“The missing cigar lighter,” Dr. Stone said quietly. “It fell out of Kent’s pocket while he was hiding the jewels. Lady found it for me under the tree.”
“Go on ahead, Joe,” Dr. David Stone said. “The boat will probably need bailing. I’ll have Jerry fix your rod. Won’t take ten minutes.”
Joe Morrow gripped the can of worms and was gone. Dr. Stone said, “Right, Lady,” and, gripping the harness-handle, followed the dog toward Jerry Moore’s garage.
Sound came to the doctor’s ears—the rasp of a tool and, abruptly, the sharp tapping of a finger against glass. The dog deftly steered him around an automobile. Jerry’s voice came from under the car.
“That you, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Thought those were Lady’s paws. With you in a few minutes.”
Dr. Stone moved toward the little office. A voice said, “He’s blind, Rog.” The tapping had stopped.
But well able to hear, the doctor thought with grim humor, and listened from the doorway. Voices came from the garage floor—Jerry Moore’s, the nervous voice that had said, “He’s blind, Rog,” and the mellow, genial tones of a third man.
“This brake-rod”—grunt—“sure was loose.” That was Jerry. “Quite a contraption you’ve got under here.”
“My own idea,” the genial voice said. “Why smear up a car when you can pack them where they’re out of the way?”
The job was done, and presently the car backed out of the garage. Jerry came to the office.
“What won’t folks think up next?” he demanded. “Fishing fellows, those two who just went out. Stopping off to try Horseshoe Lake. Got a long metal box bolted in under the floor boards. Out of sight and out of the way. Got room in that box for a hundred pounds along with ice.”
“Fish?” Dr. Stone asked a trifle sharply.
The garageman cackled. “Sure; a regular ice-box on wheels. How come they pick here for fishing? Nobody’s taken a bass out of Horseshoe in years, and danged few pickerel. Want that rod mended?”
A horn blew at the pumps. Jerry put the rod down and hurried outside, and Dr. Stone walked to the door. A hoarse voice said: “Two quarts of medium.” A moment later the voice rasped harshly: “Get away from that hood. Can’t you see I’ve brought a can for the oil?”
“Easy, brother,” Jerry soothed. “No harm done.”
“Keep away from the hood, that’s all.”
The car rolled away, and filled the night with the low, smooth thunder of its exhaust. The doctor’s ears registered and catalogued sounds. Only a high-priced motor could sound like that—and only a piece of tin could rattle as the car rattled. A queer intentness twitched at the corners of the blind man’s mouth.
“That’s queer,” Jerry observed. “Two cars in a row, and they both had something hidden. This last boiler was all of seven-eight years old, and shabby as a beggar’s coat. Had something under that hood, though, he was powerful anxious for no one to see. What do you make of it, Doctor?”
“Coincidence,” the doctor said mildly. Two cars, and each with something hidden. Lady’s tail thumped the floor, and Joe Morrow came into the office and stood around. The doctor’s ears, registering an unseen world by sound, caught the tempo of the boy’s restless feet. Bursting with something, the blind man decided. The rod mended at last, man and boy and dog came out to the street, and Lady led them toward the lake.
Joe’s voice trembled. “A car pulled out just as I came back, Uncle David. You know that cobbled road that runs off from Main street, and goes down into the hollow behind the cottonwoods and rises to the back door of the bank?”
“The road the express wagon uses when it takes money to and from the bank?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy swallowed with a gulp. “I saw that car in there twice today, just sort of hanging around.”
An automobile, making speed, went up the street with a low drone of power.
“There she goes now,” Joe cried, excited.
“A wonderful motor,” said Dr. Stone.
“That’s just it, Uncle David. A shabby old car with a pip of a motor. What for? A quick getaway?”
The doctor whistled softly under his breath, and said nothing. Through the black, moonless night Lady led them at her fast pace to an opening in the reeds and out upon planking that led to the boats. Joe got in first, steadied the craft, and helped in his uncle. The boy rowed with an almost soundless stroke, and presently shipped the oars and dropped anchor. And then they waited for the catfish to bite.
