The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER XI. OUT OF THE DARK

COURTNEY DOLVER had led his visitors to a room at the side of his large mansion. Here they were standing amid scraped walls; for the place was being repapered. In the center of the room stood a large table; about it an odd assortment of chairs. Beyond was a bay window; its two end panes set at angles; its large center sash on a line with the wall.

“Sorry to receive you in such poor fashion, commissioner,” apologized Dolver, in his dignified tone. “The decorators have been very disappointing. Marching in and out all day, so the servants say, and accomplishing very little.”

The room was poorly lighted by two floor lamps. They were near the walls; the illumination was bad beside the center table. Dolver struck a match and lighted the five wicks of a heavy candelabrum that stood upon the table.

The flames flickered as they shone upon the bulky brass stem of the stand. Dolver looked toward the windows; they were open.

“We need light,” remarked the importer, “but we need ventilation also, with the house in this condition. Ah! The breeze has ended. We can leave the windows open.”

He turned about and spied the stocky servant standing by the door to the hall. Dolver gave an order, the man nodded and left. When he returned, he was accompanied by two others, both stout-looking fellows.

“My servants, commissioner,” stated Dolver. “This is Lessing, who came to the door with me. The others are Partridge and Cray. I have other men in my employ; they are at my lodge in the Catskills.”

“These men are reliable?” questioned Weston.

“Everyone,” replied Dolver, emphatically. “They have weapons available, commissioner. Rifles that I intend to take to the lodge.”

“No revolvers?”

“Only one. I have kept that for myself.”

“Revolvers would be preferable, Dolver. Better still, you should have the protection of men from headquarters.”

“I agree, commissioner. We can reserve the rifles until we hunt deer next week.”

“You expect a party at your lodge?”

“A few friends. Lessing usually accompanies me also. He is an excellent marksman. Very well, men” — Dolver spoke briskly to his servants — “you may leave. I shall not need you for the present. But be within call.”

Dolver watched the servants go from the room. He turned about as Weston spoke.

“Mallikan is coming out here tonight,” declared the commissioner. “He called me at my office. He believes that he may be in danger.”

“Mallikan?” questioned Dolver. “Who is Mallikan?”

“The shipping man who saw young Callard here in New York. Prior to the first murders.”

“Not Roger Mallikan? Of the Indo-China Shipping Bureau?”

“Yes. Are you acquainted with him?”

Dolver shook his head.

“I know Mallikan only by name,” he stated. “I used to import a large amount of East Indian brassware. Some of it came by ships controlled by Mallikan’s company.

“Roger Mallikan. Odd, indeed, that he should have known young Callard. I did not see Mallikan’s name mentioned in the newspaper reports.”

“It was merely mentioned,” explained Weston. “That was prior to last night. It is not surprising that you did not observe Mallikan’s name.”

“I shall be glad to meet the fellow,” mused Dolver. Then, pausing, he assumed a serious expression and glanced toward the door to make sure that the servants had gone. “But before Mallikan arrives, commissioner, I must tell you of something strange that I discovered here.”

“Today?” queried Weston.

“This evening,” replied Dolver. “After you had called. I had the servants prepare this room in order to receive you. While they were bringing in the table and the chairs, I noticed that end shade yonder.”

Dolver pointed across the flickering candles. The window shade that he indicated was lowered farther than the others. Its cream-colored surface appeared dull, for it was out of the light.

“When I went to raise the shade,” explained Dolver, “I observed marks upon it. Chinese characters, made with green chalk. The window was open; someone could have entered and written them.

“Come. Let me show them to you. We shall need light.” Dolver looked about, then picked up the candelabrum. “Perhaps they have some significance.”

Dolver led the procession, the flaring candelabrum held low as he clutched it in his right fist. The center portion of the stick bulged two inches thick above the importer’s hand.

As they reached the window, the candles began to waver. Dolver stooped beneath the level of the high sill and held the flames there until the breeze subsided.

Dolver then pointed upward with his left hand, toward the shade that he had indicated.

“Look, commissioner,” he said. “Do you see the markings? Wait until I raise the candle higher.”

Dolver had turned slightly. As he spoke, he came up, shielding the candelabrum with his body. Still pointing with his left hand, he turned himself toward the window. His right hand moved upward, straight in front of his body; the flames from the candles showed the dull-green markings.

“I see them,” exclaimed Weston, while Dolver was still moving. “Look, Cardona—”

A roar sounded from beyond the window. Daggerlike, a burst of flame tongued inward directly toward the heart of the man who was squarely before the window: Courtney Dolver!

With the shot came a loud clang. Dolver staggered back with a terrified cry. The candelabrum was wavering in the importer’s fist, the candles fizzing from the jolt. Cardona caught the man; Dolver released the candelabrum and it clanged to the floor.

Weston had jumped aside instinctively; Clyde Burke had ducked toward the wall. Courtney Dolver was still framed in front of the blackened window, supported there by Joe Cardona. Weston shouted at the detective.

“Drop him, Cardona—”

The detective released Dolver and dived to the floor. Dolver had clutched the sill; he was still in the danger zone. Making amends for his previous lapse, Cardona seized the importer’s ankles and yanked Dolver flat.

Weston was drawing a revolver; Cardona did the same. A servant dashed into the living room, carrying a rifle. It was Cray. Doors slammed elsewhere, evidence that Partridge and Lessing had heard the shot and were on their way outside.

Cray reached the window; rifle in one hand, the servant hurtled the sill. Cardona bounded after him, revolver in readiness. Commissioner Weston stood just to one side of the window, his own gun ready should he be needed in the chase.

Courtney Dolver had come to his hands and knees; eyes bulging, the importer stared toward Clyde Burke, who was crawling forward. The reporter motioned to Dolver to keep below the sill.

“Did he clip you?” queried Clyde, anxiously. “Are you hurt?”

Dolver shook his head. Raising one hand weakly, the importer pointed to the heavy candelabrum. The brass piece was lying on the floor, its flames extinguished.

Clyde Burke stared at the bulging portion of the candlestick, just below the four branches. He saw the thickened section that had projected just above Dolver’s fist.

The brass bore a deepened dent. Beyond it, on the floor by the window, lay a mutilated pellet. Clyde Burke reached for the bit of grayish metal. It burned his fingers as he touched it. That pellet was the bullet that had been fired from the dark.

A shot had been aimed directly for Dolver’s head. But only that protecting rod of brass had prevented the bullet from reaching a living mark. Death, Clyde Burke realized, had been close to Courtney Dolver.

Strange chance had stopped a murderous thrust.