 CHAPTER 11 OF THE BAT This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winterout. THE BAT By Mary Roberts Reinhart. CHAPTER 11 Billy practices Jujitsu. We have had a very sad occurrence here, doctor, said Miss Cornelia gently. The doctor braced himself. Who? Richard Fleming. Gas the doctor in tones of incredulous horror? Shot and killed from that staircase, said Miss Cornelia tonelessly. The detective demurred. Shot and killed anyhow, he said in accents of significant omission. The doctor knelt beside the huddle on the floor. He removed the fold of the raincoat that covered the face of the corpse and stared at the dead blank mask. Till a moment ago, even at the height of his irritation with Bailey, he had been blithe and offhand, a man who seemed comparatively young for his years. Now age seemed to fall upon him, suddenly, like a gray, clinging dust. He looked stricken and feeble under the impact of this unexpected shock. Shot and killed from that stairway, he repeated dully. He rose from his knees and glanced at the fatal stairs. What was Richard Fleming doing in this house at this hour, he said? He spoke to Miss Cornelia, but Anderson answered the question. That's what I'm trying to find out, he said with a satternine smile. The doctor gave him a look of astonished inquiry. Miss Cornelia remembered her manners. Doctor, this is Mr. Anderson. Headquarters, said Anderson tersely, shaking hands. It was Lizzie's turn to play her part in the tangled game of mutual suspicion that by now made each member of the party at Cedar Crest watch every other member with nervous distrust. She crossed to her mistress on tiptoe. Don't you let him fool you with any of that moth business, she said in a thrilling whisper, jerking her thumb in the direction of the doctor. He's the bat. Ordinarily Miss Cornelia would have dismissed her words with a smile. But by now her brain felt as if it had begun to revolve like a pinwheel in her efforts to fathom the uncanny mystery of the various events of the night. She addressed Dr. Wells. I didn't tell you, doctor. I sent for a detective this afternoon. Then with mounting suspicion, you happened in very opportunely. After I left the Johnsons I felt very uneasy, he explained. I determined to make one more effort to get you away from this house. And this shows my fears were justified. He shook his head sadly. Miss Cornelia sat down. His last words had given her food for thought. She wanted to mull them over. The doctor removed muffler and topcoat. Stuffed the former in his topcoat pocket and threw the latter on the settee. He took out his handkerchief and began to mop his face as if to wipe away some strain of mental excitement under which he was laboring. His breath came quickly. The muscles of his jaw stood out. Died instantly I suppose. He said looking over at the body. Didn't have time to say anything? Asked the young lady. Said Anderson with a jerk of his head. She was here when it happened. The doctor gave Dale a feverish glance of inquiry. He just fell over. Said the latter pitifully. Her answer seemed to relieve the doctor of some unseen weight on his mind. He drew a long breath and turned back towards Fleming's body with comparative calm. Poor Dick has proved my case for me better than I expected, he said. Regarding the still unbreathing heap beneath the raincoat. He swerved towards the detective. Mr. Anderson, he said with dignified pleading. I ask you to use your influence to see that these two ladies find some safer spot than this for the night. Lizzie bounced up from her chair instantly. To! she wailed. If you know any safe spot, lead me to it. The doctor overlooked her sudden eruption into the scene. He wandered back again toward the huddle under the raincoat. As if still unable to believe that it was, or rather had been, Richard Fleming. Miss Cornelius spoke suddenly in a low voice without moving a muscle of her body. I have a strange feeling that I'm being watched by unfriendly eyes, she said. Lizzie clutched at her across the table. I wish the lights would go out again, she patterned. No, I don't neither, as Miss Cornelius gave the clutching hand a nervous little slap. During the little interlude of comedy, Billy, the Japanese, unwatched by the others, had stolen to the French windows, pulled aside a blind and looked out. When he turned back to the room, his face had lost a portion of its oriental calm. There was suspicion in his eyes. Softly, under cover of pretending to arrange the tray of food that lay untouched on the table, he possessed himself of the key to the front door, unperceived by the rest, and slipped out of the room like a ghost. Meanwhile, the detective confronted Dr. Wells. You say, doctor, that you came back to take these women away from the house? Why? The doctor gave him a dignified stare. Miss Van Gorder has already explained. Miss Cornelia elucidated. Mr. Anderson has already formed a theory of the crime, she said, with a trace of sarcasm in her tones. The detective turned on her quickly. I haven't said that. He started. It had come again, tinkling, persistent, the phone call from nowhere, the ringing of the bell of the house telephone. The house telephone again, breathed Dale. Miss Cornelia made a movement to answer the tinkling, inexplicable bell, but Anderson was before her. I'll answer that, he barked. He sprang to the phone. Hello? Hello? All eyes were bent on him nervously. The doctor's face in particular seemed a very steady in fear and amazement. He clutched the back of a chair to support himself. His hand was the trembling hand of a sick old man. Hello? Hello? Anderson swore impatiently. He hung up the phone. There's nobody there. Again, a chill breath from another world in ours seemed to brush across the faces of the little group in the living room. Dale, sensitive, impressionable, felt a cold uncanny prickling at the roots of her hair. A light came into Anderson's eyes. Where's that jab? He almost shouted. He just went out, said Miss Cornelia. The cold fear, the fear of the unearthly, subsided from around Dale's heart, leaving her shaken but more at peace. The detective turned swiftly to the doctor, as if to put his case before the eyes of an unprejudiced witness. That jab rang the phone, he said decisively. Miss Van Gorder believes that this murder is the culmination of the series of mysterious happenings that caused her to sin for me. I do not. Then what is the significance of the anonymous letters? Broke in Miss Cornelia heatedly. Of the man Lizzie saw going up the stairs. Of the attempt to break into this house. Of the ringing of that telephone bell. Anderson replied with one deliberate word. Terrorization, he said. The doctor moistened his dry lips in an effort to speak. By whom, he asked. Anderson's voice was an icicle. I imagine by Miss Van Gorder's servants. That woman there, he pointed at Lizzie, who rose indignantly to deny the charge. But he gave her no time for denial, he rushed on. Who probably writes the letters, he continued. By the gardener, his pointing finger found Bailey, who may have been the man Lizzie saw slipping up the stairs. By the jab, who goes out and rings the telephone, he concluded triumphantly. Miss Cornelia seemed unimpressed by his fervor. With what object, she queried smoothly. That's what I'm going to find out. There was determination in Anderson's reply. Miss