Joe marked Main street by a reflected ribbon of radiance thrown against the night sky. Water lapped against the boat, and moving lights crawled across the distant toll-bridge. Dr. Stone said, “Not much action, Joe,” and the headlights of a car swept toward the lake. They stopped near the planking and snapped out. By and by oars creaked and splashed loudly, a dark shape moved toward the toll-bridge, and voices came across the water.
“Why the toll-bridge, Rog?” the sharp voice asked.
“Use your head,” the genial voice answered. “There’s plenty of light down there. Somebody may see us trying to haul in a big one.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“We got the word, didn’t we?”
“Fast work,” the sharp voice said dubiously.
“Well, why not?” A genial chuckle came across the water. “Everybody knows you couldn’t get a decent fish out of this lake with a dragnet. So we pull out.”
The oars splashed and creaked, and the sharp voice was lost. And then the genial voice came again:
“We’ll pull out about five, roll up and get in line, step on the gas, and make Baltimore in time for breakfast. After that, let John try to find us.”
Joe got a bite and missed his fish. So these two men, whoever they were, planned to play hide and seek with somebody named John. But his mind, presently, came back to the shabby car with the powerful motor that had hidden itself twice in the cobbled road behind the cottonwoods where it could not be seen from Main street.
“What do you think that car was doing there, Uncle David?” the boy asked.
“If I knew,” Dr. Stone said dryly, “I’d be able to give more attention to this fishing-line.”
A tingling tremor ran along the boy’s spine. So Uncle David thought that strange car worth worrying about! Lady moved in the boat, and the flat-bottomed craft pitched and wobbled. The fish weren’t biting, and the dog was probably cramped. The boy pulled up the anchor. A steady, rhythmic splashing came through the night.
“They’re rowing back,” Dr. Stone said.
Joe’s oars made scarcely a ripple. Tied up at the planking, he shipped the oars before helping his uncle from the boat. “No fish and a million mosquito bites,” the doctor drawled, and they went up the soggy path through the reeds. Oars rattled behind them and somebody stamped on the planking. A car was parked in the high grass above the rutted road that paralleled the lake; even in the darkness there was a lustrous sheen of paint and of shining metal. One of Lady’s harness straps had loosened. The doctor bent down to draw it tight, and footsteps came up the planking.
“Rog!” The sharp voice snapped. “There’s somebody at the car.”
“Don’t move!” The genial voice was all at once icy and deadly. “If you’ve been monkeying——”
Joe shivered. Lady, as though recognizing the threat in that voice, had become stiff and taut. The boy’s hand, feeling for her, met the bristling hairs along her spine.
Dr. Stone stood up. “No threats, if you please,” he said coolly.
Joe marveled that, blind, his uncle could face this unknown hazard with unruffled calm. But then, of course, there was Lady. The dog was like a tempered spring, wound.
The man called Rog flew into a rage. “None of your soft talk. What are you doing at that car? By God, if——”
Lady gave an ominous, warning growl. The threat stopped as though a gag had been rammed down the speaker’s throat.
“It’s the blind man, Rog,” the sharp voice said; “the blind man and a boy.”
Lady continued to growl a deep warning. A form backed away quickly, and the deadly chill went out of Rog’s voice, and he was genial and mellow.
“A thousand apologies, sir. The business of jacking up a car and stealing the tires has become so widespread——. You understand, sir?”
“Perfectly,” Dr. Stone said blandly, and quieted the dog. The car backed around and lurched through the ruts, but not until it was well on its way were the lights turned on.
“What did they look like?” Dr. Stone asked.
“I couldn’t see their faces,” the boy answered; “it was too dark.”
“What make of car?”
“I’m not sure.”
“No matter.” The doctor spoke to Lady and the dog, sure-footed, led them through the night. Jerry Moore was closing the garage and Ike Boles, the station agent, gave them a toothless grin.
“Hear about the telegram that came this afternoon, Doctor? Fellow named John’s glad to hear the fishing’s good and aims to come up tomorrow on the 8:11 from New York.”
