The Ghost Of The Manor s-32

by Maxwell Grant

  Without knocking, the detective opened the door and entered. Jasper Delthern was standing, startled, by the desk. He was apparently about to leave the room.

  “I’ve got it!” exclaimed Terwiliger excitedly. “I’ve got it!”

  Jasper gazed at the detective with a puzzled air. Terwiliger grasped his arm. He drew Jasper out into the hall, and pointed toward the top of the stairway.

  “I figured it out while I was half asleep,” declared the sleuth, in a whisper. “I’ve got an idea of how your brother Winstead was murdered. Come along!”

  Jasper followed the detective. Terwiliger stopped at the head of the stairs. He pointed down the precipitous flight of steps, then waved his hands to indicate the peculiar sort of alcove in which they were standing.

  “Kind of an odd place, isn’t it?” he queried.

  “Yes,” admitted Jasper. “But what has that to do with it?”

  Terwiliger dropped to his hands and knees, and made a measurement of the uppermost step. He walked to the bottom of the stairs, counting as he went. He made a peculiar series of calculations upon his finger tips; then beckoned to Jasper to join him in the lower hallway.

  When Jasper had complied, Terwiliger went mysteriously toward the portals of the reception hall. He pushed one door aside, and entered the huge, silent room. Jasper followed into the musty atmosphere.

  This place had not been to Jasper’s liking a short while ago; now, as Terwiliger flashed the rays of an electric torch, the dark woodwork of the reception hall seemed to lose much of its somberness. Somehow, the eerie presence was lacking.

  JASPER regained his composure and watched Terwiliger’s beam flicker upon the balcony at the far end of the room. An exultant ejaculation came from the detective.

  “What is it?” queried Jasper.

  “As near as I can make it out,” declared Terwiliger, “that gallery is on a level with the stairway landing. Not only that - it’s just about on a line with it. Do you get what I mean, Mr. Delthern? Maybe the gallery could be an extension of the landing!”

  “There’s a wall beside the stairway,” objected Jasper.

  “I know that,” persisted Terwiliger, “but it’s oak paneling, too - just like the finishing in here. Say - how do I get up to that gallery -“

  He began to swing the light about the room. It finally lodged upon the circular stairway in the corner. Terwiliger was about to start in that direction when Jasper stopped him.

  “It’s rather foolish to go up there,” suggested Jasper. “Why not try the landing? It’s easier to get to - and its lighted.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Terwiliger. “You’re getting my idea now. Come along, and we’ll go up the stairway.”

  They reached the landing. Terwiliger chuckled as he tapped the paneling. He fancied that he heard a hollow sound. He suggested that fact. Jasper responded that all of the panels would probably sound the same, being set a trifle out from the interior wall.

  “Maybe so,” declared the detective. “I know what you figure - solid wall all the way down the stairs. But that doesn’t mean that there can’t be an archway at this spot. Look here.”

  The detective faced Jasper with a grim face. He went into his favorite role. Terwiliger loved to demonstrate the way that criminals might work.

  “Here’s your brother Winstead,” explained the sleuth. “He’s looking down the stairs” - Terwiliger hunched his shoulders - “and he doesn’t notice what’s going on behind him. All of a sudden -“

  The detective shifted his position. He backed himself against the panel, and assumed a murderous attitude. He scowled and glared as he looked toward the head of the stairs.

  “This panel opens,” continued Terwiliger, playing the second part in his theme of death. “A man comes out” - Terwiliger’s arms extended - “and grabs your brother Winstead. Sort of weak and sickly, wasn’t he? Winstead, I mean.

  “Well, this bird grabs him and gives him a big heave down those steps. Say” - the detective backed away from the precipitous descent - “it was a hundred-to-one shot that Winstead would never pick himself up after that bump!”

  “Yet the panel is solid,” observed Jasper. “A man not only would have to walk through it; he would have to see through it to do the things you say. Forget it, Terwiliger. You’ve been dreaming!”

  “Dreaming?” snorted the sleuth. “Listen - when I talk, I mean what I say. This panel has got a couple of divisions. Maybe one of them is a fake, if the whole thing isn’t.”

