Robert Dunn was by no means sure that he was not going to his death as
he went out of Ella's room on his way to the attics above, for he had
perceived a certain doubt and suspicion in Deede Dawson's manner, and he
thought it very likely that a fatal intention lay behind.
But he obeyed with a brisk promptitude of manner, like one who saw a
prospect of escape opening before him, and as he went he saw that Ella
had relapsed into her former indifference and was once more giving all
her attention to bathing her wrists with eau-de-Cologne; and he saw,
too, that Deede Dawson, following close behind, kept always his revolver
ready.
“Perhaps he only wants to get me out of her way before he shoots,” he
reflected. “Perhaps there is room in that packing-case for two. It will
be strange to die. Shall I try to rush him? But he would shoot at once,
and I shouldn't have a chance. One thing, if anything happens to me, no
one will ever know what's become of poor Charley.”
And this seemed to him a great pity, so that he began to form confused
and foolish plans for securing that his friend's fate should become
known.
With a sudden start, for he had not known he was there, he found himself
standing on the threshold of that attic of death. It was quite dark
up here, and from behind Deede Dawson's voice told him impatiently to
enter.
He obeyed, wondering if ever again he would cross that threshold alive,
and Deede Dawson followed him into the dark attic so that Dunn was
appalled by the man's rashness, for how could he tell that his victim
would not take this opportunity to rise up from the place where he had
been thrust and take his revenge?
“What an idea,” he thought to himself. “I must be going dotty, it's the
strain of expecting a bullet in my back all the time, I suppose. I was
never like this before.”
Deede Dawson struck a match and put it to a gas-jet that lighted up
the whole room. Between him and Dunn lay the packing-case, and Dunn was
surprised to see that it was still there and that nothing had changed or
moved; and then again he said to himself that this was a foolish thought
only worthy of some excitable, hysterical girl.
“It's being too much for me,” he thought resignedly. “I've heard of
people being driven mad by horror. I suppose that's what's happening to
me.”
“You look--queer,” Deede Dawson's voice interrupted the confused medley
of his thoughts. “Why do you look like that--Charley Wright?”
Dunn looked moodily across the case in which the body of the murdered
man was hidden to where the murderer stood.
After a pause, and speaking with an effort, he said:
“You'd look queer if some one with a pistol was watching you all the
time the way you watch me.”
“You do what I tell you and you'll be all right,” Deede Dawson answered.
“You see that packing-case?”
Dunn nodded.
“It's big enough,” he said.
“Would you like to know?” asked Deede Dawson slowly with his slow,
perpetual smile. “Would you like to know what's in it--Charley Wright?”
And again Dunn was certain that a faint suspicion hung about those last
two words, and that his life and death hung very evenly in the balance.
“Silver, you said,” he muttered. “Didn't you?”
“Ah, yes--yes--to be sure,” answered Deede Dawson. “Yes, so I did.
Silver. I want the lid nailed down. There's a hammer and nails there.
Get to work and look sharp.”
Dunn stepped forward and began to set about a task that was so terrible
and strange, and that yet he had, at peril of his life--at peril of more
than that, indeed--to treat as of small importance.
Standing a little distance from the lighted gas-jet, Deede Dawson
watched him narrowly, and as Dunn worked he was very sure that to betray
the least sign of his knowledge would be to bring instantly a bullet
crashing through his brain.
It seemed curious to him that he had so carefully replaced everything
after making his discovery, and that without any forethought or special
intention he had put back everything so exactly as he had found it when
the slightest neglect or failure in that respect would most certainly
have cost him his life.
And he felt that as yet he could not afford to die.
One by one he drove in the nails, and as he worked at his gruesome task
he heard the faintest rustle on the landing without--the faintest sound
of a soft breath cautiously drawn in, of a light foot very carefully set
down.
Deede Dawson plainly heard nothing; indeed, no ear less acute and less
well-trained than Dunn's could have caught sounds that were so slight
and low, but he, listening between each stroke of his hammer, was sure
that it was Ella who had followed them, and that she crouched upon the
landing without, watching and listening.
Did that mean, he wondered, that she, too, knew? Or was it merely
natural curiosity; hostile in part, perhaps, since evidently the
relations between her and her stepfather were not too friendly--a desire
to know what task there could be in the attics so late at night for
which Deede Dawson had such need of his captive's help?
Or was it by any chance because she wished to know how things went with
him, and what was to be his fate?
In any case, Dunn was sure that Ella had followed then, and was on the
landing without.
He drove home the last nail and stood up. “That's done,” he said.
“And well done,” said Deede Dawson. “Well done--Charley Wright.”
He spoke the name softly and lingeringly, and then all at once he began
to laugh, a low and somewhat dreadful laughter that had in it no mirth
at all, and that sounded horrible and strange in the chill emptiness of
the attic.
Leaning one hand on the packing-case that served as the coffin of his
dead friend, Dunn swore a silent oath to exact full retribution, and
henceforth to put that purpose on a level with the mission on which
originally he had come.
