Mary Roberts Rinehart & Avery Hopwood (9 page)

"There is some deviltry afoot," he persisted. "You are not safe here,
Miss Van Gorder."

But if he was persistent in his attitude, so was she in hers.

"I've been safe in all kinds of houses for sixty-odd years," she said
lightly. "It's time I had a bit of a change. Besides," she gestured
toward her defenses, "this house is as nearly impregnable as I can make
it. The window locks are sound enough, the doors are locked, and the
keys are there," she pointed to the keys lying on the table. "As for
the terrace door you just used," she went on, "I had Billy put an extra
bolt on it today. By the way, did you bolt that door again?" She
moved toward the alcove.

"Yes, I did," said the Doctor quickly, still seeming unconvinced of the
wisdom of her attitude.

"Miss Van Gorder, I confess—I'm very anxious for you," he continued.
"This letter is—ominous. Have you any enemies?"

"Don't insult me! Of course I have. Enemies are an indication of
character."

The Doctor's smile held both masculine pity and equally masculine
exasperation. He went on more gently.

"Why not accept my hospitality in the village to-night?" he proposed
reasonably. "It's a little house but I'll make you comfortable. Or,"
he threw out his hands in the gesture of one who reasons with a willful
child, "if you won't come to me, let me stay here!"

Miss Cornelia hesitated for an instant. The proposition seemed logical
enough—more than that—sensible, safe. And yet, some indefinable
feeling—hardly strong enough to be called a premonition—kept her from
accepting it. Besides, she knew what the Doctor did not, that help was
waiting across the hall in the library.

"Thank you, no, Doctor," she said briskly, before she had time to
change her mind. "I'm not easily frightened. And tomorrow I intend to
equip this entire house with burglar alarms on doors and windows!" she
went on defiantly. The incident, as far as she was concerned, was
closed. She moved on into the alcove. The Doctor stared at her,
shaking his head.

She tried the terrace door. "There, I knew it!" she said triumphantly.
"Doctor—you didn't fasten that bolt!"

The Doctor seemed a little taken aback. "Oh—I'm sorry—" he said.

"You only pushed it part of the way," she explained. She completed the
task and stepped back into the living-room. "The only thing that
worries me now is that broken French window," she said thoughtfully.
"Anyone can reach a hand through it and open the latch." She came down
toward the settee where Dale was sitting. "Please, Doctor!"

"Oh—what are you going to do?" said the Doctor, coming out of a brown
study.

"I'm going to barricade that window!" said Miss Cornelia firmly,
already struggling to lift one end of the settee. But now Dale came to
her rescue.

"Oh, darling, you'll hurt yourself. Let me—" and between them, the
Doctor and Dale moved the heavy settee along until it stood in front of
the window in question.

The Doctor stood up when the dusty task was finished, wiping his hands.

"It would take a furniture mover to get in there now!" he said airily.

Miss Cornelia smiled.

"Well, Doctor—I'll say good night now—and thank you very much," she
said, extending her hand to the Doctor, who bowed over it silently.
"Don't keep this young lady up too late; she looks tired." She flashed
a look at Dale who stood staring out at the night.

"I'll only smoke a cigarette," promised the Doctor. Once again his
voice had a note of plea in it. "You won't change your mind?" he asked
anew.

Miss Van Gorder's smile was obdurate. "I have a great deal of mind,"
she said. "It takes a long time to change it."

Then, having exercised her feminine privilege of the last word, she
sailed out of the room, still smiling, and closed the door behind her.

The Doctor seemed a little nettled by her abrupt departure.

"It may be mind," he said, turning back toward Dale, "but forgive me if
I say I think it seems more like foolhardy stubbornness!"

Dale turned away from the window. "Then you think there is really
danger?"

The Doctor's eyes were grave.

"Well—those letters—" he dropped the letter on the table. "They mean
something. Here you are—isolated the village two miles away—and
enough shrubbery round the place to hide a dozen assassins—"

If his manner had been in the slightest degree melodramatic, Dale would
have found the ominous sentences more easy to discount. But this calm,
intent statement of fact was a chill touch at her heart. And yet—

"But what enemies can Aunt Cornelia have?" she asked helplessly.

