KA
DETECTIVE Mitchell hung up the telephone receiver and sat glaring at
the instrument.
“Well, I’m d--ned!” he muttered. It was some moments before he rose and
went in search of Cato, but although he hunted through the entire first
floor of Thornedale and called upstairs until he was hoarse, Mitchell
was unable to find the old negro, and at last gave up the search. Over
an hour had elapsed since the departure of Anthony, the Secret Service
agent, and still Thorne had not returned. Mitchell’s impatience got the
better of him, and, not troubling to leave a written message, he left
the house and walked rapidly to Dewdrop Inn.
Mrs. Porter, dressed for walking, was standing in the front doorway
as Mitchell came up the steps, and she greeted his appearance with a
frown.
“Do you desire to see me?” she inquired. “I am just going out.”
Mitchell, however, did not stand aside for her to walk past him.
“I am very sorry, madam, to detain you,” he said firmly. “But it is
imperative that I have a talk with you at once.”
Mrs. Porter whitened under her rouge. “It is quite unnecessary to adopt
that tone to me,” she retorted. “I can spare you a few minutes, not
more. Walk inside,” and she stepped back into the hall.
Mitchell closed the front door with a bang and tossed his hat and
overcoat on the hall table.
“Has Dr. Alan Noyes returned from the court house?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Mrs. Porter moistened her lips nervously. “I expect him here
at any moment.”
“Suppose we go into the library,” suggested Mitchell, seeing that she
made no sign to admit him further into the house. “Then, kindly oblige
me by sending for Miss Deane.”
Mitchell had not troubled to lower his voice, and his words were
distinctly audible to Dorothy Deane, who was sitting on the top step
of the staircase. She waited until she heard Mrs. Porter and Mitchell
go in the direction of the library, then sped to Craig Porter’s door
and, jerking it open, she beckoned to her sister to come into the hall.
“Vera,” she said in little more than a whisper, “Alan Noyes is
evidently detained at the court house, and--and--Detective Mitchell is
down in the library waiting to see you.”
Vera stood as if turned into marble, then she drew a long, painful
breath.
“Very well”--her voice was not quite steady, and she cleared her throat
before continuing--“I will see Detective Mitchell at once. Where is
Hugh Wyndham?”
Dorothy flinched, and her eyes fell before her sister’s direct gaze.
“I don’t know--I can’t find him anywhere about the place. Oh, Vera,”
coloring painfully, “must you tell _all_?”
Vera nodded. “It would have been better had I been frank in the first
place,” she said dully. “God knows, I acted for the best. I can’t leave
Craig Porter alone, Dorothy. Where is Mrs. Hall?”
“With Millicent, I suppose. I haven’t seen her lately.”
“Then you sit with Craig until I return.” Vera pushed Dorothy gently
through the doorway. “Call me if he requires medical assistance.” And
pulling the door shut before Dorothy could recover from her surprise,
Vera squared her shoulders and walked downstairs.
Dorothy continued to stare at the closed door for some seconds, then
turned her attention to Craig Porter, but his emaciated appearance
was a distinct shock to her, and when she looked away her eyes were
blurred with tears. Afraid to give way in the slightest degree to her
emotions for fear they would master her, she walked back and forth with
noiseless tread.
The minutes seemed endless, and in agony over the scene which her
active imagination painted going on in the library, Dorothy at last
paused before the huge mirror over the mantel and stared at herself.
Dark circles under her eyes and her total lack of color told plainly
of mental anguish, and with a shudder she moved away. The desk next
attracted her wandering attention, and she picked up the nurse’s
chart and a pencil and subconsciously read the last entry in Vera’s
handwriting: “Patient continues plucking at clothing.”
Dropping the chart she walked over to the foot of the bed and regarded
Craig Porter. A great pity for him drove, for the moment, her own
problems out of her mind. They had been “pals” while she was at
boarding-school and he a junior at Yale, and as memories returned of
his merry disposition and gallant bearing a lump rose in her throat,
and she hastily looked away.
A glance at the open transom over the head of Craig’s bed sent her
thoughts again to the tragedy enacted in the next room on Tuesday
morning.
“Only four days ago,” she murmured, and choked back a sob. Again she
looked at Craig. He lay rigidly on his back, his eyes half closed, and
she wondered if he could be asleep or unconscious. The only indication
of life was the moving finger plucking always at the sheet drawn across
his chest.
Dorothy’s thoughts again reverted to Vera and Detective Mitchell.
What was transpiring in the library? It was cruel to keep her in such
suspense. In her extreme nervousness she drummed the pencil which she
still held against the footboard of the bed, and her eyes resting still
on Craig’s hand, she unconsciously beat time to his slow-moving finger.
Painfully, laboriously the finger moved back a longer distance, then
a shorter distance, then longer--and Dorothy’s pencil beat out each
stroke: -- · -- · --
The tap of her pencil penetrated her absent-mindedness, and Dorothy
stared at Craig--what had possessed her to spell out “KA,” the wireless
“attention” call which precedes every transmission?
Again her eyes traveled to Craig’s hand, and the moving finger in
contrast to his motionless figure and expressionless face fascinated
her. Again she spelled out the “attention” signal, her pencil tapping
off each short or long movement of his finger. But this time the “KA”
signal was followed by her initials, and the signal: · -- ···, “wait.”
Dorothy, half doubting her senses, tapped off: -- · -- “K,” the
official call to “go ahead.”
Craig’s finger remained motionless for a longer period, then once again
it spelled a message to her, and as she caught its full significance,
she with difficulty checked a scream. With shaking fingers she tapped
out the question:
“Who murdered Bruce Brainard?”
Breathlessly she waited for the response.
Slowly, very slowly Craig’s finger checked off the answer, and Dorothy,
her senses reeling, leaned far over the bed and looked into Craig’s
eyes. They held the light of reason. With a choking sob she sank
senseless to the floor.