  Dr. David Stone, walking rapidly beside Lady, seemed unaware of the penetrating chill of the pale, thin dawn. His broad shoulders swung with his stride, his coat was open, and no hat covered the white hair of his magnificently-formed head. But Joe Morrow, his nephew, huddled down into a turtle-neck sweater and shivered. “Joe,” said Dr. Stone, “I shouldn’t have let you come along on this. You’ve never seen a dead man before.” Chill shook the boy’s teeth. “A dead man can’t hurt anybody.” “True; but this may be nasty business. Captain Tucker says old Anthony was murdered.” The boy sucked in his breath and was momentarily sorry the telephone that had called his uncle had awakened him. Crows, cawing faintly, loomed against the early light of the cold sky. The grass was wet, and saturated the bottoms of his trousers. “They—they don’t know who did it?” “That’s the trouble, Joe. So many persons might have wanted to.” Since turning into Meadow Road the doctor had been counting paces, and now his voice changed abruptly. “We should be near there.” “It’s right ahead, Uncle David.” Dr. Stone said, “Lady, left,” and the great, tawny dog turned obediently. They went up a weed-bordered path to a house that had once been noble, but which now lay in peeled-paint neglect. Captain Tucker let them in. Four men sat in a room off the hall, and they watched the doorway in silence as Dr. Stone and the dog appeared. Joe, crowding at his uncle’s heels, was conscious of a studied ease and a cautious wariness in all of them. He identified them as Police Captain Tucker made them known to the blind man—Ted Lawton, marked by a certain furtiveness; Ran Freeman, cool and self-contained; Fred Waring, silently grim, and Otis King, dapper and assured. Lady, restless on her leash, suddenly gave an eerie, dismal whine. Waring flared. “Stop that confounded dog.” “She knows,” Dr. Stone said quietly, “that there has been death here—by violence.” Ice ran in Joe’s veins. Otis King lit a cigarette and calmly meditated the glowing end. The doctor said, “Lady, chair,” and the dog led him to a seat. Freeman, sitting on a stool in front of a piano, dropped one arm and the elbow awoke a crashing, jangling chord. Lawton jumped. “Did you have to do that?” “Better take something for your nerves,” Freeman said mildly, and ran one hand soundlessly over the keys of the piano. Captain Tucker’s voice bit into the silence. “One of you four has every right to be nervous.” He turned to Dr. Stone. “I sent for you, Doctor, because I am baffled. All four of these men came here late yesterday. Cagge says——” “Who’s Cagge?” the doctor broke in. “Old Anthony Fitch’s servant. He says all four quarreled violently with Anthony last night, and that the old man cackled at them, and goaded them, and invited them to remain so that today the comedy could be resumed. About eleven o’clock he went off to bed, holding to Cagge’s arm, after telling the servant to show the visitors to rooms.” “And then?” the doctor asked. “Cagge says he awoke about three o’clock this morning and heard groans. He went to Anthony’s room, and there he found the old man crumpled on his bed. He had been struck on the temple by a heavy brass candlestick that lay on the floor. Cagge says he tried to speak, and muttered one word several times before he died.” “That word was?” “Four. Over and over again. ‘Four, four, four.’ What do you make of it?” Slowly Doctor Stone filled a pipe, struck a match, and puffed in unhurried contemplation. “It may be, Tucker, he meant that all four were concerned in his murder.” Otis King laughed. “Doctor,” he said easily, “that shot misses the target. There isn’t one of us trusts any of the other three. You couldn’t get us into a combine.” “You must know each other,” the doctor observed. Fred Waring jumped angrily to his feet. “Look here, Doctor——” Lady growled deep in her throat, and Waring slumped into a chair and watched the dog. “Then,” Dr. Stone said slowly, “if all of you are not concerned, one man’s hand is stained with blood.” Freeman still continued to run his hand soundlessly across the keys. Lawton gave the doctor a quick, sidelong glance, and stared down at the floor. “Which one?” King asked coolly; and now, for the first time Joe noticed that he alone, of the four in the room, was fully dressed. Dr. Stone’s hand touched the dog’s head. “I may tell you—later. First, I should like to know how all of you happened to arrive here yesterday. Did the old man invite you?” “No,” Otis