Cornelia sniffed. Absurd. The butler was in this room when the telephone rang for the first time. The thrust pierced Anderson's armor. For once, he seemed at a loss. Here was something he had omitted from his calculations. But he did not give up. He was about to retort when, crash, thud. The noise of a violent struggle in the hall outside drew all eyes to the hall door. An instant later, the door slammed open and a disheveled young man in evening clothes was catapulted into the living room as if slung there by a giant's arm. He tripped and fell to the floor in the center of the room. Billy stood in the doorway behind him, inscrutable, arms folded on his face an expression of mild satisfaction as if he were to merely please with a neat piece of housework neatly carried out. The young man picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, sought for his hat which had rolled under the table. Then he turned on Billy furiously. Damn you, what do you mean by this? Jujitsu, said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled. Pretty good stuff. Found on terrace with searchlight, he added. With searchlight, barked Anderson. The young man turned to face this new enemy. Well, why shouldn't I be on the terrace with a searchlight, he demanded. The detective moved toward him menacingly. Who are you? Who are you? Said the young man with cool impertinence, giving him stare for stare. Anderson did not danger apply in so many words. Instead, he displayed the police badge which glittered on the inside of the right lapel of his coat. The young man examined it coolly. He said, very pretty, nice neat design, very chaste. He took out a cigarette case and opened it, seemingly entirely unimpressed by both the badge and Anderson. The detective chafed. If you've finished admiring my badge, he said with heavy sarcasm. I'd like to know what you were doing on the terrace. The young man hesitated. Shot an odd, swift glance at Dale, who ever since his abrupt entrance into the room had been sitting rigid in her chair with her hands clenched tightly together. I've had some trouble with my car down the road, he said finally. He glanced at Dale again. I came to ask if I might telephone. Did it require a flashlight to find the house? Miss Cornelia asked suspiciously. Look here, the young man blustered. Why are you asking me all these questions? He tapped his cigarette case with an irritated air. Miss Cornelia stepped closer to him. Do you mind letting me see that flashlight, she said? The young man gave it to her with a little mocking bow. She turned it over, examined it, passed it to Anderson, who examined it also, seeming to devote particular attention to the lens. The young man stood puffing his cigarette a little nervously while the examination was in progress. He did not look at Dale again. Anderson handed back the flashlight to its owner. Now, what's your name, he said sternly. Barrisford, Reginald Barrisford, said the young man sulkily. If you doubt it, I've probably got a card somewhere. He began to search through his pockets. What's your business, went on the detective? What's my business here, queried the young man, obviously fencing with his interrogator. No, how do you earn your living, said Anderson sharply. I don't, said the young man flippantly. I may have to begin now, if that is of any interest to you. As a matter of fact, I've studied law, but the one word was enough to start Lizzie off on another trail of distrust. He may be a lawyer, she quoted to herself, suppulcarily from the evening newspaper article, that it dealt with the mysterious identity of the bat. And you came here to telephone about your car, persisted the detective. Dale rose from her chair with a hopeless little sigh. Oh, don't you see, he's trying to protect me, she said wearily. She turned to the young man. It's no use, Mr. Beresford. Beresford's air of flippancy vanished. I see, he said. He turned to the other frankly. Well the plain truth is, I don't know the situation, and I thought I'd play safe for Miss Ogden's sake. Miss Cornelia moved over to her knees, protectingly. She put a hand on Dale's shoulder to reassure her, but Dale was quite composed now. She had gone through so many shocks already, that one more or less seemed to make very little difference to her overweary nerves. She turned to Anderson calmly. He doesn't know anything about this, she said, indicating Beresford. He brought Mr. Fleming here in his car, that's all. Anderson looked to Beresford for confirmation. Is that true? Yes, said Beresford, he started to explain. I got tired of waiting, and so I… The detective broke in curtly. All right. He took a step toward the alcove. Now doctor, he nodded at the huddle beneath the raincoat. Beresford followed his glance, and saw the ominous heat for the first time. What's that? He asked tensely. No one answered him. The doctor was already on his knees beside the body, drawing a raincoat gently aside. Beresford stared at the shape, thus revealed, with frightened eyes. The color left his face. That's not Dick Fleming, is it? He said thickly. Anderson slowly nodded his head. Beresford seemed unable to believe his eyes. If you've looked over the ground, said the doctor, in a low voice to Anderson, I'll move the body where we can have a better light. His right hand fluttered swiftly over Fleming's still-clenched fist, extracted from it a torn corner of paper. Still Beresford did not seem to be able to take in what had happened. He took another step toward the body. Do you mean to say that Dick Fleming? He began. Anderson silenced him with an uplifted hand. What have you got there, doctor? He said in a still voice. The doctor, still on his knees beside the corpse, lifted his head. What do you mean? You took something just then out of Fleming's hand, said the detective. I took nothing out of his hand, said the doctor firmly. Anderson's manner grew peremptory. I warned you not to obstruct the course of justice, he said forcibly. Give it here. The doctor rose slowly, dusting off his knees. His eyes tried to meet Anderson's and failed. He produced a torn corner of blueprint. Why, it's only a scrap of paper, nothing at all, he said evasively. Anderson looked at him meaningfully. Scraps of paper are sometimes very important, said with a side glance at Dale. Beresford approached the two angrily. Look here, he burst out. I've got a right to know about this thing. I brought Fleming over here and I want to know what happened to him. You don't have to be a mind reader to know that, moaned Lizzie, overcome. As usual, her comment went unanswered. Beresford persisted in his questions. Who killed him? That's what I want to know. He continued nervously puffing his cigarette. Well, you're not alone in that, said Anderson, in his grimly humorous vein. The doctor motioned nervously to them both. As the coroner, if Mr. Anderson is satisfied, I suggest that the body be taken where I can make a thorough examination, he said, haltingly. Once more, Anderson bent over the shell that had been Richard Fleming. He turned the body half over, let it sink back on its face. For a moment he glanced at the corner of the blueprint in his hand, then at the doctor. Then he stood aside. He said, laconically. So Richard Fleming left the room where he had been struck down so suddenly and strangely, born out by Beresford, the doctor, and Jack