The Third Skull

CHAPTER XIX. THE NEXT INTRUDER

“STILL pouring outside.”

Roger Parchell made the statement as he stared at the blackness of a living-room window. Puffing a cigarette, he was viewing the sheets of water that were pouring down the pane.

“But we’re inside,” commented Clyde Burke, from an easy chair.

“Lucky we are,” agreed Roger, strolling over to pick up a half-filled glass. He clinked the ice. “I wouldn’t want to be outside even in an automobile. I don’t envy that chap Cranston.”

Weldon Wingate, seated at a writing table, looked up and beckoned to, the heir.

“Here are the papers, Roger,” declared the lawyer. “Mostly receipts for the delivery of stocks and bonds. Read them over and sign them.”

Roger went to the table. Silence followed as he read the papers; then came intermittent scratches of his pen. During this interval, Selwood Royce decided to light a fire that was built in the grate.

“This big fireplace is a dandy,” the millionaire told Clyde Burke. “The house gets musty very rapidly when it rains. It will be more pleasant with the fire.”

Talbot entered. The servant looked troubled. He approached the fireplace and stood there until Royce looked toward him.

“What is it, Talbot?” inquired the millionaire.

“Sorry to annoy you, sir,” replied the servant, “but I fear there is an intruder about. I caught the sound of footsteps while I was in the dining room.”

“How long ago?”

“Just a few minutes, sir. Now about the door, sir, I—”

“The front door is locked, Talbot. I locked it myself.” Royce looked to the mantelpiece and noted a clock. “I locked it more than half an hour ago, just after Mr. Cranston left.”

“It’s not the front door, sir,” protested Talbot. “I knew that it must be locked. But I went first to the little veranda door at the rear hall, sir—”

“And found it unlocked?”

“No, sir. It was properly bolted from the inside. But then I went to the portico door. It was unbolted, sir. Some one could have come in that way.”

“Was that the door I used?” inquired Wingate, stepping up. “When I went to my car?”

Royce nodded.

“I suppose I forgot to bolt it,” mused the lawyer. “Perhaps I was thinking too much about the papers that I brought.”

“Some one could have come in there, sir,” said Talbot, to Royce. “An intruder could have crossed the dining room while I was absent. I believe, sir, that we might do well to look up in the art gallery.”

“Very well, Talbot,” laughed Royce. “We have nothing else to do. Let’s form a hunting expedition. Come along, every one. We’ll quell Talbot’s apprehensions.”

OUT by the doorway to the gallery stairs, a waiting man was crouched, listening. He was peering from the first turn in the hall. Dull light showed a sallow face, watching in case any one should come. The intruder was Homer Hothan.

Half-dried clothing indicated that Hothan had been hiding outside the house, keeping under some cover to avoid the rain. It was he who had entered, and Talbot had heard him. Hothan had seen the servant come out from the dining room and go back.

Satisfied that he was safe, Hothan groped toward the door to the gallery. He opened it, left it ajar and went up the stairs. When he reached the thirty-foot passage, he used a flashlight. He started back in sudden alarm as he saw a blink come from the other end. Then he emitted a nervous laugh.

Hothan had seen the reflection of his own light in the mirrored door of the closet at the end of the passage. Recognizing that he was facing a looking-glass, Hothan crept on. Suddenly, he extinguished his light. He had heard a sound from below. Some one was coming up to the gallery.

Hothan seized the knob of the closet door; he tugged. The door wrenched open, but without great noise.

Hothan moved inside and pulled the door shut. He was just in time. Lights came on in the passage.

Selwood Royce had pressed a switch from below.

THE searching party came up. They walked along the passage, Royce adding new lights as they went.

They arrived at the gallery and found it empty. After they had looked in both extensions, they returned.

Royce spoke to Talbot as they neared the passage.

“No one up here,” said the millionaire. “Your imagination was at fault, Talbot”

“But I am sure, sir—”

“No one came in from that portico. And the other doors are bolted.”

“What about the north wing?” asked Roger Parchell. “Couldn’t some one have come in from there?”

“The windows are nailed and barred,” explained Royce. “The only door is bolted from the inside. As for the door that connects the north wing with the gallery, that is bolted on this side. We just examined it.”

“Of course, sir,” put in Talbot, “some one could have come through there and bolted the door behind him.”

“But how would he get through in the first place?” laughed Royce. “How could he have gotten into the north wing before that? Be sensible, Talbot.”

Royce tugged at the closet door as he spoke. This was the one place that they had not examined. The millionaire wanted to give final satisfaction to the matter of a supposed intruder. But as he yanked, the door failed to open.

“That closet door is very tight, sir,” reminded Talbot. “I tried to open it a few days ago. It appeared to be stuck.”

“It’s stuck now.” added Royce, “and we’re not going to waste time with it. When we get downstairs, Talbot, you can call in other servants from the kitchen and look about on the ground floor.”

