"HANDS UP!"
There was silence, absolute silence, and darkness impenetrable. Peter
waited, breathless, listening, the one available sense sharpened to
preternatural acuteness.
Then faintly, faintly he heard the outer door move on its hinges, heard
a tiny click as it closed again, was aware of a little gleam of light
stealing along the floor, and of stealthy footsteps, coming nearer and
nearer, as the light perceptibly increased.
Inch by inch, without a sound, Peter crept behind the storeroom door.
His right hand closed firmly on the edge and he drew it toward him,
widening the crack between the door and the jamb sufficiently to be
able to see the midnight intruder, if he--or she--came that far along
the hall.
Softly the cautious, secret footsteps continued their advance. The
light was a distinct ray now, and Peter drew back into the shadow,
keeping his eyes in a line with the narrow aperture. Then the light
became a small, blinding circle, and as it flashed away Peter caught a
dim glimpse of the figure behind it. The reflected light from the wall
brought out the whites of the eyes and, less distinctly, the features
of the face.
Peter gave a little inward gasp of satisfaction. His right hand
slipped swiftly back, with an accustomed gesture, and when he brought
it forward again it was not empty. Silent and quick as a cat, he slid
around the edge of the door. Three long, noiseless steps--a ring of
cold steel pressed against a sweating neck, and:
"Hands up, Angelo!"
The voice was low and stern, filled with icy menace.
There was a crash and a sobbing oath. Two trembling hands shot up into
the air and remained there, rigid, protesting mutely against any need
for violence.
"Keep 'em up, and turn around," said Peter, in a fierce whisper,
pulling out his own strong flashlight to take the place of Angelo's
little, cheap one which had fallen to the floor. "So--it was you--you,
all the time, Angelo! I might have known. An inside job--yes, it was
an inside job, all right. I knew that from the start, and I've had you
watched all along. You hear! And now I've caught you--you!"
The little Italian shook and shivered, blinking in the blinding
light, glancing fearfully from Peter's face to the small, blue-black
instrument of death which pointed so unerringly at his pounding heart.
"Don' shoot! Don' shoot, Boss," he pleaded in a sobbing whisper. "Me do
noding, noding only justa lika you say! Oh, Santa Maria dell' Angeli,
put up dat damma gun!"
Still fixing the trembling wretch with menacing eyes, Peter slowly
dropped his hand and slid his small automatic into the side pocket of
his coat.
"I'll shoot you through my pocket if you make a move, Angelo," he
hissed. "And I'd rather do it than not, see! Make no mistake about
that. Now, come with me," and he seized the janitor roughly by the
wrist.
"Ug-g-gh!" Angelo cringed and caught Peter's grasping hand with his
left. "Take hol' furder up," he begged. "Gotta da sore arm, me--ver'
bad."
Peter loosened his fingers just enough to disclose a long, scarcely
healed cut across the inner side of the man's wrist. He looked sharply
at it and at Angelo, then shifted his hold higher on the forearm.
"I don't know why you think I ought to be tender of your feelings, you
scoundrel," he said, gruffly. "But come in where we can get a light.
I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with you, you lying, thieving,
murdering----Hell! What's that?"
As he turned, Peter's foot struck hard against something which lay upon
the floor.
"Datta da silv'!" Angelo wailed, softly. "Come putta him back--me."
"Pick it up and bring it in here," ordered Peter, sternly. "And don't
try any tricks. I warn you----"
Obediently, the Italian stooped, and picking up a rather large package,
roughly wrapped in newspapers, preceded Peter to the dining room, where
Peter swiftly lit the gas.
"Now," said Peter, "you sit there. And keep your hands above the table."
He drew up a chair on the opposite side, and ostentatiously laid his
automatic close beside him upon the dusty mahogany.
"Now, Angelo," he said, grimly, "you're going to tell me how you killed
Miss Mary Blake."
"Ah, Jesus Maria!" cried the little Italian, in agony, lifting his
trembling, shaking hands in the air, and looking at Peter with staring,
panic-stricken eyes. "Me no killa! Me! Mees Mary she go 'way--sist' go
'way! Nobod' here. Nobod'! Me no killa nobod' no time!"
Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked fixedly at the man's face.
"Did she tell you she was going away?--Miss Mary, did she tell you?" he
asked, earnestly.
Angelo nodded quickly, and then shook his head.
"What does that mean?" asked Peter, angrily. "Yes or no? You're a liar
anyway, Angelo. You said you thought they were still here. Now which is
it? Yes or no?"
