CHAPTER XXII
IN THE ROOM OVER THE WAY
He went away into the darkness, and I sat down on an empty box by thewindow and waited. Had any one asked me, at that minute, how near wewere to the solution of our double mystery, I would have said we hadmade no progress--save by eliminating Wardrop. Not for one instant did Idream that I was within less than half an hour of a revelation thatchanged my whole conception of the crime.
I timed the interval by using one of my precious matches to see my watchwhen he left. I sat there for what seemed ten minutes, listening to therush of the rain and the creaking of a door behind me In the darknesssomewhere, that swung back and forth rustily in the draft from thebroken windows. The gloom was infinitely depressing; away from Burton'senthusiasm, his scheme lacked point; his argument, that the nightduplicated the weather conditions of that other night, a week ago,seemed less worthy of consideration.
Besides, I have a horror of making myself ridiculous, and I had an ideathat it would be hard to explain my position, alone in the warehouse,firing a revolver into the floor, if my own argument was right, and theclub should rouse to a search. I looked again at my watch; only sixminutes.
Eight minutes.
Nine minutes.
Every one who has counted the passing of seconds knows how they drag.With my eyes on the room across, and my finger on the trigger, I waitedas best I could. At ten minutes I was conscious there was some one inthe room over the way. And then he came into view from the sidesomewhere, and went to the table. He had his back to me, and I couldonly see that he was a large man, with massive shoulders and dark hair.
It was difficult to make out what he was doing. After a half-minute,however, he stepped to one side, and I saw that he had lighted a candle,and was systematically reading and then burning certain papers, throwingthe charred fragments on the table. With the same glance that told methat, I knew the man. It was Schwartz.
I was so engrossed in watching him that when he turned and came directlyto the window, I stood perfectly still, staring at him. With the lightat his back, I felt certain I had been discovered, but I was wrong. Heshook the newspaper which had held the fragments, out of the window,lighted a cigarette and flung the match out also, and turned back intothe room. As a second thought, he went back and jerked at the cord ofthe window-shade, but it refused to move.
He was not alone, for from the window he turned and addressed some onein the room behind.
"You are sure you got them all?" he said.
The other occupant of the room came within range of vision. It wasDavidson.
"All there were, Mr. Schwartz," he replied. "We were nearly finishedbefore the woman made a bolt." He was fumbling in his pockets. I think Iexpected him to produce an apple and a penknife, but he held out a smallobject on the palm of his hand.
"I would rather have done it alone, Mr. Schwartz," he said. "I foundthis ring in Brigg's pocket this morning. It belongs to the girl."
Schwartz swore, and picking up the ring, held it to the light. Then hemade an angry motion to throw it out of the window, but his Germancupidity got the better of him. He slid it into his vest pocket instead.
"You're damned poor stuff, Davidson," he said, with a snarl. "If shehasn't got them, then Wardrop has. You'll bungle this job and there'llbe hell to pay. Tell McFeely I want to see him."
Davidson left, for I heard the door close. Schwartz took the ring outand held it to the light. I looked at my watch. The time was almost up.
A fresh burst of noise came from below. I leaned out cautiously andlooked down at the lower windows; they were still closed and shuttered.When I raised my eyes again to the level of the room across, I wasamazed to see a second figure in the room--a woman, at that.
Schwartz had not seen her. He stood with his back to her, looking at thering in his hand. The woman had thrown her veil back, but I could seenothing of her face as she stood. She looked small beside Schwartz'stowering height, and she wore black.
She must have said something just then, very quietly, for Schwartzsuddenly lifted his head and wheeled on her. I had a clear view of him,and if ever guilt, rage, and white-lipped fear showed on a man's face,it showed on his. He replied--a half-dozen words, in a low tone, andmade a motion to offer her a chair. But she paid no attention.
I have no idea how long a time they talked. The fresh outburst of noisebelow made it impossible to hear what they said, and there was alwaysthe maddening fact that I could not see her face. I thought of Mrs.Fleming, but this woman seemed younger and more slender. Schwartz wasarguing, I imagined, but she stood immobile, scornful, watching him. Sheseemed to have made a request, and the man's evasions moved her no whit.
It may have been only two or three minutes, but it seemed longer.Schwartz had given up the argument, whatever it was, and by pointing outthe window, I supposed he was telling her he had thrown what she wantedout there. Even then she did not turn toward me; I could not see evenher profile.
What happened next was so unexpected that it remains little more than apicture in my mind. The man threw out his hands as if to show he couldnot or would not accede to her request; he was flushed with rage, andeven at that distance the ugly scar on his forehead stood out like awelt. The next moment I saw the woman raise her right hand, withsomething in it.
I yelled to Schwartz to warn him, but he had already seen the revolver.As he struck her hand aside, the explosion came; I saw her stagger,clutch at a chair, and fall backward beyond my range of vision.
Then the light went out, and I was staring at a black, brick wall.
I turned and ran frantically toward the stairs. Luckily, I found themeasily. I fell rather than ran down to the floor below. Then I made awrong turning and lost some time. My last match set me right and I gotinto the yard somehow, and to the street.
It was raining harder than ever, and the thunder was incessant. I ranaround the corner of the street, and found the gate to the White Catwithout trouble. The inner gate was unlocked, as Burton had said hewould leave it, and from the steps of the club I could hear laughter andthe refrain of a popular song. The door opened just as I reached the topstep, and I half-tumbled inside.
Burton was there in the kitchen, with two other men whom I did notrecognize, each one holding a stein of beer. Burton had two, and he heldone out to me as I stood trying to get my breath.
"You win," he said. "Although I'm a hard-working journalist and need themoney, I won't lie. This is Osborne of the _Star_ and McTighe of the_Eagle_, Mr. Knox. They heard the shot in there, and if I hadn't toldthe story, there would have been a panic. What's the matter with you?"
I shut the door into the grill-room and faced the three men.
"For God's sake, Burton," I panted, "let's get up-stairs quietly. Ididn't fire any shot. There's a woman dead up there."
With characteristic poise, the three reporters took the situationquietly. We filed through the grill-room as casually as we could; withthe door closed, however, we threw caution aside. I led the way up thestairs to the room where I had found Fleming's body, and where Iexpected to find another.
On the landing at the top of the stairs I came face to face withDavidson, the detective, and behind him Judge McFeely. Davidson wastrying to open the door of the room where Fleming had been shot, with askeleton key. But it was bolted inside. There was only one thing to do:I climbed on the shoulders of one of the men, a tall fellow, whose faceto this day I don't remember, and by careful maneuvering and theassistance of Davidson's long arms, I got through the transom anddropped into the room.
I hardly know what I expected. I was in total darkness. I know that whenI had got the door open at last, when the cheerful light from the hallstreamed in, and I had not felt Schwartz's heavy hand at my throat, Idrew a long breath of relief. Burton found the electric light switchand turned it on. And then--I could hardly believe my senses. The roomwas empty.
One of the men laughed a little.
"Stung!" he said lightly. "What sort of a story have you and your fri
endframed up, Burton?"
But I stopped at that minute and picked up a small nickel-platedrevolver from the floor. I held it out, on my palm, and the others eyedit respectfully.
Burton, after all, was the quickest-witted of the lot. He threw open oneof the two doors in the room, revealing a shallow closet, with paperedwalls and a row of hooks. The other door stuck tight. One of the menpointed to the floor; a bit of black cloth had wedged it, from the otherside. Our combined efforts got it open at last, and we crowded in thedoorway, looking down a flight of stairs.
Huddled just below us, her head at our feet, was the body of the missingwoman.
"My God," Burton said hoarsely, "who is it?"
The Window at the White Cat Page 22