The Third Skull

CHAPTER XX. THE KILLER TRAPPED

“BUT I am positive this time, sir—”

“Very well, Talbot, I shall hear you out.”

Selwood Royce was standing in the living room, his hands behind him, his face patient. His guests were looking on, while Talbot, more anxious than before, was endeavoring to convince his master that all was by no means well.

“We made a thorough search downstairs, sir,” explained Talbot. “The other servants and myself. Yet all the while I kept worrying about the hallway to the gallery stairs. I stationed myself in the door of the dining room, Mr. Royce.”

“Well — and then?”

“I distinctly heard the sound of an opening door. I went into the hall and heard the same door close. I was tempted to investigate, sir; but I decided to speak to other servants first. They had gone toward the kitchen. I followed. Then I heard something in the dining room.”

“In the dining room? You said a moment ago that it was in the hall.”

“The sound was not in the dining room itself, sir. It came from above. An eager sort of sound, sir, like some one dashing forward, hurriedly, but on tiptoe.”

Talbot gave an imitation of the idea. He made a ludicrous sight, for he was of portly build. Royce laughed. The others did the same. Talbot looked abashed.

“Really, sir,” he pleaded. “I am serious!”

“I understand, Talbot,” said Royce. “You think the footsteps must have come from the passage upstairs?”

“Positively, sir! The long passage to the art gallery.”

“Very well. Go out in the kitchen, Talbot, and remain there. We shall investigate.”

“But if you want me, sir—”

“You heard my order. Go!”

Talbot departed. Wingate uttered a snort.

“The fellow is persistent,” declared the lawyer. “You did well, Royce, to send him where he belongs. He must have stretched his imagination further than before. Rainfall sounds to him like footsteps.”

“I don’t think so.” Royce spoke seriously as he unlocked a cabinet in the corner of the room. “Talbot knows this old house too well. Something is amiss; but I thought it better not to take him with us this time.”

“You are going up to the gallery?”

“Yes. And I want volunteers to join me.”

ROYCE was bringing an assortment of revolvers from the cabinet. He was examining certain weapons to see if they were loaded. Clyde Burke stepped forward.

“I’ll take one,” said the reporter.

“Help yourself,” offered Royce. “The a choice is yours.”

Clyde picked out a promising .38. Roger Parchell stepped up looked at a .45, then rejected it for a weapon that matched Clyde’s. Wingate remained scoffing; then, as if to jolly the crowd, the lawyer came to the cabinet and selected a .32.

Royce took a German Luger that was evidently his pet pistol. He replaced the other weapons in the cabinet and locked the door. Motioning, he led his companions out into the hallway. They passed the side door to the veranda; they made the turn and came to the door to the gallery stairs.

“Not a sound,” warned Royce, in a whisper. “If a rogue is about, we must trap him properly.”

Carefully, the millionaire opened the door. Immediately, the group became tense. A slight glimmer showed beyond the top of the stairs. Its meaning was unmistakable. Some one was in the art gallery, with the lights turned on.

“I shall go first,” whispered Royce. “Alone until I reach the top. Burke next; then Roger; you, Wingate, last.”

Royce was the leader. The others accepted his commands. Royce advanced; Clyde followed shortly afterward. At the top of the steps, The Shadow’s agent could see Royce tiptoeing down the passage.

The closet door was closed again. No reflection of the entry aided the advance. Royce was moving slowly; Clyde edged in close behind him. He saw Royce stop at the turn, then motion. Clyde came up.

Looking through the entry, they saw a man hunched in front of the central picture. The fellow’s back was toward them; he was working at the paneling which formed the painting’s frame. But he could not seem to loosen it.

Royce nudged Clyde. Together, the two sprang forward. The man leaped up; they saw a sallow, hunted face. Then they had the intruder covered. His hands went toward the ceiling. Royce made another gesture; Roger Parchell came into view, Weldon Wingate close behind him.

It was the lawyer who uttered the recognition. He was the only one of the four who could claim acquaintance with the man whom they had trapped. But as Wingate told the fellow’s identity, Clyde Burke realized that the very name was coming to his own mind.

