Anthony turned and signed to Murray to join them. “Take us the shortest way to the top of the ridge,” he ordered, and the footman once again led them up the steep incline.
They were almost at the top of the ridge when Anthony, stopping to get his breath after a rapid spurt over the roughest of the climb, glanced to their left where the ground dipped into a ravine, and saw a man crouching behind a tree. Without rising, the latter signaled to the Secret Service agent, and Anthony, bidding Murray and his assistant come with him, hurried forward, and quickly reached the side of the crouching sentinel.
“What is it, Boyd?” he asked, lowering his voice cautiously.
For answer the man pointed down the ravine and across a clearing to a log cabin which abutted the hillside.
“We’ve trailed him there,” he said, “and are only waiting for a signal to close in. Hark! was that a whistle?” Murray, to whom the question was addressed, shook his head; he had not had such strenuous exercise in years, and perspiration streamed down his face.
“I don’t hear a thing,” he muttered. The excitement of the others was contagious, and under its influence the footman forgot class distinction and nudged Anthony to get his attention. “Who are you and what are you after?”
Anthony, never removing his eyes from the cabin, displayed his badge. “We are trailing a dangerous counterfeiter,” he explained. “You’d better go home, you may get hurt.” Not waiting to see if his advice was followed, he beckoned to Boyd and his assistant. “Come ahead; we’ll rush the cabin.”
The men started down the ravine simultaneously, leaving Murray standing by the tree. The footman fidgeted for a second and glanced backward—the Secret Service agent’s advice was sound; his place was at the Porter mansion; it was not his business to assist in arresting malefactors. Murray glanced again at the men hastening toward the log cabin, and throwing reason to the far winds, he tore down the ravine, and caught up with them at the edge of the clearing.
A shot rang out, and Anthony, slightly in the lead, faltered. But its echoes had hardly ceased to resound through the stillness when a second shot broke on their ears. With a muttered curse Anthony sprang forward and threw himself through the partly open cabin door, the other men following pellmell.
Murray, the last to enter, stood appalled as he peered over Anthony’s shoulder at the tableau confronting them, then looked dumbly about the disordered cabin. Two large screens tumbled to one side, tables and chairs overturned, made a dramatic setting for the still figure lying crumpled up on the floor and the man crouching above it, a still smoking revolver held aloft. As the latter turned and faced the Secret Service operatives a strangled exclamation broke from Murray.
“Dr. Thorne!”
Thorne tossed the revolver to Anthony. “Take charge of that,” he said. “Have that window opened and switch on the lights,” nodding to a lamp, and Boyd turned on the current. “I must see how badly Dr. Noyes has hurt himself.”
Anthony clutched the revolver, his eyes never leaving Thorne.
“Do you mean to say that Dr. Noyes shot himself?” he demanded.
“I do,” calmly, and Thorne busied himself in making a superficial examination of the wound. “Fortunately the bullet did not enter a vital point; lend me your handkerchiefs.” And with the assistance of Anthony he bound up the wound and rendered first aid. “Murray,” addressing the agitated footman whose fingers had been all thumbs in his efforts to help restore Noyes to consciousness, “return at once to the Porters’ and have Noyes’ room prepared for him, but first stop at my house for surgical supplies.”
“Very good, sir,” and only lingering for one curious glance about the cabin, Murray departed.
“Suppose two of you take the door off its hinges,” went on Thorne. “We can carry Noyes home on that.” Boyd hesitated and looked at Anthony for orders. Thorne was quick to note their suspicious glances. “Who are you?” he asked, as Anthony returned from a tour of inspection.
“We are members of the United States Secret Service,” and again Anthony displayed his badge. “We came here to arrest a notorious counterfeiter.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” remarked Thorne dryly.
Anthony flushed scarlet. “I find enough contraband property here to convict the owner as a dangerous counterfeiter,” he said. “You have not yet explained your presence, Dr. Thorne.”
“My presence can be attributed to idle curiosity,” was Thorne’s tranquil answer as the men gathered about him. “I was passing the cabin, saw the door standing ajar, and entered. I had been here only a very few minutes when I heard a shot and tearing aside that screen,” pointing to it, “saw poor Noyes fall to the floor. I had just taken the revolver from him when you entered so spectacularly.”
