The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920)

I

"Good night, Mr. Lannen." Louise Willoughby extended her hand.

"We breakfast at nine," she said "I'll see you then. I hope you sleep well."

"Thank you, I'm sure I shall."

She gathered the folds of an embroidered chiffon gown about her and slowly mounted the stairs. Lannen stood leaning against the newel post and watched her ascend.

As he turned away, he faced his host. The cold metallic glitter in the older man's black eyes gave him a strange uncomfortable feeling. "Well?" said Willoughby. "She's charming, Andrew; you should be proud of her. She has improved wonderfully in the three years since I saw her."

A slow smile crept about the drawn lips of the physician. It did not extend to his eyes, but became lost in the heavy mustache and Van Dyke beard he wore.

Lannen again shivered. The snaky glitter in his physician-friend's eyes fascinated him. He wondered if it could be true; that the woman who had just left him, with purity written on every curve and line of her, could be the wanton thing her husband fancied; that she had so forgotten herself and her social position as to stoop to an intrigue with her gardener.

It seemed impossible of Louise Willoughby. Yet many changes had taken place during the three years he had been abroad. He had not known her well before his departure, perhaps he did not know her at all now.

"Come up into my laboratory," Willoughby said suddenly.

He closed the windows and switched off all the lights with the exception of one held in a bronze Venus at the foot of the stairs.

"Andy," Lannen said as they entered the heavily odorous room, "I'd rather you said nothing more about this to me. Some day you will be sorry for having taken me into your confidence; and then our friendship will end. There are some things a man has no right to discuss with another. I don't need to remind you of that. This is one of them!"

"I've got to talk to some or go mad! You think it's my imagination! You think I'm a jealous fool! I tell you I know. From the day that man came here, she ha,s been different. I've watched them — I've seen his arm around her, I've heard him call her Louise—"

He broke, and buried his head on his arms he had flung on the table before him.

Lannen gripped his shoulder and shook him. "Why don't you send him away?"

Willoughby raised his bloodshot eyes. "And admit defeat? Give him the pleasure of saying he was fired because Andrew Willoughby's wife fell in love with him! — Never! Besides—" he sprang to his feet, and paced the little room nervously, his long hands with their gnarled crooked fingers, stained with chemicals, twitching and pulling at his coat as he walked " — how do I know that she won't go with him if I send him away?"

Lannen remembered the brief glimpse he had had of the gardener. A slim tall fellow, little more than a boy, with close cropped dark hair, a pale almost ethereal face, a quiet unassuming manner.

"How long has he been here?"

"Allering? Six weeks!"

Willoughby, hit the glass-topped table nervously. As he did so a tiny vial of amber covered liquid fell over, knocking the stopper out of it. A pungent sickish odor filled the room. The doctor gave a startled cry.

Flinging a small rubber blanket over the table, he lifted the vial gingerly. He placed the stopper back in it, carefully keeping it away from his face. Then he covered it with the rubber. He had become ashen colored. As though unable to speak, he motioned to Lannen to throw up the windows.

"Damn careless of me," he muttered a moment later.

He placed the bottle high up in a cabinet above him, then he locked the door of the chest. "Damn careless. It's an experiment of mine, Arthur. Dy'e feel alright?"

Lannen laughed uneasily. "I shouldn't care to remain in here long with that odor. It's heady, to say the least."

Willoughby poured some liquid from another bottle into a small glass and handed it to him; then he took a draught of it himself. "Drink this. It will overcome the effects of the other."

Suddenly he became tense. The glitter in his eyes became more pronounced.

He seemed to be listening to something. The warm salt air blowing through the window brought a hint of the distant sea — and something else.

"What is it?" Lannen gasped.

The quivering of Willoughby's wide nostrils, the sudden snapping of the glass's stem intrigued him.

"Listen!"

A long sort of growl — then a long drawn howl from a dog some place not far off was all Lannen heard. There was another howl, then silence. The color came back to the physician's face. He smiled apologetically.

Lannen stared at him in bewilderment.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"I–I thought I heard her come down the stairs. I was listening to hear if he met her!" The man's tongue seemed to be thick. He spoke with difficulty.

"Buck up, old man, buck up!" Lannen gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder, but at the same time he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder out of the window toward the gardens beyond.

Again the long rumbling howl of the dog penetrated the night air. The older man suddenly lurched forward into a chair and began to sob in a broken hearted way. At that moment Lannen fancied he saw a face at the open window, but before he could ascertain whether it was his imagination or not, it had vanished; but to him it seemed he had seen a young pale face with smouldering dark eyes and close cropped hair.

"Whew!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with me?"

II

The sudden clamor of a clock striking three startled him out of a sound sleep. At least he thought it was the striking of the hour which did it. But as he raised himself on one elbow in the darkness, the doubled beat of his heart, the damp chill of his flesh, told him it was something else which had awakened him. Stealthy footsteps outside his room; the cautious opening and closing of a door down the hall, the, rustle of garments as of someone moving in the corridor were registered with dark significance on his brain.

"Poor old Andrew," he muttered.

He sank back to his pillow. But he could not sleep; though his pulse became normal. He found himself striving to make out the objects in his room. One by one, out of the hazy grey of the blackness they became outlined and visible to his straining eyes. In an irritating fashion the drawn blind flapped forward and back with the wind which had arisen since nightfall. Unable at last to stand the sound of the flapping, he rose and went to the window to raise it.

