Again Flint shook his head.
"I never heard of it before," he answered.
"But, at least, you know what has happened, don't you?" Stranway cried.
A bitter oath sprang from Flint's lips.
"Yes; I know that," he rasped out. "And God have mercy on the man who did it when we get our hands on him!"
Stranway was gnawing at his lips.
"What did Verot tell you over the phone?" he prodded swiftly.
"Only to be ready for you the moment you came—that Charlebois was very bad."
"Listen, then," said Stranway desperately. "Charlebois regained consciousness for a moment. He said there was a life in danger. He mentioned you—you must know something about it."
Flint straightened a little in his seat.
"I thought perhaps you wanted a doctor, or something like that," he said quickly. "With Charlebois shot, I naturally thought that put an end to anything else to-night—and, besides, we weren't to start for nearly an hour yet. Yes; I think I know what you mean. But, at that, I don't know very much."
"Go on," urged Stranway eagerly.
"Well, yesterday afternoon," said Flint, "I drove Charlebois about twenty-five miles up the Hudson to a house, a big, lonely, deserted sort of place, that was, I should say, a half mile straight back in the country from the main road. We didn't go in, you understand—we just passed by the entrance gates. He told me to be particularly careful to get the location well fixed in my mind, for we were to go there again to-night—to leave here at half-past ten."
"What else?" Stranway bit off the words as the other paused.
"Nothing else," Flint replied a little helplessly. "That's all I know—that I was to drive him there again to-night."
A mirthless smile played for an instant over Stranway's lips, then grim lines took its place.
"Drive there now, then," he said between his teeth. "And drive for all you know, Flint!"
Flint made no answer in words, but the forward bound of the car was an eloquent response. Stranway flung himself back in his seat, a prey to perhaps the most violent emotions he had ever experienced in his life—grief now drowning out this new anxiety, now anxiety drowning out momentarily his grief. For a time, his thoughts ran shuttlewise; then, rousing himself, he resolutely put the thought of Charlebois' condition from him. This problem that confronted him must be tackled, grappled with—and how little there was with which to grapple! A life in the balance—and not a single tangible thread to guide him!
A cold dread swept over him. A life depending on him, on the course he should pursue! What was he to do? Go to the house? Yes, of course! He was going there now! But afterwards? Whose house was it? Whose life was it that hung in the balance? What were the final details Charlebois had meant to take up with him in connection with this "last account," that, originating nineteen years ago, had been a "living menace" ever since? What was the sequel to the story contained in Charlebois' manuscript? What was the denouement that Charlebois had planned? Perhaps now he, Stranway, would never know. He knew only that its culmination was to have been to-night, and that he was going now where Charlebois himself had planned to go, and that in some way, blindly, the stake he was playing for was a human life.
He touched Flint on the arm.
"Faster, Flint!" he said grimly.
Chapter XXVIII.
The Lone House
Table of Contents
Only the gentle lap of water upon the shore; only the faint night sounds—the light breeze whispering through the trees, the distant echo of a whistle from some craft upon the river.
To the left, like a sullen black mirror reflecting the stars in long, shimmering ripples, lay the Hudson; to the right, like a wall of darkness, the heavy, wooded land reached almost to the roadside; ahead, the powerful lamps of the car flung their beams far along the thread of highway—and painted in against the darker background the figures of Stranway and Flint, who stood facing each other in the light. Both men were coatless, dirty, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, their set, hard expressions accentuated by the grime and grease that smeared their faces.
Stranway pulled out his watch—and jerked it back into his pocket again.
"This is a bad business, Flint," he said anxiously. "I was counting on our lead as an asset—the start of an hour earlier than Charlebois had planned. Half of that and more is gone now, and unless we can get along immediately it will be all gone—and Heaven alone knows what's happening in the meantime!"
"We'll have another go at it." Flint swept the back of his hand savagely across his forehead to flirt away the clinging drops of perspiration. "I don't know, though, whether we can fix it or not."
