comes, and proves ordisproves his theory of murder. If he questions you, you'd better saynothing for the present. From his point of view what you remember of lastnight would be only damaging."

  "I want him to leave me alone," Bobby said. "If he doesn't arrest me Iwon't have him bullying me."

  Jenkins knocked and entered. The old butler was as white-faced as Bobby,more tremulous.

  "The policeman, sir! He's asking for you."

  "Tell him I don't wish to see him."

  The detective, himself, stepped from the obscurity of the hall, smilinghis queer smile.

  "Ah! You are here, Mr. Blackburn! I'd like a word with you."

  He turned to Graham and Jenkins.

  "Alone, if you please."

  Bobby mutely agreed, and Graham and the butler went out. Thedetective closed the door and leaned against it, studying Bobby withhis narrow eyes.

  "I don't suppose," he began, "that there's any use asking you about yourmovements last night?"

  "None," Bobby answered jerkily, "unless you arrest me and take me beforethose who ask questions with authority."

  The detective's smile widened.

  "No matter. I didn't come to argue with you about that. I was curious toknow if you'd tried to see your grandfather's body."

  Bobby shook his head.

  "I took it for granted the room was locked."

  "Yes," the detective answered, "but some people, it seems, have skilfulways of overcoming locks."

  He moved to one side, placing his hand on the door knob.

  "I've come to open doors for you, to give you the opportunity anaffectionate grandson must crave."

  Bobby hesitated, fighting back his feeling of repulsion, his firstinstinct to refuse. The detective might take it as an evidence againsthim. On the other hand, if he went, the man would unquestionably try totear from a meeting between the living and the dead some valuableconfirmation of his theory.

  "Well?" the detective said. "What's the matter? Thought the least I coulddo was to give you a chance. Wouldn't do it for everybody. Then everybodyhasn't your affectionate nature."

  Bobby advanced.

  "For God's sake, stop mocking me. I'll go, since you wish."

  The detective opened the door and stood aside to let Bobby pass.

  "Daresay you know the room--the way to it?"

  Bobby didn't answer. He went along the corridor and into the main hallwhere Katherine had met Silas Blackburn last night. He fought back hisaversion and entered the corridor of the old wing. He heard the detectivebehind him. He was aware of the man's narrow eyes watching him with amalicious assurance.

  Bobby, with a feeling of discomfort, sprung in part from the gloomypassageway, paused before the door his grandfather had had theunaccountable whim of entering last night. The detective took a key fromhis pocket and inserted it in the lock.

  "Had some trouble repairing the lock this morning," he said. "Thatfellow, Jenkins, entered with a heavy hand--a good deal heavier thanwhoever was here before him."

  He opened the door.

  "Queerest case I've ever seen," he mumbled. "Step in, Mr. Blackburn."

  Because of the drawn blinds the room was nearly as dark as the corridor.Bobby entered slowly, his nerves taut. Against the farther wall the bedwas like an enormous shadow, without form.

  "Stay where you are," the detective warned, "until I give you more light.You know, I wouldn't want you to touch anything, because the room isexactly as it was when he was murdered!"

  Bobby experienced a swift impulse to strangle the brutal word in thedetective's throat. But he stood still while the man went to thebureau, struck a match, and applied it to a candle. The wick burnedreluctantly. It flickered in the wind that slipped past the curtain ofthe open window.

  "Come here," the detective commanded roughly.

  Bobby dragged himself forward until he stood at the foot of thefour-poster bed. The detective lifted the candle and held it beneaththe canopy.

  "You look all you want now, Mr. Robert Blackburn," he said grimly.

  Bobby conquered the desire to close his eyes, to refuse to obey. Hestared at his grandfather, and a feeling of wonder grew upon him. ForSilas Blackburn rested peacefully in the great bed. His eyes were closed.The thick gray brows were no longer gathered in the frown too familiar toBobby. The face with its gray beard retained no fear, no record of agreat shock.

  Bobby glanced at the detective who bent over the bed watching him out ofhis narrow eyes.

  "Why," he asked simply, "do you say he was murdered?"

  "He was murdered," the detective answered. "Murdered in cold blood, and,look you here, young fellow, I know who did it. I'm going to strap thatman in the electric chair. He's got just one chance--if he talks out, ifhe makes a clean breast of it."

  Across the body he bent closer. He held the candle so that its lightsearched Bobby's face instead of the dead man's, and the uncertain flamewas like an ambush for his eyes.