The moon was high, unobscured by any clouds, and shone down with a dazzling white brilliance which made the grounds and surrounding territory almost as light as day. The long row of glass topped greenhouses gleamed as through covered with snow. Off in the distance, far behind the high stone wall which enclosed Dr. Willoughby's Long Island estate, shone the water, near at hand; the wind whistled in a sing-song manner through the trees.

From the darkening shelter of the stone wall emerged two figures.

The watching man knew instantly who they were; even before the moon outlined the slender figure of Willoughby's wife, and the broader silhouette of the gardener, Altering.

A feeling of nausea swept over him. He turned away from the window. Crossing to his bed he switched on a light just over it, determined to while away the time until daylight with a current magazine. But the face of the woman outside in the garden seemed to mock him from the printed page. Her dark, shadow-laden eyes seemed to plead with him between the lines of printing, as though she begged him not to judge her too harshly.

The magazine slipped from his hand. He closed his eyes and lay inert.

A moment later the cry of some one in mortal agony penetrated the night air. Then a woman shrieked in terror.

For a moment Lannen lay panic striken; then, springing out of bed, he snatched up a dressing gown and rushed into the hall.

He came face to face with Willoughby.

His host was pallid. Willoughby's hands trembled as he held a tattered silk gown about his emaciated figure. A moment later another door down the hall was thrown open, and the corpulent kimono-clad housekeeper burst into their presence.

"You heard it?" Willoughby cried in a harsh whisper, clutching Lannen's arm.

His eyes were glassy, the lids swollen as though from heavy sleep and being suddenly awakened. His chin shook.

"My Gawd! My Gawd!" wailed the woman, trying to pull the kimono about her ample bosom — "What was it, Doctor? Did you hear it?"

"A woman screamed," Lannen said grimly. "The cry came from some place near the greenhouses. Someone must be injured."

"I heard a man too," this from the butler who had joined them. Even partially clad he retained some of the dignity of his position.

"Oh, what d'ye 'spose has happened? Doctor dear, what d'ye think it is?" the housekeeper caught her master's arm, and clung desperately to him.

He did not seem conscious of her presence.

He was looking into the lighted corridor below, at his wife; as she stumbled blindly through the outer door into the illuminated passageway.

She was sobbing convulsively. She started to climb the stairs slowly, dragging herself upward with an effort. Her shimmery evening gown was torn and draggled about her, her face was grey, a death color; and her eyes terror stricken.

At the head of the stairs she collapsed in a heap. When Willoughby started to lift her, she gave a shuddering cry, and warded off his touch. Her husband gave a sucking breath. He looked at Lannen.

"Mrs. Willoughby!" cried the latter dropping on his knees beside her. Subconsciously he wondered what had become of the man who had been with her, if it were he who had given that cry of terrible torture. "Mrs. Willoughby, what is it? What has happened?"

For a moment her white lips quivered. "I–I — there's a dead man out there by the greenhouses, I — stumbled over him! I touched his cold face. I—!"

"A dead man!"

"Yes—!" she suddenly straightened and stared with a fixity into her husband's face.

A strange expression came over her own; then she allowed Lannen to assist her to rise, and in a quiet manner, though with obvious effort she requested the butler to bring her some wine.

"A dead man!"

"Come," said Lannen abruptly — his legal training coming to the foreground, — "She may be mistaken, the man may still be alive."

"He was cold," she answered.

The little procession filed out toward the greenhouses, a motley, weird looking crowd in bath robes, smoking jackets and kimonos. Louise Willoughby walked with Lannen and her husband. Her hand lightly rested on Lannen's all the way. He felt the nervous tremors that shook her as they neared the spot where she had discovered the dead man.

"There are lights in the greenhouse," Willoughby said abruptly. "I'll turn them on."

He left them for a moment, then the glass enclosure became illuminated.

An exclamation of horror burst from the group. Mrs. Willoughby clung to Lannen's arm in a feverish manner.

Huddled up, chest and chin meeting, lay the body of a man, unquestionably dead. He was roughly dressed, his shoes in tatters, his bare feet showing through the gaping soles; while several days' growth of beard added to the gruesomeness of his appearance. Long yellow teeth were bared in a distortion of agony; bleary eyes stared upward. There was no sign of a wound, no indications of foul play; but the man had unquestionably died suddenly and in great torture. Evidently it had been his death cry they had heard.

Willoughby knelt beside him; then after a second's examination rose abruptly. "Dead. Heart failure, I think, but it will be best to notify the police."

"Know him?" Lannen asked.

"No. He looks like a hobo."

"Are you going to leave him?" cried his wife hysterically. "It seems so awful to leave a dead man out here on the ground alone! It's so heartless!"

"He can't be moved until the police arrive," Lannen answered. "Willoughby, take your wife inside. I'll stay here until they come and see that nothing happens."

Louise Willoughby suddenly gave a cry of terror. "The police! Must you call the police? He's a tramp — he died of heart failure! Don't call the police! It will create a scandal! I couldn't stand that — please — please do something else!"

"My dear, my dear!" remonstrated her husband quietly, "this is very unfortunate. I'm sorry the poor devil chose to die here. But it may not be heart failure you know; he may have been murdered!"

"Murdered," she sobbed the word, as though it burst from her against her will.

Willoughby ignored her exclamation.

He continued suavely as though he enjoyed her hysterical anguish:

"If the man has been murdered and we placed an obstacle in the way of his murderer being apprehended, we would be putting ourselves liable for more than a scandal."

She suddenly swayed. Willoughby placed his hand on her shoulder; but she turned on him in almost insane fury.

"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't you dare to touch me!"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, turning quietly to his friend. "You take her inside, Lannen, she's wrought up, no wonder, poor child. I'll remain here. Call headquarters please."

