EDGED TOOLS
THE moonlight penetrated but feebly through the one small opening which
did duty for a window of the lean-to, and its interior was a mass of
shadows. Suddenly that point of light was obliterated as a dark cloth
was pulled across the opening. There was a prolonged wait before the
same fingers switched on an electric lamp supplied with current from
a powerful dry battery, but the light was so arranged that it fell
directly upon a table on which stood a photographer’s outfit. A man,
his face in shadow from a huge green eye-shade which he wore low on
his brow, removed his hand from the electric switch. Taking up a piece
of bond paper he felt its texture, and holding it up to the light he
examined with minute attention the red and blue silk fiber running
through the paper.
Laying down the paper he took out his wallet and drew out some money,
and holding the spurious bill and the genuine bank note against the
light he compared them closely, then a smile of triumph crossed his
tightly compressed lips. It was next to impossible to distinguish
between the two notes. Greatly elated, he straightened his weary back
and looked about his workshop.
The cabin, for such it was, though to the casual observer it looked
like only a lean-to of logs against the hillside, had but the one
room which was fairly large, but owing to the numerous benches and
tables and other articles it appeared smaller than it really was. At
one side stood a printing-press, a metal rolling-machine, planchette
cutting-machine, pump, two oil stoves, a plating outfit, and a
double Turner torch, while a series of shelves held paints, oils,
acids, brushes, and chemicals. Dumped in one corner were a lathe, a
melting-pot, brazier, crucible and ladles, and on a nearby bench were
scales, copper and zinc plates, dies, and molds.
The counterfeiter replaced the genuine money in his wallet and returned
the latter to his pocket, then he moved over to a small safe and placed
a handful of spurious bank notes inside it. He stood for a moment
staring at the closed door of the safe, but he was in too excited a
frame of mind to remain long idle, and walking over to a small cabinet
he pulled out first one drawer and then another, arranging engraver’s
tools and other delicate instruments with deft fingers. After that
task was completed he turned his attention to the stone chimney and
fireplace at the back of the cabin and banked the smoldering embers
with ashes. Finally convinced that there was no danger of fire he drew
out from the background large screens and arranged them in front of the
homogeneous contents of the room. The screens were cleverly painted
to resemble the bare walls of a log cabin, and once in position they
caused the optical illusion, should any passer-by look through the
window, of a deserted and empty cabin.
The counterfeiter, first concealing his green eye-shade behind one of
the screens, switched off the electric light, and moving over to the
window drew back the black cloth and concealed its presence by tucking
it in a crevice in the log wall. A second later he was outside the
cabin, and the faint click of the spring lock as he closed the door
assured him that the latch had caught. He was inspecting the lock
which chemicals had made old and dilapidated in appearance when a
shadow obscured the moonlight shining on the door. The counterfeiter’s
hand closed over the butt of a revolver inside his overcoat pocket, but
before he caught sight of the newcomer a subdued but familiar voice
reassured him, and his chilled blood coursed through his veins.
“I’se late, but I’se hyar, sah.”
“So I see, Cato, but come out of the moonlight.” And he pulled the old
servant into the shelter of the woods. “What news?”
“Ain’t none,” tersely; the climb up the hillside had been both steep
and hard, and the old negro was short of breath. The stillness remained
unbroken for several minutes except for the hoot of a screech owl,
at which the negro jumped nervously, then seeing that his companion
had started down the hillside he made what speed he could after him.
They were skirting the hedge which marked the southern boundary of
Thornedale when a hand was laid on Cato’s shoulder.
“Go home, Cato,” directed the counterfeiter. “Don’t wait for me
tonight, I’ll be along presently.”
“Yessir,” promised Cato, peering cautiously at him. “Yo’ am sure--”
An impatient nod checked Cato, and he thankfully withdrew, making his
way to Thornedale with infinite caution. The counterfeiter watched him
until he was lost from sight in the grove of trees about the house,
then turned his attention to the Porter mansion. But his wary progress
in that direction was checked by the sound of rapidly approaching
footsteps, and he had but time to sink down behind the friendly hedge
when a figure loomed ahead silhouetted against the skyline in the
moonlight.
* * * * *
“Eleven, twelve,” chimed the hall clock, and the sound carried through
the open door of Craig Porter’s bedroom to Dr. Alan Noyes sitting by
the paralytic’s bedside. Noyes looked up and rose as Vera Deane came
over to the bed.
“Mr. Porter responds quickly to medicine,” he said, keeping his voice
low-pitched. “And he has at last fallen asleep. I think we may safely
believe that his relapse of this afternoon was but temporary.”
“Thank God for that--his poor mother!” Vera spoke with deep feeling. “I
am afraid she will be our next patient, doctor.”
Noyes looked grave. “Mrs. Porter has had a trying year; anxiety for
her son, Monday’s tragedy--” His gesture was eloquent. “Try and humor
her as much as you can, Miss Deane; her frayed nerves won’t stand
opposition.” He took an undecided step across the room. “Mr. Porter is
so much improved that I will go and lie down. Call me at once should
Mr. Porter awaken and any alarming symptoms appear.”
