CHAPTER IV
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
The windows being wide open, it was not long before a great moth camewhirring in. He hurled himself at the light and then, dazzled andsinged, began to beat with noisy thumps against the barrier of theceiling. Finding no egress there, he was back at the lamp again,whirling in dizzy circles until at last, worn out, he dropped to thetable, where he lay on his back, kicking impotently.
The room began to fill with tiny winged creatures that flung themselvesheadlong to destruction, so I put out the light and sat down near thewindow, with my cigar and my thoughts.
Miss Letitia's troubles I dismissed shortly. While it was odd that onlyten pearls should have been taken, still--in every other way it bore themarks of an ordinary theft. The thief might have thought that by leavingthe majority of the gems he could postpone discovery indefinitely. Butthe Fleming case was of a different order. Taken by itself, Fleming'sdisappearance could have been easily accounted for. There must be timesin the lives of all unscrupulous individuals when they feel the need ofretiring temporarily from the public eye. But the intrusion into theFleming home, the ransacked desk and the broken money drawer--most ofall, the bit of paper with eleven twenty-two on it--here was a hurdle mylegal mind refused to take.
I had finished my second cigar, and was growing more and more wakeful,when I heard a footstep on the path around the house. It was blackoutside; when I looked out, as I did cautiously, I could not see eventhe gray-white of the cement walk. The steps had ceased, but there was asound of fumbling at one of the shutters below. The catch clicked twice,as if some thin instrument was being slipped underneath to raise it, andonce I caught a muttered exclamation.
I drew in my head and, puffing my cigar until it was glowing, managed byits light to see that it was a quarter to two. When I listened again,the house-breaker had moved to another window, and was shaking itcautiously.
With Miss Letitia's story of the pearls fresh in my mind, I felt at oncethat the thief, finding his ten a prize, had come back for more. Myfirst impulse was to go to the head of my bed, where I am accustomed tokeep a revolver. With the touch of the tall corner post, however, Iremembered that I was not at home, and that it was not likely there wasa weapon in the house.
Finally, after knocking over an ornament that shattered on the hearthand sounded like the crash of doom, I found on the mantel a heavy brasscandlestick, and with it in my hand I stepped into the gloom of thehallway and felt my way to the stairs.
There were no night lights; the darkness was total. I found the stairsbefore I expected to, and came within an ace of pitching down, headlong.I had kicked off my shoes--a fact which I regretted later. Once down thestairs I was on more familiar territory. I went at once into thelibrary, which was beneath my room, but the sounds at the window hadceased. I thought I heard steps on the walk, going toward the front ofthe house. I wheeled quickly and started for the door, when somethingstruck me a terrific blow on the nose. I reeled back and sat down, dizzyand shocked. It was only when no second blow followed the first that Irealized what had occurred.
With my two hands out before me in the blackness, I had groped, one handon either side of the open door, which of course I had struck violentlywith my nose. Afterward I found it had bled considerably, and my collarand tie must have added to my ghastly appearance.
My candlestick had rolled under the table, and after crawling around onmy hands and knees, I found it. I had lost, I suppose, three or fourminutes, and I was raging at my awkwardness and stupidity. No one,however, seemed to have heard the noise. For all her boastedwatchfulness, Miss Letitia must have been asleep. I got back into thehall and from there to the dining-room. Some one was fumbling at theshutters there, and as I looked they swung open. It was so dark outside,with the trees and the distance from the street, that only the creakingof the shutter told it had opened. I stood in the middle of the room,with one hand firmly clutching my candlestick.
But the window refused to move. The burglar seemed to have no propertools; he got something under the sash, but it snapped, and through theheavy plate-glass I could hear him swearing. Then he abruptly left thewindow and made for the front of the house.
I blundered in the same direction, my unshod feet striking on projectingfurniture and causing me agonies, even through my excitement. When Ireached the front door, however, I was amazed to find it unlocked, andstanding open perhaps an inch. I stopped uncertainly. I was in apeculiar position; not even the most ardent admirers of antique brasscandlesticks indorse them as weapons of offense or defense. But, thereseeming to be nothing else to do, I opened the door quietly and steppedout into the darkness.