  In response to those intolerable words Bobby's sick nerves stretched tootight. No masquerade remained before this huntsman who had his victimtrapped, and calmly studied his agony. The horror of the accusation shotat him across the body of the man he couldn't be sure he hadn't murdered,robbed him of his last control. He cried out hysterically:

  "Why don't you do something? For God's sake, why don't you arrest me?"

  A chuckle came from the man in ambush behind the yellow flame.

  "Listen to the boy! What's he talking about? Grief for his grandfather.That's what it is--grief."

  "Stop!" Bobby shouted. "It's what you've been accusing me with eversince you stopped me at the station." He indicated the silent form ofthe old man. "You keep telling me I murdered him. Why don't you arrestme then? Why don't you lock me up? Why don't you put the case on areasonable basis?"

  He waited, trembling. The flame continued to flicker, but the handholding the candlestick failed to move, and Bobby knew that the eyesdidn't waver, either. He forced his glance from the searching flame. Hemanaged to lower and steady his voice.

  "You can't. That's the trouble. He wasn't murdered. The coroner will tel
lyou so. Anybody who looks at him will tell you so. Since you haven't thenerve to arrest me. I'm going. I'm glad to have had this out with you.Understand. I'm my own master. I do what I please. I go where I please."

  At last the candle moved to one side. The detective straightened andwalked to Bobby. The multitude of small lines in his face twitched. Hisvoice was too cold for the fury of his words.

  "That's just what I want you to do, damn you--anything you please. I'maccusing nobody, but I'm getting somebody. I've got somebody right nowfor this old man's murder. My man's going to writhe and burn in thechair, confession or no confession. Now get out of this room since you'reso anxious, and don't come near it again."

  Bobby went. At the end of the corridor he heard the closing of the door,the scraping of the key. He was afraid the detective might follow him tohis room to heckle him further. To avoid that he hurried to the lowerfloor. He wanted to be alone. He must have time to accustom himself tothis degrading fate which loomed in the too-close future. Unless theycould demolish the detective's theory he, Bobby Blackburn, would go tothe death house.

  A fire blazed in the big hall fireplace. Paredes stood with his back toit, smoking and warming his hands. A man sat in the shadow of a deepleather chair, his rough, unpolished boots stretched toward the flaminglogs. As he came down the stairs Bobby heard the heavy, rumbling voice ofthe man in the chair:

  "Certainly it's a queer case, but not the way Howells means. I daresaythe old fool died what the world will call a natural death. If you smokeso much you will, too, before long."

  Bobby tried to slip past, but Paredes saw him.

  "Feeling better, Bobby?"

  The boots were drawn in. From the depths of the chair arose a figurenearly gigantic in the firelight. The man's face, at first glance,appeared to be covered with hair. Black and curling, it straggled overhis forehead. It circled his mouth, and fell in an unkempt beard down hiswaistcoat. The huge man must have been as old as Silas Blackburn, but heshowed no touch of gray. His only concession to age was the sunken andbloodshot appearance of his eyes.

  Bobby and Katherine had always been afraid of this great, grim countrypractitioner who had attended their childish illnesses. That sense of anoverpowering and incomprehensible personality had lingered. Even throughhis graver fear Bobby felt a sharp discomfort as he surrendered his handto the other's absorbing grasp.

  "I'm afraid you came too late this time, Doctor Groom."

  The doctor looked him up and down.

  "Not for you, I guess," he grumbled. "Don't you know you're sick, boy?"

  Bobby shook his head.

  "I'm very tired. That's all. I'm on my way to the library to try torest."

  He freed his hand. The big man nodded approvingly.

  "I'll send you a dose," he promised, "and don't you worry about yourgrandfather's having been murdered by any man. I've seen the body. Stuffand nonsense! Detective's an ass. Waiting for coroner, although I knowhe's one, too."

  "I pray," Bobby answered listlessly, "that you're right."

  "If there's any little thing I can do," Paredes offered formally.

  "No, no. Thanks," Bobby answered.

  He went on to the library. He glanced with an unpleasant shrinking fromthe door of the enclosed staircase leading to the private hall justoutside the room in which his grandfather lay dead. There was no firehere, but he wrapped himself in a rug and lay on the broad, high-backedlounge which was drawn close to the fireplace, facing it. His completeweariness conquered his premonitions, his feeling of helplessness. Theentrance of Jenkins barely aroused him.

  "Where are you, Mr. Robert?"

  "Here," Bobby answered sleepily.

  The butler walked to the lounge and looked over the back.

  "To be sure, sir. I didn't see you here."

  He held out a glass.

  "Doctor Groom said you were to drink this. It would make you sleep, sir."

  Bobby closed his eyes again.

