THE CASE AGAINST BOBBY
Bobby hurried down the road in the direction of the Cedars. Always he
tried desperately to recall what had occurred during those black hours
last night and this morning before he had awakened in the empty house
near his grandfather's home. All that remained were his sensation of
travel in a swift vehicle, his impression of standing in the forest near
the Cedars, his glimpse of the masked figure which he had called his
conscience, the echo in his brain of a dream-like voice saying: "Take off
your shoes and carry them in your hand. Always do that. It's the only
safe way."
These facts, then, alone were clear to him: He had wandered, unconscious,
in the neighbourhood. His grandfather had been strangely murdered. The
detective who had met him in the village practically accused him of the
murder. And he couldn't remember.
He turned back to his last clear recollections. When he had experienced
his first symptoms of slipping consciousness he had been in the cafe in
New York with Carlos Paredes, Maria, the dancer, and a strange man whom
Maria had brought to the table. Through them he might, to an extent,
trace his movements, unless they had put him in a cab, thinking he would
catch the train, of which he had talked, for the Cedars.
Already the forest crowded the narrow, curving road. The Blackburn place
was in the midst of an arid thicket of stunted pines, oaks, and cedars.
Old Blackburn had never done anything to improve the estate or its
surroundings. Steadily during his lifetime it had grown more gloomy, less
habitable.
With the silent forest thick about him Bobby realized that he was no
longer alone. A crackling twig or a loose stone struck by a foot might
have warned him. He went slower, glancing restlessly over his shoulder.
He saw no one, but that idea of stealthy pursuit persisted. Undoubtedly
it was the detective, Howells, who followed him, hoping, perhaps, that he
would make some mad effort at escape.
"That," he muttered, "is probably the reason he didn't arrest me at
the station."
Bobby, however, had no thought of escape. He was impatient to reach the
Cedars where he might learn all that Howells hadn't told him about his
grandfather's death.
A high wooden fence straggled through the forest. The driveway swung from
the road through a broad gateway. The gate stood open. Bobby remembered
that it had been old Blackburn's habit to keep it closed. He entered and
hurried among the trees to the edge of the lawn in the centre of which
the house stood.
Feeling as guilty as the detective thought him, he paused there and
examined the house for some sign of life. At first it seemed as dead as
the forest stripped by autumn--almost as gloomy and arid as the
wilderness which straggled close about it. He had no eye for the symmetry
of its wings which formed the court in the centre of which an abandoned
fountain stood. He studied the windows, picturing Katherine alone,
surrounded by the complications of this unexpected tragedy.
His feeling of an inimical watchfulness persisted. A clicking sound swung
him back to the house. The front door had been opened, and in the black
frame of the doorway, as he looked, Katherine and Graham appeared, and he
knew the resolution of his last doubt was at hand.
Katherine had thrown a cloak over her graceful figure. Her sunny hair
strayed in the wind, but her face, while it had lost nothing of its
beauty, projected even at this distance a sense of weariness, of anxiety,
of utter fear.
Bobby was grateful for Graham's presence. It was like the man to assume
his responsibilities, to sacrifice himself in his service. He
straightened. He must meet these two. Through his own wretched appearance
and position he must develop for Katherine more clearly than ever
Graham's superiority. He stepped out, calling softly:
"Katherine!"
She started. She turned in his direction and came swiftly toward him. She
spread her hands.
"Bobby! Bobby! Where have you been?"
There were tears in her eyes. They were like tears that have been
too long coming. He took her hands. Her fingers were cold. They
twitched in his.
"Look at me, Katherine," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry."
Graham came up. He spoke with apparent difficulty.
"You've not been home. Then what happened last night? Quick! Tell us what
you did--everything."
"I've seen the detective," he answered. "He's told you, too? Be careful.
I think he's back there, watching and listening."
Katherine freed her hands. The tears had dried. She shook a little.
"Then you were at the station," she said. "You must have come from New
York, but I tried so hard to get you there. For hours I telephoned and
telegraphed. Then I got Hartley. Come away from the trees so we can talk
without--without being overheard."
As they moved to the centre of the open space Graham indicated Bobby's
evening clothes.
"Why are you dressed like that, Bobby? You _did_ come from town? You
can tell us everything you did last night after I left you, and early
this morning?"
Bobby shook his head. His answer was reluctant.
"I didn't come from New York just now. I was evidently here last night,
and I can't remember, Hartley. I remember scarcely anything."
Graham's face whitened.
"Tell us," he begged.
"You've got to remember!" Katherine cried.
Bobby as minutely as he could recited the few impressions that remained
from last night.
When he had finished Graham thought for some time.
"Paredes and the dancer," he said at last, "practically forced me away
from you last night. It's obvious, Bobby, you must have been drugged."
Bobby shook his head.
