Skeleton Key

by Lenore Glen Offord

  “Dear me,” Todd said reflectively. “Maybe you’re right. Well, skip that for a minute, and get back to motive. I think this crime was motivated by fear. D’you remember our talking about the people who were living lies? One of them was afraid his lie would be brought out into the open. Maybe that’s been the key all along, instead of this problematical clue that you might or might not have possessed.”

  “Seems to me,” Georgine objected, smiling, “that’s kind of a skeleton key. It’d open anybody’s door.”

  “Oh, no, no!” Todd swung round and gazed with unseeing eyes at the glass-brick wall of the laboratory. “Think. Who’s living the biggest lie, as a fundamental part of existence? Whose whole way of life would fall into bits if that lie were publicized?”

  “Not”—she had a curious aversion to saying the name—“not Las Vegas?”

  “Not quite. This murderer didn’t have much of a conscience. The nervous ones don’t; they make their false steps in trying to protect themselves, not out of remorse. John Devlin’s conscience would have given him away long before this. But you’re next door to the solution.”

  “Am I?” She thought hard for a minute. In the pause, the open door swayed gently in the breeze, and on the same gust came a far-off sound of bells. “Great heavens, Todd,” Georgine exclaimed, “is that four o’clock? I’ve got to get home, Barby will be there! I can’t stay for any more guessing games. Go on, tell me.”

  “Name your candidate first. You were supposed to hold the clue.”

  “Oh, I can’t. And I believe I know what my clue was. The Campanile made me think of it. It doesn’t strike the half-hours, does it?”

  “No,” Todd said. He looked round at her, frowning a little. “You mean you’ve remembered what you heard on the night Hollister died?”

  “I think so. And it doesn’t mean a thing. I heard a clock chime the half-hour—and it must have been from somewhere away off, because Nelse himself said he’d never heard a chiming clock in Grettry Road.”

  For a moment Todd McKinnon sat as if he had been turned to stone. Only his deep-set eyes changed, with the slow increase of horror. “So you remembered—” he began.

  Then his head jerked up, and he looked at the door behind her. “Wait here a minute,” he said in a barely audible whisper, and got down silently, quickly from his perch. In three or four soundless steps he was across the floor.

  The door slammed behind him.

  It startled Georgine, who had been sitting with her back to it. She gave a convulsive jump that nearly dislodged her from the stool, and swung round to look at the door, which seemed still to be quivering from the impact.

  She hoped it didn’t lock itself, so that she would be imprisoned here… No, of course not; even if those doors couldn’t always be opened from the inside, she had the key in her hand.

  For the first time it occurred to her to wonder why the Professor had left this room wide open. It didn’t seem like him. She looked round quickly. There was something else queer; the filing cabinet, repository of his closely guarded secrets, also seemed to be open. She entertained herself momentarily with a picture of the old gentleman setting a trap for the unwary; after all, just the fact that you had been called down to the police station didn’t mean you were to be there forever.

  There were muffled sounds in the hall. What was Todd doing out there? She called his name, but there was no answer, and the sounds continued, soft and undefinable.

  Frowning a little, she jumped off the stool and went to the door. It was locked, all right. Confidently, she put the key in and turned it. Now the handle moved freely.

  The door wouldn’t open, though.

  Impatiently Georgine pushed at it, rattling the knob. “Todd,” she said loudly, “I’m stuck. I’m locked in the laboratory of the Mad Professor!” She pushed at it again. “Todd! Let me out! What are you doing?”

  The way he looked over his shoulder at the door, it had seemed almost as if he’d caught sight of someone in the hall; at least, she’d received that impression. Had he gone chasing off somewhere, leaving her locked in so she wouldn’t follow and get into danger? He should have known better than that; it would be the last thing she’d do; if told to stay put she would do so until the skies fell.

