There was, of course, the door on the driver’s right. That one could be opened from the outside. But only a man endowed with a miracle-performing faculty could have slipped in through that door without being seen. Harrington had been sitting right there, in the front seat, and he had turned to face Marsh at the time. If the assassin had struck the blow from that direction, Harrington would have seen him, heard him, and felt him. It was flatly impossible.
To make certainty doubly certain, he switched on the ceiling light and inspected the space on his right. There was not a vestige of moisture. If the door or window had beat opened for but an instant, the wind-driven rain would have poured in on the cushion. But the whole thing was simply unthinkable.
He roused himself from his stupor and reached for the flashlight in the side pocket of the car. He was grimly determined to ascertain how the incredible thing had happened. One thing was certain, even if all the rest was a mocking delirium. No matter how the murderer had entered the car, he could not have approached it without leaving the imprint of his feet in the soggy dirt road.
Wriggling over to the right side, he opened the door and stepped out A gust of wind and rain beat against his face. Little rivulets of water ran across the clayey road, which was scarcely more than two ruts with a weed-grown ridge in the middle. He swept his flashlight back and forth, and again a mutter of stupefaction fell from his lips. There was not a mark of a foot anywhere, either in the road or on the running boards.
He chuckled idiotically. The impenetrability of it was getting on his nerves. The murderer must have dissolved himself into a bodyless sprite. But once more he walked around the car, searching the mud for footprints. There were no traces of any kind. He stopped in the back and gazed stupidly at the rear window. He had not thought of it until now. But this window could be opened neither from the inside nor the outside, and a touch told him that it was securely fastened in its frame.
“Stumped!” he muttered. He was not only stumped, but stupefied as well. A thing like this challenged all reason. He walked around to the front and returned the flashlight to its place. Then, leaning over the front seat, he stared down into the space between the two seats. Marsh’s pistol was lying there on die rubber mat where he had dropped it, the muzzle almost touching his toe.
Harrington gazed pointedly at the mat. Beneath it was the floor board, and under the floor board were the connecting rod and a compact assembly of shafts and levers. With the prevalent passion for low-slung bodies, manufacturers were utilizing every inch of space. Not even the smallest dwarf, and hardly a small dog or cat, could squeeze into that narrow space under the floor board. No, the solution was not there.
He shook himself. He doubted if the solution was to be found anywhere. He stared into the swirling rain, along the path of light projected by the lamps and into the black jungle beyond. Suddenly he stood rigid. Far ahead in the watery gloom there was a flicker of some sort, an evanescent light.
His hand went to the dash board and switched out the head lamps. Darkness rushed upon him, obliterating everything, but straight ahead, somewhere in the neighborhood of the abandoned hotel, he saw a feeble light. Back and forth it moved, as if someone were carrying a lantern. He rubbed his eyes. In the surrounding gloom the moving light had a ghostly character. A vagrant thought flashed across his mind. The murderer?
His brain was in an uproar. Clear thinking was impossible. But it was curious that someone should be moving about in a hotel that had been closed for years and was only a short distance from the scene of the murder. He took the flashlight from the side pocket of the car, and then he reached over the seat and picked up the dead man’s pistol. Then he set his face against the driving wind and rain and broke into a run.
He slithered and stumbled, and twice he fell. The road was like glue under his feet. Stronger and stronger grew the conviction that the murderer had taken refuge in the old abandoned hotel. There was little reason and not much logic behind the conviction. It was only a blind belief. And ordinarily he would not have exerted himself to apprehend the slayer of Christopher Marsh. But the circumstances made all the difference. The attendant incidents made the murder a personal concern of Harrington’s. And in the morning the dead man’s ante-mortem statement would reach Mr. Whittaker, the prosecutor, throwing suspicion upon Theresa Lanyard and himself.
He brought up against a gate hanging perilously on loosened hinges. “Hilltop View Hotel” read the faded and battered sign in the arch above the posts. He pushed through and, by the aid of his flashlight, picked his way along a driveway overrun with weeds. For several minutes now he had seen nothing of the light he had noticed in the vicinity, but possibly it was obscured by the thick clumps of trees.