  "Put it on the table where I can reach it when I want it."

  "Yes, sir. Mr. Robert! The policeman? Did he say anything, if I mightmake so bold as to ask?"

  "Go away," Bobby groaned. "Leave me in peace."

  And peace for a little time came to him. It was the sound of voices inthe room that aroused him. He lay for a time, scarcely knowing where hewas, but little by little the sickening truth came back, and he realizedthat it was Graham and the detective, Howells, who talked close to thewindow, and Graham had already fulfilled his promise.

  Bobby didn't want to eavesdrop, but it was patent he would embarrassGraham by disclosing himself now, and it was likely Graham would be gladof a witness to anything the detective might say.

  It was still light. A ray from the low sun entered the window and restedon the door of the enclosed staircase.

  Graham's anxious demand was the first thing Bobby heard distinctly--thething that warned him to remain secreted.

  "I think now with the coroner on his way it's time you defined yoursuspicions a trifle more clearly. I am a lawyer. In a sense I representyoung Mr. Blackburn. Please tell me why you are so sure his grandfatherwas murdered."

  "All right," the detective's level voice came back. "Half an hour ago Iwould have said no again, but now I've got the evidence I wanted. Iappreciate, Mr. Graham, that you're a friend of that young rascal, andwhat I have to say isn't pleasant for a friend to hear. But first youwant to know why I'm so sure the case is murder, in spite of the doctorwho made his diagnosis without really looking."

  "Go on," Graham said softly.

  Bobby waited--his nerves as tense as they had grown in the presence ofthe dead man.

  "Two days ago," the detective went on quietly, "old Mr. Blackburn came tothe court house in Smithtown and asked for the best detective thedistrict attorney could put his hand on. I don't want to blow my owntrumpet, but I've got away with one or two pretty fair jobs. I've hadgood offers from private firms in New York. So they turned him over tome. It was easy to see the old man was scared, just as his niece says hewas last night. The funny part was he wouldn't say definitely what he wasafraid of. I thought he might be shielding somebody until he was a littlesurer of his ground. He told me he was afraid of being murdered, and hewanted a good man he could call on to come out here to the Cedars ifthings got too hot for him. I can hear his voice now as distinctly as ifhe was standing where you are.

  "'My heart's all right,' he said. 'It won't stop awhile yet unless it'smade to. So if I'm found cold some fine morning you can be sure I wasput out of the way.'

  "I tried to pump him, naturally, but he wouldn't say another word exceptthat he'd send for me if there was time. He didn't want any fuss made,and he gave me a handsome present to keep my mouth shut and not to botherhim with any more questions. I figured--you can't blame me, Mr.Graham--that the old boy was a little cracked. So I took his money andlet it go at that. I didn't think much more about it until they told meearly this morning he lay dead here under peculiar circumstances."

  "Odd!" Graham commented. "It does make it more like murder, Howells. Buthe doesn't look like a murdered man."

  "When you know as much about crime as I do, Mr. Graham, you'll realizethat murders which are a long time planning are likely to take on one oftwo appearances--suicide or natural death."

  "All right," Graham said. "For the purpose of argument let us agree it'smurder. Even so, why do you suspect young Blackburn?"

  "Without a scrap of evidence it's plain as the nose on your face," thedetective answered. "If old Blackburn had lived until this morning ouryoung man would have been a pauper. As it is, he's a millionaire, but Idon't think he'll enjoy his money. The two had been at sword's points fora long time. Robert hated the old man--never made any bones about it. Youcouldn't ask for a more damaging motive."

  "You can't convict a man on motive," Graham said shortly. "You spoke ofevidence."

  "More," the detective replied, "than any jury in the land would ask."

  Bobby held his breath, shrinking from this informat
ion, which, however,he realized it was better he should know.

  "When I got here," the detective said, "I decided on the theory of murderto make a careful search as soon as day broke. I didn't have to wait forday, though, to find one crying piece of evidence. For a long time I wasalone in the room with the body. Queer feeling about that room, Mr.Graham. Don't know how to describe it except to say it's uncomfortable.Too old, maybe. Maybe it was just being there alone with the dead manbefore the dawn, although I thought I was hardened to that sort of thing.Anyway, I didn't like it. To keep my spirits up, as well as to save time,I commenced searching the place with a candle. Nothing about the bed.Nothing in the closets or the bureau."

  He grinned sheepishly.

  "You know I kind of was afraid to open the closet doors. Then I got on myknees and looked under the bed. The light was bad and I didn't seeanything at first. After a minute, close against the wall, I noticedsomething white. I reached in and pulled it out. It was a handkerchief,and it had a monogram, Mr. Graham--R. B. in purple and green."

