The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER IX MURDER AT EIGHT

THE Latuna Enterprise was a true afternoon newspaper. It carried only one edition; and it did not appear upon the street until half past four. Thus there was ample time for Harrison Knode to pen his editorial.

Shortly before eight o’clock that evening, Joseph Rubal was seated in his office at the Latuna Museum, reading the virulent editor’s latest effort. Though Rubal’s face was solemn, his forehead showed no wrinkles. Though the editorial concerned the Blue Sphinx, the museum curator was omitted from the criticism.

This was the account that Rubal read:

THE desk clock showed eight as the curator finished reading. There was a knock at the door. Rubal spoke; Hollis entered. The chief attendant noted the newspaper on the curator’s desk.

“Yes, Hollis,” remarked Rubal, “I have read the editorial.”

“I’m glad, sir,” said the attendant, “that you were not criticized.”

“Small matter,” observed Rubal. “I intend to resign my curatorship, Hollis. Tonight.”

Hollis looked troubled.

“I am expecting a visitor,” explained Rubal. “Show him in, Hollis. I want to talk matters over with him.”

“Yes, sir. Of course I would admit Mayor Rush at any time—”

“This will not be Mayor Rush.”

“I understand, sir.” Hollis looked relieved. “I think you are very wise, Mr. Rubal.”

“How do you mean?”

“To discuss your resignation with Mr. Malden.”

“I said nothing about Strafford Malden.”

“But who else could be coming here, sir?”

“Harrison Knode is the man.”

Hollis looked startled.

“A surprise to you, Hollis?” inquired Rubal, calmly. “Well, I suppose it should be. Knode has lampooned me constantly in this sheet he calls a newspaper. But his star reporter talked to me to-day. I made an appointment with Knode, at Drury’s suggestion. Knode, himself, called me later to confirm it.

“By the way, Hollis, I saw you talking to Drury in the Medieval Room, just before I went in to the dedication ceremonies. Did you happen to mention to him that I intended to resign?”

“Not exactly, sir—”

“That explains it. You must have given him the idea. Drury bluffed me. I thought that he had overheard me talking to the mayor, in the Sphinx Room. I told Rush that I intended to resign.”

“What did the mayor say, sir?”

“He intimated that he would accept the resignation. He acted as though he would be glad to get it.”

Rubal said no more. Hollis stood uneasily by the door. While the curator was busy with papers, the chief attendant ventured a suggestion.

“The mayor has been criticized, sir,” said Hollis. “That is why he would like to see you resign. When do you intend to see him?”

“Tonight. After I have talked with Knode.”

“You are making a double mistake, sir. There is one man who would understand; one who could help you—”

“Strafford Malden?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rubal shook his head and allowed a dry smile to appear upon his usually expressionless lips.

“Strafford Malden is not concerned with politics,” declared the curator. “He stands completely apart. The fight lies between Harrison Knode, who wants scandal exposed; and Quirby Rush, who is trying to be a conservative mayor. In between, lies Police Chief Grewling. He might help, for he has been criticized like myself. I might talk to Grewling, if he came here.”

“But if you would only speak to Mr. Malden, sir.”

“I shall not seek that opportunity, Hollis. That settles the matter. Go to your post at the front door. Be ready to answer the bell.”

Hollis shifted and started to resume his insistence. Angrily, Rubal pointed to the door. Hollis stepped from view. Rubal caught a last glimpse of the attendant’s troubled face. Then the curator began to study the papers on his desk.

FIRST, Rubal picked out a typewritten sheet. This was his formal resignation as curator of the Latuna Museum. Rubal signed the paper. The action seemed to relieve him. Laying the resignation aside, Rubal began to select other documents.

One was a floor plan of the museum. On this, Rubal made penciled notations. He picked out some bills and receipts. He added memos to these. On a blank sheet, he began to write in the halting fashion of a man making a confession.

There was a day calendar on Rubal’s desk. It was the type in which old dates are tilted over, not torn off. In the course of his writing, Rubal paused to turn these day sheets down. He was going back to the first of the year, checking up on the written statements he was making.

When he had reached January first, Rubal arose from his desk. He walked across the office and stepped into a small room beyond. He turned on a light, to show a large filing cabinet in the corner. The curator opened a cabinet drawer. He began to search for papers that would give him information prior to the current year.

Rubal paused in this work as he heard the muffled ring of a distant bell. Coming from the inner room, he noticed the time on his desk clock. It was not long after eight. Time had gone slowly since Hollis had left the office.

Rubal went to the outer door of the office. He opened it and noted that the corridor lights were on. Having arranged for his visitor’s entrance, the curator went back to the inner room of the office suite and hurriedly turned to the filing cabinet. He drew out a sheaf of letters.

Footsteps sounded at the office door. Rubal heard them; from his place in the inner room, he called to the arrival:

“Sit down, Mr. Knode! I shall be with you in a moment!”

With a last glance at the letters, Rubal drew several from the sheet and replaced the rest in the filing cabinet. He heard the sound of a closing door — the one to the corridor. Then came a click. Rubal turned.

The visitor had switched off the light in the outer office. Disturbed, Rubal stepped toward the office itself. The only light that remained was that from the little filing room, where Rubal was standing.

In the doorway, with right hand against the door frame and left holding the letters from the cabinet, Rubal peered anxiously into the office. He saw his visitor over beyond the desk, a lurking figure in the darkness.

“Knode!” exclaimed Rubal. “What does this mean? Why have you turned out the light?”

Something glimmered. A horrified exclamation came from the curator’s lips as his eyes caught the flash of a revolver barrel. Desperately, Rubal stepped back from the doorway. He was too late.

Framed against the light from the filing room, Joseph Rubal made a perfect target for the murderous marksman. Flame forked from the gun, accompanied by a fizzing sound, like that of a squibby firecracker.

Joseph Rubal staggered. He delivered a wild, sighing cry, dropped the letters and pressed his hands against his body. He staggered forward, step by step; past the desk, almost to the outer door of the office.

Then, suddenly, the curator collapsed. Sprawled upon the floor, he lay moaning between hopeless gasps. Joseph Rubal was dying, while his assassin, indifferent to the curator’s plight, moved through the darkness of the office.