Aloud, and in a grumbling tone he said:
“What's the matter with my name? It's a name like any other. What's
wrong with it?”
“What should there be?” flashed Deede Dawson in reply.
“I don't know,” Dunn answered. “You keep repeating it so, that's all.”
“It's a very good name,” Deede Dawson said. “An excellent name. But
it's not suitable. Not here.” He began to laugh again and then stopped
abruptly.
“Do you know, I think you had better choose another?” he said.
“It's all one to me,” declared Dunn. “If Charley Wright don't suit, how
will Robert Dunn do? I knew a man of that name once.”
“It's a better name than Charley Wright,” said Deede Dawson. “We'll call
you Robert Dunn--Charley Wright. Do you know why I can't have you call
yourself Charley Wight?”
Dunn shook his head.
“Because I don't like it,” said Deede Dawson. “Why, that's a name that
would drive me mad,” he muttered, half to himself.
Dunn did not speak, but he thought this was a strange thing for the
other to say and showed that even he, cold and remorseless and without
any natural feeling, as he had seemed to be, yet had about him still
some touch of humanity.
And as he mused on this, which seemed to him so strange, though really
it was not strange at all, his attentive ears caught the sound of a soft
step without, beginning to descend the stairs.
Had that name, then, been more than she also could bear?
If so, she must know.
“I don't see why, I don't see what's wrong with it,” he said aloud. “But
Robert Dunn will suit me just as well.”
“All a matter of taste,” said Deede Dawson, his manner more composed and
natural again.
“It's a funny thing now--suppose my name was Charley Wright, then there
would be two Charley Wrights in this attic, eh? A coincidence, that
would be?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dunn. “I knew another man named Charley Wright
once.”
“Did you? Where's he?”
“Oh, he's dead,” answered Dunn.
Deede Dawson could not repress the start he gave and for a moment Dunn
thought that his suspicions were really roused. He came a little nearer,
his pistol still ready in his hand.
“Dead, is he?” he said. “That's a pity. He's not here, then; but it
would be funny wouldn't it, if there were two Charley Wrights in one
room?”
“I don't know what you mean,” Dunn answered. “I think there are lots of
funnier things than that would be.”
“That's where you're wrong,” retorted Deede Dawson, and he laughed
again, shrilly and dreadfully, a laughter that had in it anything but
mirth.
“Can you carry that packing-case downstairs if I help you get it on your
shoulder?” he asked abruptly.
“It's heavy, but I might,” Dunn answered.
He supposed that now it was about to be hidden somewhere and he felt
that he must know where, since that knowledge would mean everything and
enable him to set the authorities to work at once immediately he could
communicate with them.
The weight of the thing taxed even his great strength to the utmost, but
he managed it somehow, and bending beneath his burden, he descended the
stairs to the hall and then, following the orders Deede Dawson gave him
from behind, out into the open air.
He was nearly exhausted when at last his task-master told him he could
put it down as he stood still for a minute or two to recover his breath
and strength.
The night was not very dark, for a young moon was shining in a clear
sky, and it appeared to Dunn, as he felt his strength returning, that
now at last he might find an opportunity of making an attack upon his
captor with some chance of success.
Hitherto, in the house, in the bright glare of the gas lights, he had
known that the first suspicious movement he made would have ensured his
being instantly and remorselessly shot down, his mission unfulfilled.
But here in the open air, in the night that the moon illumined but
faintly, it was different, and as he watched for his opportunity he felt
that sooner or later it was sure to come.
But Deede Dawson was alert and wary, his pistol never left his hand, he
kept so well on his guard he gave Dunn no opening to take him unawares,
and Dunn did not wish to run too desperate a chance, since he was sure
that sooner or later one giving fair chance of success would present
itself.
“Do you want it carried any further?” he asked. “It's very heavy.”
“I suppose you mean you're wondering what's in it?” said Deede Dawson
sharply.
“It's nothing to me what's in it--silver or anything else,” retorted
Dunn. “Do you want me to carry it further, that's all I asked?”
“No,” answered Deede Dawson. “No, I don't. Do you know, if you knew what
was really in it, you'd be surprised?”
“Very likely,” answered Dunn. “Why not?”
“Yes, you would be surprised,” Deede Dawson repeated, and suddenly
shouted into the darkness: “Are you ready? Are you ready there?”
Dunn was very startled, for somehow, he had supposed all along that
Deede Dawson was quite alone.
There was no answer to his call, but after a minute or two there was
the sound of a motor-car engine starting and then a big car came gliding
forward and stopped in front of them, driven by a form so muffled in
coats and coverings as to be indistinguishable in that faint light.
“Put the case inside,” Deede Dawson said. “I'll help you.”
With some trouble they succeeded in getting the case in and Deede Dawson
covered it carefully with a big rug.
When he had done so he stepped back.
“Ready, Ella?” he said.
“Yes,” answered the girl's soft and low voice that already Dunn could
have sworn to amidst a thousand others.