  He paused. Graham exclaimed sharply. Bobby felt the net tighten. If thatevidence was conclusive to the others, how much more so was it for him!He recalled how, after awaking in the empty house, he had searchedunsuccessfully in all his pockets for his handkerchief, intending tobrush the dirt from his shoes.

  "I went to his room," the detective hurried on, "and found a lot of hisclothes and his stationery and his toilet articles marked with the samecipher. I knew my man had made a big mistake--the sort of mistake everycriminal makes no matter how clever he is--and I had him. But that isn't,by any means, all. Don't look so distressed, Mr. Graham. There isn't theslightest chance for him. You see I repaired the lock, and, as soon as itwas day, closed the room and went outside to look for signs. Sincenightfall no one had come legitimately through the court except DoctorGroom and myself. Our footprints were all right--making a straight linealong the path to the front door. In the soft earth by the fountain Ifound another and a smaller print, made by a very neat shoe, sir, and Isaid to myself: 'There is almost certainly the footprint of themurderer.'

  "There were plenty of others coming across the grass. He'd evidentlyavoided the path. And there was one directly under the open window wherethe body lies. It's still there. Perhaps you can see it. No matter.That's the last one I found. The prints ceased there. There wasn't a onegoing back, and I was fair up a stump. Then I saw a little undefinedsign of pressure on the grass, and I got an idea. 'Suppose,' I says, 'myman took his shoes off and went around in his stockinged feet!' Icouldn't understand, though, why he hadn't thought of that before. I wentback to Robert Blackburn's room and got one of his shoes, and ran into asnag again. The sole of the shoe was a trifle larger than the footprints.Every one of his shoes I tried was the same way. I argued that thehandkerchief was enough, but I wanted this other evidence. I simply hadto clear up these queer footprints.

  "I figured, since the murder had been made to look so much like a naturaldeath, that he'd come out here some time to-day, expecting to carry itoff. I wanted to go to the station, anyway, to find out if he'd been seencoming through last night or early this morning. While I was talking tothe station agent I had my one piece of luck. I couldn't believe my eyes.Mr. Robert walks up from the woods. He'd been hiding around theneighbourhood all the time. Probably had missed his handkerchief anddecided he'd better not take any chances. Yet it must have seemed apretty sure thing that the station wouldn't be watched, and it's thosenervy things, doing the obvious, that skilful criminals get away with allthe time. I needed only one look at him, and I had the answer to themystery of the footprints. I gave him plenty of time to come here andchange his clothes, then I manoeuvered him out of his room and went thereand found the pumps he'd worn last night and to-day. You see, they'd bea little smaller than his ordinary shoes. Not only did they fit thefootprints exactly, but they were stained with soil exactly like that inthe court. There you are, sir. I've made a plaster cast of one of theprints. I've got it here in my pocket where I intend to keep it until Iclear the whole case up and turn in my report."

  Graham's tone was shocked and discouraged.

  "What more do you want? Why haven't you arrested him?"

  In this room the detective's satisfied chuckle was an offence.

  "No good detective would ask that, Mr. Graham. I want my report clean.The coroner will tell us how the old man was killed. I want to tell howyoung Blackburn got into that room. One of the windows was raised atrifle, but that's no use. I've figured on the outside of the wing untilI'm dizzy. There's no way up for a normal man. An orangoutang would makehard work of it. His latch key would have let him into the house, and itwould have been simple enough for him to find out that the old man hadchanged his room. I've got to find out how he got past those doors,locked on the inside."

  He chuckled again.

  "Almost like a sleep-walker's work."

  Bobby shivered. Was that where the evidence pointed? Already the net wastoo finely woven. The detective continued earnestly:

  "I'm figuring on some scheme to make him show me the way. I've a sort ofplan for to-night, but it's only a chance."

  "What?" Graham asked.

  "Oh, no, sir," Howells laughed. "You'll learn about that when thetime comes."

  "I don't understand you," Graham said. "You're sure of your man but youkeep no close watch on him. Do you know where he is now?"

  "Haven't the slightest idea, Mr. Graham."

  "What's to prevent his running away?"

  "I'm offering him every opportunity. He wouldn't get far, and I've afeeling that if he confessed by running he'd break down and give up thewhole thing. You've no idea how it frets me, Mr. Graham. I've got my manpractically in the chair, but from a professional point of view it isn'ta pretty piece of work until I find out how he got in and out of thatroom. The thing seems impossible, and yet here we are, knowing that hedid it. Well, maybe I'll find out to-night. Hello!"

