“Whose place is this?” Harrington demanded.
“Martin Carmody’s.” Tarkin was fumbling with the lock on the gate. “He lives out here the year around.”
“Carmody,” Harrington thought as they passed through the gate. That was the man who had lent his car and chauffeur to take Theresa on her mysterious mission to the hilltop.
They were now walking up a graveled walk. Tarkin mounted a series of stone steps, and then his slinking figure was blotted out in the shadows massed along the side of the house.
“Just walk straight ahead and ring the bell,” he directed.
Harrington moved forward. He bad an odd feeling that each step might lead him into a trap. There were no lights on this side of the house. Like a blind man he picked his way in the blackness until he came up against a wall, and then he fumbled back and forth for a door. At length he found the button and pressed it.
Then came a long wait. He stirred uneasily. He was drenched, and tired besides, and his nerves were jangling. Time and again he rang. There were no sounds anywhere, only the drip-drip of the rain and the sighing of the wind, and the house seemed wrapped in a deathlike stillness. Yet, there must be life within, for he had seen a light as they approached. It was curious, though, that no one answered his repeated rings.
He felt a sudden stab of uneasiness. Suppose that the note had been forged after all, in spite of the intimate allusion to the ash pile? Suppose the whole thing had been a clever trick to lure him away from Theresa at a time when she was in desperate need of capable assistance? Suppose—
“Tarkin!” he cried sharply.
No reply came, and he knew then that the blackmailer had vanished. And in the same instant the door came soundlessly open.
CHAPTER XII — Iron Bars
“Who’s there?” a timid voice asked, and in the darkness Harrington saw the blurred glint of a face. It was a strange reception, he thought.
“Harrington—Leonard Harrington,” he replied.
A breath of relief sounded, but the man in the opening seemed to look out over Harrington’s shoulder to assure himself that there were no prowlers in the background.
“I’m a nervous man,” he confessed. “I have a horror of burglars. Please come in.”
He led the way, and Harrington, tingling with a variety of emotions, followed. They entered a library, a large, pleasant room. The rugs and the wall decorations had a soothing quality, and the log fire had a cheerful effect.
Harrington looked at his host He was a tall, gray man with pink cheeks. His shoulders had a tendency to stoop, and he had a habit of holding his head a trifle to one side. He had alert, nervous eyes and looked like a man who would jump at the falling of a leaf. A thick bang of gray hair falling down over his left temple gave him a ludicrously rakish aspect.
“I’m Martin Carmody,” he announced as he closed the door. “Glad to see you, Harrington. It’s a great relief to have you here.”
While Harrington watched him curiously, he went to each of the three windows and, raising the shade for an instant, looked out. It became apparent, as he did so, that each window was protected by iron bars on the outside.
“Burglars are the bane of my life,” he admitted. “You are not afraid of burglars, are you, Harrington?”
“Oh, not particularly.” Harrington smiled. He suspected that Carmody had a nervous dread of a number of things.
Carmody, his head aslant, inspected his tall, slender figure with its suggestion of quiet strength, and the inspection seemed to reassure him.
“Where is Miss Lanyard?” Harrington asked.
“In there.” The older man indicated one of the two doors leading from the room. “She is resting now. The poor girl is exhausted.”
“She sent me a note. Didn’t die wish to see me?”
“I know about the note. She told me. Yes, she wants to see you, but first of all she wanted to get you out of harm’s way.”
“Harm’s way?” There was a tinge of suspicion in Harrington’s ash-gray eyes.
“Well, out of Whittaker’s way.” Carmody chuckled uneasily. “It’s the same thing. Just turn your mind back over that distressing episode in the car.” He shivered nervously, as if the subject were extremely distasteful. “Theresa gave me your version of the affair. According to your own statement, it would have been a physical impossibility for anybody but yourself to commit the murder. That’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Substantially, if we judge by appearances.”