The next instant I was flung heavily to the porch floor. I am not asmall man by any means, but under the fury of that onslaught I was achild. It was a porch chair, I think, that knocked me senseless; I knowI folded up like a jack-knife, and that was all I did know for a fewminutes.
When I came to I was lying where I had fallen, and a candle was burningbeside me on the porch floor. It took me a minute to remember, andanother minute to realize that I was looking into the barrel of arevolver. It occurred to me that I had never seen a more villainous facethan that of the man who held it--which shows my state of mind--and thatmy position was the reverse of comfortable. Then the man behind the gunspoke.
"What did you do with that bag?" he demanded, and I felt his knee on mychest.
"What bag?" I inquired feebly. My head was jumping, and the candle was avolcanic eruption of sparks and smoke.
"Don't be a fool," the gentleman with the revolver persisted. "If Idon't get that bag within five minutes, I'll fill you as full of holesas a cheese."
"I haven't seen any bag," I said stupidly. "What sort of bag?" I heardmy own voice, drunk from the shock. "Paper bag, laundry bag--"
"You've hidden it in the house," he said, bringing the revolver a littlecloser with every word. My senses came back with a jerk and I struggledto free myself.
"Go in and look," I responded. "Let me up from here, and I'll take youin myself."
The man's face was a study in amazement and anger.
"You'll take me in! You!" He got up without changing the menacingposition of the gun. "You walk in there--here, carry the candle--andtake me to that bag. Quick, do you hear?"
I was too bewildered to struggle. I got up dizzily, but when I tried tostoop for the candle I almost fell on it. My head cleared after amoment, and when I had picked up the candle I had a good chance to lookat my assailant. He was staring at me, too. He was a young fellow, welldressed, and haggard beyond belief.
"I don't know anything about a bag," I persisted, "but if you will giveme your word there was nothing in it belonging to this house, I willtake you in and let you look for it."
The next moment he had lowered the revolver and clutched my arm.
"Who in the devil's name _are_ you?" he asked wildly.
I think the thing dawned on us both at the same moment.
"My name is Knox," I said coolly, feeling for my handkerchief--my headwas bleeding from a cut over the ear--"John Knox."
"Knox!" Instead of showing relief; his manner showed greaterconsternation than ever. He snatched the candle from me and, holding itup, searched my face. "Then--good God--where is my traveling-bag?"
"I have something in my head where you hit me," I said. "Perhaps that isit."
But my sarcasm was lost on him.
"I am Harry Wardrop," he said, "and I have been robbed, Mr. Knox. I wastrying to get in the house without waking the family, and when I cameback here to the front door, where I had left my valise, it was gone. Ithought you were the thief when you came out, and--we've lost all thistime. Somebody has followed me and robbed me!"
"What was in the bag?" I asked, stepping to the edge of the porch andlooking around, with the help of the candle.
"Valuable papers," he said shortly. He seemed to be dazed and at a losswhat to do next. We had both instinctively kept our voices low.
"You are certai
n you left it here?" I asked. The thing seemed incrediblein the quiet and peace of that neighborhood.
"Where you are standing."
Once more I began a desultory search, going down the steps and lookingamong the cannas that bordered the porch. Something glistened beside thestep, and stooping down I discovered a small brown leathertraveling-bag, apparently quite new.
"Here it is," I said, not so gracious as I might have been; I hadsuffered considerably for that traveling-bag. The sight of it restoredWardrop's poise at once. His twitching features relaxed.
"By Jove, I'm glad to see it," he said. "I can't explain,but--tremendous things were depending on that bag, Mr. Knox. I don'tknow how to apologize to you; I must have nearly brained you."
"You did," I said grimly, and gave him the bag. The moment he took it Iknew there was something wrong; he hurried into the house and lightedthe library lamp. Then he opened the traveling-bag with shaking fingers.It was empty!
He stood for a moment, staring incredulously into it. Then he hurled itdown on the table and turned on me, as I stood beside him.
"It's a trick!" he said furiously. "You've hidden it somewhere. This isnot my bag. You've substituted one just like it."