III

When they reached the house, the woman dropped wearily into a great chair. The intense pain in her face, the tremulous quiver of her mouth, caused a wave of pity to sweep over Lannen.

"Are — are you going to call the police?" she whispered.

"I must."

Her white hands gripped tighter. In spite of the things he had seen. Lannen again had a doubt as to her perfidy. Strangely enough, he now felt no sympathy for her husband.

He lifted the receiver from the hook. As he did so, she touched him.

"Mr. Lannen?"

"Yes."

"Are you my friend?"

"Yes — why — yes, of course, Mrs. Willoughby."

"I mean really, truly — my friend — or his?"

"Andrew's?"

"Yes."

"I trust I am a friend to you both," he evaded.

She shook her head impatiently.

"You can't be that. Can't you see he hates me, and I–I loathe him — I despise him — oh my God! How I hate him — and yet—!"

"Mrs. Willoughby!"

"Oh, I know I horrify you!" She laughed and began to pace the length of the room — "if only I had someone I could turn too, someone to aid me! Someone in all the world I could trust! You seem to be a good man — if only I dared! — " she paused abruptly, then in a sudden change — "Do you think I'm a bad woman — do you think I am what he thinks?"

"Why, my dear lady, I—"

"I see. He has lied to you too-poisoned you against me — as he has others — and—" she covered her face with her hands.

"I — really I—" for once he could not find words. "Mrs. Willoughby — I saw you tonight."

"You saw me — and—" her eyes opened wide.

"And him!"

As she said nothing, he turned from her and called up the police headquarters, making his request for their presence in a quiet, professional manner.

When he hung up the receiver he turned to her.

"Mrs. Willoughby, you found the body. Who was with you at the time?"

She did not reply; after waiting a moment for her to speak, he continued:

"You realize that the police will ask questions of you, when they arrive. As a lawyer and your friend, I am advising you to tell me everything before they come. I may make things easier for you."

"Easier for me?" she repeated dully. "I've done nothing. Nothing wrong."

"I think it is murder," Lannen said slowly.

She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Yes, it is murder. I know that," she whispered.

"How do you know?" he said sharply.

She shivered.

"I–I—" She gave a little hysterical laugh. "Just as a woman intuitively knows many things. Something here — tells me it is."

"Did you know the man?"

"No! No! Of course not. I never saw him before. Didn't you hear what Andrew said, he is a tramp — a hobo — probably — probably—" her voice trailed off, and her dark eyes widened.

"Probably what—?" Lannen leaned forward, and laid his hand on hers. Her skin was damp and ice cold.

"Probably he — he stopped in the grounds to sleep or for a drink of water and — Mr. Lannen, I can't talk, I'm — I'm — you'll excuse me — I must go upstairs, I—" she rose unsteadily, and for a moment seemed about to faint. "You can call me when the — they arrive, perhaps I'll feel better then."

He assisted her to the stairs, watched her slowly mount them; then turned back into the room more puzzled than before.

As he sank into a deep cushioned chair, before the window, heavy satin draperies behind him were pushed aside. A young man wearing mud stained overalls and a dark blue shirt stepped into the room. He held one finger up to caution Lannen to silence, then motioned him to draw the blinds so that their figures could not be seen by the men outside who waited by the greenhouses.

"Well?" said Lannen.

The other slumped into a chair opposite to him. He suddenly seemed overcome and unable to speak. Lannen noted the way his hands trembled, his nostrils quivered. After a moment's silence, the lawyer asked:

"You're Allering, the gardener, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir." He leaned forward, almost touching Lannen. His eyes glowed in his eagerness. "You've sent for the police?"

"Yes." Lannen reached for a cigar and lighted it before he answered the boy. In that brief moment's survey of the gardener, he felt an instinctive liking for him.

"It might be murder, you know," he added.

"It was murder, Mr. Lannen. That poor fellow out there died the death that was intended for me!"

"What do you mean by that?" Lannen dropped his cigar and quickly rescued it from the carpet.

"I'm not going to hide anything sir, only — only I–I can't face the police — not yet — I've — I can't tell you! But can't you tell them what I say and keep me out of their way? Isn't it possible?" his white face worked convulsively.

He spoke as though compelled to do so against his will.

"I don't understand you," said the other man coldly, "You say someone desired your death, yet you don't want to inform the police yourself. Don't you realize that you will have to testify? You were with Mrs. Willoughby when she stumbled over the body."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm a lawyer, Allering, perhaps you didn't know that."

"Yes — yes I knew it; that's why I'm asking you to help me. To help Louise — I—" Lannen winced as he used the Christian name of his friend's wife, but the gardener did not see the movement.

"You didn't kill the man, did you?" snapped Lannen suddenly.

"No! No! Good God, no!"

"Well, then will you be kind enough to explain just what is it all about?"

"He hates me—" Allering continued.

"Who?"

"Andrew — Andrew Willoughby. He hates me as much as he fears me—"

Lannen started angrily to his feet "Willoughby is my friend!"

The younger man laughed stridently. "Friend! He's no man's friend! There's only one thing in the world of any value to him, that's science! Didn't you see how he took the death of that poor dog out there? I was behind a clump of shrub. I heard and saw him. He gloated over his body! He was glad! Glad that a man had died and proven another one of his damnable poisons efficacious!"

"By God! — are you insinuating that — that Andrew Willoughby killed the man out there?"

"I am!"

"A man he had never seen, a stray tramp—"

"It was intended for me—" Allering returned wearily — "he failed in his purpose so far as I was concerned, but he made a sure test and it proved successful."