Memory jingled the wires in Joe’s brain. Was this the same John Rog and his companion were anxious to avoid?
“Somebody,” Dr. Stone said mildly, “is evidently playing a little joke on John. Who was the telegram for, Ike?”
“Fellow named Carl Metz. Can’t find hide or hair of him hereabouts. Telegram’s lying undelivered at the station. Anybody hear tell of a Carl Metz?”
The intent look that Joe knew so well had come to the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “Jerry, remember the man with the husky voice who wouldn’t let you lift the hood? He had a faint accent. What would you call it?”
“German,” Jerry said promptly.
And Carl Metz was a German name. A slow excitement twitched through Joe’s nerves, and he followed his blind uncle and the dog up the quiet street.
“Who’s the man with the husky voice, Uncle David?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“Where?”
“Hiding a shabby car in the cobbled road.”
“But——” Heat throbbed in the boy’s pulse. “But if he’s the one who’s expecting John, what about Rog and the other fellow? Why are they running away from this John?”
“I don’t know—yet,” the doctor said.
Until late that night he smoked his pipe and paced the porch; and Lady, who read the signs of his unrest, gave the short whine of a worried dog and watched him narrowly. In the morning, when he awoke, Joe had already gone to school. Mrs. Morrow said: “Joe seemed frightfully excited about something, David.” Tight lines formed about the sightless eyes. Bringing the lawn-mower from the side of the house, he began to cut the grass. The lawn was a map in his mind—so many paces to every walk and shrub. He was running the mower near the front gate when a droning throb of power roared up the road and stopped with a squeal of brakes.
“Stranger,” said a husky voice, “they tell me there’s a bad, little-traveled hill around here.”
Seconds passed. “Why, yes,” the doctor said slowly. “Three miles on there’s a fork to the right; it takes you to Kill Horse Hill.”
“Pretty steep?”
“It’s downright wicked.”
“Any chance,” the hoarse voice asked, “of running into other cars out there?”
“None,” the doctor assured him; and abruptly the car, rattling loosely, was gone.
The blind man pushed the mower aside and walked thoughtfully to the porch. At noon Joe arrived, breathless.
“Uncle David! I took a look into the cobbled road before school this morning. That car was there again, hidden behind the cottonwoods.”
“I think,” Dr. Stone said, “I’ll walk into town this afternoon.”
Something dark and sinister was going on under cover, and it was time somebody spoke to Police Captain Tucker and the bank. Lady, as though sensing a need for speed, led him toward the village at a pace faster than the pace of a man with sight. Suddenly heavy, rapid footfalls grew loud and clear. Somebody was running with mad haste. Somebody——? The doctor’s ears, sharp as only a blind man’s are sharp, picked a familiar rhythm from the furious stride.
“Joe! Why aren’t you at school?”
The boy panted. “Wanted—to tell you—the bank——” Breath failed him.
“Robbed?” Dr. Stone demanded sharply.
“The—express wagon. Had money—for the bank—that came in—on No. 5.”
“The cobbled road?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s breath was easier. “In that hollow behind the cottonwoods that you can’t see from Main street. Captain Tucker was in the wagon with the driver. When they got into the hollow there was a man lying in a pool of blood. They jumped out, and it was only a stuffed figure, and the blood was red paint. Somebody they couldn’t see said to put up their hands, and Captain Tucker started to spin around and a shot knocked off his cap.”
“And after that he kept his hands up?”
“Yes, sir. Next thing a bag was over his head and one over the driver’s, and they were tied up and chucked into the truck. By and by somebody found them and the money was gone.”
“Much?”
“Twenty-two thousand dollars. They’re looking for that shabby car.”
“I don’t think they’ll have to look far,” Dr. Stone said grimly. “Lady, forward.” Again the rapid pace that ate up distance. “What time did the hold-up happen, Joe?”
“Twenty of twelve.”
“Twenty—You’re positive of that?”