  He began to work upon the smooth wood, but to no avail. Jasper Delthern expressed impatience as he turned to walk back to his study. Terwiliger looked up and raised his right forefinger impressively.

  “Remember what I said?” he questioned. “I’ll bring in the evidence on the man behind these murders? You’ll be there - the chief will be there - in your office - when I hand it in with this fist?”

  Terwiliger clenched his right hand, and laughed. He rapped the panel with his fist, and chuckled at a new idea.

  “I’m on the right trail,” the sleuth insisted. “Leave it to me, Mr. Delthern. Go back there in your study. Wait until I call you. You’ll see me walking through this solid wall yet.

  “How? I’ll tell you. I’m going up on that gallery, and work at it from there. Ghosts! Maybe one will try to grab me in the dark. Ha-ha!”

  Jasper smiled at the detective’s derisive laugh. He placed his hand within the study door and rested it there for a moment.

  “Go to it, Terwiliger,” he said. “I’m turning in - my room’s at the end of the hall. Call me when you find something - if you find it. I think you’re wasting your time.”

  “You’ll see,” returned Terwiliger.

  The detective went down the steps. Jasper entered the study. He stood just within the door; his forehead narrowed with a frown. He closed the door behind him and pressed the light switch. In the darkness, Jasper began to mumble to himself.

  MEANWHILE, Terwiliger had reached the reception hall. The detective entered the huge, gloomy apartment, and closed the door behind him. He made for the spiral stairway with his flashlight, and ascended a flight of steep, creaky steps.

  On the gallery, the detective noticed the hushed atmosphere of the place. His footsteps made peculiar echoes. Terwiliger paused. This gallery was spooky enough. What did that matter? He had a job ahead.

  He turned the corner of the gallery. He chuckled as he neared the end wall, where the passage made another turn. The sound of his mirth traveled strangely. Terwiliger stopped and waited until the echoes had died. Then, nearing the end of the passage, the detective stooped and began to examine the wainscotting with his flashlight, using the luminous beam to form a close-up circle.

  His free hand moved upward. It came to an ornamental molding. Terwiliger jockeyed with the bulky wood. Another chuckle came from his lips, and echoed along the gallery.

  Click!

  The molding raised. Terwiliger, peering close, found himself looking through a horizontal slit. He turned off his flashlight.

  In the dim illumination from the other side of the panel, Terwiliger could see the landing at the top of the stairway!

  Eagerly the sleuth began to look for another catch: one that would release the entire panel to allow the passage of his body. He tried a molding at the side. It seemed to move a trifle. Intense and breathing eagerly, Terwiliger was unconscious of his surroundings until the big grandfather’s clock began to whir from the reception hall below.

  The unfamiliar sound was startling. Terwiliger turned and quickly ran his flashlight’s beam along the gallery in each direction. Then he shot its rays down into the reception hall.

  The sleuth could see that both the gallery and the big room were empty; then his eyes and ears simultaneously discovered the cause of his alarm. Just as the flashlight’s rays revealed the face of the grandfather’s clock, the immense timepiece began to chime.

  Terwiliger chuckled. New echoes came with the chimes. Again, the detective ran his
light along the gallery to make sure that all was well. Just as the chimes were ending, he turned back to the panel that had engaged his attention.

  The clock began to strike twelve. The booming sounds were loud in that musty, high-ceilinged chamber. They drowned out lesser noises.

  As the strokes chimed, Terwiliger still worked at the vertical molding. It moved; he heard a slight click amid the strokes of the clock; but nothing happened.

  Terwiliger turned out his light again, and let it fall into his pocket. With both hands, he pressed at the molding. Then, as the clock neared its final boom, the sleuth gargled huskily.

  Firm hands were clutching his neck from behind. Powerful fingers were twisting at his throat. A strangling grasp was choking him; a powerful force was thrusting him downward toward the floor!

  THE clock still clanged. Terwiliger, clawing vainly in the darkness, heard the final strokes amid a roaring sound that increased momentarily in his ears. His coughing gasps were stifled.