King drawled; “but I rather fancy he expected us. Did you know he was writing a book? It was to be one of those brutally frank things—fire the gun and let the shots hit whom they may. Anthony dropped each of us a letter. We were to be in the book. So, knowing Anthony, we all raced for the Grand Central and met on the same train.” “And killed him,” Dr. Stone said. “Some one did,” King admitted blandly. “And I’m not denying that any of the four of us had reason to do the job.” Fred Waring spoke bitterly. “You always did talk too much, Otis.” He lapsed into silence, and presently spoke to the doctor. “If you knew Anthony Fitch—” “Perhaps I do,” the doctor said mildly. “For several years he was mixed up in shady transactions, but managed to stay just inside the law. Slippery, and clever, and unscrupulous.” “That was Anthony on the outside,” Waring said passionately. “Inside he was vindictive, and cold, and merciless. Those claw-like hands of his were the talons of a hawk. He took a pleasure in refined torture. Years ago we were all tied up with him, and—” “You don’t have to go into that,” Ted Lawton cried warningly. “I’m not going to. Anyway, we broke away, and one of his schemes failed. He told us then that some day he’d pay the score. Lately he set out to write a book. It was to be called ‘Confessions of a Rascal.’” “I see.” The doctor’s face was expressionless. “Naturally, you gentlemen objected to being included in the book.” Waring ripped out an oath. “He had gone back fifteen years to rake open old sores. God, man, do you know what that meant? We thought we had lived down those old mistakes. We had established ourselves. I am cashier at a manufacturing plant. King is manager of a branch brokerage house. Lawton is in business for himself. Ran Freeman is engaged to marry Lilly Panner——” Dr. Stone sat up straight. “The Calico Heiress?” Freeman’s fingers still played imaginary music. “Exactly, Doctor,” he said quietly. “The newspapers have made the family fairly well known. Fine old traditions—that sort of thing. Let this book of Anthony’s appear and my marriage to Miss Panner would be overboard.” “And with it the Panner fortune,” the doctor observed dryly. “That, too,” Ran Freeman admitted without emotion. The pipe had gone out. The blind man ran the bowl absently along one sleeve. Dishes clattered in the kitchen. “It seems,” the doctor said, “you’ve given yourself sufficient motive for murder, Freeman.” “We all have sufficient motive,” Freeman said frankly. “How long could Waring remain a cashier if his past were dug out? How long would King be manager of a brokerage house? How long would Lawton have enough credit left to stay on in his business?” The room fell into silence, and Joe felt sweat on the palms of his hands. These men discussed murder as other men might have talked of the loss of a button from a coat. Dr. Stone put the pipe away and turned his sightless eyes toward the spot from which Waring’s voice had sounded. “You say Anthony wrote you?” “All of us. A devilish letter telling what was going into the book concerning us. Do you get that? Paying off, after all these years, the old score; ramming in the knife and turning it around. Giving us the prospect of months of anticipation and worry waiting for the book to appear. So we came up here——” “And threatened him?” the doctor asked. “Yes,” Waring answered after a momentary hesitation. “He laughed at us. He said the only way to stop that book was to kill him, and invited us to do it. He said there was a blind man in the village with the very devil of a dog and that the man who killed him would be tracked down.” Waring’s voice rose. “But, for once, Anthony was wrong. He forgot——” The passionate flow of words stopped with startling suddenness. “What did he forget?” Dr. Stone asked. Waring said nothing. “Did he forget that there was such a thing as the manuscript being stolen?” Captain Tucker spoke. “What good would that do? The old man could write it again.” “Could he?” Dr. Stone mused. “I’m not so sure. A man who has to lean on a servant’s arm is a sick man—perhaps a dying man. By the way, Tucker, did you look for the manuscript?” “Yes. He kept it in his bedroom.” “And?” “It’s gone.” “Waring,” Dr. Stone said slowly, “you checked yourself too late. So Anthony forgot—and the manuscript is stolen. That unfinished sentence could convict you.” “Of what?” Waring snapped. “Of murder. The man who stole that manuscript killed Anthony Fitch.” Lady