Bailey. The little procession moved as swiftly and softly as circumstances would permit. Anderson followed its passage with watchful eyes. Billy went mechanically to pick up the stained rug, which the detective had kicked aside and carried it off after the body. When the burden and its bearers, with Anderson in the rear, reached the doorway into the hall, Lizzie shrank before the sight, affrighted, and turned toward the alcove while Miss Cornelius stared unseeingly out toward the front windows. So for perhaps a dozen ticks of time, Dale was left unwatched, and she made the most of her opportunity. Her fingers fumbled at the bosom of her dress. She took out the precious, dangerous fragment of blueprint that Anderson must not find in her possession, but where to hide it before her chance had passed. Her eyes fell on the bread roll that had fallen from the detective's suppertree to the floor when Lizzie had seen the gleaming eye on the stairs and had lain there unnoticed ever since. She bent over swiftly and secreted the tantalizing scrap of blue paper in the body of the roll, smoothing the crust back over it with trembling fingers. Then she replaced the roll where it had fallen originally and straightened up just as Billy and the detective returned. Billy went immediately to the tray, picked it up, and started to go out again. Then he noticed the roll on the floor, stooped for it, and replaced it upon the tray. He looked at Miss Cornelia for instructions. Take that tray out to the dining room, she said mechanically. But Anderson's attention had already been drawn to the tiny incident. Wait, I'll look at that tray, he said briskly. Dale, her heart in her mouth, watched him examine the knives, the plates, even shake out the napkin to see that nothing was hidden in its folds. At last he seemed satisfied. All right, take it away, he commanded. Billy nodded and vanished toward the dining room with tray and roll. Dale breathed again. The sight of the tray had made Miss Cornelia's thoughts return to practical affairs. Lizzie, she commanded now, go out in the kitchen and make some coffee. I'm sure we all need it, she sighed. Lizzie bristled at once. Go out in that kitchen alone? Billy's there, said Miss Cornelia wearily. The thought of Billy seemed to bring little solace to Lizzie's heart. That Japanese Jui Jitsu, she muttered viciously, one twist and I'll be folded up like a pretzel. But Miss Cornelia's manner was imperative, and Lizzie slowly dragged herself kitchen work, yawning and promising the saint's repentance of every sin she had or had not committed if she were allowed to get there without something grabbing at her ankles in the dark corner of the hall. When the door had shut behind her, Anderson turned to Dale, the corner of the blueprint which he had taken from the doctor in his hand. Now Miss Ogden, he said tensely, I have here a scrap of blueprint which was in Dick Fleming's hand when he was killed. I'll trouble you for the rest of it if you please. End of Chapter 11. Recording by Alan Winteroud. BoomCoach.blogspot.com Chapter 12 of The Bat. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winteroud. The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhart. Chapter 12. I Didn't Kill Him. The rest of it? Query Dale with a show of bewilderment. Silently thanking her stars that, for the moment at least, the incriminating fragment had passed out of her possession. Her reply seemed only to infuriate the detective. Don't tell me Fleming started to go out of this house with a blank scrap of paper in his hand, he threatened. He didn't start to go out at all. Dale rose. Was Anderson trying a chance shot in the dark or had he stumbled across some fresh evidence against her? She could not tell from his manner. Why do you say that? She fainted. His caps there on the table said the detective with crushing terceness. Dale started. She had not remembered the cap. Why hadn't she burned it, concealed it as she had concealed the blueprint? She passed a hand over her forehead wearily. Miss Cornelia watched her niece. If you're keeping anything back, Dale, tell him, she said. She's keeping something back all right, he said. She stole part of the truth, but not all. He hammered at Dale again. You and Fleming located that room by means of a blueprint of the house. He started not to go out, but probably to go up that staircase and he had in his hand the rest of this. Again he displayed the blank corner of blue paper. Dale knew herself cornered at last. The detective's deductions were too shrewd. Do what she would, she could keep him away from the truth no longer. He was going to take the money and go away with it. She said rather pitifully, feeling a certain relief of despair steal over her now that she no longer needed to go online, lying involving herself in an inextricable web of falsehood. Dale gasped Miss Cornelia alarmed, but Dale went on, reckless of consequences to herself, though still warily shielding Jack. He changed the minute he heard about it. He was all kindness before that, but afterward she shuddered, closing her eyes. Fleming's face rose before her again, furious, distorted with passion and greed, and then suddenly quenched of life. Anderson turned to Miss Cornelia triumphantly. She started to find the money and save Bailey, he explained, building up his theory of the crime. But to do it, she had to take Fleming into her confidence, and he turned yellow. Rather than let him get away with it, she made an expressive gesture towards his hip pocket. Dale trembled, feeling herself already in the toils. She had not quite realized until now how damningly plausible such an explanation of Fleming's death could sound. It fitted the evidence perfectly. It took account of every factor but one. The factor left unaccounted for was one which even she herself could not explain. Isn't that true, demanded Anderson? Dale already felt the cold clasp of handcuffs on her slim wrists. What use of denial when every tiny circumstance was so leaked against her? And yet she must deny. I didn't kill him. She repeated perplexedly, weakly. Why didn't you call for help? You knew I was here. Dale hesitated. I couldn't. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew from his expression that they had only cemented his growing certainty of her guilt. Dale, be careful what you say. Warned Miss Cornelia agitatedly. Dale looked dumbly at her aunt. Her answers must seem the height of reckless folly to Miss Cornelia. Oh, if there were only someone who understood. Anderson resumed his grilling. Now I mean to find out two things, he said advancing upon Dale. Why you did not call for help and what you have done with that blueprint. Suppose I could find that piece of blueprint for you, said Dale desperately. Would that establish Jack Bailey's innocence? The detective stared at her keenly for a moment. If the money's there, yes. Dale opened her lips to reveal the secret, reckless of what might follow, as long as Jack was cleared no matter what happened to herself. But Miss Cornelia nipped the heroic attempt at self-sacrifice in the bud. She put herself between her niece and the detective, shielding Dale from his eager gaze. But her own guilt? She said in tones of great dignity? No, Mr. Anderson. Granting that she knows where that paper is and she has not said that she does, I shall want more time and much legal