  She became aware that her heart was beating irregularly. A fine business this was, with Barby due at home any minute. “I’ve got to get out,” Georgine said aloud, reasonably. “I’ve got to be at home…”

  What was the matter with that door? She pushed at it again with all her strength, and felt it give a little toward the top. It was at the bottom that it seemed to be stuck. Georgine got down to peer through the thin crack above the sill. There was something just visible, holding it…

  She remembered the wedges, covered with corrugated rubber so they wouldn’t slip on the cement floor, which always lay about the passage. It looked as if one of these had been forced into the crack. No use pushing, then, she would only imprison herself more firmly.

  “Todd!” she screamed at the top of her lungs; and then, after a long minute when there was no answer, “Help, anybody! Get me out of here! Help.”

  Her voice beat impotently against the solid wall of glass brick; her hands were sore from their instinctive battering against the unresponsive door. She dropped back a pace and stood breathing hard. No matter how I yell, she thought, who’s going to hear me? There’s nobody between here and the top of the road but a stone-deaf man.

  Todd had asked her if anybody were about.

  Cold went sliding over her flesh like a snake. Had he seen anyone in the hall, or had he just—wanted to get out? He had looked at her very oddly when she mentioned the chiming clock. She had never been in the Clifton house, and it wasn’t impossible that they had such a clock; couldn’t one disconnect a chime so that it wouldn’t sound any longer—after it had betrayed one by sounding, through a momentarily opened door, in the quiet of night? And wouldn’t one go on hoping that it hadn’t been heard—and encouraging the only witness when she refused to search her memory?

  “Dear God,” Georgine said aloud, in an awed voice of horror. No, it couldn’t be! But just the same, she had to get out of here. She had to find some way of knocking that wedge away from the door.

  How long had that faint humming been going on? Somehow, the air-conditioning system must have been switched over when the door was closed. Well, that would help; at least she wouldn’t suffocate in here. Georgine cast a glance at the louvred openings, high up in the wall, and then started purposefully toward the drawers under the cabinet and sink. There were eight or ten drawers. She jerked them open one after another; rubber tubing—more scrap rubber, like the old tires and pieces of hose in the garage; test tubes, syringes; here was a hammer, that might be of some use—now, if she could only find a thin screwdriver! Papers, an oilcloth apron, more papers. Sundry equipment, but nothing that would be thin enough to go under the door, and sturdy enough to knock out a wedge.

  She stood in the middle of the room, her head turning from side to side with nervous intensity. It must be getting late, for the colorless light filtering through the glass brick had imperceptibly changed in quality. How long had it been since the door slammed? Perhaps not more than five or ten minutes, though it seemed very much longer. She’d have to—

  Georgine made a sudden dive for the filing cabinet. It was a steel one; sometimes, in those deep drawers, there were removable partitions.

  She caught a breath like a noiseless shout of triumph, and pulled out a thin sheet of metal. On her knees beside the door, she slid it against the crack, working it through… Yes. It would go.

  She began to tap gently on the outer edge.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be necessary; maybe at any moment she would hear voices in the street above—or could one hear through these walls? Nelsing was due up here sometime this afternoon. Sometime. That might mean anything…

  Something was happening outside; for a moment she ceased her hammering and sat back on her heels.<
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  Another sound, quite near to her, had mingled with the metallic clang: a soft roar and then a steady chugging. That was the Professor’s car, in the garage only a few feet away. He must have come home, she hadn’t dared hope for that! But why hadn’t she heard the garage doors open? They had been closed when she arrived.

  “Professor Paev! I’m in the laboratory! Let me out!”

  Nobody answered; and on the echo of her cry, a peculiar odor began to steal through the room.

  Her hands had gone very cold, and she bent furiously to her hammering on the sheet of metal. She could see in her mind’s eye the ancient coupé; its gears locked, but, in the old-fashioned manner, its ignition did not. Anyone could have started the engine, and set the hand throttle. There were those long pieces of hose, in the garage; and an air-conditioning system had to have a cold-air intake, somewhere.

  She wondered how long it took one to become unconscious, when exhaust gas was pouring into the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Final Diagnosis

  SHE HAD WONDERED, TOO, while her mind reluctantly built up a case, what good it would do to lock her in here. A fugitive couldn’t get far in an hour or two, and surely she’d be out before then, and could tell what she knew.

