Drury Lane’s Last Case (25 page)

Dr. Sedlar came and went at the museum. As did Dr. Choate. Crabbe fondled his books at the Saxon mansion. Mrs. Saxon went about fatly and damply in the late June heat, preparing the exodus of her household to Cannes for the summer season.… Everybody performed his normal function. Everybody seemed as innocent as Patience's blue eyes. As Inspector Thumm remarked to one of his operatives in a moment of relaxation from the rigours of the jewel investigation: “It's just about the screwiest business I've ever had a hand in.”

Maxwell, it was assumed, still held the lonely fort at Dr. Ales' house.

Then the call came.

It came on the first of July, a broiling Monday morning which found the Inspector two days absent, off on a mysterious hunt connected with his latest investigation; Gordon Rowe peacefully asleep in the family-hotel quarters he had taken during the week—having with dignity packed his meagre belongings and left the Saxon house, as he stated to Patience, “for the rest of my natural life”; Miss Brodie in the usual spiritual lather in the ante-room of the Inspector's office; and Patience at the Inspector's desk frowning over a note from her father postmarked Council Bluffs, Iowa.

Miss Brodie shouted in through the open door: “Will you take this call, Miss Thumm? Can't make him out. He sounds drunk or something.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Patience, reaching for the telephone. Miss Brodie was at times difficult. “Hallo,” she said wearily, and then stiffened as if the wire had shot her full of current.

The voice on the other end was unquestionably old Maxwell's. But what a voice! Choking, weak, wild—it babbled on and on, and Patience could not make out more than a chance word. “Help—at the house—terrible—Inspector Thumm—come”—all amid a mumble of crazy syllables that made no sense.

“Maxwell!” cried Patience. “What's happened? Did Dr. Ales come back?”

For an instant the old man's voice, while feeble, was clear. “No. Come,” and there was a hollow thud, as if something heavy had fallen. Patience stared at the receiver. Then she jangled frantically. There was no reply. “Maxwell!” But it was soon evident that poor Maxwell was in no condition to hear or answer her plea.

Patience scrambled into the ante-room, her straw hat askew on her curls. “Brodie! Get Quacey at The Hamlet for me.… Quacey! Patience Thumm. Is Mr. Lane there?” But Quacey was desolated: Mr. Drury, he reported, was somewhere about the estate—exactly where he did not know; however, he would find his master as soon as he could and transmit Patience's message to proceed immediately to Dr. Ales's house.… Then Patience rang up Gordon Rowe's new number.

“Good God, Pat. That sounds serious. Wait till I get the sleep out of my brain.… Have you telephoned the police?”

“Police? What police?”

“The Tarrytown police, ninny! Pat, my girl, your wits are addled this morning. For heaven's sake, get help to that poor old fellow!”

“Oh, Gordon,” wailed Patience, “I'm such a fool. I'm so sorry. I should have thought of that. I'll notify them at once. Pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“Put some pep into it, darling!”

But the head of the Tarrytown police, a man named Bolling was out when Patience called; and a fatigued assistant who seemed to have difficulty understanding the urgency of the situation finally promised to “send somebody out.”

As the difficulties mounted, Patience's lips became grimmer. “I'm going out,” she announced tragically to Miss Brodie. “Lord, what a mess! And poor Maxwell w-weltering there in his blood for all I know. 'By!”

Patience jerked her roadster to a stop just outside the entrance to the lane. Gordon Rowe stood up and squinted hard up the road.

“I think that's Lane's car coming now.”

A long black limousine hurtled toward them at breakneck speed. It shrieked to a stop in front of them and they both sighed with satisfaction. The daredevil at the wheel was Dromio. The door of the tonneau opened and Lane's tall spare figure leaped nimbly out.

“Children!” he cried. “I'm frightfully sorry. You've just come? I was out swimming and Quacey, poor fool, couldn't find me. Have you telephoned the police?”

“They should be there now,” said Patience with a gulp.

“No,” murmured the old gentleman, keenly eyeing the gravel of the lane. “It poured during the night; the gravel is still black and soft; no marks of tyres.… For some reason they've failed. We'll have to see this out ourselves. Your arm, I see, Gordon, is healed.… Proceed, my dear. Not too fast. There's no telling what we may find.”

