WHAT THE DOG BARKED AT.
About half past six the following morning, Mrs. Simpson’s maid, who had
slept out, let herself into the house with her latchkey and quietly
made her way to the kitchen.
As usual, her first act was to open the door and windows, for the
weather was warm. In doing so, she was attracted by a disturbance in
the back yard, and realized that she had heard a dog barking furiously
as she came along the street and through the house.
She had paid no particular attention to the persistent barking, but
now that she found the animal was in the rear of the Simpson lot, and
acting very strangely, her curiosity was fully aroused.
She did not know the dog. It was brownish in hue, collarless, and
neglected in appearance. Obviously it was a stray animal which had
found its way there on a foraging expedition.
Now, however, its original errand had been completely forgotten, and
the greatest excitement had taken its place.
The creature was running from one end of the lumber pile to the
other—always being careful to remain at a respectful distance—and was
giving vent to an unending series of frenzied barks.
The open country lay just beyond the Simpson house, and the girl’s
first thought was that some small-game animal had taken refuge in some
cranny of the lumber. Urged on by her curiosity, she stepped out of the
house and started toward the rear of the yard.
“It’s a rabbit, mebbe, or a squirrel,” she told herself. “Why don’t the
fool dig at it, though, instead of yelping its head off?”
But by that time she had reached a point from which she could get a
view of the rear end of the lumber pile. Suddenly she halted in her
tracks.
“For the love of Heaven!” she muttered. “That’s funny! Who’s been
monkeying with that lumber? It’s been piled over in the night, or some
of it has been swiped, and they’ve left a hole underneath. That’s where
the mutt’s rabbit, or whatever it is, is making itself scarce.”
Vaguely disturbed by her surprising discovery, she approached the spot
more slowly.
“There seems to be as much lumber as ever,” she decided, “but what does
it mean? Who would have taken the trouble to do that—in the dead of
night, too—if he wasn’t up to some mischief?”
Now the dog caught sight of her and came running forward. She shooed
him away, and he began barking at her, but the barks now had a pleading
note in them, and again and again he ran back to the pile of lumber.
“He wants me to help him, the poor boob!” the girl thought, with a
pitying smile. “Ain’t that just like a fool dog?”
But she advanced a little farther, somewhat warily, and sniffing the
air as she did so. Certainly it was not a skunk that had been cornered,
and it was not likely that the creature was ferocious.
Having finally arrived within six or eight feet of the end of the pile,
the maid stooped cautiously and peered into the little tunnel. A moment
later, she gave a piercing scream, picked up her skirts, and fled to
the house.
Again and again she raised her voice as she ran, but fortunately her
vocal efforts did not again touch the high-water mark of that first
cry, which, as it proved, had awakened Mrs. Simpson.
The girl scuttled through the lower part of the house, and was flying
up the stairs, when her mistress appeared at the top of the first
flight.
“What in the world is the matter, Mary?” Mrs. Simpson demanded.
As she put the question, she clutched at her heart, for her thoughts
had instinctively gone to her missing husband, and she imagined that
the maid must have had some news of Simpson, or, perhaps, had even
found his body on the front doorstep.
Naturally, therefore, the girl’s information was not reassuring.
“Oh, Mrs. Simpson!” she cried. “There’s been a murder as sure as you
live! There’s a dead man under that pile of lumber in the back yard! I
saw his feet!”
Mrs. Simpson’s face was as white as her nightdress.
“Merciful Heaven!” she breathed, horror in her eyes. “I knew it—it’s
Mr. Simpson! Oh, how can I bear it, how can I bear it!”
And she clutched the banister for support.
Fortunately, however, the girl knew better than that, even in her
fright, and said so at once.
“No, no, it ain’t Mr. Simpson!” she said pityingly, patting her
mistress’ heaving shoulder. “This man’s got big feet, Mrs. Simpson. His
shoes ain’ a bit like your husband’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain sure, ma’am.”
“Thank Heaven!” the frightened woman cried fervently. “It’s terrible
enough, though, if what you say is true. Call the neighbors, get some
man here as quick as you can. I’ll dress while you’re gone.”
The maid ran downstairs on the new errand, and Mrs. Simpson returned to
her bedroom. Five minutes later, she left the house by the rear door,
wrapped in a long kimono.
The servant’s errand had already borne fruit, for, although the girl
herself was not in sight, a man in his shirt sleeves and with dangling
suspenders was just climbing over the side fence.
“What’s this I hear about a dead man, Mrs. Simpson?” he called out, as
he caught sight of her. “Your girl wasn’t very coherent, but I caught
something about the lumber pile in the back yard.”
Mrs. Simpson hurried to him and pointed to the pile of boards.
“There it is,” she explained nervously. “Mary says a man is
underneath, and I can see that something has been done to the pile
since yesterday. That hole wasn’t there then.”
The dog was still keeping up his incessant noise as they approached,
and the neighbor found it impossible to drive him away. Mrs. Simpson
stopped at some distance, and the man went on.
He, too, stopped and peered into the opening under the pile, but laid
his hand on it in order to do so. After a prolonged scrutiny, he
straightened up.
“There’s a man under there,” he said soberly. “You had better go to the
house, Mrs. Simpson. This is no place for you.”
Confronted by this emergency, however, the fugitive’s wife showed
unexpected courage.
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said. “The poor fellow may not
be dead yet, for all we know, and unless the sight is too terrible, I
shall remain to help you. Besides, he’ll have to be brought into the
house, anyway, so why shouldn’t I see him now?”
“Of course, if you feel that way about it, Mrs. Simpson, stay, by all
means,” the neighbor replied, turning and beginning to throw the boards
back.
In half a minute he was joined by a couple of other men, while the maid
and several other women appeared. These latter kept at a distance,
however, and, in response to their urgings, Mrs. Simpson joined them.
The combined efforts of the men resulted in uncovering Cray’s body in
almost no time. The sight that met the rescuers’ gaze was a distressing
one, for the detective’s face was battered and bloody, and there did
not appear at first to be any life in his big body. One of the men
examined him, however, and presently announced that he was still alive.
“I wouldn’t give much for his chances,” he said, shaking his head, “but
he isn’t dead, that’s certain. I’ll go for Doctor Lord.”