"You're making an astounding statement, young man," said Lannen straining to keep his voice calm and uninterested — "You, are accusing a man of murder; your employer, the husband of the woman with whom—"

Allering sprang to his feet. The veins stood out in great welts on his high, thin forehead. His nostrils quivered. When he again sank into his chair he was panting from the struggle.

"Mr. Lannen," he said abruptly, "I–I met Louise, Mrs. Willoughby, outside in the grounds — why I did so is our affair — but she is a good woman, — you must know she is! Her husband is more than a scoundrel; he is the vilest, lowest—" Lannen's gesture interrupted him, he continued in a quieter tone—

"We met by an arbor near the greenhouses. It is very dark there, and in spite of its being moonlight we weren't seen; but we saw the figure of a man as he came out of the house. It was Andrew Willoughby. At first we thought he had seen Louise leave and was following us; but he passed the arbor and went on toward the greenhouses."

"In the moonlight, which made everything perfectly visible in the open, I could see he was carrying something. A little case, his medicine case, he uses when visiting a patient. I was afraid he could hear Louise's breathing, he passed so close to us; but he was too intent on his wicked thoughts to notice anything else. At the greenhouses he hesitated, and looked stealthily around; then he laughed. That laugh made Louise grip my arm. I put my hand over her mouth for fear she would cry out."

"There is a hydrant beside one of the houses. I use it every morning to attach the hose. To my knowledge no one else ever touches it. No one has occasion too. Willoughby was aware of this. It is an old fashioned arrangement and I have protested against it, but the thing has remained as it is. Several times I have been drenched by the nozzle slipping. As we watched, Willoughby went to this hydrant. He carefully unfastened the hose; then he opened the little case he carried. He took out something which was evidently a piece of cloth and wiped all the damp off the rusty metal. Then he put the cloth back into the case. Next he took a small vial out of it, and with great caution poured it all over the metal. Then as quietly as he had come, he whirled around and went back to the house."

Allering paused. Then — "We both stood there in the darkness, unable at first to speak or move," he went on. "Then Louise whispered, 'Charlie, what was it? What was he doing?' I didn't tell her — I knew he had contrived some diabolical way to get rid of me, though just how a liquid poison on a piece of metal could do it, I didn't know; I resolved under no conditions to touch it. Louise became frightened and started to cry. She was pent up and nervous before, now she became hysterical. I tried to reassure her and told her she had best go back to the house. Though she tried to control her feelings, I felt she knew instinctively what I did, that her husband had, planned my murder!"

"Just as she braced up and started to leave me — a man vaulted the stone wall, and lurched into view, a pool of moonlight outlining him distinctly. I think he was a tramp or a thief. I had never seen him before. He wandered about aimlessly, until he came to the hydrant. Almost before I knew what he was doing, he had put his mouth to the socket and turned on the water. The next moment he gave that cry you heard. We saw him stagger backwards, fling up his arms, waving them wildly, then fall over, doubling up and writhing as though in horrible pain. It only lasted a moment. Then he was dead. Louise screamed. She started to run. She fell twice. I was going to follow her, then I knew I mustn't. I crept further back into the shadow of the arbor. After you all came back into the house, I stole out the other way, climbed the wall and returned through the servants' entrance."

"Why should Andrew wish to kill you?" Lannen asked abruptly.

Allering rose again.

He crossed to the lawyer, and stood under a stand lamp, allowing its light to shine directly on his pallid face. The skin over his cheek bones was drawn and tight. There was a feverish gleam in his eyes. His young mouth was hard and grim; but in spite of everything there was a look of candor and manliness about him which impressed Lannen.

"Arthur Lannen, don't you know me?"

"Why — Why—" the vague something which had disturbed Lannen resolved itself into a memory. The memory of a pink-cheeked, red-haired lad, with a sunny smile, an almost cherubic cast of countenance.

He gave a gasp. "Charlie Moore — not — Charlie Moore?"

"Yes!"

"Louise's brother! But why—?"

An automobile came into the driveway, stopped with a noisy purr of the engine. Some men alighted, then the door bell gave a metallic clatter.

The boy clutched Lannen's arm.

"For God's sake, keep me out of this!" he cried. "I'll explain later."

Before the lawyer could answer he had disappeared behind the satin draperies.

IV

Lannen opened the door before the servant reached it. The inspector, followed by his medical examiner and a couple of officers, strode into the hallway.

"Well, what's the dope?" the inspector asked abruptly.

He was a large man with a twenty-four hours' crop of blue black beard; his eyes were dark and very keen. He wore horn rimmed spectacles which he kept constantly removing and polishing. Lannen knew that in that brief second's survey of the room he had noticed the almost imperceptible swaying of the curtains as they fell together behind Charlie Moore.

"You called me?" the inspector continued, not waiting for his question to be answered.

"Yes."

"Where's Willoughby?" The doctor was well known on the Island. "Outside. A dead man was found on the grounds. Some sneak thief or hobo evidently. We thought it best to send for you. It may be heart-failure. It may be murder."

"Alright. Take me to him."

As they stepped outside, Lannen realized that morning had arrived.

In the hazy light he saw Dr. Willoughby seated on a stone bench, his shaggy bearded chin cupped in his hand, as he stared with evident interest at the huddled splotch on the ground before him. The servants had grouped themselves some little distance away, evidently discussing the gruesome event; but at the sight of the officers they hushed abruptly.

Lannen glanced quickly at the hydrant. It was open, a slow trickle of water resolved itself into a little rivulet below it, and wended away into a tiny stream toward the greenhouses a trifle below it.