Stranway shook his head.
"That won't do," he said decisively. "We've been too long over it now. How far is it from here to that house?"
"About two miles, I should say," Flint answered. "Not more than that, anyhow."
"Twenty minutes," Stranway calculated. "I'll go ahead, then. As soon as you get the car fixed, if you ever do, you can follow; and if you catch up with me on the way, so much the better. Now, how about finding the place?"
"Yes," agreed Flint; "I guess that's the best plan, except that you'd be alone, and——"
"Never mind about that," Stranway cut in. "How about finding the place?"
"You can't miss it," Flint replied. "There may be a lane or two, or something of that nature between here and there, but it's the first road leading off at right angles, say, a mile and a half ahead. It climbs a longish, stiff hill right from the start, and, a quarter of a mile beyond the brow of the hill, on your left, you'll come upon a low stone wall with two big stone gateposts at the entrance to the driveway. You can't see the house from the road, because it's set back in a thick grove of trees. And, as I told you, so far as I know, it's the only place anywhere around."
"All right," said Stranway curtly. He took his coat from the car, and slipped it on. "Follow as soon as you can," he flung at his companion—and, without waiting for a reply, started off along the road, running with a long, easy, tireless stride.
For a long time the rays from the car's headlights pointed his way, then these gradually grew fainter, and finally blended into the surrounding darkness. Darkness! The darkness seemed suddenly to be ironically significant. Not only physically, but mentally, he was running in darkness in the most literal sense. What was ahead of him? What did he intend to do? If only Charlebois had been able to say a few words more, just a single word more perhaps! That hour! If they had only had that hour in the Red Room during which it had so clearly been the little old gentleman's intention to explain every detail of the night's plans! But they had not had that hour together; and, as it was, he, Stranway, knew nothing. The last account! He shrugged his shoulders grimly. It had become, so far as he was concerned, a game of hide-and-seek with the unknown—and he could only play it out now as best he might, depending on his own wits and as circumstances should favour him, to win it.
On he ran, tirelessly, doggedly, subconsciously reckoning the distance travelled by his pace and the elapsed time. He must be very near the road he was looking for now. Yes; here it was! And there could be no mistake—his eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness, noted its upward trend, and the higher land beyond.
He halted for an instant at the intersection of the roads, and listened as he looked behind him. Perhaps Flint was on his way again. But there was nothing—no sound—no sign of lights. He swerved into the cross-road, and climbed the hill; but, on gaining the summit, he went forward from that point with more caution, pausing every little while to look about him and listen again, for the house, according to Flint, could not be more than another four hundred yards or so away. And this proved to be the case, for, presently, he saw the low stone wall on the left-hand side, and, a few yards farther on, he came upon the two stone gateposts.
He entered the driveway, and began to make his way silently along it. It was extremely dark here amongst the trees, and he could see nothing, until, perhaps
a hundred yards in from the road, he found the driveway curving sharply to the right, and suddenly a gleam of light streamed out in front of him. He halted now to get his bearings. Ahead of him rose the dark outlines of a large house, which, from its size, and what he could see of its general appearance, was obviously the residence of some more than ordinarily wealthy man. The front of the house was in complete darkness—the light came from an open French window at the side, low down and almost on a level with the ground. He could see the driveway where the path of light cut across it, and beyond, very indistinctly, another building—the stables, or garage, probably.
Every faculty alert, Stranway started forward again, but now with even more caution than before. The driveway divided here—to sweep around to the front entrance, no doubt, and to lead to the rear past the side of the house. Keeping well out of the line of light, he crossed a short stretch of lawn, and gained the wall of the house. Voices reached him from the open French window now, and he crept noiselessly toward it, hugging close against the wall. A moment later, he was on his hands and knees at the edge of the window, whose sill, he found, was not more than three feet from the ground.