It seemed as if the piazza, reached by half a dozen rickety steps, would collapse under his feet. Caution bade him extinguish his flashlight, for it would render him an easy target in case any one should take a shot at him. In the dark he moved along the wall and fumbled for a door. Rotting boards creaked under his feet, but luckily the whole house was creaking before endless gusts of wind, so there was little danger that the noise would betray him.
The door, when he found it, was locked, but it was a simple thing to reach his hand through one of the broken glass panels and release the bolt. Evidently no effort had been made to save the house from decay and pilferage. He was now in a narrow enclosure, evidently an entrance hall, and at the farther side was another door. This one was unlocked, and he passed through. Inside the air was stifling, and the darkness was so intense that it made the eyes ache. For a while he listened tensely, but there were no other sounds than the wind’s hoot and the creak of decaying timbers. Still wondering what could have become of the light he had seen, he flashed on his torch.
Except that it was almost denuded of furniture, he was in the typical lobby of the typical small summer hotel. A few pictures, not worth the cost of carting them away, hung on the walls. There was a broken-down sofa and a rocking-chair with a rocker missing. Straight ahead was a semi-circular desk and at one side a stairway. Despite his excitement, he looked rather longingly at a brick fireplace. In his drenched condition, a fire would have been a great comfort. There were neither logs nor kindling, however.
In a moment he was moving toward the stairs, determined to make a quick search, but after a few steps he paused. His fingers, acting more quickly than his brain, extinguished the flashlight Instinctively he reached for the pistol he had picked up from the floor of the car and placed in his pocket It was a satisfaction to know that it was still there.
From the upper regions of the house had come a sound that did not have its origin in the storm. He tiptoed a little closer to the stairway, then stopped and strained his ears. Someone was moving up there, moving toward the upper stairway landing. Now he could hear a voice speaking in a conversational tone, so evidently there were two persons approaching, or else it was someone talking to himself.
He came forward until his hand touched the stairway post. The footfalls were drawing closer, and now he could hear a second voice—a woman’s! He gave a little start. It seemed strange to find a woman in a place like this, and on such a night. Soon they would be coming down the stairs, and in all probability they would turn on a light, and then he would be discovered. Even now he could see the wavering light of a candle approaching the upper landing.
For a moment longer he listened to the voices, felt an odd sort of thrill shooting down his spine, and then he picked his way quietly to a door he had seen under the stairway. He had suddenly determined that he did not wish to be discovered as yet. He entered, found that the space behind the door was only a closet and not big enough to permit him to stand upright, so he got down on his knees and pulled the door to, leaving only a narrow crack.
“You see?” said a masculine voice. “There is nobody else here.”
Harrington caught a brief glimpse of a slender, dark-faced man walking up to the desk and placing a candle on it.
“I can’t understan
d it,” said a feminine voice, and Harrington started sharply. Theresa Lanyard! He could not see her, but he thought she was standing close to the closet door. “I’m certain he intended to come here.”
“What made you so certain?”
“Where else would he go?”
“The world is wide. Roads are running in all directions. As for this God-forsaken hilltop, it’s the last place in the world I’d wish to go a night like this.”
“But you are not Christopher Marsh.”
“And I thank my stars for that!”
The speaker had a fine, resonant voice, but Harrington thought there was something vaguely unpleasant about it. He wondered whether Theresa had come to the hilltop with the dark-faced man, or whether they had come separately. Of a sudden he remembered the magnificent coach that had torn past him on the road at such terrifying speed.
“What an awful storm!” Theresa murmured. “Atrocious!” the other agreed. “This is really a romantic spot, though—an ideal setting for either a kiss or a murder. I’m not in a murderous mood tonight. What about a little kiss?”
“Oh, I’m not at all in the mood for that. Kisses require a moon and a caressing breeze to be wholly satisfactory.”