Willoughby rose leisurely at their appearance and extended his hand to the inspector.

"Mr. Dwyer," he said, "I'm Dr. Willoughby; this is my home — it's unfortunate—"

"Yes, I know Doctor—" Dwyer interrupted. "The man's dead alright. You don't know him, do you?"

Willoughby shook his head. "No; seems to be a hobo, doesn't he? I fancy he died of heart failure, but I'd rather your examiner passed upon the case. I don't think it advisable for you to depend solely upon my decision. It's awkward happening on my grounds, you know."

He spoke easily. All traces of the strain of the evening before seemed to have vanished.

The examiner knelt on the damp ground and took a brief survey of the body.

"No indication of foul play?" he said.

He scowled uncertainly, then looked from Willoughby's face to the inspector's. "He seems to have died suddenly, with acute agony. Rather an unusual attitude for a heart failure to assume, don't you think so, Dr. Willoughby?"

"I do; that is why I hesitated to diagnose it as such."

"And yet," the physician leaned closer, "I–I — I'm not prepared to say it isn't."

"Look him over, Riley," said Dwyer abruptly to a younger man in plain clothes — "see if there's anything to identify him on his clothes."

"Plain hobo," said the other after a moment's survey; there were no cards, letters, nor marks of any kind on the body or clothing to lead to any knowledge of the man.

"Heart failure it is, I take it," said Dwyer grimly. "Must a caught the poor devil suddenly. Probably dropped in here to steal a night's lodging, and having a bum heart keeled over."

Lannen started to speak, hesitated, then turned abruptly to Dr. Willoughby.

There was an enigmatical look on the physician's bearded face. Lannen almost fancied that triumph gleamed through his black eyes.

"You — you — aren't going to have an inquest?" the lawyer queried.

"Not necessary," Dwyer replied. "Thing seems pretty clear to me."

He turned deferentially to Willoughby. "You passed it as heart failure, also, didn't you, Doctor?"

Willoughby bowed his head in assent.

"We'll have the body removed at once," the inspector continued. "Riley, you can stay here until the wagon comes. If there's nothing further, we'll bid you good-morning."

Something seemed to snap in Lannen's brain. The story the young gardener had told him, the scream the dead man had given, had made too deep an impression on the lawyer's mind to be dismissed lightly.

"Doctor—" he exclaimed, touching the medical assistant's arm, "do persons dying suddenly of heart failure give a cry of mortal agony?"

"Hey?"

Lannen repeated the question.

"No — no, I think not. It would be unusual, quite unusual but not impossible for them to cry out. Death comes too suddenly as a rule for them to make any sound — death so painful as this. Why do you ask?"

"This man gave a scream. I heard it. So did Mrs. Willoughby, who found the body."

The inspector dug the blunt toe of his shoe into the grass at his feet. He coughed, then looked at Willoughby, back to Lannen's expressive face, then to his assistant. A slow flush mounted to his forehead.

"This puts another complexion on the matter," he said quietly. "Where is Mrs. Willoughby?"

"In the house," her husband replied. "She was badly upset about the matter and has gone in."

"Stay here, Riley. Come on with me the rest of you." An air of alertness had taken hold of Dwyer, as though he suddenly sensed something of interest. As the servants, huddled together, did not move, he gave a peremptory gesture toward them, and repeated the command for them to return to the house with him.

V

Once inside the house Willoughby became a genial host, inquiring of the officers if they desired anything to drink, and when Dwyer accepted with alacrity, he ordered the butler to serve all present.

Dwyer wandered about the room for a few moments, touching a bit of furniture here, a drapery there, and puffing viciously on a strong and vile smelling cigar. After he had swallowed a large drink of old whiskey, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he asked that Mrs. Willoughby be called.

"You heard this fellow scream?" he said turning to Lannen, while they waited for her appearance.

"Yes."

"Wake you up?"

"No, I was awake."

"How's that? Insomnia? What time did he scream?"

"About half-past four. I should judge. No, I don't suffer with insomnia. I'm usually a heavy sleeper."

"Something else wakened you then?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"That's hard to say. Possibly being in a strange room and bed. I'm a guest here, you know, possibly the quiet of the country after the city — or — I fancied I heard foot-steps outside my door."

Willoughby leaned forward.

His black eyes lightened, the pupils became mere pin points.

"What kind of foot-steps?" inquired Dwyer.

"That I can't state. I'm not prepared to say that I heard any. I may have fancied I did. If I did hear them, they were very soft — cautious I should say."

"A man's or a woman's?"

"I don't know — but I think a man's."

Willoughby sank back in the chair, gripping the arms of it with long stained fingers.

"How long after you heard these foot-steps was it that you heard this scream?"

"I should judge thirty minutes. I lay in bed some little time, then unable to sleep I got up and sat by the window."

"Does your window face those greenhouses?"

"Yes."

"Did you see this man enter the grounds?"

"No, I had left die window when he screamed."

"And you saw nothing suspicious out there?"

Lannen hesitated. He caught the glance his host directed toward him. and coughed. Something impelled him to say "No."

Louise Willoughby came into the room. She had removed her be-draggled evening gown, and had replaced it with a tea gown of lavender satin and lace. Her face was ghastly pale in the morning light. Her eyes wide and very dark.

Lannen suddenly felt a great pity for her. Her heavy mass of dark red hair she had let down and braided into a great rope which hung over one shoulder. It made her look younger, almost girlish.

At her entrance Willoughby merely raised his head, looked at her a second, then back toward the inspector.

She accepted the chair Lannen offered her.