Anthony did not miss a word of Thorne’s explanation. “You claim, then, that you did not know anyone else was in the cabin until you heard the shot?”
“I mean exactly that,” with emphasis. “I thought I was alone in the cabin. I haven’t the faintest idea what brought Dr. Noyes, the English surgeon who is visiting the Porters,” he interpolated, “to this cabin.”
“He can explain that when he regains consciousness,” exclaimed Anthony. “It will not take us long to carry him to the Porters’, if you think it safe to move him.”
“I do.” And Thorne made ready to rise from his place by Noyes. “By the way, before hearing the report of Noyes’ revolver, I heard a shot—who fired the first shot?”
“That is for you to explain.” Anthony stooped under a table and picked up a revolver. With a deft turn of his wrist he opened the breech. “One chamber has been fired.”
Chapter XX
KA
Detective Mitchell hung up the telephone receiver and sat glaring at the instrument.
“Well, I’m d—ned!” he muttered. It was some moments before he rose and went in search of Cato, but although he hunted through the entire first floor of Thornedale and called upstairs until he was hoarse, Mitchell was unable to find the old negro, and at last gave up the search. Over an hour had elapsed since the departure of Anthony, the Secret Service agent, and still Thorne had not returned. Mitchell’s impatience got the better of him, and, not troubling to leave a written message, he left the house and walked rapidly to Dewdrop Inn.
Mrs. Porter, dressed for walking, was standing in the front doorway as Mitchell came up the steps, and she greeted his appearance with a frown.
“Do you desire to see me?” she inquired. “I am just going out.”
Mitchell, however, did not stand aside for her to walk past him.
“I am very sorry, madam, to detain you,” he said firmly. “But it is imperative that I have a talk with you at once.”
Mrs. Porter whitened under her rouge. “It is quite unnecessary to adopt that tone to me,” she retorted. “I can spare you a few minutes, not more. Walk inside,” and she stepped back into the hall.
Mitchell closed the front door with a bang and tossed his hat and overcoat on the hall table.
“Has Dr. Alan Noyes returned from the court house?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Mrs. Porter moistened her lips nervously. “I expect him here at any moment.”
“Suppose we go into the library,” suggested Mitchell, seeing that she made no sign to admit him further into the house. “Then, kindly oblige me by sending for Miss Deane.”
Mitchell had not troubled to lower his voice, and his words were distinctly audible to Dorothy Deane, who was sitting on the top step of the staircase. She waited until she heard Mrs. Porter and Mitchell go in the direction of the library, then sped to Craig Porter’s door and, jerking it open, she beckoned to her sister to come into the hall.
“Vera,” she said in little more than a whisper, “Alan Noyes is evidently detained at the court house, and—and—Detective Mitchell is down in the library waiting to see you.”
Vera stood as if turned into marble, then she drew a long, painful breath.
“Very well”—her voice wa
s not quite steady, and she cleared her throat before continuing—“I will see Detective Mitchell at once. Where is Hugh Wyndham?”
Dorothy flinched, and her eyes fell before her sister’s direct gaze. “I don’t know—I can’t find him anywhere about the place. Oh, Vera,” coloring painfully, “must you tell all?”
Vera nodded. “It would have been better had I been frank in the first place,” she said dully. “God knows, I acted for the best. I can’t leave Craig Porter alone, Dorothy. Where is Mrs. Hall?”
“With Millicent, I suppose. I haven’t seen her lately.”
“Then you sit with Craig until I return.” Vera pushed Dorothy gently through the doorway. “Call me if he requires medical assistance.” And pulling the door shut before Dorothy could recover from her surprise, Vera squared her shoulders and walked downstairs.
Dorothy continued to stare at the closed door for some seconds, then turned her attention to Craig Porter, but his emaciated appearance was a distinct shock to her, and when she looked away her eyes were blurred with tears. Afraid to give way in the slightest degree to her emotions for fear they would master her, she walked back and forth with noiseless tread.
