  For several minutes Bill stood still and listened. Not even a board creaked. The house was as quiet as a tomb. Of one thing he felt certain: Mr. Zenas Sanders and his bodyguard had left the place for good. There would be no more visitors tonight. He looked at his wristwatch. It was quarter to eleven. Fifteen minutes more, and he would slip out of the back door and make his way over to Twin Heads Harbor. More than ever now, he wanted to get in touch with Ezra Parker. Two heads would be much better than one in this predicament. He must have advice. Too much hung on the decision he must make—he dared not rely on his own judgment alone. But there must be some way out of this mysterious business. Parker, that clear-headed Yankee, would be able to suggest the proper course to follow, if anybody could. The last thing to do before leaving, was to make sure that the garage was still lighted up. Parker must not fail their rendezvous. And now Bill realized that it was no longer necessary to leave lights burning all over the house. Pocketing the small automatic which Mr. Sanders had so thoughtlessly provided, he picked up his flashlight, and set about switching off electrics in the various rooms. Working his way through the house, he came to the butler’s pantry. Even in full sunshine it must have been depressing. With only the narrow beam of his flash to illumine it, the place was dank enough to plunge the most cheerful person into a mood of melancholy. Bill gazed at the wall with its jail-like row of keys, each bearing a small tag with the name of a room in diminutive handwriting. Above the keys was an ordinary glass frame which enclosed the indicators of bells from the rooms. It seemed as if he were watching the still heart of the house, with wires leading like bloodless arteries to the gaunt and distant chambers. Suddenly, Bill flashed his torch full upon the wall. He had thought he saw one of the indicators move. The bell had not rung—or he had not heard it—but he could have sworn that he had seen one of the disks tremble. He peered closer. For a full minute he watched the indicators, but now could discern no movement. “Nerves!” he muttered angrily. “This darned house is making a woman of me.” A glance at his watch showed that it lacked but five minutes to the hour. He strolled to the end of the kitchen passage, returned, and went into the hall to get his cap. The wind had risen. He could hear it swishing through the trees outside, a long, low whine in the pine-needles, in vivid contrast to the deadly stillness inside the house. He was returning to the pantry on his way to the back door, when he felt his heart jump—and then stand still. Clear and unmistakable, the tinkling of an electric bell. Bill leapt into the butler’s pantry and his eyes scanned the double row of indicators on the wall. Not one of them moved by the fraction of an inch. A soft, faint whir sounded again. In some room of the house a finger was pressed upon an electric button. Bill went into the passage and listened. The sound was much clearer now. It seemed to come from behind the closed door across the corridor. That door was of heavy oak, and the key was in the lock. Even without the white tag that hung from it, Bill knew it was a second entrance to the cellar, or so Charlie had told him. What if the door led to a part of the cellar that he had not already inspected? A moment’s thought made it plain that Mr. Evans must have left the key in the door to prevent the insertion of a duplicate from the cellar side. The ringing stopped abruptly. Why on earth, Bill wondered, should there be an electric bell in the cellar? Charlie had mentioned no such thing, and who could have been ringing it, and why? For a few moments Bill could not decide whether to investigate or simply to ignore the matter. There was, however, the possibility that it was meant to be a message or a warning to him, and he decided to find out its meaning at once. Extinguishing his flashlight, he gently turned the key in the cellar door. He pulled the door open and quickly stepped behind it. Nothing could be heard from the cellar, not a rustle, not a whisper. After waiting a moment or two, Bill ventured to move into the open doorway. A musty smell floated up the stairs—a smell of earth and stagnant air. With his outstretched foot, Bill explored until he found the first step. Very gingerly he descended into the darkness, his hand touching the stone wall at his side for guidance. When he reached the bottom, he paused again to listen. But he could hear nothing save his own breathing. Then, like a sudden stab through his brain, the bell pealed again. This time it was quite close to him. He felt that if he reached out he could have touched it. The flashlight was still clenched in his hand. He hesitated, then pressed the button and held the light above his head. The cellar, vast and irregular, stanchioned by square stone pillars, lay before him, streaked by the wavering shadows cast by his light. Bill saw at once that it was not the place he had gone over with Charlie. Arched wine-bins, mostly empty, made dim hollows along the walls. But still he could not locate the sound. With a final whir the ringing stopped, and the conviction swept into his mind that he had been listening, not to a call-bell, but to a telephone. Yet he could see nothing that remotely resembled a telephone instrument. A bare heavy table with a couple of benches beside it stood in the middle of the floor, and he could see nothing else in the dimness save the blank, arched walls. Ready to snap off his light at the first hint of any lurking enemy, Bill pushed forward and explored two short bays that ran out at right angles to the main wine cellar, but without result. Why, he deliberated, should there be a telephone in this underground spot? So far as his observation had gone, there was no phone upstairs, and a cellar seemed a mighty queer place to instal one. To conceal the instrument seemed stranger still. Bill noticed that a passage led off to the left. Avoiding some tumbled packing-cases on the floor, he went forward to see what he could find. After he had gone about ten yards, he was brought up short by a heavy door. Like the one upstairs, this door also had its key in the lock. It was a primitive sort of lock and made a loud click as he turned it—too loud for Bill’s taste in the circumstances. He let a couple of seconds go by before venturing to proceed. His hand was on the key, ready to pull the door open, when something happened that made him stop and listen intently. He snapped off his light. From behind the iron-studded door he imagined—but was by no means certain—that he had heard a sound. After a minute or two of silence he concluded that it must have been the wind stirring in a loose grating in the passage beyond. But presently he thanked his stars he had switched off the light, for suddenly he heard quite clearly the sound of footsteps, approaching on the other side of the unlocked door. The situation called for swift action. In the blinding darkness, he quickly estimated whether he could possibly get through the cellar and up into the house in time to avoid discovery. It was not likely. But there was a shallow niche in the wall behind the door, and he slipped into it, praying that he would remain concealed when the door opened. The footsteps grew louder, then drew to a stop. A pause, and then he heard the mumble of a voice from behind the door. Somebody was talking over the telephone in there—of that Bill felt sure. But the voice was too low for him to distinguish the words. Curiosity impelled Bill to risk pulling the door open half an inch, and he peered through the crack into the space beyond. Instantly the voice ceased. The place was pitch dark, and though Bill stared till his eye-balls ached, he could see nothing. Then in the inky blackness he heard a slight rustle. What was the man doing? Even though Bill had used the utmost care in opening the door, this stranger must have heard him. Glued to the crack, he closed his eyes and listened. At first he heard nothing—then it came again—a faint rustle. It was nearer now—almost at the door. Somebody or something was moving stealthily toward him. Bill drew back and none too soon. Bang! A heavy body crashed against the farther side of the door. It slammed open and back against the cellar wall with a crash loud enough to wake the dead. Bill had just time to realize that had he remained at the crack he would have had a nasty blow, when sinewy arms gripped him and he found himself fighting for his life. |
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