The Ghost Of The Manor

CHAPTER XXIV A DEAD MAN TELLS

HOPELESSLY, aimlessly, Warren Barringer persisted in his declaration of innocence. Still seated in the chair close beside the dead body of Jasper Delthern, Warren refused to make the false confession that Sidney Gorson demanded of him.

“I didn’t kill him,” asserted Warren. “I didn’t kill the others. Jasper, himself, told me he was the murderer.”

“Who did it, then?” demanded Gorson. “You were here; you ought to know.”

“I don’t know!”

“A ghost, perhaps. There’s supposed to be one around here.”

Warren stared with startled gaze. A ghost! Was that what he had seen? He thought of the figure in black; that reassuring phantom form that had shown him the sparkling girasol. The glitter of the flashing fire opal seemed to appear in vivid glow before Warren’s eyes.

A terrible theory suddenly asserted itself. That being in black had come here in some miraculous fashion. Could he have been here before?

For a moment, Warren held the wild thought that The Shadow might be the murderer!

Then his thoughts shifted. Warren realized that no killer would have revealed himself as The Shadow had done. There could have been no purpose in such action. Warren remembered The Shadow’s words — only through a call for aid to Clark Brosset could Warren hope for a way out of his dilemma.

Yet Brosset was here, and his coming had served only to clinch the proof of guilt against Warren Barringer. With pleading look, Warren turned to Brosset now. He saw the club president shake his head sadly.

Warren understood. In the face of this terrible evidence, with the body of Jasper Delthern upon the floor, Brosset could only believe that Warren had deceived him in the past. That ended the last chance of aid from the only person in Newbury whom Warren had regarded as a friend.

Prison; conviction for murder — these were the future that Warren Barringer faced. The evidence was all against him, and his clouded brain began to regard The Shadow purely as an apparition.

Warren realized that his nerves had been tense. Some flash-back to his night at Lamont Cranston’s home had probably made him fancy that he had seen a black-cloaked visitor here.

To speak of such a personage could do no good. To turn to the theory of a visitor who appeared and vanished would savor too much of the ghost talk which Chief Gorson had just derided.

“You won’t talk, eh?” The police chief’s words drummed into Warren’s throbbing ears. “Close that door. We’ll make him talk. Say — if Terwiliger was only here—”

THE police chief broke off abruptly. A sudden thought was perplexing Gorson.

Where was Terwiliger?

Jasper Delthern had said that the star detective would return at nine o’clock. Could anything have happened to him?

“Where is Terwiliger?” demanded Gorson, staring hard at Warren.

“Who?” asked the young man.

“You know who I mean!” growled Gorson. “Terwiliger — my detective. He was on your trail. Maybe—”

“Maybe you think I killed him, too,” blurted Warren.

“That’s just what I do think!” retorted Gorson. “I wondered why you were so stubborn. You might have had a break if you’d admitted to killing Jasper Delthern. You could have pleaded self-defense. But the trouble is, your other crimes were on your mind by this time.”

“I never met Terwiliger,” persisted Warren.

“No?” quizzed Gorson. “Well, I’ll tell you something then. Terwiliger was out to get the murderer. That means he was out to get you. Terwiliger keeps his promises!”

Swinging to Clark Brosset, the police chief gave additional words of information.

“It was this way, Mr. Brosset,” he explained. “Last night, Terwiliger and I were here with Jasper Delthern. We talked about these mysterious killings. Terwiliger had a theory that one man was in back of them.

“Terwiliger told us that he would come into this very room; that he would lay down the evidence before myself and Jasper Delthern. I counted on Terwiliger to do it.”

“Perhaps,” mused Brosset, “the detective will arrive shortly. If so—”

“He’ll bring proof,” interrupted Gorson, in a decisive tone. “I can’t see what we need. We’ve got enough evidence to convict Barringer in short order. But I’d like to see what Terwiliger has found. He won’t come here empty-handed.”

The police chief glared at Warren. Still holding to the thought that the accused man knew something about the detective’s whereabouts, Gorson endeavored to catch the prisoner off guard.

“Maybe Terwiliger is downstairs,” suggested the police chief. “Suppose one of you men” — he was speaking to the policemen — “go down and find out if he’s arrived. I’ll tell you this, Barringer” — Gorson was again addressing Warren — “and you can remember it. If Terwiliger comes into this room, he’ll have the proof of murder in his fist. He said he would, and he will—”

As Gorson spoke, one of the policemen was walking toward the door. The other was standing in a corner. Clark Brosset was leaning against the desk. Chief Gorson, with a dramatic gesture that he had seen Terwiliger use, was pointing with his outstretched hand toward Jasper Delthern’s body.

Then came the unexpected — a startling occurrence that broke the police chief’s statement. Once again, this room of death was plunged into total darkness!

THE one audible sound amid the blackness was an involuntary cry that came from Warren Barringer’s lips. Warren had experienced this sudden darkness in the past. Each time, it had meant a strange and unexpected result. What would happen now?

On came the lights. The illumination revealed all the persons present in approximately their same positions. Warren, in instinctive apprehension, was gazing toward the other side of the desk. His second cry caused all eyes to swing in that direction.

Another man had entered the room. No one had seen the manner of his coming, and ghastly gasps were the responses that greeted his gruesome entrance. For this new arrival was a dead man!

Propped against the paneled wall, introduced there by some unseen and unknown force, was the body of Detective Harold Terwiliger. The sleuth’s bulging eyes were glazed and unseeing; his whole shape made a morbid sight as it tottered there, as though imbued with life.

The dead form swayed crazily; then toppled forward as Police Chief Gorson uttered a frantic cry of recognition.

Sprawling as it struck the floor, Terwiliger’s corpse rolled on its left side, and the right hand came upward in a rigid gesture.

There, in a dead, clutching fist, Police Chief Gorson saw an envelope. Terwiliger’s face, though hardened in lifelessness, still wore a dramatic expression. The slain sleuth seemed to be pleading with his chief. His outstretched arm was raised almost above the body of Jasper Delthern!

“Terwiliger!” cried Gorson. “Terwiliger! Dead!”

Then came a weird realization. The manner of Terwiliger’s death — who had killed him — the freak of chance that had hurled the body here — these thoughts passed from Sidney Gorson’s mind.

All that the police chief could grasp was the recollection of Terwiliger’s boast. The sleuth had said that he would get the man behind the murders; that he would deliver evidence in this room, while Sidney Gorson and Jasper Delthern were present.

The trio was here now; of the three, only one man was living! Yet Terwiliger’s promise had been kept! Dead, the detective had arrived to fulfill his self-appointed mission!