“Very well, doctor.” Vera’s eyes strayed from his haggard face to his
empty coat sleeve, and with difficulty she controlled all evidence of
curiosity. Before he reached the door she again spoke to him: “Are you
occupying your same room?” she asked.
Noyes looked his impatience. “Yes, I am,” he said, and his manner was
far from gracious. “Good night, Miss Deane.”
“Good night, sir,” and Vera closed the hall door.
Everything had been arranged in the sick room for the night, and Vera
selected a chair farthest from the night light and near her patient,
and prepared for a long vigil. But while she continued to gaze steadily
at Craig Porter, every sense alive to catch his need of careful
nursing, she could not center her thoughts on her patient.
Slowly she reviewed the happenings of the day--her meeting with Beverly
Thorne; his possession of the black-edged card. Was it mere chance,
Fate or Fury which had entwined their paths? Could she place dependence
upon Thorne? Her heart beat more swiftly and a vivid blush dyed her
cheeks as recollection rose of the message his eyes conveyed as they
stood together at Diamond Rock barely eight hours before. Pshaw! she
was not impressionable, like Dorothy and Millicent--and experience had
taught her something of man’s duplicity.
Vera blinked violently, and leaned over to smooth out an infinitesimal
wrinkle from the white sheet. Craig Porter had not awakened, and
she forced thoughts of Beverly Thorne out of her mind and instead
endeavored to recall her scene with Mrs. Porter in the library. As she
remembered the expression in the older woman’s eyes when she had asked,
“Who in this household would have a motive for killing Bruce Brainard?”
Vera turned cold. Why had she not obliged Mrs. Porter to give a direct
answer to her own question--at least she would have had her suspicions
either confirmed or denied; any alternative would have been preferable
to the intolerable suspense she was enduring.
She passed a hand before her eyes, and her thoughts took a new trend.
What had brought Alan Noyes back to the Porters’ when he-- The opening
of the hall door abruptly terminated her troubled reflections, and she
rose as Mrs. Porter entered the room.
Without speaking Mrs. Porter tiptoed over to the bed and gazed long and
earnestly at her son.
“Is he really asleep?” she whispered.
“Yes, Mrs. Porter. Won’t you take my chair?” placing it for her.
Mrs. Porter seated herself, drawing Vera down to sit on the arm in
order that she might speak confidentially and not raise her voice.
“I can do nothing with Millicent,” she said wearily. “Arguments,
commands, are of no avail; she will not go to bed, will not even slip
on her wrapper and lie down on the lounge. She declares that she cannot
sleep, that she must have ‘air, air.’” Mrs. Porter pushed her hair off
her forehead. “She even threatens to go for a walk.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes. I thought of sending for your sister to quiet her, but concluded
to come for you. Your nursing experience can decide if she needs a
sedative.”
“Shall I call Dr. Noyes to attend her?”
“No.” Mrs. Porter’s mouth closed obstinately. “Except that her manner
is a trifle wild and her cheeks unduly flushed, Millicent seems
rational. You have great influence with her, Vera; go and quiet her.”
“But I cannot leave your son.”
“Yes, you can; I will stay here until you return.” Mrs. Porter spoke
authoritatively and Vera hesitated, Noyes’ caution of the moment before
recurring to her; he had told her that Mrs. Porter should be humored,
and there was nothing for her to do but obey his instructions. She
looked again at Craig Porter, whose closed eyes and regular breathing
indicated that his sleep was uninterrupted. If Millicent did require
medical attendance she could summon Dr. Noyes and Mrs. Hall, and return
to her regular duties. A thought occurred to her, and she turned back
to Mrs. Porter.
“Would you like me to call Mrs. Hall?”
“Mercy, no!” Mrs. Porter frowned; she objected to suggestions, no
matter how well meant they were. “Go at once, Vera, I do not like to
leave Millicent alone for any length of time. She is sitting in the
boudoir.”
With a last look at her patient, Vera left the room and sought the
boudoir; it was empty. She went at once to Millicent’s bedroom and,
her gentle tap getting no response, she opened the door and went in.
Millicent was not there, and, somewhat perplexed, Vera looked into the
communicating dressing-room and from there passed into her sister’s
bedroom. Dorothy was lying asleep on the bed, her gas-light turned low,
but as Vera bent over her she saw traces of recent tears on her pale
cheeks and forbore to wake her.
Returning to the hall she stood debating as to whether to report to
Mrs. Porter or continue her search for Millicent on the first floor.
She decided to go back to Mrs. Porter, but as she paused in front of
the door of Craig Porter’s bedroom a faint noise caused her to look
hastily down the hall just as Millicent emerged from the attic stairs
and disappeared down the back staircase. The acetylene lights at either
end of the long hall were burning dimly, as Mrs. Porter deemed it
unsafe to keep the house in darkness, and Vera saw that Millicent was
enveloped in some sort of a cloak.