"I thought of that right away, but it won't do. If I had been drugged I
wouldn't have moved around, and I did come out somehow, I managed to
get to the empty house to sleep. It's more as if my mind had simply
closed, as if it had gone on working its own ends without my knowing
anything about it. And that's dreadful, because the detective has
practically accused me of murdering my grandfather. How was it done?
You see I know nothing. Tell me how--how he was killed. I can't believe
I--I'm such a beast. Tell me. If I was in the house, some detail might
start my memory."
So Katherine told her story while Bobby listened, shrinking from some
disclosure that would convict him. As she went on, however, his sense of
bewilderment increased, and when she had finished he burst out:
"But where is the proof of murder? Where is there even a suggestion? You
say the doors were locked and he doesn't show a mark."
"That's what we can't understand," Graham said. "There's no evidence we
know anything about that your grandfather's heart didn't simply give out,
but the detective is absolutely certain, and--there's no use mincing
matters, Bobby--he believes he has the proof to convict you. He won't
tell me what. He simply smiles and refuses to talk."
"The motive?" Bobby asked.
Graham looked at him curiously. Katherine turned away.
"Of course," Bobby cried with a sharpened discomfort. "I'd forgotten. The
money--the new will he had planned to make. The money's mine now, but if
he had lived until this morning it never would have been. I see."
"It is a powerful motive," Graham said, "for any one who doesn't
know you."
"But," Bobby answered, "Howells has got to prove first that my
grandfather was murdered. The autopsy?"
"Coroner's out of the county," Graham replied, "and Howells won't have an
assistant. Dr. Groom's waiting in the house. We're expecting the coroner
almost any time."
Bobby spoke rapidly.
"If he calls it murder, Hartley, there's one thing we've got to find out:
what my grandfather was afraid of. Tell me again, Katherine, everything
he said about me. I can't believe he could have been afraid of me."
"He called you," Katherine answered, "a waster. He said: 'God knows what
he'll do next.' He said he'd ordered you out last night and he hadn't
had a word from you, but that he'd made up his mind anyway. He was going
to have his lawyer this morning and change his will, leaving all his
money to the Bedford Foundation, except a little annuity for me. He grew
sentimental and said he had no faith left in his flesh and blood, and
that it was sad to grow old with nobody caring for him except to covet
his money. I asked him if he were afraid of you, and all he answered
was: 'You and Bobby are thicker than thieves.' Oh, yes. When I saw him
for the last time in the hall he said there was nothing for me to worry
about except you. That's all. I remember perfectly. He said nothing more
about you."
"I wonder," Bobby muttered, "if a jury wouldn't think it enough."
Katherine shook her head.
"There seemed so much more than that behind his fear," she said. "As I've
told you, he gave me a feeling of superstition. I never once was afraid
of a murderer--of a man in the house. I was afraid of something queer and
active, but not human."
Bobby straightened.
"Would you," he asked, "call a man going about in an aphasia quite
human? Somnambulists do unaccountable things--such as overcoming locked
doors--"
"Don't, Bobby! Don't!" Katherine cried.
"Sh--h! Quiet!" Graham warned.
A foot scraped on gravel.
"Maybe the detective," Bobby suggested.
He stared at the bend, expecting to see the stiff, plain figure of the
detective emerge from the forest. Instead with a dawning amazement he
watched Carlos Paredes stroll into view. The Panamanian was calm and
immaculate. His Van Dyke beard was neatly trimmed and combed. As he
advanced he puffed in leisurely fashion at a cigarette.
Graham flushed.
"After last night he has the nerve--"
"Be decent to him," Bobby urged. "He might help me--might clear up
last night."
"I wonder," Graham mused, "to what extent he could clear it up if
he wished."
Paredes threw his cigarette away as he came closer. Solemnly he shook
hands with Katherine and Bobby, expressing a profound sympathy. Even then
Bobby remarked that those reserved features let slip no positive emotion.
The man turned to Graham.
"Our little difference of last evening," he said suavely, "will, I hope,
evaporate in this atmosphere of unexpected sorrow. If I was in the wrong
I deeply regret it. My one wish now is to join you in being of use to
Bobby and Miss Katherine in their bereavement. I saw the account in a
paper at luncheon. I came as quickly as possible."
Graham answered this smooth effrontery with a blunt question.
"Do you know that Bobby is in very real trouble, that he may be
implicated in Mr. Blackburn's death?"
Paredes flung up his hands, but Bobby, looking for emotion in the sallow
face then, found none. Paredes's features, it occurred to him, were
exactly like a mask.
Bobby checked himself. In his unhealthy way Paredes had been a good
friend. The man's voice flowed smoothly, demanding particulars.
"But this," he said, when they had told him what they could, "changes the
situation. I must stay here. I must watch that detective and learn what
he has up his sleeve."