"You wished to see me?" she said.

"Yes, Mrs. Willoughby. I'm sorry to disturb you, but this unfortunate death on your grounds makes it necessary." Dwyer's voice unconsciously softened as he addressed her.

"I understand. Please pardon my appearance, I had gone to bed."

"You were the first to find the dead man's body, weren't you, Mrs. Willoughby?"

"Yes."

"You were alone?"

"No." Her gaze did not falter, nor did she look at her husband.

"Who was with you?"

"A young man, Mr. Altering."

"Did this young man — Mr. Allering — see—?"

She interrupted him. "We both saw him fall!"

"Fall! The man wasn't dead when you first saw him?"

The woman bit her lip. Then she shook her head. "No, Mr. Allering and I were in the arbor near the greenhouses. We saw a man climb over the fence. He staggered. Then — then—," her eyes shifted and rested on the face of her husband.

Willoughby was yellow. His black eyes like beads stared at her with all the fascination of a snake coiled to spring.

She shivered — "Then — he gave a terrible cry, flung up his arms and fell over writhing. I think he died instantly. I screamed too. It was horrible to see a man die. Then I started to run. He lay in my pathway. It was dark — the moon went" under a cloud right after it happened. I fell — I touched his cold face—"

She paused, staring straight ahead of her as if visualizing what had taken place.

"That is all?" said Dwyer.

"Yes." Lannen wondered if Dwyer realized the woman was lying.

"Where is this Allering now?" the officer inquired, looking about.

The servants, who had come into the room on returning to the house, shook their heads.

"I don't know," Mrs. Willoughby answered.

"Probably in his room," snapped her husband, speaking for the first time. "He is the gardener employed here."

Dwyer merery raised his eyebrows. He studied the pale patrician face of the woman, then turned to one of his assistants. "Riley, go with a servant to get him."

VI

Dwyer and his medical adviser again traversed the lawn to the greenhouses. Lannen went with them. The operator whom Dwyer had left in charge of the body grinned a sickly welcome as they approached. Again Lannen note" d the dripping hydrant. Dwyer stalked about the grounds. Crossing to the greenhouses he opened a door and stepped inside.

He was gone but a moment. When he returned, he made a survey of the arbor, and the stone wall which surrounded the grounds. The grass was trampled and crushed; but no definite footprints were discernible.

"Stevens, go back to the house and see what's the matter that Riley hasn't found that gardener," he said abruptly.

The medical examiner, whose attention had been centered on the dead man, looked up quickly.

"It's heart failure alright, Dwyer," he said.

Dwyer merely grunted.

The man who had been with the body hitched his trousers, and passed the back of a hairy hand across his mouth. He started briskly toward the house, paused abruptly and whirling around, crossed to the hydrant. As he stopped to drink from the faucet, Lannen cried out in an unnatural voice.

"Don't do that!"

The young officer straightened abruptly. "Speaking to me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What's the matter?"

"Don't touch that hydrant."

Stevens came closer.

"I don't understand," he said.

Wondering if he were making a fool of himself, or if what Allering had said were true, Lannen hesitated. The inspector looked at him inquiringly. Lannen laughed nervously.

"Well?" said Dwyer.

He removed his horn rimmed glasses, and polished them vigorously. His keen eyes squinted. Lannen inwardly squirmed under the scrutiny.

"I may be mistaken," the lawyer said uneasily, "but I'm under the impression that the man died after drinking from that faucet." Stevens whistled.

Lannen realized he had told too much to withhold any more, and continued quietly.

"Allering came to me after Mrs. Willoughby retired. He said the dead man took a drink, then fell writhing to the ground. He may have imagined it. I don't know — but it's well to take no chances."

"Mrs. Willoughby did not mention this."

"No."

"Where did Allering go? Why hasn't Riley found him?"

"I don't know."

"Well," mused the inspector — "it's damned queer. We'll get a glass, and test this water."

"Here's a tin cup," said the younger officer, reaching for one which hung on a nail just below the hydrant.

Lannen suddenly remembered the gardener's words, when he mentioned the caution Willoughby had exercised in wiping the moisture from the faucet. He stepped forward quietly and drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it about his hand before turning the spicket, then he drew some water and handed it to the medical examiner.

It was clear as crystal.

"Willoughby has a laboratory where he makes tests in chemistry," the lawyer said.

"Stay here," Dwyer said to the operator he had left with the body before. Then he turned to the others with a curt nod of his head toward the house. "We'll use the laboratory, though I've a hunch there's nothing to this water business; but you never can tell, and we've got to locate this fellow Allering."

VII

As they entered the house, Willoughby rose abruptly. Lannen sensed a tension in the air, as though the physician and his wife had been quarreling. The woman's face was bloodless. The great purple shadows under her eyes, and her white lips, gave her an almost ethereal beauty. She smiled a wan greeting as though welcoming the interruption of an unpleasant scene.

"Dr. Willoughby," said the inspector abruptly, "Dr. Graves, here, would like to use your laboratory for a little test if you don't mind."

"Test?" smiled Willoughby suavely.

"Yes; of the hydrant water. Mr. Lannen is under the impression that the dead hobo took a drink from your hydrant and keeled over. Water looks alright, but we'd like to make sure."

The smile never left Willoughby's face, though Lannen fancied it grew tighter.

"I'll be very glad to assist you in any way," the physician said, "though I'm positive the water had nothing to do with the poor chap's death. We don't use it for drinking purposes, but it's pure. However, as you say, it's best to make sure. Come this way if you please, my laboratory is on the top floor."