whimpered uneasily, and, in the hard silence, the sound was like the wail of a ghost. Joe’s temples throbbed, and he was conscious of Lawton watching his uncle in a sort of bleak dread. Slowly he came to the realization that the blind man, sitting there in a handicap of darkness was the dominating figure in the room. Softly, almost soundlessly, a man wearing an apron appeared from the kitchen. This, the boy guessed, was Cagge. “I’ve made coffee,” the servant announced in a nasal monotone. “Anybody want some?” Freeman’s hand came away from the piano. “What’s the matter with the bacon and eggs?” Lawton gave a grunt of distaste. “Ugh! Who could eat food now?” “Is Anthony’s death supposed to fill any of us with sorrow?” Freeman asked blandly. “Fry mine on both sides,” said Otis King. He stretched his legs and smoothed his trousers. “Cagge, you were with Anthony how long?” “Three years.” “Any trouble collecting your wages?” Joe saw the servant’s face flame. “Trouble? Why, the tight-fisted, old skin-flint——. Do you know how much he’s paid me this last year? A couple of dollars here and there when I could wring it out of him. And now he’s dead, and where am I going to collect the four hundred dollars he owes me?” “Did you say four hundred dollars, Cagge?” King asked softly. “I said four hundred dollars and I mean four hundred dollars.” Like a shadow, almost without sound, the man was gone. The clatter of a pan came from the kitchen. Otis King tapped a cigarette against a silver case. Joe’s hands had gone dry. Somewhere in the house a clock struck seven. “Four!” King said thoughtfully. “What would you call that, Doctor, coincidence or—something else? Many a man has killed for less than four hundred dollars.” Dr. Stone stood up. Holding to the harness-handle of the dog’s leash he spoke to the four men who watched him intently. “Would a murderer first tell that his victim kept muttering ‘Four, four,’ and then add that the slain man owed him four hundred dollars? Lady, upstairs.” The shepherd dog guided him across the room skillfully preventing him from bumping into chairs and furniture. With his feet on the first tread he spoke again. “It wasn’t Cagge, gentlemen.” “Do you always leap at conclusions?” Otis King asked insolently. “I usually keep off paths other men mark for me,” the doctor said quietly. Joe followed his uncle up the staircase. He kept close to the dog, afraid, in this house of terror, of he knew not what. In the upper hall Captain Tucker halted and clutched his arm. “Doctor,” he said rapidly, “there was something I did not want to tell you downstairs in front of them. I found something in the room.” “Finger prints?” “No; the candle-stick had been wiped clean. A plain, silk handkerchief. It had evidently been used to cover the lower part of the murderer’s face. I found it in the center of the floor.” Joe saw the familiar tense lines form around his uncle’s mouth, and a soundless whistle came from the blind man’s lips. “So! I hadn’t expected that. King was right. They had reason not to trust one another.” “What’s that, Doctor?” “Nothing, Captain; nothing. Lead me in.” A huddled figure was twisted grotesquely upon the bed. Joe, with a sudden spot of ice in the pit of his stomach, backed out into the hall. Presently there were leisurely footsteps on the stairs, and from inside the room his uncle’s voice said, “Lady, trail.” The footsteps came on. But the boy’s ears were held by the softer pad-pad-pad of the shepherd dog’s feet. Lady came out into the hall, ears back and nose close to the floor. Sniffing, she veered this way and that, but went steadily along the passage. And then, suddenly, Joe’s heart gave a choked throb, for the tawny shepherd had swung in and came to a stop before a closed door. True to her training, she stopped with her head below the lock; and Dr. Stone, reaching out a groping hand, touched the knob. “Who’s room is this?” he asked. “Mine,” came Otis King’s voice from down the hall. The tense lines were back around the doctor’s mouth. “The trail clouds again, Tucker,” he said; but Captain Tucker, triumphant, held out the silk handkerchief. “Ever see this before, King?” “No.” “It was found near Anthony’s body. The dog, taking a scent from it, followed a trail to your door. How you explain that?” “Seeing that this is the first time I’ve been upstairs, I can’t explain it. Cagge brought my bag to this room, but I did not follow. When Anthony went tottering off to bed I went outdoors and tramped