THE county prosecutor’s office was situated at the rear of the old Sheffield courthouse, a gloomy building that stood across the street from the Weatherby Hotel. It was there that Jay Goodling had arranged to hold an early evening discussion regarding the case in which he had figured so prominently.
Harry Vincent had met the prosecutor shortly after dinner. Clyde Burke had made the introduction. Immediately afterward, Goodling had headed for his office. The prosecutor’s actions had indicated that something was in the air.
Harry sensed new tension when he entered the courthouse to await Clyde’s arrival. There were three reporters present; with them, two men who looked like deputy sheriffs. In addition, Harry noted a lanky, white-haired man who wore a friendly smile as he chatted with the deputies. Harry heard one man address this worthy as Doctor Claig.
A closed door indicated the prosecutor’s office. The transom above it was tightly shut. Harry fancied that he could hear the buzz of voices from within. Evidently, Goodling was holding preliminary conferences with someone.
At last there came the click of a key. The door swung open. Goodling, his face inscrutable, waved for those waiting to enter. Harry walked in with the others. Goodling motioned them to chairs.
Harry, like the others, was quick to observe another man within the room. The stranger was a square-set individual, with dark hair and a wise face. He was seated beside Goodling’s desk.
“GENTLEMEN,” began Goodling as he took his chair at the desk, “this is Roy Parrell, a private detective from New York. He has come up from New York to present a theory regarding the mysterious house wherein Lanford and I had our strange adventure.
“Mr. Parrell arrived this afternoon. He has finally agreed to make his theory public, now that the search for the house has failed. He feels that such a statement would be to the interest of the client who sent him here.”
Goodling looked toward Parrell, who nodded; then glanced about the group.
“Which man,” he asked, “is your friend Fred Lanford? I think that he should be present to hear my statement, prosecutor.”
“That’s right,” rejoined Goodling. “Lanford should be here. Didn’t I hear that reporter, Burke, say that he was going out to get him?”
Goodling looked toward Harry, who nodded.
“Well, Fred should be in any minute,” declared Goodling. “Suppose you start, Parrell. Lanford will probably arrive by the time you have finished with the preliminaries.”
“Just one other question,” insisted Parrell. “Is this gentleman Doctor Leo Claig?”
The detective was looking toward the white-haired man. It was Claig himself who nodded. Harry noticed a sharp gleam of the physician’s eyes.
“Doctor Claig,” continued Parrell, “you were the physician who examined Mr. Goodling and Mr. Lanford, were you not?”
“I was,” replied the physician.
“And you stated,” said Parrell, “that they had been under the influence of a powerful opiate, administered by a hypodermic syringe?”
“Precisely,” agreed Claig. “Both showed influence of the drug. Both bore marks of the needle.”
“Would that experience,” questioned Parrell, “have caused them to hold a delusion regarding the things they saw and heard during their stay at the unknown house?”
“Not at all,” interjected Claig. “Their impressions were gained prior to the injection of the narcotics. Moreover, their stories were identical.”
“Doctor Claig is experienced in such matters,” explained Goodling. “Prior to his retirement from active practice, he used his home for a private sanitarium.”
“Here in Sheffield?” questioned Parrell.
“Outside of town,” replied Claig. “Three miles north of here. I still live in the old place; but I have closed off the upper stories, since I no longer have patients there.
“You see, Mr. Parrell, opiates and narcotics are frequently required in mental cases. I am thoroughly acquainted with the actions of drugs. When I state, with full conviction, that Goodling and Lanford were not the victims of drugged impressions, my opinion is one that should carry weight.
“They, apparently, acquired a condition of complete catalepsy. Awakening, their minds reverted to the point where their recollections had left off. All their original impressions were clarified. Fully acceptable as testimony.”
DOCTOR CLAIG nodded wisely as he completed his statement. The physician’s opinion brought a gleaming smile from Parrell. It roused the detective into prompt activity.
“Good!” exclaimed Parrell. “Then we know that we are dealing with a man named Kermal; that he has a secretary named Daggart and a servant named Croy. That there was a girl there with them.”
Again Claig nodded. Goodling looked pleased.
“Daggart and Croy,” stated Parrell, “are names with which I am unfamiliar. But obviously, those men were merely servants of Kermal. I know who Kermal is. His full name is Taussig Kermal; he is a lawyer who once practiced in Boston.”
Reporters began to make notes. Harry Vincent followed suit.
“I can also name the young lady who was present,” resumed Parrell. “She is Myra Dolthan, of Boston. She is the niece of my client, Rufus Dolthan, who lives in New York.”
Parrell waited for the pencils to pause. He leaned on the side of the desk and resumed his statement.
“Rufus Dolthan is wealthy,” he explained. “So was his brother, Wade Dolthan, Myra’s father. A few months ago, Wade Dolthan died. He left his entire estate to his daughter, Myra, who was then in Europe.