He led the way to the odorous room that was the scene of his many chemical tests. As they reached the door, for a second he hesitated. He drew a deep breath and inserted a key in the lock. It did not turn. The physician looked puzzled.

"That's strange," he muttered. He rattled the knob.

"Maybe the lock has sprung," said the inspector grimly.

Willoughby shook his head.

"It seems to be locked from the inside," he said.

The smile left his face — he became yellower if possible.

There came to them the rustle of papers inside the room, the sound of someone moving.

The men stared at each other.

Willoughby swayed a trifle, and lurched against the door.

Dwyer thrust a huge fist forward and gave the panel a resounding kick.

"Open this door!" he called — "Open it or we'll break it down."

There was silence — then a sound of footsteps, and the door was flung open. The gardener stood just inside the room. He had discarded his overalls and looked very much the gentleman in a dark, well fitting suit. Though he was ghastly pale, there was a triumphant gleam in his dark eyes and an air of success in his bearing.

The room was in absolute disorder. Papers were thrown everywhere, bottles lay at random on glass topped tables. Paper baskets were overthrown. Everything indicated a hurried but thorough search.

One instant Willoughby glared at his ransacked laboratory, then into the glowing eyes of the boy whom he seemed to recognize for the first time, then he flung himself at the younger man with an almost animal like snarl — "Damn you!"

Allering stepped aside. At the same moment, Dwyer laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he smiled, but the menace in his cool tones made Lannen shiver, — "I presume you are the gardener Allering. No wonder you didn't care to give your testimony to us. We came out here to look into the matter of a heart failure; we hardly expected to be so fortunate as to lay our hands on Charlie Moore — No. 9672."

The boy flung back his head and looked bravely into the cool, hard face of the inspector.

"No. 9672?" gasped Stevens.

"Sure, the escaped con. sent up two years ago for manslaughter. Escaped six weeks ago. They say a society woman helped him bust out, but I never dreamed it was Mrs. Willoughby!"

"She's my sister!" said the boy proudly.

"Sure." Dwyer bit off the end of a cigar and stuck it in his mouth, but he didn't light it.

He looked steadily at the young man, then toward Willoughby.

The latter's eyes were bloodshot; he seemed to be controlling himself with difficulty.

"What did you know about this?" Dwyer asked him.

"Nothing," snapped the doctor.

"You didn't recognize him?"

"No!"

Young Moore laughed unpleasantly.

"That's a lie," he said. "He knew me the moment Louise brought me into this house, she knew he did, and so did I — but he didn't dare admit it. If he had he would have notified you in a minute. He wanted me out of the way, but he was afraid; so he chose the cowardly way. He made everyone think I was her lover and poisoned them against her, then—"

"Stop!" It was Willoughby who exclaimed.

The boy shrugged his shoulders.

"You've made some strange statements, young man." said Dwyer quietly "and I must say for a man under arrest — an escaped convict — you're damned cool."

A frank smile curled the other's lips.

"I'm not going back, Inspector," he said, "and don't you think it for one minute."

"Is that so?"

"You bet your life it is. I spent two years in that hell-hole. I was clever enough to make my escape, you can rest assured I'll be clever enough to keep out of it. What do you think I came here for?"

"That's what I'm wondering?" said Dwyer drily. "You might have known that sooner or later we would have run you down; that we would be certain to come to your sister's for you."

"Not so certain. If that poor devil hadn't died out there, I'd still be safe here. I've had six weeks start of you, Inspector, that was all I needed. Six weeks too much for you, Andrew, but you see you didn't get me after all."

Dwyer flung his cigar from him impatiently, and stepped over the threshold into the disordered laboratory. He closed the door behind him with a snap. Willoughby suddenly swayed, and dropped into the nearest chair.

"Now, Moore," said the inspector, "No funny business, get me? You're going back with me, and you're going back to stay. You were sent up on a poison charge, young man. There's a dead man out there on those grounds, — what did you have to do with his death?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders again, then his eyes clouded, a note of pathos crept into his voice.

"Everything," he said quietly. "I suppose if it weren't for me the poor devil would be alive at this minute."

Willoughby gave an inarticulate cry.

Dwyer stared at the ex-gardener, striving to digest his astounding words.

"Let me get you right," he said slowly. "Are you confessing that you killed that bum out there?"

"No," said young Moore — "but I'm saying that my brother-in-law, Andrew Willoughby, did."

VIII

There was a dead silence. Then Willoughby laughed. He laughed until he shook, then he staggered to his feet and waved a long bony finger at his accuser.

"You tried to implicate me before, you whelp! You tried to shift John Gordon's murder on my shoulders! By God! Don't you try it again! I never saw that man out there before — I—"

"Just a minute." The dignity, the note of authority in the boy's voice seemed to impress even Dwyer, hardened officer of the law that he was. "Two years ago, when I came out of college, I came here to study chemistry with Dr. Willoughby, my brother-in-law. I was interested in science. He had gone farther into some phases of it than any other teacher I could secure. I became his assistant in numerous tests. John Gordon was another assistant."

"Why rake all that up?" snapped Dwyer impatiently. "All that detail came out at the trial."

"Because you are going to know the truth. Because I am going to prove my statements. I don't know if Andrew Willoughby is insane or not, but I do know that in the interest of science he will stop at nothing, not even murder! Please," he continued, raising a silencing hand as they would have interrupted him. "He was making some tests of a new, very strange and interesting Eastern poison — it left no trace of any kind; a touch of it on a mucous membrane would produce instant death. This was not enough for Dr. Willoughby; he was searching for a poison whose mere contact would be deadly. At last he hit upon one. A harmless enough liquid until combined with metal and moisture—"

Lannen gave an exclamation of surprise.