Graham turned away.
"I've tried. Maybe you'll succeed better than I."
"Then you'll excuse me," Paredes said quickly. "I should like your
permission to telephone to my hotel in New York for some clothing. I want
to see this through."
The three looked at each other. Katherine and Graham seemed about to
speak. Bobby wouldn't let them.
"Carlos," he said, "you might help me. I'm almost afraid to ask. What
happened in the cafe last night? The last thing I remember distinctly is
sitting there with you and Maria and a stranger she had introduced. I
didn't get his name. What did I do? Did any one leave the place with me?"
Paredes smiled a little, shaking his head.
"You behaved as if Mr. Graham's earlier fears had been accomplished. You
insisted you were going to catch your train. I didn't think it wise, so I
went to the cloak room with you, intending to see you home. Somehow, just
the same you gave me the slip."
"You oughtn't to have let him get away," Graham said.
Paredes shrugged his shoulders.
"You weren't there. You don't know how sly Bobby was."
"I suppose it's useless to ask," Graham said. "You saw nothing put in
his wine?"
Paredes laughed.
"Is it likely? Certainly not. I should have mentioned it. I should have
stopped such a thing. What do you think I am, Mr. Graham?"
"Sorry," Graham said. "You must understand we can't let any lead slip.
This stranger Maria brought up?"
"I didn't catch his name," Paredes answered.
"I'd never seen him before. I gathered he was a friend of
hers--connected with the profession. Now I shall telephone with your
permission, Miss Katherine; and don't you worry, Bobby. I will see you
through; but we can't do much until the coroner comes, until the
detective can be made to talk."
Katherine hesitated for a moment, then she surrendered.
"Please go with him, Hartley, and--and make him as comfortable as you can
in this unhappy house."
Katherine detained Bobby with a nod. He saw the others go. He shrank, in
his mental and physical discomfort, from this isolation with her. As soon
as the door was closed she touched his hand. She burst out passionately:
"I don't believe it, Bobby. I'll never believe it no matter what
happens."
"It's sweet of you, Katherine," he said huskily. "That helps when you
don't know what to believe yourself."
"Don't talk that way. Such a crime would never have entered your head
under any conditions. Only, Bobby, it ought never to have happened. You
ought never to have been in this position. Why have you been friendly
with people like--like that Spaniard? What can he want, forcing himself
here? At any rate, you'll never lead that sort of life again?"
Her fingers sought his. He clasped them firmly.
"If I get past this," he said, "I'll always look you straight in the
eye, Katherine. It was mad--silly. You don't quite understand--"
He broke off, glancing at the door through which Graham had disappeared.
"Then remember," she said softly, "I don't believe it."
She released his hand, sighing.
"That's all I can say, all I can do now. You're ill, Bobby. Go in. Rest
for awhile. When you've had sleep you may remember something."
He shook his head. He walked slowly with her to the house.
As he climbed the stairs he heard Paredes telephoning. He couldn't
understand the man's insistence on remaining where clearly he was
an intruder.
He entered his bedroom which he had occupied only once or twice during
the last few months. The place seemed unfamiliar. As he bathed and
dressed his sense of strangeness grew, and he understood why. The last
time he had been here he had stood in no personal danger. There had been
no black parenthesis in his life during the stretch of which he might
have committed an unspeakable crime. For he couldn't believe as firmly as
Katherine did. Since he couldn't remember, he might have done anything.
"Come!" he called in response to a stealthy rapping at the door.
Stealth, it occurred to him, had, since last night, become a stern
condition of his life.
Graham entered and noiselessly closed the door.
"I had a chance to slip in," he explained. "Paredes is wandering about
the place. I'd give a lot to know what he's after at the Cedars.
Katherine is in her room, trying to rest after last night, I fancy."
"And," Bobby asked, "the detective--Howells?"
"If he's back from the station," Graham answered, "he's keeping low. I
wonder if it was he or Paredes who followed you through the woods?"
"Why should Carlos have followed me?" Bobby asked. "I've been thinking it
over, Hartley. It isn't a bad scheme having him here, since you think he
hasn't told all he knows."
"I don't say that," Graham answered. "I don't know what to think about
Paredes. I've come to talk about just that. I'm a lawyer, and I've had
some criminal practice. Since this detective will be satisfied with you
for a victim, I'm going to take your case, if you'll have me. I'll be
your detective as well as your lawyer."
Bobby was a good deal touched.
"That's kind of you--more than I deserve, for I have resented you
at times."
Graham, it was clear, didn't guess he referred to his friendship for
Katherine, for he answered quickly:
"I must have seemed a nuisance, but I was only trying to get you back on
the straight path where you've always belonged. I can't believe you did
this thing, even unconsciously, until I'm shown proof without a single
flaw. Until the autopsy the only thing we have to work on is that party
last night. I've telephoned to New York and put a trustworthy man on the
heels of Maria and the stranger. Meantime I think I'd better watch
developments here."