The minutes seemed endless, and in agony over the scene which her active imagination painted going on in the library, Dorothy at last paused before the huge mirror over the mantel and stared at herself. Dark circles under her eyes and her total lack of color told plainly of mental anguish, and with a shudder she moved away. The desk next attracted her wandering attention, and she picked up the nurse’s chart and a pencil and subconsciously read the last entry in Vera’s handwriting: “Patient continues plucking at clothing.”
Dropping the chart she walked over to the foot of the bed and regarded Craig Porter. A great pity for him drove, for the moment, her own problems out of her mind. They had been “pals” while she was at boarding school and he a junior at Yale, and as memories returned of his merry disposition and gallant bearing a lump rose in her throat, and she hastily looked away.
A glance at the open transom over the head of Craig’s bed sent her thoughts again to the tragedy enacted in the next room on Tuesday morning.
“Only four days ago,” she murmured, and choked back a sob. Again she looked at Craig. He lay rigidly on his back, his eyes half closed, and she wondered if he could be asleep or unconscious. The only indication of life was the moving finger plucking always at the sheet drawn across his chest.
Dorothy’s thoughts again reverted to Vera and Detective Mitchell. What was transpiring in the library? It was cruel to keep her in such suspense. In her extreme nervousness she drummed the pencil which she still held against the footboard of the bed, and her eyes resting still on Craig’s hand, she unconsciously beat time to his slow-moving finger.
Painfully, laboriously the finger moved back a longer distance, then a shorter distance, then longer—and Dorothy’s pencil beat out each stroke:—•—•—
The tap of her pencil penetrated her absentmindedness, and Dorothy stared at Craig—what had possessed her to spell out “KA,” the wireless “attention” call which precedes every transmission?
Again her eyes traveled to Craig’s hand, and the moving finger in contrast to his motionless figure and expressionless face fascinated her. Again she spelled out the “attention” signal, her pencil tapping off each short or long movement of his finger. But this time the “KA” signal was followed by her initials, and the signal: •—• • •, “wait.”
Dorothy, half doubting her senses, tapped off:—•—“K,” the official call to “go ahead.”
Craig’s finger remained motionless for a longer period, then once again it spelled a message to her, and as she caught its full significance, she with difficulty checked a scream. With shaking fingers she tapped out the question:
“Who murdered Bruce Brainard?”
Breathlessly she waited for the response.
Slowly, very slowly Craig’s finger checked off the answer, and Dorothy, her senses reeling, leaned far over the bed and looked into Craig’s eyes. They held the light of reason. With a choking sob she sank senseless to the floor.
Chapter XXI
Blind Man’s Buff
Vera glanced neither to the right nor to the left as she walked with firm steps toward the library, and thereby missed seeing a face peering at her from behind the folds of the portieres which hung in front of the reception-room entrance. Her fixed resolve to get the interview with Detective Mitchell over and done with aided her in suppressing all sign of agitation, and her demeanor was calm and collected when she approached Mrs. Porter, who occupied her customary seat before the library table. Mitchell had planted himself at the opposite side of the table and spread several typewritten sheets before him. He did not rise on Vera’s entrance.
Mrs. Porter, who sat with one eye on the door, was the first to address Vera.
“Detective Mitchell desires to question you, Vera,” she said. “Sit here by me.” And she touched the girl reassuringly.
Vera almost exclaimed aloud at the coldness of her fingers. “Are you having a chill, Mrs. Porter?” she asked in alarm, observing the bluish hue of her lips. “Would you like some brandy?”
“No.” Mrs. Porter’s tone did not encourage further solicitude. “As soon as Mr. Mitchell completes his visit I shall go for a walk. Continue your remarks, Mr. Mitchell.”
Mitchell was about to comply with her injunction when Vera, who had remained standing by Mrs. Porter, spoke first.
“I have heard that Dr. Alan Noyes has been arrested for the murder of Mr. Bruce Brainard. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Mitchell, keeping his finger at a certain point in the manuscript before him, watched Vera closely.
“Then the police have acted most unjustly,” exclaimed Vera vehemently. “Dr. Noyes is innocent.”