The group went through the passage and descended the stairs. Lights clicked out. A door slammed.

Ten seconds passed; then the closet door opened. Hothan came out boldly; he listened in the darkness.

Then he found a light switch and pressed it to illuminate the gallery.

Hothan snickered. He had heard all that was said. The closet door had been tightly wedged; Hothan had opened it quickly because of his desperation. But when Royce had tried the door, it had failed to open because Hothan was hanging on to the inside knob.

Statements had indicated clearly that no further search of the art gallery would be made; that was why Hothan had forgotten his timidity.

He was a curious sort, this killer. Fearful at times, nervy at others. He was undergoing one of his brave spells at present.

He found the door at the end of one extension. He unbolted it and looked into the yawning spaces of the north wing. Sneaking back, Hothan turned out the gallery lights. Using his torch along the floor, he headed for the door that he had opened.

Gloomy hallways. Silent rooms with covered furniture that gave the semblance of ghostly figures. Hothan hastened nervously. He found a stairway and descended. He located the outer door of the wing.

A big key in the lock grated as Hothan turned it. Rusty bolts above gritted as the sallow man drew them back. The knob squeaked as Hothan turned it; then the door groaned on its hinges as Hothan swung it inward.

DRIVING rain splashed Hothan’s face. The man had extinguished his flashlight; he was peering into total darkness. Cautiously, he blinked the light three times.

He waited. He heard movement from the rain-soaked lawn.

“Flick!” whispered Hothan, hoarsely. A low growl from close by. Hothan stepped back as a man shouldered his way in through the door. Others followed. The door went shut. It was Flick Sherrad and his recruited mob.

The leader told the men to wait. With Hothan, he moved toward the stairs.

“Here’s the lay,” informed Hothan, “This wing’s the best bet for a starter. There couldn’t be a better night to go through it. Everybody’s sticking indoors.”

“Any dope on a skull?” inquired Flick.

“No,” replied Hothan. “But maybe you’ll run across something. I’m telling you, this part of the house is where the chief says it ought to be. The only way to get in here was through the art gallery.

“I’ve got to go back up there. So I can bolt the door on the other side and do a sneak out of the house. I’ll come back in by the door you fellows entered. Then I can help you with the search.”

“Which way’s the art gallery? — just so I’ll know.”

“Come along. I’ll show you.”

Hothan was glad to have Flick accompany him up to the second floor of the wing. Gloomy rooms with their white-garbed furnishings; the spooky patter of the rain — these had combined to bring back the sallow killer’s nervousness.

They reached the open door to the art gallery. Hothan blinked his light to show Flick. Then he whispered:

“I’m closing it, but I’m not bolting it until I’m sure the coast is clear. Start searching downstairs while you’re waiting for me.”

Hothan slid through the door and closed it behind him. He used his flashlight through the gallery. Then he pressed a light switch. Pocketing the flashlight, Hothan stole out into the passage.

The little entry was illuminated, but the thirty-foot corridor was away from the light of the gallery. That was to Hothan’s liking.

Reaching the stairway, Hothan descended cautiously. He opened the lower door and peered out. He stole through darkness and peered from the turn in the hall. He heard footsteps. Some of the servants.

Quickly, Hothan darted back. He went through the doorway to the stairs; he pulled the door shut behind him and went breathlessly upward. He paused at the top.

Hothan wanted to be sure that no one had heard him. He waited; then turned toward the thirty-foot length of the passage, intending to go further down. Hothan was tense; his alertness was partly responsible for the sudden discovery that he made.

Looking down the long passage, Hothan stopped short and emitted a gasp. For a moment, he trembled; then a nervous laugh came from his lips. He stood rooted to the spot, repressing the joyous mirth that shook his frame.

HOTHAN had left the closet door ajar. There it was, set out at an angle of forty-five degrees, nearly thirty feet ahead. Because of its chance angle, the mirror in the door gave a reflection of the short entry passage that led into the art gallery.

Hothan had left the lights on in the gallery. That fact, coupled with the angle of the mirror, gave him a view of some forty feet. The passage was thirty; to it, like a continuation of the corridor, was the reflection of the entry in the mirror. Beyond that, also shown in the silvered glass, was the center of the art gallery.

The sallow man was viewing the Moorish picture — “The Last Tryst” — that visitors saw when they first arrived in the gallery. But Hothan was not seeing a picture of gallant and lady. Those figures could not be distinguished at this range.

Most conspicuous was the outline of the window itself. It formed a widening oval, like a mammoth head.

The figures in the painting were dark, like eyes. Grillwork of the window looked like teeth.

From this distance, the painting represented a giant skull.[2] By luck, Hothan had found the necessary range. He had discovered the place that he had been ordered to locate. The hiding spot of Hildrew Parchell’s treasure!

Behind the painting! The skull that showed so huge on canvas! There was the goal that Hothan’s chief had sought!

The sallow man’s breath came in excited gasps as he started forth along the darkened passage.