advice before I allow her to turn it over to you. All the unconscious note of command that long inherited wealth and the pride of a great name can give was in her voice, and the detective for the moment bowed before it, defeated. Perhaps he thought of men who had been broken from the force for injudicious arrests. Perhaps he merely bided his time. At any rate, he gave up his grilling of Dale for the present and turned to question the doctor and Beresford, who had just returned with Jack Bailey from their grim task of placing Fleming's body in a temporary resting place in the library. Well, doctor, he grunted. The doctor shook his head. Poor fellow, straight through the heart. Were there any powder marks, queried Miss Cornelia? No, and the clothing was not burned. He was apparently shot from some little distance, and I should say from above. The detective received this information without the change of a muscle in his face. He turned to Beresford, resuming his attack on Dale from another angle. Did Fleming tell you why he came here tonight? Beresford considered the question. No. He seemed in a great hurry, and Miss Ogden had telephoned him and asked me to drive him over. Why did you come up to the house? Well, said Beresford, with seeming candor. I thought it was putting rather a premium on friendship to keep me sitting out in the rain all night, so I came up the drive. And by the way, he snapped his fingers irritatedly, as if recalling some significant incident that had slipped his memory, and drew a battered object from his pocket. I picked this up, about a hundred feet from the house, he explained. A man's watch. It was partly crushed into the ground, and as you see, it stopped running. The detective took the object and examined it carefully. A man's open-face gold watch, crushed and battered in, as if it had been trampled upon by a heavy heel. Yes, he said thoughtfully. Stopped running at 10.30. Beresford went on with mounting excitement. I was using my pocket flash to find my way, and what first attracted my attention was the ground, torn up, you know, all around it. Then I saw the watch itself. Anybody here recognize it? The detective silently held up the watch, so that all present could examine it. He waited. But if anyone in the party recognized the watch, no one moved forward to claim it. You didn't hear any evidence of a struggle, did you? Went on Beresford. The ground looked as if a fight had taken place. Of course, it might have been a dozen other things. Miss Cornelius started. Just about 10.30, Lizzie heard somebody cry out in the grounds, she said. The detective looked Beresford over, till the ladder grew a little uncomfortable. I don't suppose it has any bearing on the case. Admitted the ladder uneasily, but it's interesting. The detective seemed to agree. At least he slipped the watch in his pocket. Do you always carry a flashlight, Mr. Beresford? Asked Miss Cornelius a trifle suspiciously. Always at night in the car, his reply was prompt and certain. This is all you found? Created the detective a curious note in his voice. Yes, Beresford sat down relieved. Miss Cornelius followed his example. Another clue had led into a blind alley, leaving the mystery of the night's affairs as impenetrable as ever. Someday, I hoped to meet the real estate agent who promised me that I would sleep here as I never slept before, she murmured accurately. He's right, I slept with my clothes on every night since I came. As she ended, Billy darted in from the hall, his beady little black eyes gleaming with excitement, a long, wicked-looking butcher knife in his hand. Key, kitchen door, please. He said, addressing his mistress. Key, said Miss Cornelius startled. What for? For once, Billy's polite little grin was absent from his countenance. Somebody outside trying to get in, he chattered. I see Knob turn so. He illustrated with the butcher knife, and so three times. The detective's hand went at once to his revolver. You're sure of that, are you? He said roughly to Billy. Sure I sure. Where's that hysterical woman Lizzie, queried Anderson. She may get a bullet in her if she's not careful. She see too. She shut in closet, say prayers maybe, said Billy without a smile. The picture was a ludicrous one, but not one of the little group laughed. Doctor, have you a revolver? Anderson seemed to be going over the possible means of defense against this new peril. No. How about you, Beresford? Beresford hesitated. Yes, he admitted finally, always carry one at night in the country. The statement seemed reasonable enough, but Miss Cornelius gave him a sharp glance of mistrust, nevertheless. The detective seemed to have more confidence in the young idler. Beresford, will you go with this jab to the kitchen? As Billy, grimly clutching his butcher knife, retraced his steps towards the hall. If anyone's working at the knob, shoot through the door. I'm going around to take a look outside. Beresford started to obey, then he paused. I advise you not to turn the door knob yourself then. He said flippantly. The detective nodded, much obliged. He said with a grin. He ran lightly into the alcove and tiptoed out of the terrace door, closing the door behind him. Beresford and Billy departed to take up their posts in the kitchen. I'll go with you if you don't mind, and Jack Bailey had followed them, leaving Miss Cornelius and Dale alone with the doctor. Miss Cornelius, glad of the opportunity to get the doctor's theories on the mystery without Anderson's interference, started to question him at once. Doctor? Yes. The doctor turned politely. Have you any theory about this occurrence tonight? She watched him eagerly as she asked this question. He made a gesture of bafflement. None, whatever. It's beyond me, he confessed. And yet you warned me to leave this house, said Miss Cornelius cannily. You didn't have any reason to believe that the situation was even as serious as it has proved to be. I did the perfectly obvious thing when I warned you, said the doctor easily. Those letters made a distinct threat. Miss Cornelius could not deny the truth in his words. And yet she felt decidedly unsatisfied with the way things were progressing. You said Fleming had probably even shot from above. She queried thinking hard. The doctor nodded, yes. Have you a pocket flashed doctor? She asked him suddenly. Why yes. The doctor did not seem to perceive the significance of the query. A flashlight is more important to a country doctor than castor oil. He added with a little smile. Miss Cornelius decided upon an experiment. She turned to Dale. Dale, you said you saw a white light shining down from above? Yes, said Dale in a minor voice. Miss Cornelius rose. May I borrow your flashlight doctor? Now that fool detective is out of the way. She continued somewhat acidly. I want to do something. The doctor gave her his flashlight with a stair of bewilderment. She took it and moved into the alcove. Doctor, I shall ask you to stand at the foot of this small staircase facing up. Now, queried the doctor with some reluctance. Now please. The doctor slowly followed her into the alcove and took up the position she assigned him at the foot of the stairs. Now Dale, said Miss Cornelius briskly. When I give the word, you put out the lights here and then tell me when I have reached the point of the staircase from which the flashlight seemed to