  Now the plan was obvious.

  Grimly, angrily, she bent to her work. The wedge seemed immovable. “I won’t die here,” Georgine told herself between set teeth. She did not dare to think of Barby.

  Nobody had ever been such a complete fool: to walk in and sit down happily, with a murderer, and unburden herself of all her secrets including the one that would bring him to ruin if it were known!

  She’d mentioned the chime to Nelsing the night before—but she hadn’t said that it was what she heard as Hollister’s murderer made his escape. Nelsing couldn’t have been expected to guess. He was investigating this case scientifically; maybe he’d arrive at the correct answer, in time; but all the science on earth wouldn’t bring her to life if she died of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Perhaps he’d come up to the Road before the afternoon was gone; he might hear the engine running, he might come to investigate; but she couldn’t count on that, she must get herself out somehow.

  The air was growing heavy and acrid, and still the soft chugging persisted. Georgine paused for a moment, looking up, wondering if she could manage to plug those openings in the wall. She got up and climbed on the stool, reaching up. The louvres were a foot beyond her reach. No good.

  She got down hastily, dizzily. Better not breathe deeply, nor waste breath on any more screaming; the fumes were beginning to reach her brain, she thought, for they seemed almost visible as they poured slowly into this tightly enclosed room. Back to the hammering; the air might be just a fraction better, down here near the small crack that was her only road to freedom.

  Todd, she thought painfully; Todd McKinnon, soothing and considerate and humorous. Nobody ever suspected a man with a sense of the ridiculous, it was his mask and his armor.

  The hammer clanged, and the sheet of steel moved almost imperceptibly outward. Was the wedge giving way?

  Todd. It couldn’t be. He had saved her life…

  But not until after he had made her tell what she knew, and realized that it did not endanger him.

  Todd, playing his sinister little tune on the mouth-organ, like a rattlesnake giving warning before he struck. That must have appealed to his macabre sense of humor.

  Who was living the biggest lie, indeed? Who but the person who could tell the exact truth and make it sound like fiction, and who gently implicated her, Georgine, at every turn—but at least that hadn’t done any good, Nelse hadn’t fallen for it.

  The hammer clanged. The wedge was moving.

  Georgine’s head spun as if in slow, regular circles. The chugging had not ceased, but the air didn’t seem to be any thicker than it had been a few minutes since. Maybe it reached a certain concentration…

  Who was living a bigger lie than the person who pretended to detect, while he himself was the murderer? The motive had been simple enough. He had described it to Harry Gillespie. Todd.

  “I thought he loved me,” Georgine heard herself whisper.

  And with a shocking suddenness the metal shot clear through the crack under the door Gasping, she got to her knees and turned the knob, the door opened, and did not strike the wedge again. Fresh cool air poured down the corridor. Georgine struggled to her feet. Her head cleared gradually as she made her faltering way to the door at the end, and stood there, leaning against the wall, filling her lungs again and again.

  She looked out dully over the canyon. Far behind her, a heavy step sounded on the gravel of the driveway. There was a noise of battering, and a moment after the garage doors had squawked open, the engine of Professor Paev’s car fell silent.

  About time the police got here, she thought. She started around the outside of the house, was interrupted by one last fit of coughing, and went on, feeling almost restored. Probably if you didn’t get enough monoxide to make you unconscious, it didn’t really hurt you. She had a good strong heart.

  There, moving about the garage door, was a tall figure with a handkerchief over mouth and nose. It was—yes; it was Nelsing.

  She said his name, hoarsely, and he looked up for a minute as she reached the door. She glanced inside, and stopped short.

  Nelsing was bending over Todd McKinnon; and McKinnon was sprawled on the floor, near the exhaust pipe of the coupé, his hand clutching an end of rubber hose.

  Caught in his own trap, Georgine thought.

  Nelsing had the unconscious form out on the grass, wrapped in a robe from the car. He had straddled it and was beginning artificial respiration, snapping a question at Georgine as he worked.

