The House That Vanished

CHAPTER XIX FACTS COME OUT

“TWELVE minutes more.”

Rufus Dolthan delivered the words with an insidious sneer. His faked nervousness was gone. Revealed as a man of crime, he was taking pride in his role of supercrook. At his nod, Roy Parrell grinned. He and his pretended dicks were ready to double the strength of Dolthan’s forces.

“Twelve minutes,” repeated Dolthan, “ample time in which to accomplish my purpose here. In fact” — an evil chuckle escaped his curling lips — “there is no need for haste. As matters now stand, we can wait until after midnight.

“You have paved your own destruction, Kermal. You were crafty in your moves. You suspected that I murdered my brother Wade. You were right. I had him poisoned; Souder aided me and Parrell removed the evidence.

“It was Parrell, too, who gathered facts concerning George Garling. When Myra’s stepbrother inherits her father’s estate, he will not enjoy it long. When Parrell, as my agent, interviews him, Garling will be glad to rid himself of wealth. Some of his past indiscretions can be classed as crimes. Enough, if known, to send him to prison for twenty years. He will pay for silence.”

Dolthan paused to survey Kermal in contemptuous fashion. The little clock was ticking on toward midnight; the fact did not seem to trouble the supercrook. Dolthan had already said that he had no need for haste.

“You moved ahead of us, Kermal,” sneered the gray-haired murderer. “Your mistake, however, was in trusting those about you. Particularly Blissop. He knew that you feared me. He saw an opportunity for wealth. He called me by long distance, Saturday night. You uncovered his treachery; you traveled here. But your own softness was your undoing.

“Had you finished Goodling and Lanford — as I would have done — you would have been better off. I am forgetting though” — Dolthan’s chuckle was filled with cackled malice — “that you are honest, not a plotter like myself. You see, Kermal, I did not intend to hurry to that house on Dobson’s Road. I planned to wait; to let you spend a few more days of false security.

“But when I read of the strange adventures of Jay Goodling and Fred Lanford, I knew that Blissop had failed to keep his spying secret. I knew my informant to be the dead man mentioned in their story. I knew then that you must have sought some new hideout; I knew also that technically you were a fugitive from justice.

“I sent Parrell here to Sheffield. His purpose: to discover Myra’s whereabouts, to dispatch hidden killers to the spot where she might be. Their task was to slay my niece; but prior to that, they had other duties. They came in secretly on Monday evening. Some to be near the courthouse in case of an emergency; others to visit the old house of which Blissop had told us, there to find clues before the law could gain them.”

TAUSSIG KERMAL, leaning heavily on the desk, was nodding as Rufus Dolthan paused. These words were the lawyer’s vindication. Jay Goodling realized it; the prosecutor stared helplessly. He still held his gun; but he had been forced to point the weapon to the floor when covered by Dolthan’s revolver.

Roy Parrell was swaggering up beside Dolthan. The phony dick was trying to cover his display of yellowness. His face was hard; his lips wore a leer as he took credit for the next phase of Dolthan’s criminal activity.

“When Yager blew in,” jeered Parrell, “I heard him start to blab about Blissop. I guessed that he knew too much. Blissop had posted him that we’d be sending some killers out that way. He’d told us over the telephone that he had things fixed.

“So I marked Yager for the spot. Pointed him out, right in front of your eyes. I gave the finger wag like I’d been doing all along” — Parrell paused to indicate the gesture that he had used in the prosecutor’s office — “and when I steadied it on Yager, there were fellows outside who knew what it meant.

“They finished Yager. Then they headed for Dobson’s Road, to tip off the boys who were going through the house. Who started the trouble there is something that I don’t know. It was a bad break for us, though.”

“Hardly so, Parrell,” croaked Dolthan, as his lieutenant paused. “The murder of Yager was easily blamed on Kermal. It placed him definitely outside the law. The discovery of the trunk merely enabled us to spur the authorities to their search for Myra.

“Moreover, the elimination of those hirelings was no handicap. Your phony detectives and my servants have proven themselves more capable than those cheap skulkers. What we needed, Parrell, was a break. Finding Myra’s diary in the station wagon was a most timely clue. Particularly because it occurred when Goodling’s deputies were not available.”

The reference to the diary brought a puzzled look to Kermal’s face. Doctor Claig also registered perplexity. Rufus Dolthan seemed to have gained a new chain of thought now that he had mentioned his niece’s name. He looked across the room toward the door that stood ajar.

“It is time we thought of Myra,” he remarked. “One fact is certain: she has no way of leaving here. Your barred windows, Claig, are excellently suited to our purpose. The girl is trapped; for that matter, Kermal, so are your two servants.

“I said that haste was not imperative. I meant it. So long as no one except myself and those with me see Myra alive after midnight, it will be deemed that she died before she came of age. Her father’s will is due to stand. The wealth will come into the possession of George Garling. Only for a temporary period.”

Stepping to the desk, Dolthan snatched up the will that Kermal had prepared. He crumpled it with his left hand and thrust the paper into his pocket. All the while he kept Goodling covered.

Stepping toward the door that led to Myra’s hallway, Dolthan paused; then laughed as he eyed the revolver that Goodling was still holding.

“Keep your revolver, Goodling,” ordered the master crook. “You will have use for it. Parrell, take a look in Kermal’s desk. See what weapons he has available.”