come. Already? Two silent nods gave ascent. Miss Cornelius left the room to seek the second floor by the main staircase and then slowly returned by the alcove stairs. Her flashlight poised in her reconstruction of the events of the crime. At the foot of the alcove stairs, the doctor waited uneasily for her arrival. He glanced up the stairs. Were those her footsteps now? He peered more closely into the darkness. An expression of surprise and apprehension came over his face. He glanced swiftly at Dale. Was she watching him? No. She sat at her chair amusing. He turned back towards the stairs and made a frantic and insistent gesture. Go back, go back! It said, plainer than words, to something in the darkness by the head of the stairs. Then his face relaxed. He gave a noiseless sigh of relief. Dale, rousing from her brown study, turned out the floor lamp by the table and went over to the main light switch, awaiting Miss Cornelius' signal to plunge the room in darkness. The doctor stole another glance at her. Had his gestures been observed? Apparently not. Unabserved by either, as both waited tensely for Miss Cornelius' signal. A hand stole through the broken pane of the shattered French window behind their backs and fumbled for the knob which unlocked the window door. It found the catch, unlocked it. The window door swung open noiselessly, just enough to admit a crouching figure that cramped itself uncomfortably behind the city which Dale and the doctor had placed to barricade those very doors. When it had settled itself unperceived in its lurking place, the hand stole out again, closed the window door, relocked it. Hand or claw? Hand of man or woman or paw of beast? In the name of God, whose hand? Miss Cornelius' voice from the head of the stairs broke the silence. All right, put out the lights. Dale pressed the switch, heavy darkness, the sound of her own breathing, a mutter from the doctor, then abruptly a white piercing shaft of life cut the darkness of the stairs, horribly reminiscent of that other light shaft that had signaled Fleming's doom. Was it here? Miss Cornelius' voice came muffledly from the head of the stairs. Dale considered. Come down a little, she said. The white spot of light wavered, settled on the doctor's face. I hope you have an a weapon. The doctor called up the stairs with an unsuccessful attempt at jocularity. Miss Cornelius descended another step. How's this? That's about right. Said Dale uncertainly. Miss Cornelius was satisfied. Lights, please. He turned up the stairs again to see if she could puzzle out what course of escape the man who had shot Fleming had taken after his crime, if it had been a man. Dale switched on the living room lights with a sense of relief. The reconstruction of the crime had tried her sorely. She sat down to recover her poise. Doctor, I'm so frightened, she confessed. The doctor at once assumed his best manner of professional reassurance. Here, he asked lightly. Because you happen to be in the room when a crime was committed? But he has a perfect case against me. Said Dale, that's absurd. No. You don't mean, said the doctor aghast. Dale looked at him with horror in her face. I didn't kill him. She insisted anew. But you know the piece of blueprint you found in his hand? Yes, from the doctor tensely. Dale's nerves, too bitterly tested, gave way at last under the strain of keeping her secret. She felt that she must confide in someone or perish. The doctor was kind and thoughtful. More than that, he was an experienced man of the world. If he could not advise her, who could? Besides, a doctor was in many ways like a priest. Both sworn to keep and violate the secrets of their respective confessionals. There was another piece of blueprint, a larger piece. Said Dale slowly. I tore it from him just before. The doctor seemed greatly excited by her words. But he controlled himself swiftly. Why did you do such a thing? Oh, I'll explain that later. Said Dale tiredly. Only too glad to be talking the matter out at last, to pay attention to the logic of her sentences. It's not safe where it is, she went on. As if the doctor already knew the whole story. Billy may throw it out or burn it without knowing. Let me understand this, said the doctor. The butler has the paper now? He doesn't know he has it. It was in one of the rolls that went out on the tray. The doctor's eyes gleaned. He gave Dale's shoulder a sympathetic pat. Now don't you worry about it. I'll get it, he said. Then on the point of going toward the dining room, he turned. But you oughtn't have it in your possession, he said thoughtfully. Why not let it be burned? Dale was on the defensive at once. Oh no, it's important. It's vital, she said decidedly. The doctor seemed to consider ways and means of getting the paper. The tray is in the dining room, he asked. Yes, said Dale. He thought a moment, then left the room by the hall door. Dale sank back in her chair and felt a sense of overpowering relief steel over her whole body as if new life had been poured into her veins. The doctor had been so helpful. Why had she not confided in him before? He would know what to do with the paper. She would have the benefit of his counsel through the rest of this troubled time. For a moment she saw herself and Jack exonerated, their worries at an end, wandering hand in hand over the green lawns of Cedar Crest in the cheerful sunlight of morning. For mockingly, the head of the unknown concealed behind the satis lifted cautiously until, if she had turned, she would have just been able to perceive the top of its skull. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Alan Winterout boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 13 of The Bat This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winterout The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhardt Chapter 13 The Blackened Bag As it chanced, she did not turn. The hall door opened, the head behind the satis sank down again. Jack Bailey entered, carrying a couple of logs of firewood. Dale moved toward him as soon as he had shut the door. Oh, things have gone awfully wrong, haven't they? She said with a little break in her voice. A finger to his lips. Be careful, he whispered. He glanced about the room cautiously. I don't even trust the furniture in this house tonight, he said. He took Dale hungrily in his arms and kissed her once, swiftly on the lips. Then they parted. His voice changed to the formal voice of a servant. Miss Dan Gorder wishes the fires kept burning. He announced, with a whispered play up to Dale. She caught his meaning at once. Put some logs on the fire, please. She said loudly for the benefit of any listening ears. Then in an undertone to Bailey, Jack, I'm nearly distracted. Bailey threw his wood on the fire, which received it with appreciative crackles and sputterings. Then again for a moment, he clashed his sweetheart closely to him. Dale, pull yourself together. He whispered warningly, we've got a fight ahead of us. He pleased her and turned back toward the fire. These old fashioned fireplaces eat up a lot of wood, he said in casual tones, pretending to arrange the logs with the poker so the fire would draw more cleanly. But Dale felt that she must settle one point between them before they took up their game of pretense again. You know why I sent for Richard Fleming, don't you? She said, her eyes fixed