  “Yes, I’m all right,” she said remotely. “He didn’t figure on my being able to get out of the lab, I guess. At that, you probably would have got here in time.”

  Nelsing, swinging rhythmically back and forth, grunted that he’d been as quick as possible. The sound of the motor had been deceiving, it was a few minutes before it had dawned on him that it was running in a garage.

  Georgine leaned against the wall, looking wearily down at the slight figure. It looked much taller, stretched out like that. She felt nothing but an immense desolation, as if she had lost something beyond price.

  “Isn’t it funny. I can’t hate him even when I know what he did,” she said at last. “He never did seem bad.”

  Nelsing grunted again.

  “Nelse, do you—do you have to work so hard, to bring him to? Wouldn’t justice be satisfied if you let him die of this?” She heard herself give a forlorn laugh. “It’s almost the same as the lethal chamber.”

  Inspector Nelsing looked up at her, his blue eyes stretched wide. Surprise had made him almost falter in his rhythmic pressure. “Good God!” he said loudly, still swinging back and forth. “You didn’t think Mac was the murderer?”

  Georgine gazed at him stupidly. “He—he wasn’t? What was he doing in the garage, with the hose—”

  “Pulling it off the pipe so you wouldn’t get any more of the gas,” Nelsing snarled. “What did you think, that I’d let him stand guard over you if I had any reason to suspect him? Look at that bruise on his head, he must’ve got caught out somehow and knocked cold—”

  “When—when he went into the hall,” Georgine breathed.

  “—and thrown into the garage. That inside door won’t open, it’s wedged somehow. I guess he came to, you can see the grease smear on the floor where he dragged himself over to the car—probably couldn’t get up to turn off the engine so he grabbed the hose off and the gas began pouring right into his face.”

  Her body felt as if electricity had been shot into it. She was on her knees beside the limp form, “Nelse, he’s not dead? Is he—is he going to die?”

  “Dunno,” said Nelsing, maintaining the steady, even swing. “Gas might affect him specially. He’s only got one good lung.”

  �
�One—what did you say?”

  “He got hurt—skiing accident, years ago. Broken ribs, punctured his lungs, and by the time they got the rest of him patched up the lung was flat with adhesions.”

  “Nelse,” Georgine said, “get away from him. Let me take over.”

  “You’re groggy yourself.”

  “Nuts. I never felt better, and I’m sick and tired of standing by wringing my hands while somebody saves my life.”

  Her eyes blazed; when he moved it was as if propelled by the sheer force of her look and voice. “It’s the right lung,” he said gruffly, getting to his feet. “Go light on it. I’ve got to go—up there. Somebody’ll come to help you in a few minutes.”

  Sure enough, she thought vaguely, there had been some commotion on the Road above them. She could not stop to wonder about it. Press gently; squat back and wait; press forward…

  They had taught her in first aid class how to gauge the rests, but she found herself remembering the old-fashioned method of her childhood. “Out gas,” you said, pressing, and, “In come the air slowly.” She swayed back and forth, frantically intent.

  Presently she began to talk aloud, though jerkily, as if the form were awake and listening. “Todd, you utter dimwit, was that why you wouldn’t—even get into competition? All those—stories about why you couldn’t get into—the war; I might have known how horribly you minded!”

  Out gas; in comes the air slowly.

  “You wouldn’t say you loved me! You said not to take any—”

  Out gas…

  “—Anything second-rate. Did you mean that?”

  In comes the air slowly. Had he moved then, ever so slightly? She dared not stop to make sure.

  “Why, you poor lug, if I love somebody—d’you think I go around—counting his lungs?”

  Out gas…

  “S-second rate! What do you think is tops? What do I want with—a man who doesn’t like women? Anybody—who married me would get two of ’em to start with.”

  Out gas…

  Her back and arms seemed to be full of red-hot rope, her wrists were shaking. In comes the air slowly… You couldn’t call it crying when there were no sobs, when the tears just ran out of your eyes and dripped uncomfortably off your chin; but she couldn’t see his face through the blur.