"Please," Bobby agreed. "Stay with me, Hartley, until this man takes some
definite action."
He picked at the fringe of the window curtain. "If the autopsy shows that
my grandfather was murdered," he said, "either I killed him, or else some
one has deliberately tried to throw suspicion on me, for with only a
motive to go on this detective wouldn't be so sure. Why in the name of
heaven should any one kill the old man, place all this money in my hands,
and at the same time send me to the electric chair? Don't you see how
absurd it is that Carlos, Maria, or any one else should have had a hand
in it? There was nothing for them to gain from his death. I've thought
and thought in such circles until I am almost convinced of the logic of
my guilt."
He drew the curtain farther back and gazed across the court at the room
where his grandfather lay dead. One of the two windows of the room was a
little raised, but the blinds were closely drawn.
"I did hate him," he mused. "There's that. Ever since I can remember he
did things to make me despise him. Have--have you seen him?"
Graham nodded.
"Howells took me in. He looked perfectly normal--not a mark."
"I don't want to see him," Bobby said.
He drew back from the window, pointing. The detective, Howells, had
strolled into the court. His hands hung at his sides. They didn't swing
as he walked. His lips were stretched in that thin, straight smile. He
paused by the fountain, glancing for a moment anxiously downward. Then he
came on and entered the house.
"He'll be restless," Graham said, "until the coroner comes, and proves or
disproves his theory of murder. If he questions you, you'd better say
nothing for the present. From his point of view what you remember of last
night would be only damaging."
"I want him to leave me alone," Bobby said. "If he doesn't arrest me I
won't have him bullying me."
Jenkins knocked and entered. The old butler was as white-faced as Bobby,
more tremulous.
"The policeman, sir! He's asking for you."
"Tell him I don't wish to see him."
The detective, himself, stepped from the obscurity of the hall, smiling
his queer smile.
"Ah! You are here, Mr. Blackburn! I'd like a word with you."
He turned to Graham and Jenkins.
"Alone, if you please."
Bobby mutely agreed, and Graham and the butler went out. The
detective closed the door and leaned against it, studying Bobby with
his narrow eyes.
"I don't suppose," he began, "that there's any use asking you about your
movements last night?"
"None," Bobby answered jerkily, "unless you arrest me and take me before
those who ask questions with authority."
The detective's smile widened.
"No matter. I didn't come to argue with you about that. I was curious to
know if you'd tried to see your grandfather's body."
Bobby shook his head.
"I took it for granted the room was locked."
"Yes," the detective answered, "but some people, it seems, have skilful
ways of overcoming locks."
He moved to one side, placing his hand on the door knob.
"I've come to open doors for you, to give you the opportunity an
affectionate grandson must crave."
Bobby hesitated, fighting back his feeling of repulsion, his first
instinct to refuse. The detective might take it as an evidence against
him. On the other hand, if he went, the man would unquestionably try to
tear from a meeting between the living and the dead some valuable
confirmation of his theory.
"Well?" the detective said. "What's the matter? Thought the least I could
do was to give you a chance. Wouldn't do it for everybody. Then everybody
hasn't your affectionate nature."
Bobby advanced.
"For God's sake, stop mocking me. I'll go, since you wish."
The detective opened the door and stood aside to let Bobby pass.
"Daresay you know the room--the way to it?"
Bobby didn't answer. He went along the corridor and into the main hall
where Katherine had met Silas Blackburn last night. He fought back his
aversion and entered the corridor of the old wing. He heard the detective
behind him. He was aware of the man's narrow eyes watching him with a
malicious assurance.
Bobby, with a feeling of discomfort, sprung in part from the gloomy
passageway, paused before the door his grandfather had had the
unaccountable whim of entering last night. The detective took a key from
his pocket and inserted it in the lock.
"Had some trouble repairing the lock this morning," he said. "That
fellow, Jenkins, entered with a heavy hand--a good deal heavier than
whoever was here before him."
He opened the door.
"Queerest case I've ever seen," he mumbled. "Step in, Mr. Blackburn."
Because of the drawn blinds the room was nearly as dark as the corridor.
Bobby entered slowly, his nerves taut. Against the farther wall the bed
was like an enormous shadow, without form.
"Stay where you are," the detective warned, "until I give you more light.
You know, I wouldn't want you to touch anything, because the room is
exactly as it was when he was murdered!"
Bobby experienced a swift impulse to strangle the brutal word in the
detective's throat. But he stood still while the man went to the
bureau, struck a match, and applied it to a candle. The wick burned
reluctantly. It flickered in the wind that slipped past the curtain of
the open window.
"Come here," the detective commanded roughly.