beseechingly on her lover. The rest of the world might interpret her action as it pleased. She couldn't bear to have Jack misunderstand. But there was no danger of that. His faith in her was too complete. Yes, of course, he said with a look of gratitude. Then his mind reverted to the ever present problem before them. But who in God's name killed him, he muttered, kneeling before the fire. You don't think it was Billy? Dale saw Billy's face before her for a moment, calm, impassive. But he was an oriental, an alien. His face might be just as calm, just as impassive while his hands were still red with blood. She shuddered at the thought. Bailey considered the manor. More likely the man Lizzie saw going upstairs, he said finally. But I've been all over the upper floors. And nothing breathed Dale. Nothing. Bailey's voice had an accent of dour finality. Dale, do you think that he began? Some instinct warned the girls they were not to continue their conversation uninterrupted. Be careful, she breathed, as footsteps sounded in the hall. Bailey nodded and turned back to his pretense of mending the fire. Dale moved away from him slowly. The door opened and Miss Cornelia entered, her black knitting bag in her hand, on her face a demure little smile of triumph. She carefully behind her and began to speak at once. Well, Mr. Alopecia, Urticaria, Rubiola, otherwise Bailey, she said in tones of the greatest satisfaction, addressing herself to Bailey's rigid back. Bailey jumped to his feet mechanically at her mention of his name. He and Dale exchanged one swift and hopeless glance of utter defeat. I wish, proceeded Miss Cornelia, following the situation to the full. I wish you young people would remember that even if hair and teeth have fallen out at sixty, the mind still functions. She pulled out a cabinet photograph from the depths of her knitting bag. His photograph sitting on your dresser, she chided Dale, burn it and be quick about it. Dale took the photograph, but continued to stare at her ant with incredulous eyes. You, she stammered. Miss Cornelia, the effect of little tableau she had planned now accomplished to her most humorous satisfaction, relapsed into a chair. My dear child, said the indomitable lady with a sharp glance at Bailey's bewildered face. I have employed many gardeners in my time and never before had one who manicured his fingernails wore silk socks and regarded baldness as a plant instead of a calamity. An unwilling smile began to break on the faces of both Dale and her lover. The former crossed to the fireplace and threw the damning photograph of Bailey on the flames. She watched it shrivel, curl up, be reduced to ash. She stirred the ashes with a poker till they were well scattered. Bailey, recovering from the shock of finding that Miss Cornelia's sharp eyes had pierced his disguise without his even suspecting it, now threw himself on her mercy. Then you know why I am here? He stammered. I still have a certain amount of imagination. I may think you are a fool for taking the risk, but I can see what that idiot of a detective might not, that if you had looted the Union Bank, you wouldn't be trying to discover if the money is in this house. You would at least presumably know where it is. The knowledge that he had an ally in this brisk and indomitable spinster lady hurt him greatly, but she did not wait for any comment from him. She turned abruptly to Dale. Now I want to ask you something, she said more gravely. Was there a blueprint and did you get it from Richard Fleming? It was now Dale's turn to bow her head. Yes, she confessed. Bailey felt a thrill of horror run through him. She hadn't told him this. Dale, he said uncomprehendingly. Don't you see where this places you? If you had it, why didn't you give it to Anderson when he asked for it? Because, said Miss Cornelia uncompromisingly, she had enough sense to see that Mr. Anderson considered that piece of paper the final link in the evidence against her. But she could have no motive, stammered Bailey distraught, still failing to grasp the significance of Dale's refusal. Couldn't she? Miss Cornelia pityingly? The detective thinks she could to save you. Now the full light of revelation broke upon Bailey. He took a step back. Good God, he said. Miss Cornelia would have liked to comment tartly upon the singular lack of intelligence displayed by even the nicest young men in trying circumstances. But there was no time. They might be interrupted at any moment and before they were, she had to find out. Where is that paper now? She asked Dale sharply. Why, the doctor is getting it for me. Dale seemed puzzled by the intensity of her aunt's manner. What? Almost shouted Miss Cornelia? Dale explained. It was on the tray Billy took out, she said, still wondering why so simple an answer should disturb Miss Cornelia so greatly. That I'm afraid everything's over, Miss Cornelia said despairingly and made her first gesture of defeat. She turned away. Dale followed her, still unable to fathom her course of reasoning. I didn't know what else to do, she said rather plaintively, wondering if again, as with Fleming, she had misplaced her confidence at a moment critical for them all. But Miss Cornelia seemed to have no great patience with her dejection. One of two things will happen now, she said with accurate logic. Either the doctor's an honest man in which case as coroner he will hand that paper to the detective, Dale gasped. Or he is not an honest man when on Miss Cornelia and he will keep it for himself. I don't think he's an honest man. The frank expression of her distrust seemed to calm her a little. She resumed her interrogation of Dale more gently. Now, let's be clear about this. Had Richard Fleming ascertained that there was a concealed room in this house? He was just starting up to it, said Dale in the voice of a ghost remembering. Just what did you tell him? That I believe there was a hidden room in this house, and that the money from the union bank might be in it. Again, for the millionth time, indeed it seemed to her, she reviewed the circumstances of the crime. Anyone have overheard? Asked Miss Cornelia. The question had rung in Dale's ears ever since she had come to her senses after the firing of the shot and see Fleming's body stark on the floor of the alcove. I don't know, she said. We were very cautious. You don't know where this room is? No. I never saw the print. Upstairs somewhere for he upstairs. Then the thing to do we can get that paper from the doctor is to locate the room at once. Jack Bailey did not recognize the direction where her thoughts were tending. It seemed terrible to him that anyone should devote a thought to the money while Dale was still in danger. What does the money matter now? He broke in somewhat irritably. We've got to save her, and his eyes went to Dale. Miss Cornelia gave him an ineffable look of weary patients. The money matters a great deal, she said sensibly. Someone was in this house on the same errand as Richard Fleming. After all, she went on with a tinge of irony. The course of reasoning that you followed, Mr. Bailey, is not necessarily unique. She rose. Someone else may have suspected that courtly Fleming robbed his own bank, she said thoughtfully. Her eyes fell on the doctor's professional bag. She seemed to consider it as if it were a strange sort of animal. Find the man who followed