“There you are! Whittaker would have placed you under arrest before morning. You couldn’t blame him. Well, that’s what Theresa wanted to prevent.” Harrington’s fumbling fingers fastened absently on the little button in his vest pocket.
“Why?” he asked pointedly.
A pale humorous flicker showed in Carmody’s eyes. “Maybe she likes you. Maybe she thinks nice men are so few that it’s a shame to put one of them in jail. Anyway, didn’t you two pledge a sort of partnership night before last? Your fates are linked, so to speak. If one of you is dragged off to jail, the other will soon follow. Theresa has been drawn into this ugly mess as deeply as you have.”
“Oh, not quite. We may both be under suspicion, but I’m under graver suspicion than Miss Lanyard.”
“You say that because you don’t know all the facts.”
“Perhaps so, but I can’t see that we gain anything by running away. That’s a confession of guilt.”
“What would you gain by going to jail?”
Harrington meditated. There was a pucker of doubt between his eyes.
“I infer Miss Lanyard has told you everything?”
“Everything. I’m an old friend of the family. I know, of course, that Lanyard isn’t her name any more than yours is Harrington.”
“What do you know about Samuel B. Tarkin?”
The older man grew a little confused of a sudden. “He—er—proved an efficient guide, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, but it surprises me that Miss Lanyard should entrust her messages to a blackmailer. And he vanished most mysteriously after leading me to your door.”
“He probably realized that you didn’t relish his company.”
Harrington considered. The explanation, as far as it went, seemed adequate enough, but there was still an element of doubt in his mind. His eyes went to the door at the side of the library.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just look in for a moment.” He walked deliberately to the door, opened it quietly, and glanced into a smaller room. The light from the library reading lamp fell through the doorway and revealed Theresa fast asleep on a sofa, with a rug thrown over her. He closed the door and turned away.
“Satisfied?” Carmody inquired. “Do you know, I rather like a man who doesn’t take too much for granted. One can’t be too careful. I envy Theresa. It’s wonderful to be able to lie down and sleep after such an experience. Youth and health I “ He sighed wistfully. “And a clear conscience, of course.” Harrington gazed steadily into his twitching face. A question rolled off his tongue without forethought. “Do you know who killed Marsh?”
Carmody winced, then chuckled nervously.
“Sensible question, Harrington. When a mysterious crime is committed, we are apt to ask how it was done rather than who did it. The how is, after all, not very important. Yes, I think I know.”
Harrington watched him tensely. With head tilted to the side, and with a brooding look in his eyes, the older man was looking down at the carpet “This is the way I look at it, Harrington. No murder is ever committed without a motive. Several persons had a sufficient and adequate motive for killing Marsh. There is Harry Stoddard. You met him at that old mountain top hotel. Then there is myself. Yes, as far as motive goes, I might have done it. Then there is Theresa. She had a motive, too, and the police won’t be slow in digging it up. And then there is you, Harrington.”
“I?” Harrington exclaimed in astonishment “Yes, you. You had a motive, too.”
Harrington stared at
him. His face was solemn despite the brooding smile that hovered about his lips.
“Nonsense! I didn’t like Marsh, but I don’t kill everybody I dislike. You can’t call that a motive.”
“No, I don’t I’m talking about real motives.”
“Real motives?” Harrington laughed dazedly. The suggestion was startling to the point of absurdity. “If I had a real motive, wouldn’t I know it?”
“Not necessarily.”
Harrington gasped. Of a sudden he wondered if Carmody’s brain was twisted. But no, the man looked quite sane, and he seemed to enjoy the mystification he had created.
“You had a motive for killing Marsh,” he insisted, “and Whittaker will soon find it. Let’s see—that makes four.” He counted on his fingers. “Stoddard, Theresa, myself and you. I suppose it occurs to you that, out of these four, you are die only one who was with Marsh when he died?”
