THE TRAP
"You are ready, Miss Lawton? Nerves steady enough for the ordeal?"
asked Blaine the following morning.
"I am ready." Anita's voice was firm and controlled, and there was the
glint of a challenge in her eyes. A wondrous change had come over her
since the previous day. With the rescue of the man she loved, and the
certainty that he would recover, all the latent, indomitable courage
and fighting spirit which had come to her as an heritage from her
father, and which had made of him the ruler of men and arbiter of
events which he had been, arose again within her. The most crushing
weight upon her heart had been lifted; hope and love had revivified
her; and she was indeed ready to face the world again, to meet her
enemies, the murderers and traducers of her father, and to give battle
to them on their own ground.
"In a few moments, a man will enter this library--a man whom you know
well. You will be stationed behind the curtains at this window here,
and you must summon all your self-control to restrain yourself from
giving any start or uttering a sound of surprise which would betray
your presence. While I talk to him, I want you to try with all your
might to put from your mind the fact that you know him. Do not let his
personality influence you in any way, or his speech. Only listen to
the tones of his voice--listen and try to recall that other voice
which you heard here on the night of your father's death. If in his
tones you recognize that voice, step from behind those curtains and
face him. If not--and you must be absolutely sure that you do
recognize the voice, that you could swear to it under oath in a court
of justice, realizing that it will probably mean swearing away a man's
life--if you are not sure, remain silent."
"I understand, Mr. Blaine. I will not fail you. I could not be
mistaken; the voice which I heard here that night rings still in my
ears; its echo seems yet to linger in the room." Her gaze wandered to
the great leather chair, which had been replaced in its usual
position. "Now that you have restored Ramon to me, I want only to
avenge my father, and I shall be content. To be murdered, in his own
home! Poisoned like a rat in a trap! I shall not rest until the coward
who killed him has been brought to justice!"
"He will be, Miss Lawton! The trap has been baited again, and unless I
am greatly mistaken, the murderer will walk straight into it.--There
is the bell! I gave orders that you were to be at home to no one
except the man I expect and that he was to be ushered in here
immediately upon his arrival, without being announced--so take your
place, now, please, behind the curtains. Do not try to watch the
man--only listen with all your ears; and above all do not betray
yourself until the proper moment comes for disclosing your presence."
Without a word Anita disappeared into the window-seat, and the
curtains fell into place behind her. The detective had only time to
step in the shadow of a dark corner beside one of the tall bookcases,
when the door was thrown open. A man stood upon the threshold--a tall,
fair man of middle age, with a small blond mustache, and a monocle
dangling from a narrow black ribbon about his neck. From the very
correct gardenia in his buttonhole to the very immaculate spats upon
his feet, he was a careful prototype of the Piccadilly exquisite--a
little faded, perhaps, slightly effete, but perfect in detail. He
halted for a moment, as if he, too, were blinded by the swift change
from sunshine to gloom. Then, advancing slowly, his pale, protruding
eyes wandered to the great chair by the fireplace, and lingered as if
fascinated. He approached it, magnetized by some spell of his own
thoughts' weaving, until he could have stretched out his hand and
touched it. A pause, and with a sudden swift revulsion of feeling, he
turned from it in a sort of horror and went to the center-table. There
he stood for a moment, glanced back at the chair, then quickly about
the room, his eyes passing unseeingly over the shadowy figure by the
bookcase. Then he darted back to the chair and thrust his hand deep
into the fold between the back and seat. For a minute he felt about
with frenzied haste, until his fingers touched the object he sought,
and with a profound sigh of relief he drew it forth--a tiny flat
vial.
He glanced at it casually, his hand already raised toward his
breast-pocket; then he recoiled with a low, involuntary cry. The vial
was filled with a sinister blood-red fluid.
At that moment Blaine stepped from behind the bookcase and confronted
him.
"You have succeeded in regaining your bottle, haven't you, Mr.
Rockamore?" he asked, significantly. "Are you surprised to find within
it the blood of an innocent man?"
Rockamore turned to him slowly, his dazed, horror-stricken eyes
protruding more than ever.