Bobby dragged himself forward until he stood at the foot of the
four-poster bed. The detective lifted the candle and held it beneath
the canopy.
"You look all you want now, Mr. Robert Blackburn," he said grimly.
Bobby conquered the desire to close his eyes, to refuse to obey. He
stared at his grandfather, and a feeling of wonder grew upon him. For
Silas Blackburn rested peacefully in the great bed. His eyes were closed.
The thick gray brows were no longer gathered in the frown too familiar to
Bobby. The face with its gray beard retained no fear, no record of a
great shock.
Bobby glanced at the detective who bent over the bed watching him out of
his narrow eyes.
"Why," he asked simply, "do you say he was murdered?"
"He was murdered," the detective answered. "Murdered in cold blood, and,
look you here, young fellow, I know who did it. I'm going to strap that
man in the electric chair. He's got just one chance--if he talks out, if
he makes a clean breast of it."
Across the body he bent closer. He held the candle so that its light
searched Bobby's face instead of the dead man's, and the uncertain flame
was like an ambush for his eyes.
In response to those intolerable words Bobby's sick nerves stretched too
tight. No masquerade remained before this huntsman who had his victim
trapped, and calmly studied his agony. The horror of the accusation shot
at him across the body of the man he couldn't be sure he hadn't murdered,
robbed him of his last control. He cried out hysterically:
"Why don't you do something? For God's sake, why don't you arrest me?"
A chuckle came from the man in ambush behind the yellow flame.
"Listen to the boy! What's he talking about? Grief for his grandfather.
That's what it is--grief."
"Stop!" Bobby shouted. "It's what you've been accusing me with ever
since you stopped me at the station." He indicated the silent form of
the old man. "You keep telling me I murdered him. Why don't you arrest
me then? Why don't you lock me up? Why don't you put the case on a
reasonable basis?"
He waited, trembling. The flame continued to flicker, but the hand
holding the candlestick failed to move, and Bobby knew that the eyes
didn't waver, either. He forced his glance from the searching flame. He
managed to lower and steady his voice.
"You can't. That's the trouble. He wasn't murdered. The coroner will tell
you so. Anybody who looks at him will tell you so. Since you haven't the
nerve to arrest me. I'm going. I'm glad to have had this out with you.
Understand. I'm my own master. I do what I please. I go where I please."
At last the candle moved to one side. The detective straightened and
walked to Bobby. The multitude of small lines in his face twitched. His
voice was too cold for the fury of his words.
"That's just what I want you to do, damn you--anything you please. I'm
accusing nobody, but I'm getting somebody. I've got somebody right now
for this old man's murder. My man's going to writhe and burn in the
chair, confession or no confession. Now get out of this room since you're
so anxious, and don't come near it again."
Bobby went. At the end of the corridor he heard the closing of the door,
the scraping of the key. He was afraid the detective might follow him to
his room to heckle him further. To avoid that he hurried to the lower
floor. He wanted to be alone. He must have time to accustom himself to
this degrading fate which loomed in the too-close future. Unless they
could demolish the detective's theory he, Bobby Blackburn, would go to
the death house.
A fire blazed in the big hall fireplace. Paredes stood with his back to
it, smoking and warming his hands. A man sat in the shadow of a deep
leather chair, his rough, unpolished boots stretched toward the flaming
logs. As he came down the stairs Bobby heard the heavy, rumbling voice of
the man in the chair:
"Certainly it's a queer case, but not the way Howells means. I daresay
the old fool died what the world will call a natural death. If you smoke
so much you will, too, before long."
Bobby tried to slip past, but Paredes saw him.
"Feeling better, Bobby?"
The boots were drawn in. From the depths of the chair arose a figure
nearly gigantic in the firelight. The man's face, at first glance,
appeared to be covered with hair. Black and curling, it straggled over
his forehead. It circled his mouth, and fell in an unkempt beard down his
waistcoat. The huge man must have been as old as Silas Blackburn, but he
showed no touch of gray. His only concession to age was the sunken and
bloodshot appearance of his eyes.
Bobby and Katherine had always been afraid of this great, grim country
practitioner who had attended their childish illnesses. That sense of an
overpowering and incomprehensible personality had lingered. Even through
his graver fear Bobby felt a sharp discomfort as he surrendered his hand
to the other's absorbing grasp.
"I'm afraid you came too late this time, Doctor Groom."
The doctor looked him up and down.
"Not for you, I guess," he grumbled. "Don't you know you're sick, boy?"
Bobby shook his head.
"I'm very tired. That's all. I'm on my way to the library to try to
rest."
He freed his hand. The big man nodded approvingly.
"I'll send you a dose," he promised, "and don't you worry about your
grandfather's having been murdered by any man. I've seen the body. Stuff
and nonsense! Detective's an ass. Waiting for coroner, although I know
he's one, too."