Willoughby had seated himself, and now sat staring at the speaker with beaded, fascinated eyes. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue but otherwise made no movement.

"The trouble with this poison," continued Moore, "was that the victim died in convulsions — the death being of several moments' duration. Consequently Willoughby was still dissatisfied. I don't know what his desire was in making of poisoning a fine art, I don't think that at that time murder was his object. He sacrificed numerous animals in his experiments, even Louise's pet Airedale and a Persian cat belonging to the housekeeper were destroyed. The brutality of their death, the horrible agony they suffered was getting on my nerves. I wanted to get away. He did not let John Gordon into the secret of these poisons, so Gordon was in total ignorance of Willoughby's ambition.

"I began to fear my brother-in-law. There was an insane glitter in his eyes when at work. It dawned upon me that he would not endure any obstacle being placed in his way, and that because of my knowledge of his tests, he hated me, although he needed me. Then John Gordon was found dead. His attitude, the tortured expression on his face proved conclusively he had been poisoned, though if Willoughby had not so painstakingly explained the nature of that poison no one would have detected it in his system. Whether my brother-in-law deliberately killed him as a test — or it was an accident, I am not prepared to state, — but I had nothing to do with it. The metal cup which contained the coffee which Gordon drank, I never saw before — so help me God! Willoughby swore in court to my carelessnes — that I had deliberately left that cup which had been used on a tea table — and young Gordon had poured coffee into it and drank it! It was a lie; Dr. Willoughby himself did it! I had nothing to support my statement then. I was working for a reputable famous scientist. What was my word against his? With every proof in the world against me? But I made up my mind that the instant those prison doors closed behind me, and I was again a free man. I would not only prove my innocence — but Andrew Willoughby's guilt, and I have done so."

He paused abruptly.

"I escaped. The papers gave the' details. I took a chance in coming i here, — but as Louise's gardener I was safe from you if Willoughby did not recognize me. For a long time he never noticed me. One servant was the same as another to him. His wife always engaged them. Then he noted our friendship, Louise's and mine, and he became jealous. Too late we recognized our mistake, for the instant he took a good look at me, he knew who I was.

"As I said, he was cowardly. He knew I had something more than my liberty at stake. He feared me. He was afraid of what I knew of him. He instantly sensed that my presence in his household meant I was spying upon him. He could not send me away. He determined to do away with me. Cleverly he planted the idea in the mind of all his wife's friends that she was unfaithful to him, that I was, her lover; he did this so that if he were discovered as my murderer he would be exonerated for protecting his honor; then he began to study my habits. Knowing what he intended, I ate all my meals at a nearby road-house. Everything suspicious I handled with gloves — but in spite of all my precautions, if that poor devil had not appeared last night, this morning I would be a dead man."

An enigmatical smile curled up the corners of Willoughby's eyes. He shifted his position. He glanced in an almost disinterested fashion at the papers tossed about the room.

"He had contrived my murder in the cleverest, most diabolical fashion conceived of by man," continued Moore. "Knowing that to water the plants I must attach the hose every morning, he carefully saw to it that it was unattached — then using this poison which he had perfected, he placed it on the faucet — so that the instant it came into contact with moisture and metal it became deadly; so deadly that the touch of it on my bare hand was enough to kill me."

"Very pretty," said Dwyer with something like a snort — "but it strikes me like some sort of a fairy tale. You can't get away with that stuff, young man."

Moore smiled. "I saw him place the poison on the hydrant faucet, so did his wife. I saw the tramp touch it and fall over dead, so did she. I have found the formula — the thing I've been hunting for — and his diary—"

Dwyer sniffed again, though he took the book Moore extended toward him and turned over its pages curiously.

"We're always getting dope on mysterious poisons that leave no trace," he said—"But it's going a little too far to believe in the existence of one that kills by the mere touch of flesh which has no abrasion or scratch of any kind."

Willoughby suddenly stiffened. His nostrils quivered.

"You don't doubt its existence?" he exclaimed in a high-pitched excited voice.

"I do."

"You don't believe what he says is true?"

"I do not."

"Well, it is true, every word of it," the professional pride in the doctor's voice showed he had clearly forgotten that such a statement meant an admission of murder.

"Are you confessing that you attempted your brother-in-law's life, and killed that hobo?" exclaimed Dwyer, whirling on him.

"I am making a statement that I have discovered the greatest existing poison — that I have proven its potency! You doubt my word. Watch—"

Before any of the startled spectators could stop him, he had reached for the little vial of amber-colored liquid Lannen so vividly recalled as spilling the night before, and pouring a little of it in a metal measuring-cup half filled with water, he rubbed his hand over the surface of the cup. For a second he smiled whimsically at the men who stared in bewilderment at him — then he suddenly stiffened, his muscles gave a convulsive movement, and he rolled off the chair onto the floor.

"Dead!" exclaimed the other physician, bending over him. "Almost instantaneous!"

"Well I'm damned!" ejaculated Dwyer.

"My sister!" gasped young Moore. There was a horrified expression in his dark eyes. "I must go to her — you don't want me, do you?"

"No — bat don't try to get away," replied Dwyer grimly, still staring in blank astonishment at the stark figure of their late host.

"You'll find everything in his diary," said the boy in the doorway, "his vainglory prompted him to write it up."

"It prompted his death," said Lannen, turning away heart-sick at the thought.

Then the knowledge that Louise Willoughby was free sent him down into the drawing-room, where she sat, hands clasped in those of her brother.