"Blood?" he repeated, thickly, as if scarcely understanding. Then a
realization of the situation dawned upon him, and he demanded,
hoarsely: "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"My name is Blaine, and I am here to arrest the murderer of Pennington
Lawton," the detective replied, his dominant tones ringing through the
room.
"Blaine--Henry Blaine!" Rockamore stepped back a pace or two, and a
sneer curled his thin lips, although his face had suddenly paled.
"I've heard of you, of course--the international meddler! What sort of
sensation are you trying to work up now, my man, by such a ridiculous
assertion? Pennington Lawton--murdered! Why, all the world knows that
he died of heart-disease!"
"All the world seldom knows the truth, but it shall, in this
instance," returned Blaine, trenchantly. "Pennington Lawton was
murdered--poisoned by a draught of prussic acid."
"You're mad!" Rockamore retorted, insolently. He tossed the
incriminating little vial carelessly on the blotter of the writing-desk,
and when he turned again to the detective his face, with its high,
thin, hooked nose and close-drawn brows, was vulture-like in its
malevolent intensity. "You don't deserve serious consideration! If
you make public such a ridiculous statement, you'll only be laughed at
for your pains."
"I shall prove it. The murderer's midnight visit, his secret
conference with his victim, did not proceed unwitnessed. His motive is
known, but his act was futile. It came too late."
"This is all very interesting, no doubt, or would be if it could be
credited. However, I cannot understand why you have elected to take me
into your confidence." Rockamore was livid, but he controlled himself
sufficiently to speak with a simulation of contemptuous boredom. "I
came here to see Miss Lawton, in response to an urgent call from her;
I don't know by what authority you are here, but I do know that I do
not propose to be further annoyed by you!"
"I am afraid that you will find yourself very seriously annoyed before
this affair comes to an end, Mr. Rockamore," said Blaine. "Miss
Lawton's butler summoned you this afternoon by my instructions, and
with gratifying promptness you came and did just what I expected you
would do--betrayed yourself irretrievably in your haste to recover the
evidence which now will hang you!"
The other man laughed harshly, a discordant, jarring laugh which
jangled on the tense air.
"Your accusation is too absurd to be resented. I knew that Miss Lawton
herself could not have been a party to this melodramatic hoax!"
Blaine walked to the desk before replying, and taking up the
crimson-tinged vial, weighed it in his hand.
"You did not find the poison bottle which you yourself thrust in that
chair the night Pennington Lawton died, Mr. Rockamore, because his
daughter discovered it and communicated with me," he said. "She
anticipated you by less than twenty-four hours. We have known from the
beginning of your nocturnal visit to this room; every word of your
conversation was overheard. It's no use trying to bluff it; we've got
a clear case against you."
"You and your 'clear case' be d--d!" the other man cried, his tones
shaking with anger. "You're trying to bluff me, my man, but it won't
work! I don't know what the devil you mean about a midnight visit to
Lawton; the last I saw of him was at a directors' meeting the
afternoon before his death."
"Then why has that chair--the chair in which he died--exerted such a
peculiar, sinister influence over you? Why is it that every time you
have entered this room since, you have been unable to keep away from
it? Why, this very hour, when you thought yourself unobserved, did you
walk straight to this chair and place your hand deliberately upon the
place where the poison bottle was concealed? Why did you recoil? Why
did that cry rise from your lips when you saw what it contained?"
"I touched the chair inadvertently, while I waited for Miss Lawton's
appearance, and my hand coming accidentally in contact with a hard
substance, mere idle curiosity impelled me to draw it out. Naturally,
I was startled for the moment, when I saw what it was." The man's
voice deepened hoarsely, and he gave vent to another sneering, vicious
laugh. As its echo died in the room, Blaine could have sworn that he
heard a quick gasp from behind the curtains of the window-seat, but it
did not reach the ears of Rockamore.