  The door opened. Bobby from his hiding place could see Paredes on thethreshold, yawning and holding a cigarette in his fingers.

  "Here you are," he said drowsily. "I've just been in the court. It mademe seek company. That court's too damp, Mr. Detective."

  His laugh was lackadaisical.

  "When the sun leaves it, the court seems full of, unfriendly things--whatthe ignorant would call, ghosts. I'm Spanish and I know."

  The detective grunted.

  "Funny!" Paredes went on. "Observation doesn't seem to interest you. I'drather fancied it might."

  He yawned again and put his cigarette to his lips. Puffing placidly, heturned and left.

  "What do you suppose he means by that?" the detective said to Graham.

  Without waiting for an answer he followed Paredes from the room. Grahamwent after him. Bobby threw back the rug and arose. For a moment he wasas curious as the others as to Paredes's intention. He slipped across thedining room. The hall was deserted. The front door stood open. From thecourt came Paredes's voice, even, languid, wholly without expression:

  "Mean to tell me you don't react to the proximity of unaccountable forceshere, Mr. Howells?"

  The detective's laugh was disagreeable.

  "You trying to make a fool of me? That isn't healthy."

  As Bobby hurried across the hall and up the stairs he heardParedes answer:

  "You should speak to Doctor Groom. He says this place is too crowded bythe unpleasant past--"

  Bobby climbed out of hearing. He entered his bedroom and locked the door.He resented Paredes's words and attitude which he defined as studied todraw humour out of a tragic and desperate situation. He thought of themin no other way. His tired mind dismissed them. He threw himself on thebed, muttering:

  "If I run away I'm done for. If I stay I'm done for."

  He took a fierce twisted joy in one phase of the situation.

  "If I was there last night," he thought, "Howells will never find outhow I got into the room, because, no matter what trap he sets, I can'ttell him."

&
nbsp; His leaden weariness closed his eyes. For a few minutes he slept again.

  Once more it was a voice that awakened him--this time a woman's, raisedin a scream. He sprang up, flung open the door, and stumbled into thecorridor. Katherine stood there, holding her dressing gown about her withtrembling hands. The face she turned to Bobby was white andpanic-stricken. She beckoned, and he followed her to the main hall. Theothers came tearing up the stairs--Graham, Paredes, the detective, andthe black and gigantic doctor.

  In answer to their quick questions she whispered breathlessly:

  "I heard. It was just like last night. It came across the court and stolein at my window."

  She shook. She stretched out her hands in a terrified appeal.

  "Somebody--something moved in that room where he--he's dead."

  "Nonsense," the detective said. "Both doors are locked, and I have thekeys in my pocket."

  Paredes fumbled with a cigarette.

  "You're forgetting what I said about my sensitive apprehension ofstrange things--"

  The detective interrupted him loudly, confidently:

  "I tell you the room is empty except for the murdered man--unlesssomeone's broken down a door."

  Katherine cried out:

  "No. I heard that same stirring. Something moved in there."

  The detective turned brusquely and entered the old corridor.

  "We'll see."

  The others followed. Katherine was close to Bobby. He touched her hand.

  "He's right, Katherine. No one's there. No one could have been there. Youmustn't give way like this. I'm depending on you--on your faith."

  She pressed his hand, but her assurance didn't diminish.

  The key scraped in the lock. They crowded through the doorway afterthe detective. He struck a match and lighted the candle. He held itover the bed. He sprang back with a sharp cry, unlike his levelquality, his confident conceit. He pointed. They all approximated hishelpless gesture, his blank amazement. For on the bed had occurred anabominable change.

  The body of Silas Blackburn no longer lay peacefully on its back. It hadbeen turned on its side, and remained in a stark and awkward attitude.For the first time the back of the head was disclosed.

  Their glances focussed there--on the tiny round hole at the base of thebrain, on the pillow where the head had rested and which they saw now wasstained with an ugly and irregular splotch of blood.

  Bobby saw the candle quiver at last in the detective's hand. The manstrode to the door leading to the private hall and examined the lock.

  "Both doors," he said, "were locked. There was no way in--"

  He turned to the others, spreading his hands in justification. Thecandle, which he seemed to have forgotten, cast gross, moving shadowsover his face and over the face of the dead man.

  "At least you'll all grant me now that he was murdered."

  They continued to stare at the body of Silas Blackburn. Cold for manyhours, it was as if he had made this atrocious revealing movement toassure them that he had, indeed, been murdered; to expose to theirstartled eyes the sly and deadly method.