PARRELL stepped forward and opened the drawer, pushing Kermal away from the desk. He found two guns. One was a .32 automatic; another was a revolver of the same caliber, with inlaid handle bearing the letter K. Parrell exhibited them.

“Excellent,” decided Dolthan. “Replace the automatic, Parrell, and bring me the revolver. Leave the drawer half open.”

The phony detective complied. Dolthan juggled the initialed gun in his left hand.

“Quite considerate of you, Kermal,” he chortled, “to have a revolver that will certainly be identified as your own. I shall keep this weapon and use it to slay Myra. Her death will be attributed to you, Kermal.

“It will do for Lanford also; but he will come afterward. By the way, Parrell, did Doctor Claig have a gun when you and Goodling captured him?”

The detective nodded and nudged his thumb toward Goodling’s pocket.

“Produce the weapon,” ordered Dolthan. “Return it to Claig.”

Parrell complied. Dolthan motioned his men to new positions. He arranged them so that Souder and the three false detectives were with Parrell, all covering Kermal, Goodling and Claig.

The lawyer’s hand was just above the desk drawer wherein Parrell had replaced his automatic. The prosecutor was still holding his .38 downward. The physician had his five-chambered revolver limp in his hand, where Parrell had placed it.

“Wurling,” said Dolthan to his chauffeur, “you and Hazzler keep Lanford covered. Simply hold him until I return. If he tries to make trouble, overpower him. Do not shoot him unless you are forced to do so.

“The stage is now set. We shall have the semblance of a battle. Start to shoot down the victims, Parrell, when I give the word. Let them try to fight; they have guns handy. I shall go find Myra and arrange her death. After that, I shall attend to Lanford.”

Dolthan chuckled gloatingly as he brandished the gun that he had taken from Kermal. The inlaid handle glittered in the light. Dolthan exhibited his own revolver.

“This will do for others,” he remarked. “Croy and Daggart, if I encounter them. You follow me, Parrell, after your first shots. The rest also; we will scour the place and corner our missing enemies.”

THE depth of Dolthan’s scheme was apparent. Deputies would soon arrive from town. They would hasten at the sound of distant gunfire. They would find Kermal, Claig and Goodling dead, with guns in hand. They would meet Dolthan, his servants and detectives triumphant.

The scene would show that a supposed crook — Kermal — had been slain, along with his accomplice, Doctor Claig. For it would be obvious that the physician had let Kermal use this house as hideout.

Myra and Lanford also would be found slain by bullets from Kermal’s gun. Belief would have it that Kermal had murdered them prior to the arrival of rescuers. Goodling would be found dead also. Witnesses would testify that the prosecutor had fallen fighting against Kermal and Claig.

As for Croy and Daggart, they would be trapped and slain afterward. Chances were that they would head for this room once the gunfire began. Dolthan and his underlings would have no trouble with the missing pair.

The only flaw was Goodling. It must look as though he had fallen in fray with the occupants of the house; not from shots delivered by the pretended rescuers. Dolthan had not forgotten that point. He settled it as he surveyed the scene.

“You take out Goodling,” he said to Souder. “Don’t give him a chance; we don’t want many of his bullets around here. After we finish that big fellow Croy, we’ll plant your gun on him, Souder. It will look like he settled Goodling.”

Souder’s long face showed a grin, as the fellow nodded. Dolthan surveyed the intended victims. He saw determined looks upon their faces. He shook his head.

“You won’t stand idle with those guns,” jeered Dolthan. “When you hear me give the word to fire, you’ll make a fight for your lives. At least you’ll try to; but you won’t get far.”

THE crook’s words bore significance. Kermal, Claig, Goodling — all had the same thought: to drop their guns to the floor, so the evidence would show that they had not fought. Yet it was impossible for them to do so. Human desire to live would force them to a fight for their lives, even though the odds were against them.

Already guns were trained upon the victims. Glowering fiends would let the doomed men start upward with their weapons; then those covering crooks would shoot down the victims, letting them do no more than fire scattered bullets while they sank dying to the floor.

As Dolthan said, time was not essential to his scheme. He had forgotten the little clock upon the desk. But from the floor below came the booming tones of an old grandfather’s clock, an heirloom that Doctor Claig had always prized. It was intoning the hour of midnight.

Twelve strokes of doom; the change to a new day. The fateful hour that had meant so much to Myra Dolthan. It marked the day that Taussig Kermal had hoped would come with haste; that Rufus Dolthan had wished would wait until his evil schemes were fully fashioned.

Kermal’s cause was lost; Dolthan’s crimes were ready for their culmination. The fiend chuckled as he heard the clock’s strokes. While the tones still boomed, he raised his hand, waiting only until the final echo to give the signal for slaughter. The time was suited to Rufus Dolthan’s need for massacre.

Then came a sudden pause. Dolthan’s lips, about to speak, froze with their twisted smile. From that door that stood ajar behind him came a sound that stopped the crook’s command. Into the room of doom crept the ghoulish quiver of a mocking laugh, a sound that brought chilled rigidity to all who heard its eerie tones.

Another had waited for this crucial moment, hard on the stroke of twelve. An unseen visitant had listened to Rufus Dolthan’s plans and was here to prevent their delivery.

That creepy taunt from the blackness of the hallway was the laugh of The Shadow!