The latter continued, his voice breaking suddenly, with a rage at last
uncontrolled:
"I could not, of course, know that that bottle of red ink was a cheap,
theatrical trick of a mountebank, a creature who is the laughing-stock
of the press and the public, in his idiotic attempts to draw
sensational notoriety upon himself. But I do know that this effort has
failed! You have dared to plant this outrageous, puerile trap to
attempt to ensnare me! You have dared to strike blindly, in your mad
thirst for publicity, at a man infinitely beyond your reach. Your
insolence ceases to be amusing! If you try to push this ridiculous
accusation, I shall ruin you, Henry Blaine!"
"No man is beyond my reach who has broken the law." The detective's
voice was quietly controlled, yet each word pierced the silence like a
sword-thrust. "I have been threatened with ruin, with death, many
times by criminals of all classes, from defaulting financiers to petty
thieves, but I still live, and my fortunes have not been materially
impaired. I do not court publicity, but I cannot shirk my duty because
it entails that. And in this case my duty is plain. You, Bertrand
Rockamore, came here, secretly, by night, to try to persuade Mr.
Lawton to go in with you on a crooked scheme--to force him to, by
blackmail, if necessary, on an old score. Failing in that, you killed
him, to prevent the nefarious operations of yourself and your
companions from being brought to light!"
"You're mad, I tell you!" roared Rockamore. "Whoever stuffed you with
such idiotic rot as that is making gammon of you! That conversation is
a chimera of some disordered mind, if it isn't merely part of a
deliberate conspiracy of yours against me! You'll suffer for this, my
man! I'll break you if it is the last act of my life! Such a
conference never took place, and you know it!"
"'Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better than no bread,'"
Blaine quoted slowly. "'There is no blackmail about this--it is an
ordinary business proposition.'
"'It's a damnable crooked scheme, and I shall have nothing to do with
it. This is final! My hands are clean, and I can look every man in the
face and tell him to go where you can go now!'
"You remember that, don't you, Rockamore?" Blaine interrupted himself
to ask sharply. "Do you also recall your reply?--'How about poor
Herbert Armstrong? His wife--'"
"It's a lie! A d--d lie!" cried Rockamore. "I was not in this room
that night! Such a conversation never occurred! Who told you of this?
Who dares accuse me?"
"I do!" A clear, flute-like voice, resonant in its firmness, rang out
from behind him as he spoke, and he wheeled abruptly, to find Anita
standing with her slender form outlined against the dark, rich velvet
of the curtains. Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing; and as
she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger
at the recoiling figure. "I accuse you, Bertrand Rockamore, of the
murder of my father! It was I who heard your conversation here in this
room; it was I who found the vial which contained the poison you used
when your arguments and threats failed! I am not mistaken--I knew that
I could never be mistaken if I heard that voice again, shaken, as it
was that night, with rage and defiance--and fear! I knew that I should
hear it again some time, and all these weeks I have listened for it,
until this moment. Mr. Blaine, this is the man!"
[Illustration: Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she
faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the
recoiling figure.]
"Anita, you have lost your mind!" With the shock of the girl's
appearance, a steely calm had come to the Englishman, and although a
tremor ran through his tones, he held them well in leash. "My poor
child, you do not know what you are saying.
"As for you,"--he turned and looked levelly into Blaine's eyes,--"I am
amazed that a man of your perception and experience should for a
moment entertain the idea that he could make out a case of capital
crime against a person of my standing, solely upon the hysterical
pseudo-testimony of a girl whose brain is overwrought. This midnight
conference, which you so glibly quote, is a figment of her distraught
mind--or, if it actually occurred (a fact of which you have no proof),
Miss Lawton admits, by the words she has just uttered, that she did
not see the mysterious visitor, but is attempting to identify me as
that person merely by the tones of my voice. She has made no
accusation against me until this moment, yet since her father's death
she has heard my voice almost daily for several weeks. Come, Blaine,
listen to reason! Your case has tumbled about your ears! You can only
avoid serious trouble for both Miss Lawton and yourself by dropping
this absurd matter here and now."
"It is true that I did not recognize your voice before, but I have not
until now heard it raised in anger as it was that night--" began
Anita, but Blaine silenced her with a gesture.