"Non, no! Mees Mary' sist', she tella me--Mees Anne!"
"And what did she tell you? Think carefully, Angelo. Your life depends
on what you say now. You've got to convince me that you didn't murder
one or both of them. I can send you to the chair if you don't, see!
Take your time, but tell me exactly what Miss Anne said."
The little Italian, thus tenderly admonished, was a pitiful sight to
see. His brown face was a sickly colour, like that of cocoa with too
much milk in it. His forehead was covered with beads of perspiration to
which his dark hair clung when he removed the shaking hand which had
been pressed against it. His heart may have been in his throat, for he
gulped once or twice, spasmodically, before he spoke:
"Tella you da trut' now, Boss, by da great San Michaelo an alla da
Ange'." He crossed himself fervently, and raised his tense hand high in
the air. "Tella da trut', now, sure! Tella da lie once, me--but no any
more. Dis da trut'. _Si. Si._"
He dropped his hand. Peter leaned forward, fixing him with unwinking
eyes.
"All right," said Peter. "But you've got to make good this time,
understand. Come across with it. What did Miss Anne say, and when was
it?"
"On Sunday morn', early, ver' early. Mees Anne she come down w'en me
wash vestabula. She say, 'Angelo, my sist' she go 'way las' night.
Me go to-day. May stay longa time. Da rent he is pay t'ree mont'. Me
fixa ev't'ing. No needa you go inna da flat. Ev't'ing alla righta.'"
He threw his hands out, palms upward. "An' dat alla she say. But she
no leava da house till five in da eve'. See her in tax' wit' bigga
da tronk. She go herself, an' sist' she go night before. Me no killa
eith' one, me! No! No! Believa me--no! Madre de Dio, Boss, me tella da
trut'!"
"That sounds all right, Angelo. You say it easy," said Peter, still
glowering. "But I've only your word for it. And how about all that
blood we found, spilled around the apartment, and that big spot on Miss
Mary's scarf? How can you account for----"
"Signore! Boss! Listen!" broke in the excited Italian. Jumping up from
his chair, he supported his trembling body with one hand, pressed flat
down, upon the table, while with the other he gesticulated wildly. "Me
tella you 'bout alla blood, how he come. He was alla from dis, from
dis!" He raised his right hand, and with the left struck the wounded
wrist rapidly, many times. "He cutta himself on wind' in kitch'."
"On the window in the kitchen. That's a likely story," said Peter, in
apparent disgust. "Why, that was a month ago, Angelo. It would have
healed twice over in that time, if----"
"Non. No!" Angelo interrupted, passionately. "He not come well. He stay
sick--all swella up. He hurta lika hell. I t'ink he punishmen'--_Si,
si!_"
"Punishment for what, Angelo? If you didn't murder Miss Blake, what was
there to be punished for?"
"Non. No!" Angelo reiterated the agitated disclaimer. "No murd'! No
murd'! Me tella da trut'!"
"You said that before," said Peter, sternly.
"Ye-ah, ye-ah! Alla right! Now I tella. See, Boss. Listen! Me gotta
sick wife. Maria. _Si, si._ She ver', ver' sick, longa time. Doc' say
she mus' go countree. Me no gotta da mon'--dat's easy. How me getta
da mon'? No good. Can do noding, me. Den, Boss, listen. Night before
Mees Anne an' Mees Mary go 'way me hava da dream--longa dream----"
His voice dropped, and his eyes were wide. "All inna da dream me see
nombre--7741. Jus' lika dat--7741.... Inna da morn' me tella Maria. She
say mus' be nombre for lot'----"
"Lot?" asked Peter, frowning, and then, a light breaking--"Lottery--you
mean lottery?"
"_Si! Si! Si!_" Many nods. "_Si_, lot'! Me t'ink lika Maria, ye-ah,
me t'ink lucky nombre! But," a shrug, "no gotta da mon'. Den, alla
same day, dat ver' same Sunday--Mees Anne, she go 'way.... Mees Anne
gone--sist' gone--me t'ink--lil' dev' whisp'--me bor' some lil'
t'ings--no steala, bor', see? I can--what you say?--pawna da silv', da
ringa, da necklace, da pin--an' bringa back w'en lucky nombre come, I
maka some mon', see?"
"I see what you mean me to think," said Peter, gruffly. "Go on."
