The Classic Mystery Novel MEGAPACK®. Hay James
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our closet. I saw how he had managed.
Olmstead’s telephone provided the long missing link and such a simple link, once you had it.
Silas’s alibi rested upon the slender fact that when I telephoned the Lodge he had responded promptly to my appeal—and now I perceived that he need not have been at the Lodge.
As plainly as though I had been present I realized where he had been and what he had done. He had left Jack unconscious in the woods and fled toward the Olmsteads’ house. He had heard the telephone ringing in the silence of the night, identified his own signal, and guessed I was calling him for aid. There must have been then an instant of panic, of indecision. Swiftly it passed. He let himself into the untenanted house—he had keys—rushed to the telephone, answered it and allowed me to assume that he was in bed at the Lodge. It was a good trick. For two solid weeks it had deceived us all, and now at long last I saw light.
I whirled on my bewildered host. “You talked to Jack. Where is he? I must reach him at once.”
“But you can’t, Mrs. Storm. That was his message. He was leaving New York, taking the train here. He spoke of a broken appointment. He was angry, I think.”
“I understand.”
What I didn’t understand was what my next move was to be. I had to talk to a person in authority, a person I could trust. Jack and Standish were quite out of reach—on their way to the train or aboard it. Harkway had started toward the Catskills, and God only knew where he was. I could imagine the type of intelligence I would find in charge at the station. But I had no choice. I decided to phone the station.
I was ill, and when I rose from the chair I discovered it. The floor also seemed to rise. My head which had been heavy now seemed to float, and the rather small room seemed enormous. It was fever, I suppose.
Coincidence had ruled the day. It had trapped Silas and was to trap him again. If I had reached the telephone one minute earlier or one minute later, I would have found a free wire and the course of a hideous afternoon would have been changed. Instead I removed the receiver when I did—at a moment when the party line was busy.
Other voices sped over the wire, and I heard them. Two men—in the heat of a violent argument. What they said didn’t at first make sense, nor did the voices—which I immediately identified—make sense. One speaker was Franklyn Elliott; he was in a towering rage.
He said, “You’ll see me today and you’ll like it. I’ve taken all from you that I propose to take. You play ball now or you fry. Do you get it? You fry!”
The second voice was terrified. It stammered, protested, mumbled its words. I have forgotten the words, but the voice I shall never forget. It was the voice which had decoyed Jack and me to New Haven and I recognized it at last. It was Silas Elkins’ voice.
Memory, in the final analysis, is a matter for the psychologists, and I cannot attempt to explain what I believe is commonly termed a brainstorm. Silas’s voice on the previous occasion—on the two previous occasions, for he had phoned twice—had been deliberately disguised. It was not disguised now. I had talked to him many times without suspecting, but now I knew. Possibly the fact of my hearing his voice over the wire was the necessary clue; or possibly the unnatural strain and excitement in his tone struck the proper chord; or perhaps it was that my mind having reached one conclusion was peculiarly receptive to another. I don’t know. I do know that I identified Silas instantly as the source of our mysterious voice.
The conversation went on.
Elliott said, “You can expect me at once.”
Silas quavered, “Here at the Lodge?”
Elliott said fiercely, “At the Lodge!”
Two receivers clicked. The wire was free, and the operator was plaintively asking me what number I wanted. My brain was confused. I couldn’t remember why I had gone to the phone or whom I had intended to call. It was a distracted Henry Olmstead who took the receiver from me, replaced it, put his hands on my shoulders and forced me into a chair.
He would not allow me to rise and, himself, at my urgent request, telephoned the police station. He got no answer whatever. I was frantic. Olmstead, who had got increasingly out of his depth, also became frantic.
It was thus that Annabelle found us. She instantly took charge, rushed me to a couch, demanded and got brandy. But when finally we resumed our trip to the cottage—every minute passed like an hour—I had determined to take charge myself.
Once we were in the cottage, I permitted Annabelle to make me comfortable. She was a solicitous nurse; she shoved a footstool forward, adjusted a pillow beneath my head. Then she removed her hat and gloves, and settled down to stay indefinitely. As feebly as I dared, I announced that bed was the place for me. Annabelle was gratified but suspicious. She followed me into the bedroom. She watched me kick off my shoes. I peeled off my dress.
I said faintly, “My nightgown is in the closet. Would you bring it to me?”
She stepped to the closet where Silas had hidden. I arrived there simultaneously with her. I shoved her forward. I slammed the door. There was a key in the lock. I turned it f must credit her with a certain amount of sporting blood. Aside from a gasp of surprise she made no outcry, and immediately, imperatively she rapped at the locked door.
“Are you delirious?”
“I’m as sane as you are.”
“Where are you going?”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home. I hope you can find the light. I’m sorry I can’t leave you a magazine.”
The closet exploded into protest. I paid no attention. It took me only a minute to dress. It took me several minutes to locate Harkway’s gun. I didn’t think I would need it, but it seemed best to go prepared. I thought I could eavesdrop on the interview at the Lodge without being seen, and I sincerely hoped so.
The afternoon was very clear. The sky showed an almost painful blue. I rapidly left the cottage, crossed the road, slipped through the gate and began a hurried ascent of the pasture path. Looking up the steeply climbing hill beyond the Lodge, I could see Hilltop House, the cupola and the elaborate porte-cochere. A yellow roadster—Franklyn Elliott’s car—was parked beneath the porte-cochere.
My heart sank as I realized that my speed had not been great enough. The lawyer had preceded me. I had thought I had plenty of time. And then suddenly it was borne upon me that I had no time at all. My errand was useless. The meeting was over. Even as I glimpsed it the yellow car throbbed, moved forward, gathered momentum, sped around the house and out of sight.
Why I began to run I can’t say even now, but I did run. Breathless and trembling, I gained the Lodge. The door stood ajar. Reuben was inside. He barked wildly, and then was quiet. I knocked.
“Silas! Silas!”
There was no answer. Silas had to be there, I thought. Or could he have accompanied the other man in the yellow car? I had not glimpsed its passengers. The open door decided me. Silas set too high a value upon his possessions to go away and leave an unlocked door.
I knocked, and again called. Reuben emitted another whimpering moan, subsided. The whole world seemed still. The sun shone down with a brassy brilliance, and the motionless trees and shrubs seemed cut from cardboard. Like a stage set. Silence gripped the Lodge, deep and utter. Something pulled me away from the door, and something stronger drove me toward it f pushed inside.
I entered a small living room. From the adjoining kitchen where he was imprisoned, Reuben set up a renewed clamor. I looked around. The living room was in dreadful disorder. Furniture was broken and overturned. Smashed crockery was scattered about. Dark red splotches stained the floor and walls. I saw that the splotches were blood. I saw Silas.
He lay at the far end of the devastated room, his skull crushed, his eyes wide open, and beside him were the remnants of a broken chair.
Things began getting black. I didn’t faint. I staggered