"I pray," Bobby answered listlessly, "that you're right."
"If there's any little thing I can do," Paredes offered formally.
"No, no. Thanks," Bobby answered.
He went on to the library. He glanced with an unpleasant shrinking from
the door of the enclosed staircase leading to the private hall just
outside the room in which his grandfather lay dead. There was no fire
here, but he wrapped himself in a rug and lay on the broad, high-backed
lounge which was drawn close to the fireplace, facing it. His complete
weariness conquered his premonitions, his feeling of helplessness. The
entrance of Jenkins barely aroused him.
"Where are you, Mr. Robert?"
"Here," Bobby answered sleepily.
The butler walked to the lounge and looked over the back.
"To be sure, sir. I didn't see you here."
He held out a glass.
"Doctor Groom said you were to drink this. It would make you sleep, sir."
Bobby closed his eyes again.
"Put it on the table where I can reach it when I want it."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Robert! The policeman? Did he say anything, if I might
make so bold as to ask?"
"Go away," Bobby groaned. "Leave me in peace."
And peace for a little time came to him. It was the sound of voices in
the room that aroused him. He lay for a time, scarcely knowing where he
was, but little by little the sickening truth came back, and he realized
that it was Graham and the detective, Howells, who talked close to the
window, and Graham had already fulfilled his promise.
Bobby didn't want to eavesdrop, but it was patent he would embarrass
Graham by disclosing himself now, and it was likely Graham would be glad
of a witness to anything the detective might say.
It was still light. A ray from the low sun entered the window and rested
on the door of the enclosed staircase.
Graham's anxious demand was the first thing Bobby heard distinctly--the
thing that warned him to remain secreted.
"I think now with the coroner on his way it's time you defined your
suspicions a trifle more clearly. I am a lawyer. In a sense I represent
young Mr. Blackburn. Please tell me why you are so sure his grandfather
was murdered."
"All right," the detective's level voice came back. "Half an hour ago I
would have said no again, but now I've got the evidence I wanted. I
appreciate, Mr. Graham, that you're a friend of that young rascal, and
what I have to say isn't pleasant for a friend to hear. But first you
want to know why I'm so sure the case is murder, in spite of the doctor
who made his diagnosis without really looking."
"Go on," Graham said softly.
Bobby waited--his nerves as tense as they had grown in the presence of
the dead man.
"Two days ago," the detective went on quietly, "old Mr. Blackburn came to
the court house in Smithtown and asked for the best detective the
district attorney could put his hand on. I don't want to blow my own
trumpet, but I've got away with one or two pretty fair jobs. I've had
good offers from private firms in New York. So they turned him over to
me. It was easy to see the old man was scared, just as his niece says he
was last night. The funny part was he wouldn't say definitely what he was
afraid of. I thought he might be shielding somebody until he was a little
surer of his ground. He told me he was afraid of being murdered, and he
wanted a good man he could call on to come out here to the Cedars if
things got too hot for him. I can hear his voice now as distinctly as if
he was standing where you are.
"'My heart's all right,' he said. 'It won't stop awhile yet unless it's
made to. So if I'm found cold some fine morning you can be sure I was
put out of the way.'
"I tried to pump him, naturally, but he wouldn't say another word except
that he'd send for me if there was time. He didn't want any fuss made,
and he gave me a handsome present to keep my mouth shut and not to bother
him with any more questions. I figured--you can't blame me, Mr.
Graham--that the old boy was a little cracked. So I took his money and
let it go at that. I didn't think much more about it until they told me
early this morning he lay dead here under peculiar circumstances."
"Odd!" Graham commented. "It does make it more like murder, Howells. But
he doesn't look like a murdered man."
"When you know as much about crime as I do, Mr. Graham, you'll realize
that murders which are a long time planning are likely to take on one of
two appearances--suicide or natural death."
"All right," Graham said. "For the purpose of argument let us agree it's
murder. Even so, why do you suspect young Blackburn?"
"Without a scrap of evidence it's plain as the nose on your face," the
detective answered. "If old Blackburn had lived until this morning our
young man would have been a pauper. As it is, he's a millionaire, but I
don't think he'll enjoy his money. The two had been at sword's points for
a long time. Robert hated the old man--never made any bones about it. You
couldn't ask for a more damaging motive."
"You can't convict a man on motive," Graham said shortly. "You spoke of
evidence."
"More," the detective replied, "than any jury in the land would ask."
Bobby held his breath, shrinking from this information, which, however,
he realized it was better he should know.
"When I got here," the detective said, "I decided on the theory of murder
to make a careful search as soon as day broke. I didn't have to wait for
day, though, to find one crying piece of evidence. For a long time I was
alone in the room with the body. Queer feeling about that room, Mr.