“Sorry. I can’t deliver either the moon or the breeze. I’m plainly out of luck. It’s been a pleasant surprise, though. When I heard your footsteps a while ago, I never imagined it was you who had come to share my wretched solitude.”
Harrington listened attentively behind the closet door. One of his questions had already been answered. Theresa and the man had arrived separately.
“I was as surprised as you were,” she told him.
“And as pleasantly, I hope. By the way, how did you come?”
“I telephoned Mr. Carmody and asked him to lend me his car and chauffeur. I didn’t explain. Mr. Carmody is always obliging. The car is now waiting in a clump of trees off the road. I thought it best not to leave it in too conspicuous a place.”
“Splendid. It’s rare and refreshing to find a charming face coupled with an astute brain. I am proud of my little confederate.”
Harrington started. Confederate? What sort of understanding could exist between Theresa Lanyard and this sleek, dark-faced man with the subtly unpleasant voice?
“I’m frightfully curious, Mr. Stoddard,” she confessed, her bantering tone edged with a trace of uneasiness. “You haven’t told me yet what you are doing here.”
“Hilltops intrigue me,” said her companion vaguely.
“They give one such a lofty outlook upon life, and one never knows whom he may meet.”
“Oh, Mr. Stoddard! You are being tantalizing.”
“No, I’m being discreet. You are the tantalizing one. I find you prowling about in a tumble-down old hotel, and you tell me you came here to save somebody from being murdered. I ask who the somebody is, and all I get is a lot of evasions. Isn’t that being tantalizing?”
“No,” throwing his own words back at him, “it’s being discreet.”
“Then you don’t trust me?”
“Do you trust me, Mr. Stoddard?”
There came a little pause. Harrington would have given a great deal for a glimpse of Theresa’s face just then, but it was not prudent to open the door wider.
“No, I don’t,” said the man addressed as Mr. Stoddard, and Harrington discovered that his heart, for no apparent reason, had accelerated its beat. The air in the closet was suddenly stifling. A vague, inexplicable uneasiness was creeping upon him.
“Why?” she asked, and Harrington detected a note in her voice which told that she was fighting a rising dread. “Didn’t you call me your confederate just now?”
Stoddard paced the floor for a few moments before replying.
“Miss Lanyard,” he asked, “what were you doing in the attic a little while ago?”
“At-attic?”
Stoddard laughed disagreeably.
“You were there. Don’t trouble to deny it. You see, I had been aware of your presence in the house for ten or fifteen minutes before I accosted you. I was curious to see what you would do. Come now, why did you go up to the attic?”
“I—I was looking for somebody.”
“That’s a lie,” said Stoddard bluntly.
Harrington rose from his kneeling position and stood tense and crouching behind the door. A series of quick footsteps told that Stoddard had walked up to the girl.
“Very charming,” he was saying sarcastically, “but, oh, so false! Now I’m going to use a few plain words. You are a lying, cheating, two-faced, double-crossing crook. I have suspected it for some time. Now I know. As I remarked before, this is a beautiful place for a murder.”
“You—you wouldn’t—“ Theresa gasped out, and then his fine, resonant but vaguely sinister laugh cut her off.
“Oh, wouldn’t I? Look at me. What do you think?”
Another pause fell heavily on Harrington’s nerves. His hand moved to the pocket where he kept the pistol that had belonged to the dead man.
“I believe—you would!” Theresa exclaimed hollowly.
“Correct, I would. I am alarmed over your visit to the attic. It convinces me that you have turned traitor. However, murder is a serious matter. I must consider. And in the meantime—“ He laughed again, as if a humorous thought had occurred to him. “In the meantime you will return to your beloved attic and remain there for a while.”
Rapid steps sounded, and a dull cry broke from Theresa’s lips. Pistol in hand, Harrington stepped out.