your course of reasoning, she ended, with a stare at Bailey, and you have found the murderer. With that reasoning, you might suspect me, said the latter, a trifle touchily. Miss Cornelia did not give an inch. I have, she said. Dale shot a swift sympathetic glance at her lover, another less aesthetic and more indignant at her ant. Miss Cornelia smiled. However, I now suspect someone else, she said. They waited for her to reveal the name of the suspect, but she kept her own counsel. By now she had entirely given up confidence, if not in the probity, at least in the intelligence of all persons, male or female, under the age of 65. She rang the bell for Billy, but Dale was still worrying over the possible effects of the confidence she had given Dr. Wells. Then you think the doctor may give this paper to Mr. Anderson, she asked? He may or he may not. It is entirely possible that he may elect to search for this room himself. He may even already have gone upstairs. She moved quickly to the door and glanced across the dining room, but so far apparently all was safe. The doctor was at a table, making a pretense of drinking a cup of tea, and Billy was in close attendance. That the doctor already had the paper she was certain. It was the use he intended to make of it that was her concern. She signaled to the jab, and he came out into the hall. Beresford, she learned, was still in the kitchen with his revolver, waiting for another attempt on the door, and the detective was still outside in the search. To Billy, she gave her order in a low voice. If the doctor attempts to go upstairs, she said, let me know at once. Don't seem to be watching. You can be in the pantry, but let me know instantly. Once back in the living room, the vague outlines of a plan, a test, formed slowly in Miss Cornelia's mind, grew more definite. Dale, watched that door, and warned me if anyone is coming, she commanded, indicating the door into the hall. Dale obeyed, marveling silently at her character. Most of Miss Cornelia's contemporaries would have called for a quiet ambulance to take him to a sanatorium some hours ere this. But Miss Cornelia was not merely comparatively speaking, as fresh as a daisy, her manner bore every evidence of a firm intention to place Sherlock Holmes to the mysteries that surrounded her, in spite of doctors, detectives, dubious noises, or even the bat himself. She ordered spinsters turned to Bailey now. Get some soot from that fireplace, she ordered. Be quick. Scrape it off with a knife or a piece of paper, anything. Bailey wondered and obeyed. As he was engaged in this grimy task, Miss Cornelia got out a piece of writing paper from a drawer and placed it on the center table with a lead pencil beside it. Bailey emerged from the fireplace with a handful of sooty flakes. Is this all right? Yes. Now rub it on the handle of that bag. She indicated the little black bag in which Dr. Wells carried the usual paraphernalia of a country doctor. A private suspicion grew in Bailey's mind as to whether Miss Cornelia's fine but eccentric brain had not suffered too sorely under the shocks of the night. But he did not dare disobey. He blackened the handle of the doctor's bag with painstaking awareness and awaited further instructions. Somebody's coming! Dale whispered, warning from her post by the door. Bailey quickly went to the fireplace and resumed his pretended labors with the fire. Miss Cornelia moved away from the doctor's bag and spoke for the benefit of whoever might be coming. We all need sleep, she began, as if ending a conversation with Dale and I think the door opened admitting Billy. Doctor just go upstairs, he said, and went out again leaving the door open. A flash passed across Miss Cornelia's face. She stepped to the door. She called. Doctor, oh doctor! Yes, answered the doctor's voice from the main staircase. His steps clattered down the stairs. He entered the room. Perhaps he had read something in Miss Cornelia's manner that demanded an explanation of his action. At any rate she forestalled her just as she was about to question him. I was about to look around above, he said. I don't like to leave if there's the possibility of some assassin still hidden in the house. That is very considerate of you, but we are well protected now. And besides, why should this person remain in the house? The murder is done, the police are here. True, he said, I only thought but a knocking at the terrace door interrupted him. While the attention of the others was turned in that direction. Dale, less cynical than her aunt, made a small plea to him and realized before she had finished with it that the doctor too had his price. Doctor? Did you get it? She repeated drawing the doctor aside. The doctor gave her a look of apparent bewilderment. My dear child, he said softly. Are you sure that you put it there? Dale felt as if she had received a blow in the face. Yes, I... She began in tones of utter dismay. Then she stopped. The doctor's seeming bewilderment was too pat, too plausible. Of course she was sure. And though possible, it seemed extremely unlikely that anyone else could have discovered the hiding place of the blueprint in the few moments that it elapsed between the time when Billy took the tray from the room and the time when the doctor ostensibly went to find it. A cold wave of distrust swept over her. She turned away from the doctor silently. Meanwhile, Anderson had entered, slamming the terrace door behind him. I couldn't find anybody. He said in an irritated voice. I think that japs crazy. The doctor began to struggle into his top coat, avoiding any look at Dale. Well, he said, I believe I fulfilled all the legal requirements. I think I must be going. He turned toward the door, but the detective halted him. Doctor, he said, did you ever hear courtly Fleming mention a hidden room in this house? If the doctor started, the movement passed apparently unnoted by Anderson. And his reply was coolly made. No, and I knew him rather well. You don't think then persisted the detective that such a room and the money in it could be the motive for this crime? The doctor's voice drew a little curt. I don't believe courtly Fleming robbed his own bank, if that's what you mean. He said with nicely calculated emphasis, real or feigned. He crossed over to get his bag and spoke to Miss Cornelia. Well, Miss Van Gorder, he said, picking up the bag by its blackened handle. I can't wish you a comfortable night, but I can wish you a quiet one. Miss Cornelia watched him silently. As he turned to go, she spoke. We're all a little upset naturally, she confessed. Perhaps you could write a prescription, a sleeping powder or a bromide of some sort. Why certainly agreed the doctor at once. He turned back. Miss Cornelia seemed pleased. I hoped you would. She said with a little tremble in her voice, such as might easily occur in the voice of a nervous old lady. Oh yes, here's pencil and paper, as the doctor fumbled in a pocket. The doctor took the sheet of paper she proffered, and using the side of his bag as a pad, began to write out the prescription. I don't generally advise these drugs, he said, looking up for a moment. Still, he paused. What time is it? Miss Cornelia glanced at the clock, half past eleven. Then I'd better bring you the powders myself, to sight of the doctor. The pharmacy closes at eleven. I shall have to make