Considerably perturbed, Vera hesitated, but only for a moment; then she
sped after Millicent. Mrs. Porter was on guard in the sick room, and
she had sent her to look after her daughter. If Millicent, in a moment
of delirium perhaps, attempted to walk abroad at that hour of the night
she must be reasoned with and stopped.
Vera’s disturbed ideas took form as she dashed downstairs, the sound of
her approach deadened by her rubber-soled shoes. She was halfway down
the circular staircase when she saw Millicent fumbling with the lock,
by aid of the moonlight streaming through the fanlight over the side
door. The clang of the night chain when Millicent unhooked it drowned
Vera’s low-voiced call, and, snatching up a small bundle which she had
placed on a console, Millicent darted out into the night. Her foot
turned just as she was about to descend the few steps leading to the
graveled path, and only her outflung hand saved her from a nasty fall.
Recovering herself and never glancing behind her, she hastened up the
path, being careful, however, to tread only on the turf.
Vera, unmindful of the chill wind and her coatless condition, paused
only long enough to close the door, then hurried after Millicent. She
had taken but a few steps beyond the house when her foot struck against
something which whizzed ahead of her, and she caught the glint of
moonlight on metal. Catching up with the small object, she stooped over
and picked it up. It was a razor.
Vera’s heart beat with suffocating rapidity as she tore ahead. What
fresh tragedy was impending? To her dismay she saw Millicent was
gaining ground. What use to call--no one was near--and she needed
every ounce of breath to overtake the flying figure. Millicent kept a
fairly straight course, then, darting among a clump of laurel bushes,
disappeared from view, but only for a moment, as Vera, circling the
bushes, caught sight of her cutting across fields toward Thornedale,
but instead of continuing her approach to the low, rambling hunting
lodge, she doubled on her tracks and half slid down a steep embankment.
Vera, hampered by her unfamiliarity with the ground, was some minutes
later in reaching the top of the embankment, and she halted abruptly on
seeing Millicent, no sign of her recent haste discernible, seated at
the bottom of the embankment, apparently resting at her ease. Shifting
clouds temporarily obscured the moon, and Vera waited expectantly
before attempting the descent, dropping to her knees behind a cluster
of shrubs as she decided to call and ask Millicent to wait for her. But
her intentions received a check as a figure turned the corner of the
winding highway, and a voice addressed Millicent.
“Who is here?” The next instant an electric pocket torch played
across her face, then flickered out as Hugh Wyndham exclaimed in deep
astonishment, “Millicent!”
His cousin threw out her hand as if to ward off the censure she felt
coming.
“The house was stifling, Hugh,” she explained hurriedly. “I simply had
to come out,” rising. “I’ll walk back with you. My head feels better
already.”
Wyndham gazed at her in undisguised concern. “I wish I had known--” he
began, and broke off. “Come, Millicent.” And slipping his arm inside
hers, he led her with gentle determination in the direction of her
house. Vera, greatly relieved at having Wyndham take charge of his
cousin, was about to rise from her cramped position and follow them,
when the razor, which she still clutched, slipped from her grasp and
slid down the embankment. Instinctively she reached for it, lost her
balance and went plunging down to the roadway. In an instant she was on
her feet, the razor once again in hand, and she started forward but,
confused by her tumble, she did not realize that she was headed in the
wrong direction until she had taken several steps.
[Illustration: “Hush!” he whispered. “No noise. Look----”]
As she paused she became aware that someone was approaching swiftly
down the road, and suddenly awakening to the fact that Millicent and
Wyndham were out of sight in the opposite direction, and that it must
be long after midnight, she made a few hesitating steps toward a hedge
and stopped irresolutely; there was no reason why she should run away.
She held up the razor and the sight of the burnished steel in the
light from the moon, which had come from behind the obscuring clouds,
reassured her. She was not without protection, but a sudden doubt
assailed her; how was she to account for the possession of the razor?
Millicent might have dropped it in her flight from the house--but why
had Millicent carried a razor--it was a toilet article not usually
possessed by women. Could it be that Millicent was striving to get rid
of the razor surreptitiously? The police were still searching for the
set of razors from which had been taken the razor used to kill Bruce
Brainard--
Vera’s arm was raised to fling the razor far from her when a hand was
clapped over her mouth and she was pulled down in the shadow of the
hedge bordering the road. Her startled eyes looked straight at Beverly
Thorne.
“Hush!” he whispered. “No noise. Look!”
And following his pointing finger Vera saw a man run across the
opposite field, vault the fence and hurry down the road. He was
entirely out of sight before Thorne removed his hand from Vera’s
shoulder, and, rising, he helped her up.
“Come,” he said, and in silence accompanied her to the Porter mansion.
Vera, her ideas too chaotic for utterance, detained him at the side
door. “Who was the man we saw run up the road?” she asked. “His figure
looked familiar, but I did not get a clear view of his face.”
“It was Detective Mitchell,” responded Thorne softly, lifting his cap.
“Good night.”
Not until she was safely inside the Porter mansion did Vera remember
the razor--she gazed blankly at her empty hands. Had she dropped the
razor in her excitement or--had Beverly Thorne taken it from her?