“That’s what everybody says. No. 5 got in at half-past eleven. Gosh, Uncle David, if we had told Captain Tucker last night about that car——”
“I don’t think it would have made any difference,” the doctor said slowly. The blind eyes had puckered again with a queer expression of baffled uncertainty. Opposite the garage he spoke to Lady, and the dog, obedient, led him in toward the pumps.
“Jerry about?”
The mechanic answered. “No, Doctor; had to go up-country with the wrecker to bring down a busted car. Hear about the hold-up?”
“Yes. Any talk about the getaway?”
“Nobody saw a car come up out of that road, Doctor. Tucker doesn’t know. He had a bag over his head, and the express engine was running, and, lying on the floor, all he could hear was his own motor. Looks like whoever planned it, planned it neat.”
“About twenty-two thousand dollars?”
“Twenty-eight thousand. Everybody had it twenty-two thousand at first, but it was twenty-eight thousand. Twenty thousand in paper money, and eight thousand in silver.”
“In silver?” The doctor stood very still and broke into an almost soundless whistle. Joe’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the sign—his uncle’s mind, back in its shroud of darkness, had touched something tangible and significant. Quietly, after a long minute of thought, the blind man walked into the office, groped about the desk for the telephone, and called the railroad station.
“Ike, this is Dr. Stone. Did you find Carl Metz and deliver the telegram?”
“I did not. I can’t find a man of the name.”
“Did this man John arrive?”
“If he did he’s a ghost. I watched the train for a look at who it might be was coming to Horseshoe for good fishing, and not a stranger got off.”
“What time did his train get in?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
Dr. Stone’s voice snapped into the transmitter. “Is that the train that leaves New York at 8:11?”
“The same,” said Ike; “No. 5 on the train-sheet, and the money that was stolen in the baggage car.”
The receiver went back upon the hook. The blind man was on his feet.
“What time is it, Joe?”
“Half-past two.”
“If we hurry——” The doctor was out the door, following Lady at an amazingly fast pace. Joe had to half run.
“Where are we going, Uncle David?”
“To the toll-bridge.”
Horseshoe Lake rippled with golden sun. Sid Malloy, the bridge-tender, collected toll and Captain Tucker, grim and dour, with a ghastly black hole in the top of his cap, inspected the inside of every car. He frowned at sight of Dr. Stone, the boy and the dog.
“Doctor,” he said bluntly, “this is no place for a blind man; and as for a boy——”
“Go inside, Joe,” the doctor said mildly. “Keep out of the way. If trouble starts, duck low and hug the floor. Is your gun handy, Captain?”
“I always have my gun,” Captain Tucker growled.
“Presently I may speak to one of the cars that stops to pay toll. Never mind questions. Have your gun out and cover that car.”
The captain had had a bad day and was nettled. “Wild west stuff?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t want the next bullet to go a little lower than your cap, would you, Captain?”
Joe sucked in a gasping breath. If there was shooting, what chance would a blind man stand? The question had a sobering effect, and the police captain’s voice shed some of its bad wire.
“You’re waiting for a car, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you describe whoever’ll be in it?”
“No.”
Temper flamed suddenly in the harassed man. “Look here, Doctor, if you don’t know what car it is, or what whoever’s in it looks like, you’d better leave this business for those——”
“Who can see?” Doctor Stone asked mildly. “Sometimes the blindest persons have eyes.”
A car stopped at the toll-house and, while Sid Malloy collected the toll, Captain Tucker opened the doors and inspected the inside. A clock in a village church tower struck three, and the midafternoon traffic thickened and converged upon the bridge. Cars rolled upon the bridge approach, and stopped, and rolled on again, and the sound was like the beat of some large machine.
Forgotten by Captain Tucker, for there was much work to be done and the police officer was busy probing into automobiles, Dr. Stone and Lady stood just outside the toll-house door. The smoke of a seasoned pipe drifted blue and fragrant with the breeze. Joe, trembling inside the toll-house, could see his uncle’s face. It was stamped with the calm, bland, inscrutable patience of the blind.
Automobiles shuttled past, and there was a delay as each car was scrutinized. A line formed, and horns began to honk impatiently. Joe, twisting his head to see how far back the line extended, was frozen by the cold crack of his uncle’s voice.