He returned to his car and Patience swung the roadster into the lane. Dromio followed with the bigger machine. The trees closed in over their heads. The early-morning downpour had washed the gravel and its bed of earth clean; it was like an uncontaminated sheet of paper. The young man and the young woman were silent, Patience intent on the whimsies of the narrow road, Rowe's eyes straining ahead. They did not know what to expect. Had an armed man jumped out of a clump of bushes, or a gang appeared ahead bristling with machine-guns, neither would have been surprised. The two cars crashed along; and nothing happened.

When they reached the entrance to the narrow drive which led to Dr. Ales's house, Patience stopped. Lane got out behind them, and the three held a council of war. The countryside was cheerful and brisk with the usual summer noises; but there was no sign or sound of human proximity. They decided to leave the two cars in the lane in Dromio's charge and proceed on foot.

They walked down the driveway cautiously, Rowe in the van, Lane holding up the rear, and Patience nervously betweeen them. The trees thinned and they peered into the clearing before the house. It was quite deserted. The front door was solidly closed, the windows were as before shuttered, the garage door was closed—nothing seemed amiss.

“But where's Maxwell?” whispered Patience.

“Let's get into the house and see. I don't like the look of this,” said Rowe grimly. “Stick close, Pat; no telling what we may run into.”

They crossed the clearing quickly and mounted the rickety steps to the porch. Rowe pounded hard on the thick panels of the door. He pounded again, and again. But there was no answer. They glanced at Lane; the old man's lips were set in a thin line and there was a curious glitter in his eyes.

“Why not force the door?” he suggested mildly.

“Bully idea.” Rowe moved back to the edge of the porch, waved them aside, braced himself, and then took a long leaping step forward. His right foot came up sharply and crashed against the lock in a vicious kick that shivered the stout wood and set up a faint jangling above the door inside. He returned to the edge of the porch and tried again. On the fifth attempt the door burst inward, its lock shattered, while the coiled-spring bell above it set up a wild protest.

“The
savate
,” panted Rowe triumphantly, springing through the doorway. “A French wrestler taught it to me in Marseilles last spring … For the love of God!”

They stopped short beyond the threshold, stricken dumb by what they saw. The tiny hall was a wreck; it looked as if a bomb had burst in it. An old chair which stood near an umbrella-stand lay broken into four pieces. A mirror which had hung above the wall carpeted the hall floor with glass fragments. The umbrella-stand had rolled crazily down the hall. A small table lay overturned, like a dead beetle.

In silence they went into the parlour. It was demolished.

They looked into the study, and Patience paled. It was as if an elephant, or a family of famished tigers, had swept through it. Not a single piece of furniture was left standing. There were peculiar gashes all over the walls. The chandelier had been demolished. Books were scattered over the floor. Glass. Splinters.… In the same silence they investigated the kitchen at the rear. It had been left comparatively untouched; comparatively only, for its table-drawer had been turned out, and the shelves of its closets had been ravaged, dishes and pans being scattered over the floor.

Upstairs the same condition prevailed. The gashes …

They returned to the ground floor. There was no sign of Maxwell in the house, although his clothes were in his bedroom.

“Wasn't there a garage outside?” murmured Lane thoughtfully. “It's barely possible——”

“Let's see,” said Rowe; and they went outside. Rowe prowled about the garage. It had only one window, and that was so crusted with dirt and carbon that it was opaque. Lane hammered on the thin door, from whose hasp hung a rusty lock. There was no response.

“I'll have to smash the window in,” said the young man. “Pat, stand off; don't want you hurt by flying glass.” He found a heavy stone and tossed it at the window. The glass shattered, and he fumbled with the catch inside. Then he scrambled through the window and an instant later called out: “Get away from the door!” The door burst outward, its hasp wrenched from the wood.… Gordon Rowe, his lean face flushed, stood in the doorway without moving. Then he said tightly: “He's here, all right. But I think he's dead.”