"Any man will tell you what I do," said the Doctor with increasing
seriousness. He took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the
case to emphasize his words. "This is no place for two women,
practically alone."

Dale moved away from him restlessly, to warm her hands at the fire. The
Doctor gave a quick glance around the room. Then, unseen by her, he
stepped noiselessly over to the table, took the matchbox there off its
holder and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed a curiously useless
and meaningless gesture, but his next words evinced that the action had
been deliberate.

"I don't seem to be able to find any matches—" he said with assumed
carelessness, fiddling with the matchbox holder.

Dale turned away from the fire. "Oh, aren't there any? I'll get you
some," she said with automatic politeness, and departed to search for
them.

The Doctor watched her go—saw the door close behind her. Instantly
his face set into tense and wary lines. He glanced about—then ran
lightly into the alcove and noiselessly unfastened the bolt on the
terrace door which he had pretended to fasten after his search of the
shrubbery. When Dale returned with the matches, he was back where he
had been when she had left him, glancing at a magazine on the table.

He thanked her urbanely as she offered him the box. "So sorry to
trouble you—but tobacco is the one drug every Doctor forbids his
patients and prescribes for himself."

Dale smiled at the little joke. He lit his cigarette and drew in the
fragrant smoke with apparent gusto. But a moment later he had crushed
out the glowing end in an ash tray.

"By the way, has Miss Van Gorder a revolver?" he queried casually,
glancing at his wrist watch.

"Yes—she fired it off this afternoon to see if it would work." Dale
smiled at the memory.

The Doctor, too, seemed amused. "If she tries to shoot anything—for
goodness' sake stand behind her!" he advised. He glanced at the wrist
watch again. "Well—I must be going—"

"If anything happens," said Dale slowly, "I shall telephone you at
once."

Her words seemed to disturb the Doctor slightly—but only for a second.
He grew even more urbane.

"I'll be home shortly after midnight," he said. "I'm stopping at the
Johnsons' on my way—one of their children is ill—or supposed to be."
He took a step toward the door, then he turned toward Dale again.

"Take a parting word of advice," he said. "The thing to do with a
midnight prowler is—let him alone. Lock your bedroom doors and don't
let anything bring you out till morning." He glanced at Dale to see
how she took the advice, his hand on the knob of the door.

"Thank you," said Dale seriously. "Good night, Doctor—Billy will let
you out, he has the key."

"By Jove!" laughed the Doctor, "you are careful, aren't you! The place
is like a fortress! Well—good night, Miss Dale—"

"Good night." The door closed behind him—Dale was left alone.
Suddenly her composure left her, the fixed smile died. She stood
gazing ahead at nothing, her face a mask of terror and apprehension.
But it was like a curtain that had lifted for a moment on some secret
tragedy and then fallen again. When Billy returned with the front door
key she was as impassive as he was.

"Has the new gardener come yet?"

"He here," said Billy stolidly. "Name Brook."

She was entirely herself once more when Billy, departing, held the door
open wide—to admit Miss Cornelia Van Gorder and a tall,
strong-featured man, quietly dressed, with reticent, piercing eyes—the
detective!

Dale's first conscious emotion was one of complete surprise. She had
expected a heavy-set, blue-jowled vulgarian with a black cigar, a
battered derby, and stubby policeman's shoes. "Why this man's a
gentleman!" she thought. "At least he looks like one—and yet—you can
tell from his face he'd have as little mercy as a steel trap for anyone
he had to—catch—" She shuddered uncontrollably.

"Dale, dear," said Miss Cornelia with triumph in her voice. "This is
Mr. Anderson."

The newcomer bowed politely, glancing at her casually and then looking
away. Miss Cornelia, however, was obviously in fine feather and
relishing to the utmost the presence of a real detective in the house.

"This is the room I spoke of," she said briskly. "All the disturbances
have taken place around that terrace door."