the roads for hours.” “What for?” Captain Tucker barked. “I was trying,” King said, “to hatch a plan by which I might get my hands on that manuscript.” “And then you came back, and came up here——” “I came back, but did not come upstairs. I went out again at once.” “Still plotting, I suppose?” Captain Tucker said in sarcasm. “No,” King said coolly; “the second time I acted. I destroyed Anthony’s book.” Joe found it hard to swallow. Uncle David said the man who stole the manuscript was the man who had killed! Dr. Stone’s face was expressionless: “I thought so.” “Look here,” King burst out angrily. “I told you I went out. When I came back the house was dark. As I opened the front door I heard someone run up the stairs. I snapped on the light, and a bundle of typed papers lay on the floor. I had to read only half a page to know it was Anthony’s manuscript. Would I be apt to tell voluntarily that I destroyed the book if the fact would link me to the murder?” Captain Tucker seemed a bit taken back. Lawton’s voice came from downstairs: “Breakfast, Otis.” “You might have built this up,” Captain Tucker said suspiciously. “I might,” King agreed. He was once more dapper and assured. But when he came down stairs to the table, Joe saw that he had hardened into cold watchfulness. Freeman said, “Sorry you won’t eat with us, Doctor.” Lady, walking restlessly around the table, stopped at Freeman’s place and the man offered her a strip of bacon. “Quite a dog, Doctor.” “Quite,” Dr. Stone agreed; and Joe, reading something in the word, gave his uncle a sharp, expectant glance. Cagge came in from the kitchen with more coffee. His hand shook as he refilled the cups, and the spout of the pot chattered against the china. “Cagge,” Dr. Stone said suddenly, “how did you sleep last night?” “I didn’t—much,” Cagge answered in his nasal monotone. “I didn’t like the look of things.” “Did you hear anybody go out?” “Yes.” The servant put down the pot. “It was blasted queer. I heard somebody go out twice, and I heard somebody come back three times.” “That doesn’t make sense,” Captain Tucker said irritably. “Everything makes sense when you understand it,” the blind man observed. Joe, catching a movement of the hand that held Lady’s leash, followed his uncle into the living-room. “Joe, was the window of King’s room open?” “Yes, sir.” The meal was over, and the four men came back through the doorway. Dr. Stone found his chair. Ran Freeman dropped down upon the piano stool, but Lawton seemed to seek a seat far from the blind man and the dog. Waring paced the room, and Otis King was still cold and watchful. Freeman’s fingers, once more running soundlessly over the keys, struck a faint note. As though the sound had broken a barrier, he banged a chord. The next instant, swinging about on the stool, he faced the instrument and began to play, freely and without restraint. Joe found it hard to swallow. Music, in this house of death, sounded ghastly, almost sacrilegious. He looked at his uncle. The calmness was gone from Dr. Stone’s face. Around the sightless eyes, around the serene mouth, strange, intense lines he knew well had suddenly formed. Captain Tucker had gone out into the kitchen to talk to Cagge. Freeman ended with a crash of sound. Seconds passed, and nobody spoke. The silence seemed no more ghastly than the music. “Ran,” Otis King drawled, dangerously quiet, “your veins must be filled with ice.” “Why be hypocrites?” Freeman demanded. “We’re not mourning Anthony, are we?” “We can be decent about it,” King told him. Dr. Stone’s voice was again a calm stream. “There was one part, Freeman—Tum, te-tum-tum, tum-tum-te-tum. Toward the end. The execution was fast. Tum, te-tum——” “Oh, this.” Freeman faced the key-board again and began to play. “This what you mean?” “Play it,” said the blind man. Ran Freeman played. He was an artist, and he knew it. But Joe no longer gave ear to the music. Something quiet—something too quiet—had been in his uncle’s voice. Something that suggested a cocked trigger about to be fired. He shivered, and gripped the ends of his sweater, and held them tight. For the second time the music ended in a crash of chords. Freeman, swung about on the stool. “Like it, Doctor?” “Beautifully done,” the blind man said. He lay back against the cushions of the chair, loose and relaxed. “In fact, it would have been perfect if——” Freeman chuckled. “Are you a music critic, too, Doctor? If what?” “If,” Dr. Stone said quietly, “if many of