“Oh, yes, that’s obvious. But this motive you speak of—”
“Just wait and see. You will soon understand. The police—By the way, there’s one I forgot to mention—Roscoe Carstairs. That makes five.”
“Roscoe Carstairs?” Harrington echoed. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“But maybe you’ve seen him. A thickset man with a very white face—the whitest face in the world?”
“Thickset and white-faced? That’s a striking combination. No, I’m sure I never saw him.”
“Perhaps you will.” Carmody looked as if the mere thought of Roscoe Carstairs inspired him with dread. “Well, in spite of the circumstances, and in spite of what the police think, my guess is that Carstairs is the murderer.”
Harrington regarded him intently. Apparently he had spoken from a strong conviction.
“You seem to know a great deal about this murder.”
Carmody was silent for a little. His timid eyes moved from the floor to the door behind which Theresa was sleeping.
“I know human nature,” he declared, “and I know a great deal about Marsh’s private history. The solution of murder mysteries is generally found in a man’s private affairs.”
Harrington nodded thoughtfully. Carmody’s incomprehensible statement, attributing a motive for the murder to himself, was still agitating his mind. At length he shrugged.
“Five suspects!” he mused. “But does that make the list complete? What about Tarkin? And what about Luke Garbo? Their actions have been rather peculiar.”
Carmody chuckled morosely.
“If you want to put all peculiar people in jail, you will have to build a lot more jails. No, I’m still betting on Roscoe Carstairs.”
Harrington gazed at him pointedly, but Carmody did not seem in the mood for explanations. With his quick, nervous gait, and with head aslant, he walked about the room, glancing uneasily to all sides. At length he paused and took a cigarette from a silver box on the reading table. As he watched him, a vagrant thought came to Harrington’s mind.
“Carmody,” he said casually, with a smile, “are you sure you didn’t commit the murder yourself?”
The older man, in the act of lighting a cigarette, let the match go out. A shiver ran through him.
“I might have done it,” he confessed, “but murder takes more nerve than I have.” He struck a fresh match and, with hand atremble, lighted his cigarette. His lips twisted into a sickly smile. “But you strike me as a man who has nerve enough for anything, Harrington.”
“Oh, it takes more than nerve to commit a murder.” Harrington fixed a frowning look on the older man. “I don’t like this arrangement, Carmody. It looks as if Miss Lanyard and I had run away.”
“Would you rather be in jail?”
“I don’t like it,” Harrington repeated. “Whittaker thinks we have flown, and flight implies guilt. You see, by acting this way, we are playing into the hands of the murderer. The murderer can feel safe as long as somebody else acts guilty.”
“Something in that,” Carmody admitted. “I didn’t think—“ He paused abruptly and, with a throaty exclamation, jerked his head toward the door of the room in which Theresa was sleeping. “What on earth was that?”
Harrington, too, had heard something. He gazed tensely toward the door while he tried to identify the sound. And then, even as he looked at it, the door came slowly open. A man stepped in, closed it behind him, then stood with his back to it He was a thickset man with rather blunt features and an unnaturally white face.
Carmody shrank back and stared at the intruder. His face and shoulders sagged as if sudden paralysis had seized him.
“Carstairs!” he exclaimed in a sickly voice.
CHAPTER XIII — Roscoe Carstairs
The man at the door nodded. He was smiling—a smile so faint that it was like a shadow against his white skin. He looked quite harmless, Harrington thought, yet his appearance seemed to have filled Carmody with dread.
“Hello, Carmody,” he said, then looked at Harrington. “Who is your visitor?”
Carmody was too dumbfounded to reply, and Harrington said nothing. He gazed with growing curiosity at the man at the door. Carstairs’ voice was as peculiar as his complexion. The former was unnaturally soft, the latter unnaturally white.
“How—how did you get in?” Carmody stammered.
“By a window,” said Carstairs in his strangely gentle voice, but with a faint note of derision.
“But the iron bars?”
“You can accomplish a lot with patience and a file.”