“Your grounds for that assertion?”
Vera hesitated, glanced dubiously at Mrs. Porter, whose adamantine expression gave her no encouragement, and then addressed Mitchell.
“I believe—” Her clear voice faltered, and she commenced again. “I believe that no murder was committed—Mr. Brainard killed himself.”
Mitchell made no attempt to conceal his incredulity. “Medical evidence proves that the wound in his throat could not have been self-inflicted except by a left-handed man,” he rejoined. “And reputable witnesses have proved that Bruce Brainard was not left-handed.”
“But he was ambidextrous,” retorted Vera. “He could shave himself with equal facility with either hand.”
Mitchell stared at her astounded, while Mrs. Porter, hanging on her words, drew a deep, deep breath.
“Where did you learn that about Bruce Brainard?” demanded Mitchell.
Vera met the detective’s accusing gaze squarely. “He told me so himself.”
“What?” Mitchell leaned across the table in his eagerness. “Did Brainard tell you that he was ambidextrous on Monday night?”
“No.”
“Then you had known him before Monday night?”
“I had.”
Mitchell sat back in his chair and scowled at Vera.
“Why did you not mention in your testimony at the inquest on Tuesday that you had known Bruce Brainard formerly?” His manner was stern. “You gave us to understand that you had not met Brainard until sent for to attend him after dinner on Monday night.”
“I was not asked the direct question as to whether we had ever met before,” replied Vera. “I did not volunteer the information because—”
“Because it would have led to an investigation of your acquaintance with him,” with insolent meaning, and Vera, her hot blood dancing in her veins, stepped nearer the detective, her eyes blazing with pent-up wrath.
Mrs. Porter, rising suddenly, intervened. “Stop, Mr. Mitchell; if you insult Miss Deane I shall have my servants eject you,” she said, and her slow, level tones warned the detective that he must not go too far in his heckling tactics. But before he could resume questioning V
era the library door, which she had left ajar on entering, was pushed open and Mrs. Hall came into the room.
“I couldn’t help overhearing what has just been said,” she began, ignoring Mrs. Porter’s indignant glare. “I was on my way to the pantry to get some bouillon for Miss Porter when I heard you talking.” She looked meaningly at Vera. “I’ve held my peace, Miss Deane, out of kindness to you; but now that Dr. Noyes is accused of killing Mr. Brainard it’s time for me to tell the detectives what I know about you.”
Vera gazed at her in amazement too deep for expression, while Mitchell, his eyes shining with excitement, stepped from behind the table.
“Go on, Mrs. Hall,” he said encouragingly. “Tell me everything.”
“I will.” Mrs. Hall paused dramatically. “On Tuesday morning about four o’clock I was awakened by hearing someone moving about in the dressing-room which connects our bedroom with Mr. Porter’s. I got up and looked through the partly open door and was surprised to see Miss Deane slipping on a fresh white skirt, while before her stretched over the stationary washstand was another skirt on which were bloodstains.” A low cry from Mrs. Porter interrupted her, and Mrs. Hall paused, to continue more rapidly as she met Vera’s indignant gaze.
“There was something secretive in Miss Deane’s air that stopped my impulse to ask her what she was about, and I went at once by way of the hall to Mr. Porter’s bedroom, thinking perhaps he might have had a hemorrhage; but I found him lying as usual, apparently asleep. I did not then know that Mr. Brainard was in the next bedroom. Thinking Miss Deane had had a nosebleed I went back to my room and to bed, as I had not been well the day before and needed rest. Some time later Miss Deane came in carrying a skirt in her hand. Hanging it up in the closet, she returned to Mr. Porter’s bedroom.”
“What happened after that?” prompted Mitchell as she stopped.
“I got out of bed and went over to the closet and examined the white skirt which Miss Deane had hung there a few minutes before. The bloodstains had been carefully removed with the aid of cornstarch, and a hot iron passed over the skirt. There is an electric iron and battery for our use in the dressing-room,” she supplemented. “The white skirt bore Miss Deane’s initials inside the belt.”
The Moving Finger Page 19