Just what he had expected to see he did not know; but the scene before him, as, raising his head cautiously, he peered into the room beyond, made all his precautions appear suddenly ridiculous and exaggerated. It was a large room, the dining room obviously, and luxuriously furnished. A round table in the centre, laid for four covers, sparkled and scintillated with cut glass and silver as the light from a magnificent candelabra fell upon it. Three men were in the room—servants; two were dressed in immaculate livery, and the third was unmistakably the typical butler. Elegance, luxury, refinement, ease and repose—the room exuded all that; but of danger, peril, a life in jeopardy, it seemed as far removed as were the earth's poles one from the other, and a puzzled, bewildered expression settled on Stranway's face.
A momentary silence had fallen on the room, but now one of the men spoke abruptly, and, it seemed to Stranway, uneasily:
"It's queer he ain't here yet. D'ye suppose that——"
"No," interrupted the butler gruffly. "He's late, that's all." Then suddenly, stepping quickly toward the window: "Listen! There he is now."
Instantly Stranway lay flat upon the ground. He had heard it too—the faint chug-chug-chug of a motor running at high speed somewhere out on the road—coming nearer. Some one else, from what had just been said, was expected. But this was quite as likely to be Flint! The thought for a moment brought a sense of disaster. Despite appearances, something was wrong here! The agonised appeal that he had read in Charlebois' face was proof enough of that, and if Flint drove in here—now! Stranway groaned to himself helplessly. The three men were grouped at the window above him. He could not make a single move without attracting their attention. He could not get to the gates to warn Flint to pass on with the car. He could only lie there impotently and listen.
And then, the next instant, he smiled to himself in relief. He was giving Flint credit for very little intelligence. Flint would never be fool enough to do a thing like that, for it would—— The smile faded, and Stranway's lips set in thin lines. Flint or not, the car had turned into the driveway!
There was a crunch of tires; a beam of light caught the corner of the house, swept along the wall closer and closer to where he lay—then swerved suddenly into the straight and played upon the doors of the garage beyond. The car rolled by, came to a standstill in front of the garage, a man jumped out, hurried toward the house, and disappeared through the back entrance.
It was not Flint, at any rate. Breathing easier, Stranway raised himself up again into his old position—the men had retreated from the window and were standing around the table. A door was thrown violently open, and a man, drawing his chauffeur's gloves from his hands as he entered, stepped into the room.
"Well, it's done!" he jerked out, with a short, unpleasant laugh. "Here, give me a drink, one of you—no; never mind, I'll help myself!" He reached out to the buffet beside him, picked up a decanter, poured out half a tumblerful, and swallowed the raw liquor at a single gulp.
The master of the house? Hardly! The man was well enough dressed, but there was an unkempt, unpolished look about him, and his face was coarse and brutal. The next words dispelled any lingering doubt as to the other's status in Stranway's mind.
"Did you meet anybody on the road, Jake?" asked the butler sharply.
The man addressed as Jake shook his head—and reached again for the decanter.
"Let that alone!" snapped the butler. "You've had enough!"
"One more," growled Jake. "I guess I've earned it!" He helped himself to another four fingers. "Clean getaway!" He choked, as the stuff burnt his throat. "No; I didn't meet anybody, except a fellow whose car had broken down about two miles back along the road."
"Who was he?" demanded the butler quickly.
"How the devil do I know?" replied the other shortly. "I didn't stop to find out, did I? Anyway, it's no one to worry about—from the looks of him, he's there for the rest of the night."
One of the other men stirred impatiently.
"We're wasting time, ain't we?" he said roughly. "If it's a sure thing that Jake cinched it, we might as——"
"I told you once that it's done, didn't I?" Jake broke in with a muttered curse. "There was two of 'em in the room. The old fellow was sitting at his desk dressed up like a Punch and Judy show. I let him have it through the window with the air-gun. He just kind of slid, and—damn it, give me another drink! I——"
The butler jumped for the decanter and snatched it away.
"I told you before to let that alone!" he said savagely. "Go on with your story!"