Carmody swallowed and leaned against the table. Harrington’s gaze narrowed as he continued to look at the newcomer. Of a sudden it struck him as significant that Carstairs should have entered the house through the room now occupied by Theresa.
“You mean—“ Carmody tried to assume a severe expression “—that you forced your way into my house?”
“Yes. Any objection?”
Carmody found no answer. The man’s calm, soft-tongued insolence seemed to leave him speechless. Now, acting on a disquieting suspicion, Harrington stepped up to him.
“Carstairs,” he said levelly, “get away from that door.”
Carstairs measured him with an indolent look and only planted himself the more firmly in front of the door.
“No,” he drawled, “I’m comfortable here. Who are you?”
“I’m Leonard Harrington. Move away!”
“Oh, Harrington. Yes, I know who you are. I believe Whittaker is looking for you. He thinks—”
From the other side of the door came a muffled scream, like that of a person awakened from a sound sleep. Harrington stood rigid for an instant, and then he grabbed Carstairs by the coat collar and administered a sharp jerk. The effort was utterly ineffectual. The man stood as firm as if he were rooted to the floor.
Another cry, a faint and broken one, came from the interior. Harrington’s hand darted toward the pistol in his pocket, but in an instant his arm was gripped in a clutch as hard as jaws of steel. Still another cry, remote and muffled, reached his ears. He struggled to free his arm, but a sharp, stabbing pain made him desist.
“Don’t get excited,” Carstairs advised. “She is only frightened. I told them not to hurt her.”
Harrington caught a glimpse of Carmody’s face. It was palsied with fright, and he knew he could expect no assistance from that quarter.
“I supposed she would scream,” Carstairs remarked. “Women always do. That’s why I came in here to act as buffer.”
Again Harrington tried to jerk his arm away from the clutch of the soft, prehensile fingers. A twinge of excruciating pain drew a groan from his lips. He swung his left hand back to drive a blow into Carstairs’ white face, and in an instant his entire body was convulsed with agony.
“Sorry,” said Carstairs gently, “but you force me to hurt you.”
Harrington groaned with despair and physical torment. It seemed that a mere playful twist of Carstairs’ fingers was enough to inflict unbearable torture. He listened tensely while the blood pounded in his head. There were no m
ore sounds now. The room behind the door was ominously quiet. What had happened to Theresa?
Carstairs’ grip on his arm relaxed. He felt suddenly weak, as if those twinges of racking agony had drained his strength. For a moment the room blurred and heaved, but he could still see Carstairs’ white, smiling face. And then the face seemed to fade out and vanish. There came a sound like the closing of a door.
After a moment of dizziness he stared about him. There was no one in the room but Carmody and himself, and the older man stood gaping at him, transfixed with horror.
“Where did he go?” Harrington cried.
Carmody pointed a shaking finger at the door on the side of the room. Harrington rushed out The sofa on which Theresa had lain was empty. A white curtain was fluttering before an open window. With an agonizing sense of helplessness he turned away, and just then the sharp report of a backfire and then an engine’s steady throb sounded out in front.
“Gone!” Carmody groaned. “And they took Theresa! Good God!”
Harrington stared at him. His brain was not quite clear yet. The after-twinges of the most excruciating pain he had ever known seemed to be shooting through his body.
“Where do you suppose they are taking her?”
“Heaven only knows. But I’m afraid—“ He shuddered and choked. “I’m afraid they’ll kill her!”
“Kill her?” Harrington echoed, and then a sudden shock swept the last remnant of stupor from his brain. Carstairs’ face haunted him, unnaturally white and smilingly malignant. He rushed to the door.
“Wait! “ Carmody cried, wringing his hands in mental anguish. “Where—”
“I’m going to catch that car if I have to chase it all over creation.”
“Don’t be a fool. You can’t catch it afoot.”
Harrington turned. The words thrust a wedge of sanity into his brain.
The Back-seat Murder Page 9