  As the echoes of the stroke of twelve seemed to creep through the confines of the whispering gallery, Terwiliger’s fight was lost. The detective’s struggle was not ended; but his hands were feeble and his vain coughs were rattling in his throat.

  The sleuth’s body writhed spasmodically. The clutch of death still tightened. Time passed weirdly in the Stygian gloom. At last, the detective moved no more.

  More time went by in Delthern Manor. Some minutes after those clutching hands had performed their purpose with the unwary detective’s throat, Jasper Delthern was seated at the big desk in the second-floor study.

  The youngest of the Delthern brothers - only survivor of the three - was grinning with an evil leer as he rested his heavy hand upon the telephone. Slowly, Jasper picked up the instrument. His smile grew more intense.

  It was a fiendish grin that betokened the consummation of an evil deed; Jasper, however, intended it as a leer of triumph. He was gloating over the end that had come to a man who had failed to use discretion.

  New death had entered the walls of Delthern Manor. Again, a murderer had stalked his prey. This time, the victim should have been forewarned; instead, he had unwisely prepared himself for the end that he had met.

  Detective Harold Terwiliger, ace of the Newbury force, had gone to his doom. The sleuth had used keen deduction at Delthern Manor tonight; but he had talked too much!

  CHAPTER XIX

  JASPER CALLS A MEETING

  LATE the following afternoon, Warren and Clark Brosset were seated in the president’s office at the City Club. The two men had been together frequently during the past few days. On each occasion their conversation had reverted to the subject of Jasper Delthern.

  “We’re playing a safe game, Warren,” observed Brosset, as he tapped his desk thoughtfully, “but I wonder where it is going to lead us.”

  “So far,” returned Warren, “the police do not appear to have gained any clews that lead to Jasper.”

  “No,” admitted Brosset, “but, on the other hand, they have not suspected that you were at Delthern Manor on the night of the murders. That’s why I have constantly advised you to keep peace for the present.”

  “Watch and wait,” smiled Warren. “There’s bound to be a break, Clark. When there is -“

  “You can rely on me. Use discretion always, Warren.”

  “I have been doing so. Your advice to ignore the Delthern affairs has been helpful. I haven’t even seen Horatio Farman.”

  “Why should you? He is merely the administrator of the estate. Let well enough alone. I have a hunch, Warren, that Jasper will make trouble for himself. When that time comes -“

  The ringing of the telephone caused an interruption. Clark Brosset lifted the receiver. A puzzled look appeared upon his face as he spoke.

  “I think he is somewhere about,” declared the president of the City Club. “Hold the line a short while.”

  He covered the mouthpiece and looked toward Warren with an anxious air.

  “It’s for you,” said Brosset, in a low tone. “Old Horatio Farman. Listen, Warren - whatever he wants - even if it is just an appointment in his office - say that you are occupied. Ask him to wait a few minutes until you can find out about arranging your plans. Then you can tell me what it’s about. Understand?”

  Warren nodded. Taking the telephone, he spoke to Horatio Farman. Clark Brosset listened intently.

  “Yes,” said Warren. “Glad to hear from you, Mr. Farman… Yes… Yes… Why, I suppose so… But… Of course. There’s no reason for him to be reluctant… Tonight? That is unexpected… I was going out with some friends from the club. I wouldn’t like to cancel the engagement unless they are willing… All right. Yes. Suppose you hold the wire until I speak to them. They are in the lounge…”

  Warren quickly covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Clark Brosset in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. He gave the news in terse syllables.

  “Jasper called Farman,” he announced. “Wants a conference. Delthern Manor. Tonight. Thought he’d better call Farman first. Will call me himself if Farman tells him I agree.”

  CLARK BROSSET held up his hand for a moment’s consideration. At last, he nodded, whispering that Warren should express agreement.

  “Hello, Mr. Farman,” spoke Warren. “I can change my plans, I believe… Yes, have Jasper call me here… Surely, I’ll be glad to talk to him… Yes… I understand… I’ll be here…”

  “Jasper was reluctant to call me,” explained Warren, after hanging up the receiver. “He told Farman that he has become very serious-minded since assuming his responsibility as head of the Delthern house.