The words seemed to be pounding with sledge hammer blows at Stranway's brain. His hands clenched, and the blood throbbed madly at his temples until his head whirled—before him, almost within arm's reach, self-confessed, stood the man who had shot Charlebois! Whatever else was the meaning of this scene, whatever else the night might hold in store, was for the moment blotted out from Stranway's mind, as an impulse to spring into the room and lock his fingers around the other's throat seized him. What did the odds matter? What did anything matter so long as he dealt with that man first? The afterward could take care of itself! He found himself rising stealthily like a cat to spring—and then cold reason fell upon him, and he drew back. There was something else that mattered, some one's life; and this man would never get away from him now anyhow—he, Stranway, would see to that! And the others were equally guilty, weren't they? What were they saying?
"There ain't nothing more to go on about," said Jake sullenly, his eyes on the decanter in the butler's hand. "I jumped the fence and made my getaway. That's all there is to my end of it. How about yours? Is the other one here?"
"Yes—upstairs," the butler answered brusquely. "Yes—and the sooner we get the job over the better!" snarled the man who had spoken before.
"Two killings in one night!" Jake burst into a harsh, uneasy laugh. "Give me another drop of that! I've got the shivers! I've got to have it, I tell you—I feel as though some one was watching me!"
The butler smashed the decanter down upon the table, and, grabbing the other's shoulders, shook him roughly.
"What's the matter with you?" he flared out. "Pull yourself together!"
"Oh, that's all right!" sneered Jake. "Wait till you've had your turn!"
"I've waited nineteen years, thanks to that meddling old fool Charlebois!" said the butler with an oath; "though there'd have been an end of him long ago if we'd been able to get our hands on the other one! He's been too infernally clever—until he fell into our trap. But we had them both to-night, either way. If you had fluked up, Jake, we'd have had Charlebois here, along with the other one, instead of them being separated." There was a vicious leer on the man's face, as he waved his hands over the table with its snowy linen and glittering appointments. "It's just what Charlebois ordered, wasn't it? But it wasn't needed after all, an
d"—he flipped at the cords on the livery of the man nearest him—"we won't need this masquerade any more, either! We'll set the fire from the top of the house, when we've put the other one up there out of the road. You three can bring up the cans from the garage, and kerosene the whole top floor—what'll be left up there won't be enough to saddle us with anything! The house has been on the market for a year, and unoccupied until Charlebois bought it last week. No one except Charlebois knows that there's any one in it, and he's welcome to the knowledge—now! It will be half an hour at least before any one could notice the fire, and another half-hour before any help could get here from the nearest town that, would amount to anything—and by that time, I guess, it won't make any difference so far as we are concerned. Now, get this stuff off the table and put away, in case the fire doesn't reach this far. This house has got to have a deserted appearance, what's left of it."
"What about the grub—for the swell dinner?" asked Jake.
"Grub!" The butler laughed derisively. "Do you think I am a fool! There's no grub here—except that fruit there on the table, and the whisky in the decanters to make a show. Throw them away."
It did not take long perhaps in actual time, but to Stranway, keyed up to the highest pitch of nervous tension, it seemed an eternity while the men dismantled the table appointments. The odds mattered very much now! Four to one! And some one on the top floor was to be coldly and deliberately murdered before these men left the house! If only Flint would come now! He drew back a little and listened, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound from the direction of the road, but he could hear nothing. He glanced around him. It was dark everywhere save for the white pathway of light that streamed from the window—and this now, curiously, seemed to be growing fainter.
His eyes swept back to the interior of the room. The pseudo-butler was blowing out the candles in the candelabra; the table was bare of all its furnishings, silver, linen, china, glass—and the other three had gone. The man paused an instant before the last candle to stare critically around him, and in the dim light now, with his bloodless face, he seemed to stand out like a death's-head—then he snuffed the candle, and the face faded from Stranway's sight.
The Red Ledger Page 23