Graham. Don't know how to describe it except to say it's uncomfortable.
Too old, maybe. Maybe it was just being there alone with the dead man
before the dawn, although I thought I was hardened to that sort of thing.
Anyway, I didn't like it. To keep my spirits up, as well as to save time,
I commenced searching the place with a candle. Nothing about the bed.
Nothing in the closets or the bureau."
He grinned sheepishly.
"You know I kind of was afraid to open the closet doors. Then I got on my
knees and looked under the bed. The light was bad and I didn't see
anything at first. After a minute, close against the wall, I noticed
something white. I reached in and pulled it out. It was a handkerchief,
and it had a monogram, Mr. Graham--R. B. in purple and green."
He paused. Graham exclaimed sharply. Bobby felt the net tighten. If that
evidence was conclusive to the others, how much more so was it for him!
He recalled how, after awaking in the empty house, he had searched
unsuccessfully in all his pockets for his handkerchief, intending to
brush the dirt from his shoes.
"I went to his room," the detective hurried on, "and found a lot of his
clothes and his stationery and his toilet articles marked with the same
cipher. I knew my man had made a big mistake--the sort of mistake every
criminal makes no matter how clever he is--and I had him. But that isn't,
by any means, all. Don't look so distressed, Mr. Graham. There isn't the
slightest chance for him. You see I repaired the lock, and, as soon as it
was day, closed the room and went outside to look for signs. Since
nightfall no one had come legitimately through the court except Doctor
Groom and myself. Our footprints were all right--making a straight line
along the path to the front door. In the soft earth by the fountain I
found another and a smaller print, made by a very neat shoe, sir, and I
said to myself: 'There is almost certainly the footprint of the
murderer.'
"There were plenty of others coming across the grass. He'd evidently
avoided the path. And there was one directly under the open window where
the body lies. It's still there. Perhaps you can see it. No matter.
That's the last one I found. The prints ceased there. There wasn't a one
going back, and I was fair up a stump. Then I saw a little undefined
sign of pressure on the grass, and I got an idea. 'Suppose,' I says, 'my
man took his shoes off and went around in his stockinged feet!' I
couldn't understand, though, why he hadn't thought of that before. I went
back to Robert Blackburn's room and got one of his shoes, and ran into a
snag again. The sole of the shoe was a trifle larger than the footprints.
Every one of his shoes I tried was the same way. I argued that the
handkerchief was enough, but I wanted this other evidence. I simply had
to clear up these queer footprints.
"I figured, since the murder had been made to look so much like a natural
death, that he'd come out here some time to-day, expecting to carry it
off. I wanted to go to the station, anyway, to find out if he'd been seen
coming through last night or early this morning. While I was talking to
the station agent I had my one piece of luck. I couldn't believe my eyes.
Mr. Robert walks up from the woods. He'd been hiding around the
neighbourhood all the time. Probably had missed his handkerchief and
decided he'd better not take any chances. Yet it must have seemed a
pretty sure thing that the station wouldn't be watched, and it's those
nervy things, doing the obvious, that skilful criminals get away with all
the time. I needed only one look at him, and I had the answer to the
mystery of the footprints. I gave him plenty of time to come here and
change his clothes, then I manoeuvered him out of his room and went there
and found the pumps he'd worn last night and to-day. You see, they'd be
a little smaller than his ordinary shoes. Not only did they fit the
footprints exactly, but they were stained with soil exactly like that in
the court. There you are, sir. I've made a plaster cast of one of the
prints. I've got it here in my pocket where I intend to keep it until I
clear the whole case up and turn in my report."
Graham's tone was shocked and discouraged.
"What more do you want? Why haven't you arrested him?"
In this room the detective's satisfied chuckle was an offence.
"No good detective would ask that, Mr. Graham. I want my report clean.
The coroner will tell us how the old man was killed. I want to tell how
young Blackburn got into that room. One of the windows was raised a
trifle, but that's no use. I've figured on the outside of the wing until
I'm dizzy. There's no way up for a normal man. An orangoutang would make
hard work of it. His latch key would have let him into the house, and it
would have been simple enough for him to find out that the old man had
changed his room. I've got to find out how he got past those doors,
locked on the inside."
He chuckled again.
"Almost like a sleep-walker's work."
Bobby shivered. Was that where the evidence pointed? Already the net was
too finely woven. The detective continued earnestly:
"I'm figuring on some scheme to make him show me the way. I've a sort of
plan for to-night, but it's only a chance."
"What?" Graham asked.
"Oh, no, sir," Howells laughed. "You'll learn about that when the
time comes."
"I don't understand you," Graham said. "You're sure of your man but you
keep no close watch on him. Do you know where he is now?"
"Haven't the slightest idea, Mr. Graham."
"What's to prevent his running away?"