“I’m ready for you, Tucker.”
The boy wrenched himself around. The movement had changed his position; the sun, slanting in through the doorway, was in his eyes. The blurred outline of a car was in front of the house, and he was conscious of his uncle moving toward the car. Fire burned in his throat, and the world hung in a stark silence. And out of that silence came his uncle’s voice.
“Rog,” Dr. Stone drawled, “I’m afraid you’re going to miss your breakfast in Baltimore tomorrow.”
There was an oath and a movement in the car. Joe, frozen, forgot to crouch and hug the floor. When would the shooting start? And then another form was beside his uncle, and the sun glinted menacingly on cold, blue steel.
“Keep your hands up where I can see them,” Captain Tucker ordered.
Joe, sick with relief, felt his knees begin to buckle and bend.
Two hours later he sat in a room in the red-bricked Town Hall with his uncle and Captain Tucker. The captain, putting down a telephone, leaned far back in his chair and gave a sigh.
“That was New York calling,” he announced. “They’ve picked up John. He worked for the New York bank that shipped the money. The bank here has counted the shipment and it’s all there down to the last nickel.” His eyes went slowly from the boy to the dog and to the blind man. “Doctor, I don’t know how you did it. We were all looking for that shabby car——”
“That car had me fooled for a while,” Dr. Stone admitted. “Joe had me convinced it was motored for a quick getaway. This morning the car stopped at our place and the driver asked for directions. He wanted a bad hill, and I sent him to Kill Horse. When Joe came along with news of the hold-up, I started here to tell you where that car could be found; but when I learned that the hold-up took place at twenty minutes of twelve the shabby car was washed right out of the picture.”
“Why?” Captain Tucker demanded.
“Because within a minute or two of 11:40 the driver of that car was asking me for directions. He couldn’t have been in two places at once.”
“Why were you sure it was the shabby car?”
“A blind man’s ears, Captain—the sound of the motor and the driver’s husky voice. And all at once I knew why he had surrounded himself with so much mystery—afraid to have Jerry Moore look under the hood, hiding down behind the cottonwoods when he did lift the hood, anxious to find a steep hill little used by other cars. The man was, without question, experimenting with a carburetor of his own design, and afraid somebody would get a slant at it before he was ready to have it patented.”
Captain Tucker pursed his lips and rocked in his chair. “I follow you that far, Doctor, but how did you pick up Rog?”
“I didn’t,” Dr. Stone said mildly; “he dropped into my lap. Let’s begin at the beginning. I met Rog and his companion at Jerry’s garage, and Jerry had seen that storage-box under the car. It struck me as strange that a fisherman should try to keep fish fresh by placing them under a car and next to a red-hot exhaust pipe. Later, while Joe and I were on the lake——”
“That was last night?” the captain interrupted.
“Yes. A boat passed us; I recognized the voices of Rog and his friend. I learned that they knew there were few fish in the lake. Now, why had these men come prepared to pack fish in ice if they knew there were no fish? I found they planned to leave today—roll into line about three o’clock, they said—and that they wanted to avoid somebody named John. Coming ashore, Ike Boles told us of a telegram that had come from John. Now, if this was their John, why should they tell him the fishing was good if they knew it wasn’t? On the other hand, the telegram was directed to a Carl Metz, and nobody knew a Carl Metz. Who was Carl Metz? The driver of the shabby car spoke with a German accent. Was he Carl Metz? If so, why was he never seen fishing? The thing was rather complicated.”
“I don’t see yet how you figured it out,” Captain Tucker complained.
“I didn’t,” Dr. Stone chuckled. “It burst upon me. After the elimination of the shabby car, Rog lingered in my mind. I stopped at Jerry’s garage; talking to Jerry might bring forth some overlooked fact that might prove illuminating. But Jerry was not there, and his mechanic dropped a bomb-shell—there was eight thousand dollars in silver in the stolen money. I began to wonder if there might be two Johns: the John who sent a telegram from New York, and the John whom Rog mentioned, an entirely different John——”
“You mean——” Captain Tucker broke in suddenly.