"And the bottle of prussic acid which was found yesterday hidden in
the chair where just now you searched for it?" he demanded, sternly.
"The incontrovertible evidence, proved late last night by an autopsy
upon the body of Pennington Lawton, which shows that he came to his
death by means of that poison--how do you account for these facts,
Rockamore?"
"I do not propose to account for them, whether they are facts or
not," returned the other man, coolly. "Since I know nothing
whatever about them, they are beyond my province. Unless you wish
to bring ruin upon yourself, and unwelcome notoriety and possibly an
official inquiry into her sanity upon Miss Lawton, you will not
repeat this incredible accusation. Only my very real sympathy for
her has enabled me to listen with what patience I have to the
unparalleled insolence of this charge, but you are going too far. I
see no necessity for further prolonging this interview, and with
your permission I will withdraw--unless, of course," he added,
sneeringly, "you have a warrant for my arrest?"
To Anita's astonishment, Henry Blaine stepped back with a slight shrug
and Rockamore, still with that sarcastic leer upon his lips, bowed low
to her and strode from the room.
"You--you let him go, Mr. Blaine?" she gasped, incredulously. "You let
him escape!"
"He cannot escape." Blaine smiled a trifle grimly. "I'm giving him
just a little more rope, that is all, to see if he will help us secure
the others. His every move is under strict surveillance--for him there
is no way out, save one."
"And that way?" asked Anita.
The detective made no reply. In a few minutes he took leave of her and
proceeded to his office, where he spent a busy day, sending cables in
cipher, detailing operatives to many new assignments and receiving
reports.
Late in the afternoon replies began to come in to his cablegrams of
the morning. Whatever their import, they quite evidently afforded him
immense satisfaction, and as the early dusk settled down, his eyes
began to glow with the light of battle, which those closest to him in
his marvelous work had learned to recognize when victory was in
sight.
Suraci noted it when he entered to make his report, and the glint of
enthusiasm in his own eyes brightened like burnished steel.
"I relieved Ross at noon, as you instructed me, sir," he began, "in
the vestibule of Mr. Rockamore's apartment house. It was a good thing
that I had the six-cylinder car handy, for he surely led me a chase!
Ten minutes after I went on duty, Rockamore came out, jumped into his
automobile, and after circling the park, he turned south, zig-zagging
through side streets as if to cut off pursuit. He reached South-end
Ferry, but hovered about until the gates were on the point of closing.
Then his chauffeur shot the car forward, but before I could reach him,
Creghan stepped up with your warrant.
"'I'm sorry, sir,' I heard him say as I came up. 'I'm to use this only
in case you insist on attempting to leave the city, sir. Mr. Blaine's
orders.'
"Rockamore turned on him in a fury, but thought better of it, and
after a minute he leaned forward with a shrug, and directed the
chauffeur north again. This time he tried the Great Western Station,
but Liebler was there, waiting for him; then the North Illington
branch depot--Schmidt was on hand. As a forlorn hope he tried the
Tropic and Oriental steamship line,--one of their ships goes out
to-night,--but Norris intercepted him; at last he speeded down the
boulevard and out on the eastern post-road, but Kearney was on the job
at the toll-gate.
"He gave it up then, and went back to his rooms, and Ross relieved me
there, just now. The lights are flaring in the windows of his rooms,
and you can see his shadow--he's pacing up and down like a caged
animal!"
"All right, Suraci. Go back and tell Ross to have one of his men
telephone to me at once if Rockamore leaves his rooms before nine.
That will be all for you to-night. I've got to do the rest of the work
myself."
At nine o'clock precisely, Henry Blaine presented himself at
Rockamore's door. As he had anticipated he was admitted at once and
ushered into the Englishman's presence as if his coming had been
expected.
"I say, Blaine, what the devil do you mean by this game you're
playing?" Rockamore demanded, as he stood erect and perfectly poised
upon the hearth, and faced the detective. A faint, sarcastic smile
curved his lips, and in his pale eyes there was no hint of trouble or
fear--merely a look of tolerant, half-contemptuous amusement.
