CHAPTER XXV
A High Wall
The doors of the great columned façade of the New York Public Library were scarcely opened, on the following day, when a young man with eager Irish blue eyes and very red hair might have been, and probably was, seen, at least by the doorkeeper, making his way toward the Periodical Room.
Probably, too, he was remembered for some little time by the young librarian in charge of the magazines, for not only was he of exceptionally pleasant address, but his wants, though definite, were astonishingly varied.
He spent some time in going over the magazines which were brought to him, made several notes in a little worn leather-covered book, and once, when he referred back to places he had marked with cards in two previously examined periodicals, and compared them with the one in his hand, there was a gleam of satisfaction, triumph, perhaps, in his eye.
At last he rose, and passing into the newspaper department, consulted a file of the New York Planet for May. After that he left the library and proceeded, as rapidly as possible, to a small office building near Broadway, where the sign "Clancy and O'Malley" was modestly displayed in bronze upon the side post of the entrance.
"Well, O'Malley," said Peter, plunging into his partner's private office, "I've had one hell of a time!"
"That so?" said the old man, looking up with a hearty, welcoming glance into the face of his young colleague. "I got your wire, Pete. Glad you fixed it up with Morris. Sit down, lad, and tell me all about it."
"Gee, O'Malley, I'd like to," said Peter, wearily, "but I can't tell yet whether I'll have the time. Oh, there you are, Jack," he broke off as a boy came into the room with several time-tables in his hand. "That's quick work, son. Now, let's see——"
He dropped down upon a chair beside the desk, and began running through the time-tables at a rapid rate.
"Are you off again, Pete?" asked O'Malley, anxiously. "You look done up, boy. I know your wire said that you might have to——"
"Yes, and it spoke the truth," said Peter, hurriedly. "I've got to get the next train for Chicago that will connect with one going down to Cordenham. Cordenham," he repeated, running his finger down a column of names. "Here we are—Cordenham——"
"For the love of Mike, Peter," said O'Malley, "what the devil, and where the devil is Cordenham?"
"I don't know yet what the devil it may turn out to be," said Peter, still intent on the time-table, "but Cordenham is a little place somewhere south of Chicago—and it's destined to be famous one of these days if what I've learned this morning turns out to be true. You can take it from me——Oh—leave Chicago," he was reading now, "leave Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. That can't be right—nearly three hours—yes, it is. Leave Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. Gee! Must be a rotten little road.... I say, O'Malley, how would you rather go to Chicago?"
"In a coffin," replied the confirmed and prejudiced New Yorker, promptly.
Peter chuckled. "No, but I mean it, O'Malley. Which is the best train?"
"The one that takes longest to go and the one that's quickest coming back," answered O'Malley, and Peter was forced to decide his route from his own, more limited experience.
He chose a train which left the Pennsylvania Station at eleven o'clock, and reached Chicago at nine on the following morning. This would give him ample leeway, in case the Western train was late, to make the connection for Cordenham. After his last night's experience he wished to run no risk.
When he had made his decision, he threw the time-tables down on the desk and turned to his partner.
"I only have a little time, O'Malley," he said, "but I want to put you wise to something I turned up last night. It was a peach of a piece of luck, and explains a lot, as you'll see for yourself."
And he proceeded rapidly to relate the story of his having surprised Angelo in Miss Blake's apartment.
"I put the screws on him after I'd caught him," Peter said. "You may be sure of that, O'Malley. I made him believe that I thought he'd murdered one or both of the sisters."
"But you couldn't have thought that, Peter," interrupted O'Malley, quickly.
"No, of course not," answered Peter, readily. "I sized the situation up pretty well, from the minute he told me there was silver in the bundle he was carrying. But I wanted to get the dope straight, and the best way, of course, was to scare him into it, poor devil." Then he went on to tell of Angelo's confession. "I let him off easy," he said, in conclusion, "what else could I do, O'Malley? If either of us had a wife who was desperately ill, and we needed the money for her—well, all I said to him was, 'It's a poor bet, Angelo. Nobody gets away with it for long. Promise me you'll never try it on again.' And he promised by all the saints in the calendar.... And that was that."
O'Malley was silent for a moment when Peter had finished. Then he said:
"So—our murder theory's knocked into a cocked hat. At least it seems that way to me, Pete. Doesn't it to you?"
"Well," said Peter, eyeing his partner meditatively, "you mustn't forget that the only person seen to leave the apartment took with her a big trunk. That the large sum at the bank could be drawn out by Anne as well as by Mary—that, apparently, only Anne's clothes are gone—oh—and all the rest of it. We've only solved the one problem, that is, as to why there was blood in several places in the apartment and why the rooms were all upset."
"Do you believe Angelo's story, Pete?" asked O'Malley, earnestly.
"I do." The answer was sharp and to the point. "I think even an old hand like you, O'Malley, would have been convinced. I think you may take it for granted that the only blood spilled was Angelo's.... Now, where do you go from there?"
"Are you kidding me, Pete?" asked O'Malley, with a little twinkle in his sharp old eyes. "Are you trying to draw me so as to get the laugh on the old man? Have you got something new, boy?" eagerly. "You have, I can see it in your eye! What is it, Pete? What——"
"Oh, lord!" After a hasty glance at his watch Peter had jumped to his feet. "I've got to clear out this minute, O'Malley," he said. "I've just time to get my ticket and catch the train. Send up a prayer that I'll get a night's rest on the train, if you think you have any pull up above, for I need it, old top. Yes, I was kidding you." He laid his hand on the old man's broad shoulder. "I've got something, and I think it's good, but I can't tell you till I'm sure. It may be a pipe dream, after all. And, anyway, I can't stop now. Good-bye, old scout. Wish me luck."