“Yes; John Law. The crook’s name for the police. Why should they run from the police? Was it this hold-up? Eight thousand dollars in silver is something you cannot hide in your vest pocket or under your hat. They wouldn’t ride with it thrown into a car; a police drag-net would probably be searching cars. That silver would have to be carried where it would defy search. Where better than a storage-box hidden away under a car, particularly if we remember two things: First, these men had said it was an ice-box for fish. Second, they knew they weren’t going to get any fish. It held together except for one weak link.”
“What was that?”
“Had they received word from New York that this money was coming? That stuffed figure lying in the cobbled road meant just one thing—the highwaymen not only knew that money was coming but they knew it was coming on No. 5. In order to know that they must have received a message. That telegram came into the puzzle again. I called Ike Boles. He had not found Carl Metz; he had watched the train that should have brought John and no stranger had got off. John had said he would leave New York on the 8:11. The 8:11 was No. 5.”
Captain Tucker scratched a puzzled head. “But if nobody got that message——”
“Captain, let’s suppose they know whatever message was sent would be filed in New York at a certain time. What better safeguard than to send it to a name unknown here? What’s to prevent the one to whom that message is really intended loitering about the station and listening for it to click into the office?”
“You’re assuming they know telegraphy?”
“I wasn’t assuming, captain; I knew. Last night, when I walked into Jerry’s while he was looking over that storage-box, fingers began to tap a window. It was a message. It said: ‘Too much attention; let’s scram.’ I knew those men could read Morse.”
Captain Tucker stood up. “Doctor, any time you’d like a job as a detective——” He broke off short. “What made you so sure they wouldn’t make their getaway up-country?”
“I heard Rog say they’d roll into line. There’s only one spot in this village where a car has to roll into line. That’s at the toll-bridge.”
Out in the village street Dr. Stone filled his pipe and puffed contentedly. Rog’s car stood in the police driveway beside the Town Hall; and the steel storage-box, wrenched loose by crowbar and hammer, lay upon the ground.
“You took a chance, Uncle David,” Joe said hoarsely. “If that car had slipped past——”
“Rog threatened us on the lake path last night,” the blind doctor said mildly. “If I had released the harness-grip Lady would have torn him down. I knew only two persons in town who had met the car, or Rog: Jerry, and he was up-country. You; but it was dark last night and you wouldn’t have recognized the car. That put it up to Lady.”
Joe blinked.
“If you owned a dog,” Dr. Stone went on, “it would be your dog. I’m blind. Lady knows it. Lady believes she owns me, and she never forgets. To her Rog will always mean danger—to me.”
“Oh!” Light broke upon the boy. “Then Lady——”
“Yes,” said Dr. Stone. “I knew when Rog’s car stopped at the toll-house. Lady growled.”
Dr. David Stone, walking rapidly beside Lady, seemed unaware of the penetrating chill of the pale, thin dawn. His broad shoulders swung with his stride, his coat was open, and no hat covered the white hair of his magnificently-formed head. But Joe Morrow, his nephew, huddled down into a turtle-neck sweater and shivered.
“Joe,” said Dr. Stone, “I shouldn’t have let you come along on this. You’ve never seen a dead man before.”
Chill shook the boy’s teeth. “A dead man can’t hurt anybody.”
“True; but this may be nasty business. Captain Tucker says old Anthony was murdered.”
The boy sucked in his breath and was momentarily sorry the telephone that had called his uncle had awakened him. Crows, cawing faintly, loomed against the early light of the cold sky. The grass was wet, and saturated the bottoms of his trousers.
“They—they don’t know who did it?”
“That’s the trouble, Joe. So many persons might have wanted to.” Since turning into Meadow Road the doctor had been counting paces, and now his voice changed abruptly. “We should be near there.”
“It’s right ahead, Uncle David.”
Dr. Stone said, “Lady, left,” and the great, tawny dog turned obediently. They went up a weed-bordered path to a house that had once been noble, but which now lay in peeled-paint neglect.