those rapid notes had been struck by a living touch.” Joe screamed, “Look out, Uncle David.” For Freeman, no longer self-contained, had leaped from the stool and one hand had gone toward a pocket. The blind man did not move. “Lady, get him.” A tawny form hurtled through the air. There was the sound of a falling body, a scream of terror. Captain Tucker came running in from the kitchen. “What——” “It’s all right, Tucker.” Dr. Stone’s voice was once more a calm stream. “Lady will merely hold him. He’s your man.” Ten minutes later Lawton, King and Waring were gone, glad to be free and away. Ran Freeman, white and sullen, sat handcuffed in one of the big chairs. Captain Tucker, having telephoned for a policeman to relieve him until the Coroner arrived, came back to the living-room. “I still don’t get it, Doctor,” he said ruefully. “After Lady trailed to King’s room——” “That was a laid trail,” Dr. Stone told him. “Anthony had warned them there was a dog that could track. Would a man deliberately invite detection by leaving a trail right to his door? However, some one of the four had been in the room. Which one? Probably the one with most at stake. Lawton stood to suffer in a small business. Waring and King would have lost their jobs. But Freeman stood to lose the Panner fortune. “King told us he had not been in the room, or unpacked his bag, or been to bed. So far as the bed and the bag were concerned it had to be the truth, for it was a story too easily disproved if he had lied. By the same reasoning, knowing that there was a dog in the neighborhood that could follow scent, he would not have made a trail to his own room if he had committed murder. Therefore, when the trail led to a room in which there was a rumpled bed and a bag partly unpacked, one fact was obvious. King was not the man. “He said he had gone out twice. But Cagge said somebody had come in three times. Did you notice the open window in King’s room? The ceilings down here are low—a blind man can feel these things. The second floor wouldn’t be far from the ground. Whoever killed Anthony knew King was out of the house. Therefore, after the crime, he purposely left the silk handkerchief to give the dog a scent. Then, going to King’s room, he mussed the bed, dragged clothing out of the bag, and dropped out the window. No doubt you’ll find deep footprints where he dropped. Going into the room and out the window, he probably reasoned, brought the trail to King’s room and ended it there. “He was the third man Cagge heard come in. He must have brought Anthony’s manuscript back into the house with him intending to dispose of it later. But King must have come back almost on his heels. Not wanting to be found with the manuscript he dropped it and fled. Perhaps he reasoned that King, finding it, would destroy it, anyway. If I had any doubts at all they were gone when we came downstairs. The four men were eating. Lady, circling the table, stopped at Freeman’s chair. She had found the scent again. I don’t think Freeman meant to kill. His idea was to steal the book. But Anthony awoke. Am I right?” Freeman had recovered some of his nerve. “Do you expect any jury to convict on the testimony of a dog?” he demanded. “Tucker,” said Dr. Stone, “will you look at his right hand?” Joe shrank away from the prisoner’s violent struggle to free himself of the handcuffs. Captain Tucker, holding Freeman in the chair, turned a startled face toward the blind man. “Why, Doctor?——” “Exactly, Tucker. I had the testimony of Lady, but I needed greater proof. Freeman gave it to me when he played the piano. All through the music something kept recurring. Perhaps, were I not blind, did I not have to depend so much on hearing, I would not have noticed it. A hesitation on certain notes, an almost imperceptible break in the rhythm, a faint click upon the ivory of the keys that could only be made by something foreign, something that was not living flesh. Freeman has an artificial finger.” Freeman had slumped in the chair. Captain Tucker straightened up. “Doctor,” he said curiously, “your brain travels too fast for me.... Much too fast. Just what does that prove?” “Everything,” Dr. Stone said quietly. “Modern surgery does miracles these days. Freeman has an artificial finger that can be taken off. Do you remember Cagge’s story? Old Anthony kept muttering ‘Four, four.’ That’s what he had seen. Four! Four fingers on the hand of his murderer.” |
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