"Good-bye and good luck, Pete," said O'Malley, gravely, as their hands met. "I'll be thinking about you, boy. Good-bye."
He turned back when Peter, in his tumultuous exit, slammed the door.
"Youth," he said, shaking his gray head. "Youth and courage—and brains—brains!"
A day and a night and almost another day passed uneventfully for Captain O'Malley. For Peter the time was marked only by the click and rumble of swiftly moving wheels, the roaring and shrieking of the train; a few hours' respite in Chicago, and then on again, more slowly and with lessened comfort, in the dingy, red plush-covered seat of a day coach, counting the little stations as they passed—and, at last—Cordenham.
At the tiny way-station he alighted from the train and proceeded to make his inquiries.
"Oh, yes. You can find it easy enough," said the old expressman in answer to Peter's question, eyeing him a trifle curiously, Peter thought. "It's about half a mile straight down the road. You'll know it by the high wall all 'round the place. The old Mayhew place, we calls it. It was a crank of an Englishman that built it. He died a spell ago. But you'll know it by the stone wall. You can't miss it. It's only about half a mile, and ask for the Mayhew place. Anybody can tell you."
With these explicit directions Peter set off down the flat and lonely road. The day had been hot and breathless, but now, in the early evening, a cooling breeze was springing up, rippling the fields of standing grain and rustling in the trees along the dusty road. Peter bared his head to the refreshing air, and strode forward with swift and determined steps.
He passed few houses along the way, and fewer people. One of these, a bright-looking boy, in torn overalls, he stopped and asked if he was on the right road to the Mayhew place.
The answer was a nod and a pointing finger, and the boy passed on, kicking up the soft dust with his bare feet.
Just after this Peter crossed a wooden bridge over a thread of water running between wide, eroded banks, and came to a small, dark wood. The wood passed, he came suddenly upon a long stretch of high stone wall, incongruous in such a setting, and behind the wall, at some little distance, he could see the top of an old stone house which appeared more incongruous still, for it was on the lines of an old English castle, with high, crenelated walls. On the top of the roof, most incongruous of all, was a modern super-structure, largely of glass, and, as Peter looked, a strange, brilliant light of a queer bluish purple flared out through the windows—died down—flared once again—and was gone.
Peter muttered something to himself, and went on along the wall, stopping quietly on the closely trimmed grass which lay between it and the road. Soon he came to a closed gate, a high gate of heavy wrought-iron work. He paused here only long enough to look down a well-kept driveway shaded with dark trees and thickly planted with shrubbery. There was not a soul in sight. Then he continued on about five hundred feet to the visible end of the wall.
He had hoped that the wall had simply been built to ensure privacy from the road, as is the case in so many American homes, but he found, to his disappointment, that the wall continued at right angles, probably enclosing the entire estate.
Peter was rather at a loss how to proceed. He had wished, if possible, to make sure of one point before coming out into the open, and the height of the wall bade fair to defeat even the possibility of accomplishing his purpose.
He stood for a moment at the corner thinking how best to proceed. As he glanced about him, he noticed a rough though well-worn path leading away from the road and, following the turn of the wall, through a wood of tall trees and thick underbrush.
"I'll take a chance," thought Peter, and quietly entered the path.
He had walked far enough to be certain, though he could not see it, that he had passed the house, when suddenly he came to a stop. On the other side of the wall he could hear voices. Two women's voices he made them out to be, though he could not hear the words. It was the first sign of life he had found around the odd, lonely place.
"I will have a look in," he thought, determinedly, and glancing swiftly about, he saw a tree tall enough and near enough to the wall for his purpose.
Quick and light as a panther, he was up among the leafy branches in a second. He had chosen well; for below him, clear to view, were the lawns and garden of the queer old house.
Just beneath, to the left of the tree he had chosen, were the two women whose voices he had heard. One was dressed in the crisp white of a nurse. The other Peter could not see well, for she was in a wheel chair, the back of which was toward the wall. He could hear the voices a little more distinctly now, though the words were still indistinguishable. The nurse's voice had the usual cheerful professional ring, the other spoke in a high, thin, "society" drawl. Both voices dimmed as the women moved slowly away across the lawn.
"Nothing doing," thought Peter to himself, and immediately losing interest in the couple who had been so near him his quick eyes roamed farther afield.
On the lawns and about the garden, gay with flowers, several other figures moved. They were mostly in couples, a nurse, and with her another woman, some walking about and some being wheeled in chairs.
At some distance from the rest one woman walked alone, a slender figure dressed in black. She walked swiftly, with long, even, purposeful steps. She was opposite the house and moving away from Peter when he first saw her. The instant he caught sight of her there was no one else in all the grounds for Peter. His eyes followed her every movement. She reached the shrubbery which closed the view on the opposite side of the lawn. Peter held his breath. Would she enter the shrubbery and disappear from sight? No. She had turned, and was coming slowly toward him.
When the dark figure again reached the house, Peter had another bad moment, but, without pause, like one who paces a deck for exercise, the woman rapidly advanced. Nearer and nearer she came. Now she skirted the end of a flower bed and was on the lawn just beneath Peter's tree.
In his excitement, Peter's foot slipped a little, and a small, dead branch broke with a sharp snap. The woman looked up—and Peter knew—knew without shadow of doubt, that he was looking into the face of the woman he had so long and so earnestly sought—the woman who called herself—Anne Blake.