Immaculate in his dinner-coat and fresh boutonniere, his bearing
superb in his ease and condescension, he presented a picture of
elegance. Blaine glanced about the rich, somber den before he
replied.
"I'm not playing any game, Mr. Rockamore. Why did you try so
desperately to leave the city?"
The Englishman shrugged.
"A sudden whim, I suppose. Would it be divulging a secret of your
profession if you informed me why one of your men did not arrest me,
since all had warrants on the ridiculous charge you brought against me
this morning, of murdering my oldest and closest friend?"
"I merely wanted to assure myself that you would not leave the city
until I had obtained sufficient data with which to approach you," the
detective responded, imperturbably. "I have come to-night for a little
talk with you, Mr. Rockamore. I trust I am not intruding?"
"Not at all. As a matter of fact, after to-day's incidents I was
rather expecting you." Rockamore waved his unbidden guest to a chair,
and produced a gold cigarette-case. "Smoke? You perhaps prefer
cigars--no? A brandy and soda?"
"Thank you, no. With your permission, I will get right down to
business. It will simplify matters for both of us if you are willing
to answer some questions I wish to put to you; but, of course, there
is no compulsion about it. On the other hand, it is my duty to warn
you that anything you say may be used against you."
"Fire away, Mr. Blaine!" Rockamore seated himself and stretched out
his legs luxuriously to the open wood-fire. "I don't fancy that
anything I shall say will militate against me. I was an idiot to lose
my temper this morning, but I hate being made game of. Now the whole
situation merely amuses me, but it may become tiresome. Let's get it
over."
"Mr. Rockamore, you were born in Staffordshire, England, were you not?
Near a place called Handsworth?"
The unexpected question brought a meditative frown to the other man's
brow, but he replied readily enough:
"Yes, at Handsworth Castle, to be exact. But I can't quite gather what
bearing that insignificant fact has upon your amazing charge this
morning."
"You are the only son of Gerald Cecil Rockamore, third son of the Earl
of Stafford?" The detective did not appear to have heard the protest
of the man he was interrogating.
"Precisely. But what--"
"There were, then, four lives between you and the title," Blaine
interrupted, tersely. "But two remain, your father and grandfather.
Your uncles died, both of sudden attacks of heart-disease, and
curiously enough, both deaths occurred while they were visiting at
Handsworth Castle."
"That is quite true." The cynical banter was gone from Rockamore's
tones, and he spoke with a peculiar, hushed evenness, as if he waited,
on guard, for the next thrust.
"Lord Ashfrith, your father's oldest brother, and next in line to the
old Earl, was seated in the gun-room of the castle, sipping a brandy
and soda, and carving a peach-stone. Twenty minutes before, you had
brought the peaches in from the garden, and eaten them with him. He
was showing you how, in his boyhood, he had carved a watch-charm from
a peach-stone, and you were close at his side when he suddenly fell
over dead. Two years later, your Uncle Alaric, heir to the earldom
since his older brother was out of the way, dropped dead at a hunt
breakfast. You were seated next him."
"Are you trying to insinuate that I had anything to do with these
deaths?" Rockamore still spoke quietly, but there was a slight tremor
in his tones, and his face looked suddenly gray and leaden in the glow
of the leaping flames.
"I am recalling certain facts in your family history. When your Uncle
Alaric died, he had just set down his cordial glass, which had
contained peach brandy. An odd coincidence, wasn't it, that both of
these men died with the odor of peaches about them, an odor which
incidentally you had provided in both cases, for it was you who
suggested the peach brandy as a cordial at the hunt breakfast, and
induced your uncle to partake of it."
"It was a coincidence, as you say. I had not thought of it before."
The Englishman moistened his lips nervously, as if they suddenly felt
dry. "Uncle Alaric was a heavy, full-blooded man, and he had ridden
hard that morning, contrary to the doctor's orders. I suggested the
brandy as a bracer, I remember."
"An unfortunate suggestion, wasn't it?" Blaine asked, significantly.
The other man made no reply.
"There was another coincidence." The detective pursued relentlessly.