CHAPTER VI — Miss Lanyard’s Accomplice
Stoddard, dark and lean-bodied and well-groomed, had seized the girl’s arm. He had the type of intellectual features that might denote either a genius in lawful pursuits or a genius in villainy. At the sound of Harrington’s hurried steps he whirled round and gaped. Theresa’s eyes grew round with astonishment.
“Who the devil are you?” Stoddard demanded. “Oh, I see! The new secretary at Peekacre. I recall seeing you once or twice. And so you have been playing eavesdropper in that closet. Well, well! Is that the sort of work Marsh is paying you for?”
Quickly, and yet with a casual air, his hand went to his hip pocket Theresa gave a sharp cry, and Harrington raised his pistol. Stoddard shrugged and let his hand fall back.
“The advantage is yours,” he conceded. “What do you propose to do with it?”
Harrington’s eyes went to Theresa. Her face was white, her chin quivered. Her astonishment, following her recent shock at Stoddard’s conduct, was acute. She stared at Harrington as if he had risen out of the floor. “Who is this man?” he asked.
She did not answer, and Stoddard replied in her stead.
“I have the dubious honor of being Miss Lanyard’s accomplice, in a manner of speaking. That is, I was until a little while ago. Then I caught her in an act that opened my eyes to her treachery.”
Theresa shrank back a step and regarded him with an expression of keen aversion.
“We’ll go into all that later,” said Harrington. His mind was revolving the thought that here, perhaps, was the murderer of Christopher Marsh. He had heard nothing while he stood in the closet which conflicted with such a conjecture. Stoddard’s clothing and shoes were dry, he observed, but he might have worn raincoat and rubbers. “Stand back against the wall and hold up your hands,” he directed.
“Too strenuous,” Stoddard objected. “It would give me a cramp in the arms.”
“Instantly,” said Harrington sharply, making an ominous gesture with the pistol.
“I abhor melodramatics.” The man yawned superciliously. “And you can’t frighten me with that pistol. I know you are not going to shoot me. However, if you feel so inclined, shoot away.”
With superb nonchalance he swung on his heels and walked evenly toward the door.
“Good night,” he called back over his shoulder. “See you later, Miss Lanyard.”
Harrington stared after him. He could not help but admire such insolence and courage. Of a
sudden he dropped the pistol into his pocket and ran in pursuit, but he was an instant too late. The man broke into a run, and he had disappeared into the howling blackness by the time Harrington reached the piazza. With a sense of frustration he returned to the room where he had left Theresa.
She had stood staring thoughtfully at the candle on the desk, but she turned as he entered and regarded him with an inscrutable expression.
“He got away,” he announced. “He’ll get a good drenching.”
She nodded absently.
“So you didn’t deliver the letter,” she murmured.
“The letter?” His hand went toward his breast pocket. He had almost forgotten. “No, I didn’t. You see, I—“ He stopped, deciding he would not go into gruesome revelations just now.
“You changed your mind,” she finished for him, misunderstanding his hesitancy. “But I don’t understand. What are you doing here? What do you know about this place?”
He smiled somberly. His thoughts went back to the car he had left in the road and its gruesome freight.
“I knew nothing when I started out,” he admitted, “but I’m learning fast. The place seems to be a rendezvous for certain people. It appears that there is some mystery about the attic. That’s about all I’ve learned so far. Perhaps you will tell me the rest.”
“Oh, sometime. It’s a long story, and I’m dreadfully tired. But you are entitled to an explanation. I don’t know what Mr. Stoddard might have done to me if you hadn’t come to my assistance just in time. He is a dreadful man. I believe he is capable of murder. Yes, I believe—“ She shivered and her voice dropped to an unintelligible whisper.
“I heard him call you his accomplice.”
“Yes, and you probably heard him call me a liar, a cheat, and a crook. It was true. I am all that That is, I’ve cheated Mr. Stoddard and lied to him. I’ve been playing both ends against the middle.”
“Marsh and Stoddard being the two ends,” he suggested.
“Yes, and I’ve played them against each other to find out who murdered David Mooreland.”
The Back-seat Murder Page 4