“There was a second beneficiary. I refer to George Garling, stepson of Wade Dolthan. George Garling is somewhere in the West. He received a small inheritance; he would have come into the whole estate only if Myra had not been living.”
Parrell made another pause. Then, emphatically, he came to the next point of his account.
“Myra Dolthan is not yet twenty-one,” stated the detective. “Hence the estate is not yet hers. It still lies in the control of the executor. That man, gentlemen, is none other than Taussig Kermal, the Boston lawyer.
“Rufus Dolthan tried to communicate with his niece after her father died. He failed to reach her in Europe. He sought Kermal; the lawyer had left Boston. It was then that the truth dawned upon Rufus Dolthan.
“Taussig Kermal has decided to keep the girl away from everyone until her twenty-first birthday, which will be this very week. Upon that date, Myra Dolthan becomes sole heir to ten million dollars. Once she is twenty-one, any papers that she may sign will be legal documents.
“Kermal’s game is to hold her, away from all contact, until after her birthday. Then he can have her sign away the bulk of her estate into his hands. Once that is done, Myra Dolthan will be free; and also penniless. She will have a chance to see her Uncle Rufus, after it is too late for him to aid her.”
PARRELL was leaning forward as he spoke. The detective was in front of an open window, where trees and ground behind the courthouse formed pitch blackness. But Parrell was not concerned with matters outside. He was intent as he addressed his audience. He wagged an emphatic finger as he completed his statement.
“Most remarkable,” commented Doctor Claig, nodding his white-locked head. “I presume, Mr. Parrell, that you read the brief accounts of the mysterious girl in the vanished house?”
“Rufus Dolthan did,” returned Parrell. “That is why he sent me here. I run an investigating agency of my own” — he thrust a card across the desk to the physician — “and Rufus Dolthan told me to look into the case.
“After I talked with Mr. Goodling this afternoon, I wired Mr. Dolthan to come up on the evening train. He should be here within a few hours. All I needed to know” — again Parrell wagged his finger — “was that one name. Kermal. Taussig Kermal. That put us on the right track.”
“What about these others?” questioned Claig. The physician was taking a sudden interest in the case. “Daggart and Croy? You say they are unimportant?”
“Probably,” returned Roy Parrell. “Merely servants. Tools of Kermal’s. He has probably duped the girl into believing that her enforced hiding is in keeping with some term in her father’s will.”
“But the dead man at the house?” quizzed Claig. “Have you any idea who he might be? Has Rufus Dolthan any theory?”
“None at all.” Parrell shook his head. “Taussig Kermal is the only one we know about. The lawyer has proven himself to be a scoundrel. He is capable of any crime; the fact that murder was committed in his house testifies to that point.”
“We shall learn the name of the dead man,” assured Goodling, quietly. “Do not worry upon that score. Our chief problem is to find that house. We must pick up some trail; gain some proof of crime—”
The prosecutor paused. Someone was rapping at the door. Goodling gave the command to enter. The door opened. A gawky, red-faced yokel stepped into the room. The newcomer was attired in khaki trousers, a gray-flannel shirt and heavy hunting boots. He was unshaven and his face showed an ugly grin.
“Hello, prosecutor,” greeted the arrival, stepping up to the desk and dropping a battered felt hat into a chair. “Guess maybe you’ve heard of me. My name’s Yager” — he rumbled a laugh as he spoke — “Hector Yager. I live up Dobson’s Road, in by the old farm.”
“A squatter, aren’t you?” queried Goodling, sternly.
“Well,” grumbled Yager, “I ain’t got no deed for that property where I built that log cabin of mine. But I ain’t exactly no squatter, neither.”
“Certain people seem to think so. They’ve put in a protest to have you evicted.”
“Yeah? What’ve they got against me?”
“Chicken stealing. You’ve been seen a few places where you shouldn’t have been, Yager.”
THE squatter’s ugly grin faded. His eyes glowered angrily as he faced the youthful prosecutor. Then Yager’s lips formed a sneer.
“Bringing that up, eh?” he snorted. “If I was as big a swell-head as them folks, I’d walk out of here right now.”
“You’re welcome to it, Yager. Your confession to thefts of hen roosts can wait until later. We have more important business here tonight.”
“Smart guy, eh? Well, that comes of ‘em, putting in a kid for county prosecutor. I ought to be leaving; but just because you think you know so much, I’m going to stay. And talk.”
“There’s the door, Yager,” snapped Goodling, coming to his feet. “Use it in a hurry before I have you pitched out of here. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” chuckled Yager, holding his ground. “You want me to clear out — without telling you what I know. About that house you’re looking for — and the people who were living in it.”