"The brandy-and-soda, which Lord Ashfrith was drinking at the moment
of his death, was naturally a pale amber color. So was the brandy
which your Uncle Alaric drank as he died. And prussic acid is
amber-colored, too, Mr. Rockamore! Lord Ashfrith was carving a
peach-stone when the end came, and the odor of peaches clung to his
body. Your Uncle Alaric partook of peach brandy, and the same odor
hovered about him in death. Prussic acid is redolent of the odor of
peaches!"
Rockamore started from his chair.
"I understand what you are attempting to establish by the flimsiest of
circumstantial evidence!" he sneered. "But you are away beyond your
depth, my man! May I ask where you obtained this interesting but
scarcely valuable information?"
"From Scotland Yard, by cable, to-day." Blaine rose also and faced the
other man. "An investigation was started into the second death, upon
the Earl's request, but it was dropped for lack of evidence. About
that time, Mr. Rockamore, you decided rather suddenly, and for no
apparent reason, to come to America, where you have remained ever
since."
"Mr. Blaine, if I were in the mood to be facetious, I might employ
your American vernacular and ask that you tell me something I don't
know! Come to the point, man; you try my patience."
"In view of recent developments, I am under the impression that
Scotland Yard would welcome your reappearance on British soil, but I
fear that will be forever impossible," Blaine said slowly. "Just as
you were beside your uncles when each met with his end, so you were
beside Pennington Lawton when death came to him! That has been proved.
Just as brandy and soda, and peach brandy, are amber-colored, so are
Scotch high-balls, which you and Pennington Lawton were drinking. No
odor of peaches lingered about the room, for Miss Lawton had lighted a
handful of joss-sticks in a vase upon the mantel earlier in the
evening, and their pungent perfume filled the air. But the odor of
peaches permeated the room when the tiny bottle which you hid in the
folds of the chair was uncorked--the odor of peaches rose above the
stench of mortifying flesh, when the body of your victim was exhumed
late last night for a belated autopsy! The heart would have revealed
the truth, had there been no corroborative evidence, for it was filled
with arterial blood--incontrovertible proof of death by prussic-acid
poisoning."
There was a tense pause, and then Rockamore spoke sharply, his voice
strained to the breaking point.
"If you are so certain of my guilt, Blaine, why have you come to me
secretly here and now? What is your price?"
"I have no price," the great detective answered, simply.
"Then why did you not arrest me at once? Why this purposeless
interview?"
"Because--" Blaine paused, and when he spoke again, a solemn hush,
almost of pity, had crept into his tones. "You come of a fine old
line, Mr. Rockamore, of a splendid race. Your grandfather, the aged
Earl, is living only in the past, proud of the record of his
forebears. Your father is a soldier and statesman, valuable to the
nation; his younger brother, Cedric, has achieved deserved fame and
glory in the Boer War. There remains only you. For the sake of the
innocent who must suffer with you, I have come to you to-night, that
you may have an opportunity to--prepare yourself. In the morning I
must arrest you. My duty is plain."
As he uttered the words, the craven fear which had struggled
through the malicious sneer on the other man's face faded as if an
obliterating hand had passed across his brow, and a look of
indomitable courage and resignation took its place. There was
something akin to nobility in his expression as he turned to the
detective with head proudly erect and shoulders squared.
"I thank you, Mr. Blaine," he said, simply. "I understand. I shall not
fail them--the others! You have been far more generous to me than I
deserve. And now--good-night. You will find me here when you come in
the morning."
But in the morning Henry Blaine did not carry out his expressed
intention. Instead, he sat at his desk, staring at the headlines
in a paper spread out before him. The Honorable Bertrand Rockamore
had been found dead on the floor of his den, with a bullet through
his head. He would never allow his man to touch his guns, and had
been engaged in cleaning one of them, as was his custom, in
preparation for his annual shooting trip to Florida, when in some
fashion it had been accidentally discharged.
"I wonder if I did the right thing!" mused Blaine. "He had the courage
to do it, after all. Blood will tell, in the end."