Captain Tucker let them in. Four men sat in a room off the hall, and they watched the doorway in silence as Dr. Stone and the dog appeared. Joe, crowding at his uncle’s heels, was conscious of a studied ease and a cautious wariness in all of them. He identified them as Police Captain Tucker made them known to the blind man—Ted Lawton, marked by a certain furtiveness; Ran Freeman, cool and self-contained; Fred Waring, silently grim, and Otis King, dapper and assured. Lady, restless on her leash, suddenly gave an eerie, dismal whine.
Waring flared. “Stop that confounded dog.”
“She knows,” Dr. Stone said quietly, “that there has been death here—by violence.”
Ice ran in Joe’s veins. Otis King lit a cigarette and calmly meditated the glowing end. The doctor said, “Lady, chair,” and the dog led him to a seat. Freeman, sitting on a stool in front of a piano, dropped one arm and the elbow awoke a crashing, jangling chord.
Lawton jumped. “Did you have to do that?”
“Better take something for your nerves,” Freeman said mildly, and ran one hand soundlessly over the keys of the piano.
Captain Tucker’s voice bit into the silence. “One of you four has every right to be nervous.” He turned to Dr. Stone. “I sent for you, Doctor, because I am baffled. All four of these men came here late yesterday. Cagge says——”
“Who’s Cagge?” the doctor broke in.
“Old Anthony Fitch’s servant. He says all four quarreled violently with Anthony last night, and that the old man cackled at them, and goaded them, and invited them to remain so that today the comedy could be resumed. About eleven o’clock he went off to bed, holding to Cagge’s arm, after telling the servant to show the visitors to rooms.”
“And then?” the doctor asked.
“Cagge says he awoke about three o’clock this morning and heard groans. He went to Anthony’s room, and there he found the old man crumpled on his bed. He had been struck on the temple by a heavy brass candlestick that lay on the floor. Cagge says he tried to speak, and muttered one word several times before he died.”
“That word was?”
“Four. Over and over again. ‘Four, four, four.’ What do you make of it?”
Slowly Doctor Stone filled a pipe, struck a match, and puffed in unhurried contemplation. “It may be, Tucker, he meant that all four were concerned in his murder.”
Otis King laughed. “Doctor,” he said easily, “that shot misses the target. There isn’t one of us trusts any of the other three. You couldn’t get us into a combine.”
“You must know each other,” the doctor observed.
Fred Waring jumped angrily to his feet. “Look here, Doctor——”
Lady growled deep in her throat, and Waring slumped into a chair and watched the dog.
“Then,” Dr. Stone said slowly, “if all of you are not concerned, one man’s hand is stained with blood.”
Freeman still continued to run his hand soundlessly across the keys. Lawton gave the doctor a quick, sidelong glance, and stared down at the floor.
“Which one?” King asked coolly; and now, for the first time Joe noticed that he alone, of the four in the room, was fully dressed.
Dr. Stone’s hand touched the dog’s head. “I may tell you—later. First, I should like to know how all of you happened to arrive here yesterday. Did the old man invite you?”
“No,” Otis King drawled; “but I rather fancy he expected us. Did you know he was writing a book? It was to be one of those brutally frank things—fire the gun and let the shots hit whom they may. Anthony dropped each of us a letter. We were to be in the book. So, knowing Anthony, we all raced for the Grand Central and met on the same train.”
“And killed him,” Dr. Stone said.
“Some one did,” King admitted blandly. “And I’m not denying that any of the four of us had reason to do the job.”
Fred Waring spoke bitterly. “You always did talk too much, Otis.” He lapsed into silence, and presently spoke to the doctor. “If you knew Anthony Fitch—”
“Perhaps I do,” the doctor said mildly. “For several years he was mixed up in shady transactions, but managed to stay just inside the law. Slippery, and clever, and unscrupulous.”
“That was Anthony on the outside,” Waring said passionately. “Inside he was vindictive, and cold, and merciless. Those claw-like hands of his were the talons of a hawk. He took a pleasure in refined torture. Years ago we were all tied up with him, and—”
“You don’t have to go into that,” Ted Lawton cried warningly.