22

The Hacker

A battered automobile stood in the garage, which was strewn with rusty bolts, oily rags, wooden cases—a litter of evil-smelling
débris
. An ancient chair stood between the windowed wall and the car, and festoons of ragged rope hung from it. Between the chair and the double door lay the body of Maxwell, black garments streaked with dust; he was lying prone, his legs crumpled beneath him. There was no sign of a wound, although the knot of a bound cloth was visible at the nape of his neck. Two feet from his outstretched right hand there was a paint-smeared tabouret on which lay an extension telephone. Its receiver dangled at the end of the cord. Patience dully replaced it on the hook.

Rowe and Lane knelt by the side of the still figure and turned it over. Maxwell's gaunt face was a creamy white; beneath his chin like a bib there was a thickly folded cloth, apparently a gag which he had managed to work loose after freeing himself from the ropes which had held him tied to the chair beyond. Then, incredibly, his face began to twitch, and he uttered a croaking groan.

“Why, he's alive!” cried Patience, flying to his side. She went down on her knees, ignoring the grime and the concrete floor, and patted the old man's cheeks. His eyes flickered open, and closed again. Rowe scrambled to his feet and made for a greenish tap at the rear of the garage; he soaked his handkerchief in water and returned. Patience bathed the white face gently.

“Poor fellow,” said Lane slowly. “I think between us, Gordon, we can manage to get him into the house.”

They lifted the limp sharp-boned body carefully and carried it across the clearing through the shattered front door into the parlour. Patience struggled with an overturned sofa, managing to right it; its upholstery had been slashed to strips. They laid Maxwell upon it and stood silently looking down on him. His eyes fluttered open again, and a faint tinge of colour began to suffuse his withered cheeks. There was fear and horror in his eyes; but when he saw the concerned faces above him he sighed and began to lick his lips.

At this moment there was the roar of a motor outside and they quickly went out on to the porch. A thick-set man with a red face, dressed in a blue uniform, was hurrying up the steps, two policemen at his heels.

“I'm Chief Bolling of Tarrytown,” he snapped. “Were you the one that called my office this morning, young lady? … Couldn't find this damned place and that's why we're late. Now tell me what's happened here.”

When introductions and explanations had been made, and Maxwell had been sufficiently revived, they gathered about the old man in the shattered parlour and listened to his story.

On the previous night at 11.30—a dark threatening Sunday night—Maxwell had been alone in the house playing patience when the door-bell rang. He had hurried to the door, a little apprehensive; it was pitch-black outside, he was alone, far from a human habitation.… Who might a visitor be at this time of night—to this house which had had so few visitors? Then the thought came to him that perhaps it was Dr. Ales returning; and at the insistent demand of the bell he had opened the door. Instantly a foot had slipped over the threshold and in the dim light of the hall he had seen a tall man muffled to the eyes. Maxwell started back with a squeal of alarm, but the visitor pushed something small and round and hard against Maxwell's quivering belly and he realized with a weakening of his knees that he was being threatened with a revolver. Then, as the man advanced and the feeble light fell directly upon him, Maxwell saw with a convulsion of horror that the man was masked.

“I—I was so scared,” said Maxwell in a cracked voice, “that I thought I'd faint. He turned me around and made me march out of the house in front of him, keeping the gun pressed into my back. I shut my eyes; I thought he—he was going to shoot me. But he only made me go into the garage, and he found some old rope and tied me to the broken old chair there, and he gagged me with a piece of cloth. Then he went off. But he came back right away and searched me. I knew why. When we'd left the house the front door had clicked shut; it's got a spring-lock. He couldn't get back into the house. But I had a duplicate key in my jeans—Dr. Ales had the original—and he took it from me. Then he went away and locked the garage door and I was left in the dark. Everything was so quiet.… I was in the garage all night, hardly breathing.” He shivered. “The ropes hurt. I couldn't sleep. I felt strained, and my arms and legs sort of fell asleep. But in the morning I finally managed to loosen the ropes, and I took the gag out of my mouth, and then I found in my pocket the card Inspector Thumm left with me. So I called up on the extension 'phone.…. I guess I must have fainted. That's all I know.”

They went over the house thoroughly, Maxwell tottering after them. They began with the study.