The detective took three swift steps into the alcove, glanced about it
searchingly. He indicated the stairs.

"That is not the main staircase?"

"No, the main staircase is out there," Miss Cornelia waved her hand in
the direction of the hall.

The detective came out of the alcove and paused by the French windows.

"I think there must be a conspiracy between the Architects' Association
and the Housebreakers' Union these days," he said grimly. "Look at all
that glass. All a burglar needs is a piece of putty and a
diamond-cutter to break in."

"But the curious thing is," continued Miss Cornelia, "that whoever got
into the house evidently had a key to that door." Again she indicated
the terrace door, but Anderson did not seem to be listening to her.

"Hello—what's this?" he said sharply, his eye lighting on the broken
glass below the shattered French window. He picked up a piece of glass
and examined it.

Dale cleared her throat. "It was broken from the outside a few minutes
ago," she said.

"The outside?" Instantly the detective had pulled aside a blind and
was staring out into the darkness.

"Yes. And then that letter was thrown in." She pointed to the
threatening missive on the center table.

Anderson picked it up, glanced through it, laid it down. All his
movements were quick and sure—each executed with the minimum expense
of effort.

"H'm," he said in a calm voice that held a glint of humor. "Curious,
the anonymous letter complex! Apparently someone considers you an
undesirable tenant!"

Miss Cornelia took up the tale.

"There are some things I haven't told you yet," she said. "This house
belonged to the late Courtleigh Fleming." He glanced at her sharply.

"The Union Bank?"

"Yes. I rented it for the summer and moved in last Monday. We have
not had a really quiet night since I came. The very first night I saw
a man with an electric flashlight making his way through the shrubbery!"

"You poor dear!" from Dale sympathetically. "And you were here alone!"

"Well, I had Lizzie. And," said Miss Cornelia with enormous
importance, opening the drawer of the center table, "I had my revolver.
I know so little about these things, Mr. Anderson, that if I didn't hit
a burglar, I knew I'd hit somebody or something!" and she gazed with
innocent awe directly down the muzzle of her beloved weapon, then waved
it with an airy gesture beneath the detective's nose.

Anderson gave an involuntary start, then his eyes lit up with grim
mirth.

"Would you mind putting that away?" he said suavely. "I like to get in
the papers as much as anybody, but I don't want to have them say—omit
flowers."

Miss Cornelia gave him a glare of offended pride, but he endured it
with such quiet equanimity that she merely replaced the revolver in the
drawer, with a hurt expression, and waited for him to open the next
topic of conversation.

He finished his preliminary survey of the room and returned to her.

"Now you say you don't think anybody has got upstairs yet?" he queried.

Miss Cornelia regarded the alcove stairs.

"I think not. I'm a very light sleeper, especially since the papers
have been so full of the exploits of this criminal they call the Bat.
He's in them again tonight." She nodded toward the evening paper.

The detective smiled faintly.

"Yes, he's contrived to surround himself with such an air of mystery
that it verges on the supernatural—or seems that way to newspapermen."

"I confess," admitted Miss Cornelia, "I've thought of him in this
connection." She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the
suggestion but the latter merely smiled again, this time more broadly.

"That's going rather a long way for a theory," he said. "And the Bat
is not in the habit of giving warnings."

"Nevertheless," she insisted, "somebody has been trying to get into
this house, night after night."

Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind.

"Any liquor stored here?" he asked.

Miss Cornelia nodded. "Yes."

"What?"

Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. "Eleven bottles of home-made
elderberry wine."

"You're safe." The detective smiled ruefully. He picked up the
evening paper, glanced at it, shook his head. "I'd forget the Bat in
all this. You can always tell when the Bat has had anything to do with
a crime. When he's through, he signs his name to it."

Miss Cornelia sat bolt upright. "His name? I thought nobody knew his
name?"

The detective made a little gesture of apology. "That was a figure of
speech. The newspapers named him the Bat because he moved with
incredible rapidity, always at night, and by signing his name I mean he
leaves the symbol of his identity—the Bat, which can see in the dark."