“I’m not going to. Anyway, we broke away, and one of his schemes failed. He told us then that some day he’d pay the score. Lately he set out to write a book. It was to be called ‘Confessions of a Rascal.’”
“I see.” The doctor’s face was expressionless. “Naturally, you gentlemen objected to being included in the book.”
Waring ripped out an oath. “He had gone back fifteen years to rake open old sores. God, man, do you know what that meant? We thought we had lived down those old mistakes. We had established ourselves. I am cashier at a manufacturing plant. King is manager of a branch brokerage house. Lawton is in business for himself. Ran Freeman is engaged to marry Lilly Panner——”
Dr. Stone sat up straight. “The Calico Heiress?”
Freeman’s fingers still played imaginary music. “Exactly, Doctor,” he said quietly. “The newspapers have made the family fairly well known. Fine old traditions—that sort of thing. Let this book of Anthony’s appear and my marriage to Miss Panner would be overboard.”
“And with it the Panner fortune,” the doctor observed dryly.
“That, too,” Ran Freeman admitted without emotion.
The pipe had gone out. The blind man ran the bowl absently along one sleeve. Dishes clattered in the kitchen.
“It seems,” the doctor said, “you’ve given yourself sufficient motive for murder, Freeman.”
“We all have sufficient motive,” Freeman said frankly. “How long could Waring remain a cashier if his past were dug out? How long would King be manager of a brokerage house? How long would Lawton have enough credit left to stay on in his business?”
The room fell into silence, and Joe felt sweat on the palms of his hands. These men discussed murder as other men might have talked of the loss of a button from a coat. Dr. Stone put the pipe away and turned his sightless eyes toward the spot from which Waring’s voice had sounded.
“You say Anthony wrote you?”
“All of us. A devilish letter telling what was going into the book concerning us. Do you get that? Paying off, after all these years, the old score; ramming in the knife and turning it around. Giving us the prospect of months of anticipation and worry waiting for the book to appear. So we came up here——”
“And threatened him?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” Waring answered after a momentary hesitation. “He laughed at us. He said the only way to stop that book was to kill him, and invited us to do it. He said there was a blind man in the village with the very devil of a dog and that the man who killed him would be tracked down.” Waring’s voice rose. “But, for once, Anthony was wrong. He forgot——” The passionate flow of words stopped with startling suddenness.
“What did he forget?” Dr. Stone asked.
Waring said nothing.
“Did he forget that there was such a thing as the manuscript being stolen?”
Captain Tucker spoke. “What good would that do? The old man could write it again.”
“Could he?” Dr. Stone mused. “I’m not so sure. A man who has to lean on a servant’s arm is a sick man—perhaps a dying man. By the way, Tucker, did you look for the manuscript?”
“Yes. He kept it in his bedroom.”
“And?”
“It’s gone.”
“Waring,” Dr. Stone said slowly, “you checked yourself too late. So Anthony forgot—and the manuscript is stolen. That unfinished sentence could convict you.”
“Of what?” Waring snapped.
“Of murder. The man who stole that manuscript killed Anthony Fitch.”
Lady whimpered uneasily, and, in the hard silence, the sound was like the wail of a ghost. Joe’s temples throbbed, and he was conscious of Lawton watching his uncle in a sort of bleak dread. Slowly he came to the realization that the blind man, sitting there in a handicap of darkness was the dominating figure in the room.
Softly, almost soundlessly, a man wearing an apron appeared from the kitchen. This, the boy guessed, was Cagge.
“I’ve made coffee,” the servant announced in a nasal monotone. “Anybody want some?”
Freeman’s hand came away from the piano. “What’s the matter with the bacon and eggs?”
Lawton gave a grunt of distaste. “Ugh! Who could eat food now?”
“Is Anthony’s death supposed to fill any of us with sorrow?” Freeman asked blandly.
“Fry mine on both sides,” said Otis King. He stretched his legs and smoothed his trousers. “Cagge, you were with Anthony how long?”
“Three years.”