"Don't be a fool," I retorted. "How could I substitute an empty satchelfor yours when up to fifteen minutes ago I had never seen you or yourgrip either? Use a little common sense. Some place to-night you have putdown that bag, and some clever thief has substituted a similar one. It'san old trick."
He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
"It's impossible," he said after a pause, while he seemed to be goingover, minute by minute, the events of the night. "I was followed, asfar as that goes, in Plattsburg. Two men watched me from the minuteI got there, on Tuesday; I changed my hotel, and for all ofyesterday--Wednesday, that is--I felt secure enough. But on my way tothe train I felt that I was under surveillance again, and by turningquickly I came face to face with one of the men."
"Would you know him?" I asked.
"Yes. I thought he was a detective, you know I've had a lot of that sortof thing lately, with election coming on. He didn't get on the train,however."
"But the other one may have done so."
"Yes, the other one may. The thing I don't understand is this, Mr. Knox.When we drew in at Bellwood Station I distinctly remember opening thebag and putting my newspaper and railroad schedule inside. It was theright bag then; my clothing was in it, and my brushes."
I had been examining the empty bag as he talked.
"Where did you put your railroad schedule?" I asked.
"In the leather pocket at the side."
"It is here," I said, drawing out the yellow folder. For a moment mycompanion looked almost haunted. He pressed his hands to his head andbegan to pace the room like a crazy man.
"The whole thing is impossible. I tell you, that valise was heavy when Iwalked up from the station. I changed it from one hand to the otherbecause of the weight. When I got here I set it down on the edge of theporch and tried the door. When I found it locked--"
"But it wasn't locked," I broke in. "When I came down-stairs to look fora burglar, I found it open at least an inch."
He stopped in his pacing up and down, and looked at me curiously.
"We're both crazy, then," he asserted gravely. "I tell you, I triedevery way I knew to unlock that door, and could hear the chain rattling.Unlocked! You don't know the way this house is fastened up at night."
"Nevertheless, it was unlocked when I came down."
We were so engrossed that neither of us had heard steps on the stairs.The sound of a smothered exclamation from the doorway caused us both toturn suddenly. Standing there, in a loose gown of some sort, very muchsurprised and startled, was Margery Fleming. Wardrop pulled himselftogether at once. As for me, I knew what sort of figure I cut, my collarstained with blood, a lump on my forehead that felt as big as adoor-knob, and no shoes.
"What _is_ the matter?" she asked uncertainly. "I heard such queernoises, and I thought some one had broken into the house."
"Mr. Wardrop was trying to break in," I explained, "and I heard him andcame down. On the way I had a bloody encounter with an open door, inwhich I came out the loser."
I don't think she quite believed me. She looked from my swollen head tothe open bag, and then to Wardrop's pale face. Then I think, woman-like,she remembered the two great braids that hung over her shoulders andthe dressing-gown she wore, for she backed precipitately into the hall.
"I'm glad that's all it is," she called back cautiously, and we couldhear her running up the stairs.
"You'd better go to bed," Wardrop said, picking up his hat. "I'm goingdown to the station. There's no train out of here between midnight and aflag train at four-thirty A. M. It's not likely to be of any use, but Iwant to see who goes on that train."
"It is only half past two," I said, glancing at my watch. "We might lookaround outside first."
The necessity for action made him welcome any suggestion. Reticent as hewas, his feverish excitement made me think that something vital hung onthe recovery of the contents of that Russia leather bag. We found alantern somewhere in the back of the house, and together we went overthe grounds. It did not take long, and we found nothing.
As I look back on that night, the key to what had passed and to muchthat was coming was so simple, so direct--and yet we missed it entirely.Nor, when bigger things developed, and Hunter's trained senses werebrought into play, did he do much better. It was some time before welearned the true inwardness of the events of that night.
At five o'clock in the morning Wardrop came back exhausted andnerveless. No one had taken the four-thirty; the contents of the bagwere gone, probably beyond recall. I put my dented candlestick back onthe mantel, and prepared for a little sleep, blessing the deafness ofold age which had enabled the Maitland ladies to sleep through it all. Itried to forget the queer events of the night, but the throbbing of myhead kept me awake, and through it all one question obtruded itself--whohad unlocked the front door and left it open?
The Window at the White Cat Page 4