Goodling stood staring, rigid. Yager snorted a laugh. He pulled a wad of bank notes from his pocket and flung them on the desk beside his hat.
“See that there money?” demanded the squatter. “Well, that was given to me to keep my trap shut. It was given to me by a fellow named Blissop. He was living there in that house.”
“Blissop?” queried Goodling. “You mean—”
“I mean the guy they did away with,” broke in Yager. “You’re looking for a dead man, ain’t you? Well, I’m telling you who he was. Blissop — that was his name.”
“And the others?”
“I don’t know them. But they got rid of Blissop because he was pulling a double-cross.”
Doctor Claig had drawn close to the desk. Harry Vincent could see the sharp gleam of the physician’s eyes. He fancied that he could hear Claig’s breath coming in short, tense wheezes.
It was Parrell, however, who spoke to Yager. The detective had come to his feet. His expression was eager. He wanted to know more. He pointed as Yager turned toward him.
“You saw the murder of this man Blissop?” questioned Parrell. “You were a witness to the crime?”
“Me?” snorted Yager. “Say — I wouldn’t have gone near that place. Not after Blissop talked to me. He spilled everything, he did, to keep me quiet. He thought I’d stay quiet because he gave me the dough.
“Say — I’m going to tell you folks who’s who and what’s what. I’m going to give away a mighty slick game so you’ll all be straight. You won’t have much trouble finding the man you want after I’m through.”
YAGER paused. His grin returned. Claig was at his side, hands half raised. Parrell, still beside the desk, was wagging his finger; the detective was seeking to attract Yager’s attention. But the squatter was facing Goodling, gloating in his triumph over the new prosecutor who had accused him of chicken stealing.
“Blissop come to me,” began Yager, “and he says to listen. He gives me money. He says there’s going to be more. He says to me on Saturday night that when—”
A staccato gun bark ended Yager’s sentence. The burst came from outside the window. Harry Vincent leaped to his feet as he saw the flash in the darkness. A gulp came from Hector Yager as the big squatter straightened in front of the desk.
Then, like the echoes of that first bark, came two new bursts from beyond the window. With those flashes, Yager crumpled; he sprawled headforemost across the desk. Assassins from the trees behind the courthouse had drilled the squatter with their bullets.
As Goodling stood rigid, Claig stepped forward and bent above the body. The physician seemed fearless of new shots. He was acting to aid the stricken man. Roy Parrell, however, was quick to see new danger.
Leaping away from the desk, the private detective dived for the wall beside the door. He blinked out the light. The darkened room afforded no new targets for hidden killers in the night.
Goodling sprang to the window as he heard the roar of a motor. A car was shooting away from the curb of an isolated street beyond the trees that formed a cluster in the grounds behind the courthouse.
“Get them!” barked the prosecutor. “Through the window! Through the door! Outside, you fools!”
Goodling was yanking open a desk drawer. He grabbed a revolver in the darkness and sprang through the window to the ground a few feet below. Parrell scrambled after him; the detective had a gun of his own.
The deputies yanked open the door and dashed through the corridor to spread the alarm, then circled the courthouse. The reporters followed. Harry Vincent was about to leave when he heard someone by the light switch. The light clicked on. It revealed Doctor Leo Claig.
The physician gazed sharply at Harry; then turned on his heel and went to the desk to examine Yager’s body. Harry watched Claig. He saw a slow solemn nod of the physician’s head; an indication that the squatter was dead.
Claig was still beside the body when Goodling and the others returned. The prosecutor’s face was grim. The brief chase had proven futile. Killers had made a quick get-away in a waiting car. Half a dozen new deputies had arrived; they were men who had searched for the missing house that very afternoon.
JAY GOODLING studied the squad before him. He looked at Yager’s body; then gave a prompt decision. His words brought comment of approval from the crowd.
“We’re going out to Yager’s cabin,” declared the prosecutor. “We’ll see what we can find there. Come along; we’re starting for Dobson’s Road.”
Men tramped from the office. This time, Harry Vincent followed. Hector Yager’s body remained, watched only by Doctor Leo Claig.
Death had claimed a witness about to testify regarding the location of the vanished house. The law was moving to follow the one lead that it had gained. Such a course was likely to prove barren; but it was the only one to take.
Harry Vincent realized that the trip to Yager’s would probably prove futile. He would have preferred to stay at the courthouse until Clyde Burke arrived, for he was already puzzled by his fellow agent’s absence.
But Harry had a part to play. He and Clyde were supposed to be mere acquaintances, both newspapermen, but not companions in a hidden surface. It was up to Harry to continue the bluff that The Shadow had ordered. He must not jeopardize his usefulness by failing to join the other reporters who were anxious to see the squatter’s cabin.
With these thoughts in mind, Harry Vincent entered a waiting automobile that was about to start for the shack where Hector Yager would no longer dwell.