"So-o--me come up here--late--alla dark, but me hava da lil'
flasha light, see? Come in--looka all 'roun'--in desk, in draw',
alla place.... Noding--no ringa, no necklace, no pin.... Come outa
here--fin' silv', lotta silv' in draw' an' onna da top. Me maka him in
bund', queek, queek! Me getta him all-read'! Den, presto, I t'ink--Mees
Blake, she come back--maybe somebod' come befora da lot' is draw. Who
gotta da key but Angelo? Den gotta fright', me, Boss. Gotta ver' bada
fright'.... T'ink, queek! queek!--me feex so dey t'ink t'ief, he come
fire-'scape. Sure. _Si, si_, ha! Go in kitch'--me slip queek over by
wind'--den! S-s-h! Me hear biga, longa ringa, downstair' on bell! Me
stop--listen. Know I mus' go down, queek!--Hava da big bun' of silv'
onna da arm!--What I do? All afraid dey catch Angelo! Mus' feex so dey
t'ink t'ief come from da outside, see?... Queek, queek--me smasha da
wind' right by da lock--so! Diavolo! feel cutta on da wris'. Grab him
queek--go run inna da hall. Me know he isa bleed', so pull outa da
bandan'--he red, so no can see da bleed--wind him roun' tight!--All I
do, fas', fas'--alla tima da bell ring----
"I know it is da groun' floor. Dat lady, she alla time forgetta da
key--so I run down queek, an' leava da bun' in dark onna da stair....
I go open da door--it is da groun' floor, lika I know--an' t'inka me
alla right now!--Santa Maria!" It was a bitter wail, and overcome by a
succession of troubles, the poor wretch laid his head down on the table
and sobbed.
The grim austerity of Peter's face softened.
"And what is this, Angelo?" he asked, touching the newspaper-wrapped
package which was lying beside him on the table.
"Da silv', da silv'!" moaned Angelo, without raising his head. "Me
tella you, it was da silv'."
Peter drew the package toward him and pulled off the string which held
it fast, disclosing a number of pieces of flat silver and a small
coffee service.
"Is it all here?" asked Peter, quietly.
The rough head upon the table moved up and down in assent.
"But how did you get it back?" Peter's voice had taken a new tone. "I
thought you lost out when the lottery was drawn."
Angelo was too far gone to notice this evidence of Peter's omniscience.
"Playa da same nombre twice--two day'," muttered Angelo. "Firs'
day--lose; secon' day he come alla right, lika dream."
"And as soon as you won you took the silver out of hock and brought it
back?"
Again the silent nod.
Peter sat back in his chair and looked for a long time at the rough,
bowed head. At last he spoke, and in his voice was a half-quizzical
kindliness.
"You're a great rascal, Angelo, and a stupid fool to boot, and you've
made me a lot of trouble, dammit. But I believe you've told me the
truth at last----"
Angelo raised his stricken head. A gleam of something like hope shone
in his eyes.
"Yes," Peter went on, "I believe you've told me the truth, and I
will say it's helped to clear things up. But now, listen. One thing
more--how did Miss Blake's scarf come to be stained with blood, and
how did it happen to be just where we found it?" Peter was thinking
aloud more than he was addressing Angelo. "It fell down behind the
trunk, and nobody noticed it. The cabman pulled it along the hall when
it caught on the bottom of the trunk, and he shook, or kicked it loose,
just at the hall door.... And afterward, that same night, you chanced
to walk over it, and it must have caught--that sort of soft, fringy
thing would catch on anything--a rough place on your shoe, perhaps....
You dragged it across the sill, and when the door shut, it held the
scarf fast.... But the blood on it? If you bound up your wrist I don't
quite see----"
"_Si, si!_" cried Angelo. "But looka, looka, Boss. Listen! Me feex da
bandan' 'roun' him--so, an' hol' him fas', but w'en I comma to da door,
mus' use bot' han', see? Lika dis----" He made the motion of turning
two knobs at once, and Peter remembered that it was necessary to do
this in order to open the hall door. "I mus' let him go, an' da blood,
he jumpa out an' fall onna da door. You showa me da place, Boss! You no
remember?"
"And it fell on the scarf just below," Peter nodded, slowly. "Yes, I
see. I guess that's right, Angelo. I guess that explains--well, and
that's that," he added, rising to his feet. "Put the silver back where
you found it, Angelo--so--that the way it was? All right. Now," he laid
his hand heavily on the Italian's shoulder, "come with me."
Angelo drew a deep sigh, and slowly twisted his head to look up into
Peter's face. What he saw there caused him to start--to cry out--and
then, with head bent before the array of silver he had been honest
enough to redeem, to sob out his heart in a long string of thankful,
reverent profanity.