“Homer Hothan!”

THE prisoner cowered. He backed away as Royce nudged him with the Luger. Hands upraised, he was moving toward the blind end of the gallery.

“I–I was doing no harm,” wailed Hothan, looking from face to face. “Honestly, I–I was only looking about!”

“As you did at Tobold’s?” snorted Wingate.

“Or at Morth’s?” put in Roger.

Hothan quavered. He had stopped against the wall. He shot a worried glance about the group; then looked toward the Moorish picture. He turned his gaze quickly away from that spot; but Clyde Burke caught something in his manner.

“Ask him why he was at the picture,” suggested Clyde, to Royce. “Make him tell what he was after.”

“Now come clean, Hothan,” ordered Royce. “Let’s hear it.”

“Nothing,” Hothan stammered in reply. “Nothing — nothing…”

“Suppose we let you talk to the police?” put in Roger Parchell. “Would you prefer to talk to them?”

“I–I don’t want to talk,” pleaded Hothan. “But if — but if—”

“Let us take him downstairs,” suggested Wingate. “Then we can call Detective Cardona. This man is wanted by the law.”

“One minute,” insisted Clyde. “Just stay where you are. Every one. I have an idea.”

Clyde had not forgotten his view of a tall form in the entry. He could still picture the masklike features of Lamont Cranston. He could see those half-closed eyelids, the thin smile on fixed lips. Cranston had been looking at the Moorish painting, the very object which Hothan had found of interest.

Stepping into the entry, Clyde went to the mirrored door and partially opened it. Eyes half closed, he looked at the Moorish painting. Gradually, he discerned the illusion. Chuckling, Clyde rejoined the others.

“I’ll watch Hothan,” he declared. “Go back there, all of you. Shut your eyes until they are almost closed.

Look at that Moorish scene. Tell me what it reminds you of.”

The other three men went together. Clyde kept Hothan covered and listened for comments. They came, in quick succession.

“It’s a skull!” exclaimed Royce. “A perfect skull!”

“The skull with the treasure!” added Wingate.

“All my uncle’s wealth!” ejaculated Roger.

A HOARSE scream from Hothan. Before Clyde expected it, the sallow man had leaped forward in desperation. He was grabbing the reporter’s arms, forcing up Clyde’s gun hand. Hothan had caught Clyde off guard; but the reporter was quick to meet the attack.

He might have shot Hothan in the brief struggle, for Clyde, wiry and alert, had managed to pull his gun arm away immediately. But there was no need to fire. The others were coming.

Hothan knew it also. Frantically, the sallow man broke loose and dashed down the gallery.

In his excitement, Hothan may have thought he was taking the avenue to the north wing. Just what his impressions were, no one ever learned. The fact was that be was heading into the blind extension of the gallery, with no chance of escape.

Hothan was pulling a gun as he ran. Clyde was close behind him, and the others had dashed in from the entry: Royce first, with his Luger; Wingate next; then Roger.

Hothan dived for the blind end of the gallery. His hand wavered as he saw both Clyde and Royce covering him. The man began to falter. His fingers were opening to let the revolver fall when Wingate arrived. But the lawyer did not, apparently, note that fact. Excitedly, he fired with his .32.

A bullet nicked Hothan. The sallow man sank to one knee. Clyde and Royce dropped back together, covering, yet ready to hold their fire. It was Roger who saw danger in Hothan’s manner. Arriving late, as Wingate had, the heir fired point-blank at the wounded man who held the gun.

Hothan sprawled head-foremost to the floor.

He lay there gasping as the four came up. He raised his head; his expression was half venomous, half accusing. Mortally wounded, Hothan gasped mad words. They had the import of a confession — but not the tone of it.

“I–I killed Hildrew Parchell,” coughed the secretary. “I killed him because — because I was told — told to do so—”

Effort ended. Hothan’s face distorted. A final spasm shook his quivering body. Clyde Burke was holding the killer’s shoulders. He felt them relax.

Homer Hothan was dead. With his passing, he had failed in his last endeavor. He had been about to reveal the identity of the master crook. That wanted name had faded on his lips.