"I'm offering him every opportunity. He wouldn't get far, and I've a
feeling that if he confessed by running he'd break down and give up the
whole thing. You've no idea how it frets me, Mr. Graham. I've got my man
practically in the chair, but from a professional point of view it isn't
a pretty piece of work until I find out how he got in and out of that
room. The thing seems impossible, and yet here we are, knowing that he
did it. Well, maybe I'll find out to-night. Hello!"
The door opened. Bobby from his hiding place could see Paredes on the
threshold, yawning and holding a cigarette in his fingers.
"Here you are," he said drowsily. "I've just been in the court. It made
me seek company. That court's too damp, Mr. Detective."
His laugh was lackadaisical.
"When the sun leaves it, the court seems full of, unfriendly things--what
the ignorant would call, ghosts. I'm Spanish and I know."
The detective grunted.
"Funny!" Paredes went on. "Observation doesn't seem to interest you. I'd
rather fancied it might."
He yawned again and put his cigarette to his lips. Puffing placidly, he
turned and left.
"What do you suppose he means by that?" the detective said to Graham.
Without waiting for an answer he followed Paredes from the room. Graham
went after him. Bobby threw back the rug and arose. For a moment he was
as curious as the others as to Paredes's intention. He slipped across the
dining room. The hall was deserted. The front door stood open. From the
court came Paredes's voice, even, languid, wholly without expression:
"Mean to tell me you don't react to the proximity of unaccountable forces
here, Mr. Howells?"
The detective's laugh was disagreeable.
"You trying to make a fool of me? That isn't healthy."
As Bobby hurried across the hall and up the stairs he heard
Paredes answer:
"You should speak to Doctor Groom. He says this place is too crowded by
the unpleasant past--"
Bobby climbed out of hearing. He entered his bedroom and locked the door.
He resented Paredes's words and attitude which he defined as studied to
draw humour out of a tragic and desperate situation. He thought of them
in no other way. His tired mind dismissed them. He threw himself on the
bed, muttering:
"If I run away I'm done for. If I stay I'm done for."
He took a fierce twisted joy in one phase of the situation.
"If I was there last night," he thought, "Howells will never find out
how I got into the room, because, no matter what trap he sets, I can't
tell him."
His leaden weariness closed his eyes. For a few minutes he slept again.
Once more it was a voice that awakened him--this time a woman's, raised
in a scream. He sprang up, flung open the door, and stumbled into the
corridor. Katherine stood there, holding her dressing gown about her with
trembling hands. The face she turned to Bobby was white and
panic-stricken. She beckoned, and he followed her to the main hall. The
others came tearing up the stairs--Graham, Paredes, the detective, and
the black and gigantic doctor.
In answer to their quick questions she whispered breathlessly:
"I heard. It was just like last night. It came across the court and stole
in at my window."
She shook. She stretched out her hands in a terrified appeal.
"Somebody--something moved in that room where he--he's dead."
"Nonsense," the detective said. "Both doors are locked, and I have the
keys in my pocket."
Paredes fumbled with a cigarette.
"You're forgetting what I said about my sensitive apprehension of
strange things--"
The detective interrupted him loudly, confidently:
"I tell you the room is empty except for the murdered man--unless
someone's broken down a door."
Katherine cried out:
"No. I heard that same stirring. Something moved in there."
The detective turned brusquely and entered the old corridor.
"We'll see."
The others followed. Katherine was close to Bobby. He touched her hand.
"He's right, Katherine. No one's there. No one could have been there. You
mustn't give way like this. I'm depending on you--on your faith."
She pressed his hand, but her assurance didn't diminish.
The key scraped in the lock. They crowded through the doorway after
the detective. He struck a match and lighted the candle. He held it
over the bed. He sprang back with a sharp cry, unlike his level
quality, his confident conceit. He pointed. They all approximated his
helpless gesture, his blank amazement. For on the bed had occurred an
abominable change.
The body of Silas Blackburn no longer lay peacefully on its back. It had
been turned on its side, and remained in a stark and awkward attitude.
For the first time the back of the head was disclosed.
Their glances focussed there--on the tiny round hole at the base of the
brain, on the pillow where the head had rested and which they saw now was
stained with an ugly and irregular splotch of blood.
Bobby saw the candle quiver at last in the detective's hand. The man
strode to the door leading to the private hall and examined the lock.
"Both doors," he said, "were locked. There was no way in--"
He turned to the others, spreading his hands in justification. The
candle, which he seemed to have forgotten, cast gross, moving shadows
over his face and over the face of the dead man.
"At least you'll all grant me now that he was murdered."
They continued to stare at the body of Silas Blackburn. Cold for many
hours, it was as if he had made this atrocious revealing movement to
assure them that he had, indeed, been murdered; to expose to their
startled eyes the sly and deadly method.