  “According to Farman, Jasper feels that he and I should be friends. He wants a family conference: he and I, with Marcia Wardrop - and Farman in attendance. Farman thought it would be an excellent idea.”

  “It’s all right,” nodded Brosset. “I see his purpose, Warren. He must figure that he’s safe by now, and that family accord would be a good step. This police theory of attempted burglary is a great break for Jasper - and for you, in a way.

  “Wait here until Jasper calls. Go to Delthern Manor tonight. Jasper, when sober, is not hard to deal with. You won’t have trouble like you did with Winstead and Humphrey - especially if the call comes from him.

  “But keep your head, Warren. Don’t let Jasper know that you suspect him of crime. Be affable. You will learn more that way.”

  “This may be a trap,” said Warren, with a worried tone. “I’ve encountered trouble every time I’ve been in Delthern Manor, Clark.”

  “Don’t be superstitious.”

  “But Jasper is dangerous.”

  “Not to you, Warren. He’s reached the point he wants. He is the chief legatee, Half of the estate is his. He’s managed to get by. If any further trouble should occur there, it would put him in a real jam.

  “Figure it this way, Warren. Jasper wants your friendship. You and Marcia are his safeguards. He cannot gain a cent more unless he eliminates the pair of you. A single murder would accomplish nothing.

  “Jasper is trying to establish himself. He has sobered and is playing safe. Much of his previous irresponsibility may have been a pretense. The only way to meet his game is to form contact with him, now that he has paved the course.”

  Clark Brosset’s emphatic tones were convincing. Warren saw the logic, and was glad that he had gained the benefit of his friend’s advice.

  “Pursue your former policy,” added Brosset. “It worked before; it will work again. Rely upon my assistance, for I know the same facts that you know.”

  The two men chatted for a quarter hour. The telephone bell announced another call. Clark Brosset answered it and spoke in an affable tone. His lips silently phrased a name that Warren observed as Brosset handed him the telephone.

  “Jasper,” was Brosset’s statement.

  The club president listened while Warren talked with his cousin. Brosset caught the trend of the conversation from Warren’s remarks.

  “Hello,
Jasper,” greeted Warren. “Certainly… Always glad to hear from you, old man… I told Mr. Farman so… Yes, tonight will be fine… Nine o’clock? Surely. I’ll be there… See you later.”

  “Great work, Warren,” commented Brosset, after the call was concluded. “Suppose we go downstairs and have dinner. Then you can run up to Delthern Manor later.”

  Warren agreed. He and Brosset descended. They dined in the grillroom, with other club members. They returned to Brosset’s office, chatted a while, and finally noted that it was nearly quarter of nine.

  Clark Brosset shook hands warmly with Warren Barringer. He walked downstairs with the young man, and saw him through the front door of the lobby.

  “No need for secrecy tonight,” whispered Brosset, as Warren stepped into a taxi. “Use your head, old fellow. Do nothing rash until you talk to me. I’ll be somewhere around the club when you get back.”

  SOMETHING was gliding along the floor of the City Club lobby as Clark Brosset returned through the front door. The president did not see it. A shadowy, substanceless blotch of blackness, it moved steadily toward the stairs and ascended them ahead of the man who followed.

  Before Brosset had reached the head of the stairs, the door of his office opened at the touch of an invisible hand. A stealthy figure glided through. When Brosset arrived and turned on the light, there was no sign of a living form. Only the solid blackness beyond the jutting bulk of a filing cabinet indicated the spot where a living person might be standing. Yet there was no motion visible there.

  The telephone bell rang. Clark Brosset answered the call, held a brief conversation, and hung up. The club president opened the wall safe and busied himself there, his actions plainly visible from the corner. He finally took out the record books of the City Club, closed and locked the safe; then deposited the books upon the desk.

  After a few moments of thoughtful table drumming, Clark Brosset became restless. With hands thrust deep in his pockets, he paced across the room, extinguished the lights, and went out, closing the door behind him.