them up myself. That seems a lot of trouble. Nothing is any trouble if I can be helpful, he assured her, smilingly. And Miss Cornelia also smiled. Took the piece of paper from his hand, glanced at it once, as if out of idle curiosity about the unfinished prescription, and then laid it down on the table with a careless little gesture. Dale gave her aunt a glance of dumb and treaty. Miss Cornelia read her wish for another moment alone with the doctor. Dale will let you out, doctor, said she, leaving the girl the key to the front door. The doctor approved her watchfulness. That's right, he said, smilingly. Keep things locked up. Discretion is the better part of valor. But Miss Cornelia failed to agree with him. I've been discreet for sixty-five years, she said with a sniff, and sometimes I think it was a mistake. The doctor laughed easily and followed Dale out of the room with a nod of farewell to the others in passing. The detective, seeking for some object upon whom to vent the growing irritation which seemed to possess him, made Bailey the scapegoat of his wrath. I guess we can do without you for the present, he said, with an angly frown at the latter. Bailey flushed, then remembered himself and left the room submissively, with the error of a well-trained servant accepting an unmerited rebuke. The detective turned it once to Miss Cornelia. Now I want a few words with you. Which means that you mean to do all the talking, said Miss Cornelia acidly. Very well. But first I want to show you something. Will you come here please, Mr. Anderson? She started for the alcove. I've examined that staircase, said the detective. Not with me, insisted Miss Cornelia, I have something to show you. He followed her unwillingly up the stairs. His whole manner seemed to betray lack of confidence in the theories of all amateurs slews in general and spinster detectives of 65 in particular. Their footsteps died away up the alcove stairs. The living room was left vacant for an instant. Vacant, only in seeming. The moment that Miss Cornelia and the detective had passed up the stairs, the crouching mysterious unknown behind the city began to move. The French window door opened, a stealthy figure passed through it silently to be swallowed up in the darkness of the terrace. And poor Lizzie, entering a room at that moment, saw a hand covered with blood reached back and gropingly, horribly through the broken pain, refasten the lock. She shrieked madly. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Alan Winterout boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 14 of The Bat This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winterout The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhardt Chapter 14 Hand Cuffs Dale had failed with the doctor. When Lizzie screams once more had called the startled household to the living room, she knew she had failed. She followed in mechanically, watched an irritated Anderson send the pride of Carrie to bed and threatened to lock her up and listened vaguely to the conversation between her aunt and the detective that followed it without more than casual interest. Nevertheless, that conversation was to have vital results later on. Your point about that thumbprint on the stair rail is very interesting, Anderson said with a certain respect, but just what does it prove? It points down, said Miss Cornelia, still glowing with the memory of the whistle of surprise the detective had given when she had shown him the strange thumbprint on the rail of the alcove stairs. It does, he admitted, but what then? Miss Cornelia tried to put her case as clearly and tersely as possible. It shows that somebody stood there for some time listening to my niece and Richard Fleming in this room below, she said. All right, I'll grant that to save argument, retorted the detective. But the moment that shot was fired, the lights came on. If somebody on that staircase shot him and then came down and took the blueprint, Miss Ogden would have seen him. He turned upon Dale. Did you? She hesitated. Why hadn't she thought of such an explanation before? But now it would sound too flimsy. No, nobody came down, she admitted candidly. The detective's face altered, grew menacing. Miss Cornelia once more had to put herself between him and Dale. Now, Mr. Anderson, she warned. The detective was obviously trying to keep his temper. I'm not hounding this girl, he said doggedly. I haven't said yet that she committed the murder, but she took that blueprint and I want it. You want it to connect her with the murder, Miss Cornelia? The detective threw up his hands. It's rather reasonable suppose that I might want to return the funds to the Union Bank, isn't it? He queried in tones of heavy sarcasm. Provided they're here, he added doubtfully. Miss Cornelia resolved upon comparative frankness. I see, she said. Well, I'll tell you this much, Mr. Anderson, and I'll ask you to believe me as a lady. Granting that at one time my niece knew something of that blueprint. At this moment, we do not know where it is or who has it. Her words had the unmistakable ring of truth. The very oath from the detective that succeeded them showed his recognition of that fact. Damnation, he muttered. That's true, isn't it? That's true, said Miss Cornelia firmly. A silence of troubled thoughts fell upon the three. Miss Cornelia took out her knitting. Did you ever try knitting when you wanted to think? She queried sweetly. After a pause in which the detective tramped from one side of the room to the other, brows nodded, eyes bent on the floor. No, grunted the detective. He took out a cigar, bit off the end with a savage snap of teeth, lit it, resumed his pacing. You should, sometimes, have troubled movements with a faint light of mockery in her eyes. I find it very helpful. I don't need knitting to think straight, raps Anderson indignantly. Miss Cornelia's eyes danced. I wonder, she said with caustic affability, you seem to have so much evidence left over. The detective paused and glared at her helplessly. Did you ever hear the man who took a clock apart and when he put it together again, he had enough left over to make another clock, she twitted? The detective, ignoring the taunt, crossed quickly to Dale. What do you mean by saying that paper isn't where you put it? He demanded in tones of extreme severity. Miss Cornelia applied for her niece. She hasn't said that. The detective made an impatient movement of his hand and walked away, as if to get out of the reach of his little spencer's tongue. But Miss Cornelia had not finished with him yet by any means. Do you believe in circumstantial evidence? She asked him with seeming ingenuousness. It's my business, said the detective solidly. Miss Cornelia smiled. While you have been investigating, she announced, I too have not been idle. The detective gave a barking laugh. She let it pass. To me, she continued, it is perfectly obvious that one intelligence has been at work behind many of the things that have occurred in this house. Now Anderson observed her with a new respect. Who? He grunted tersely. Her eyes flashed. I'll ask you that. Some one person who, knowing courtly Fleming well, probably knows of the existence of a hidden room in this house, and who, finding us in occupation get rid of me in two ways. First, by frightening me with anonymous threats, and second by urging me to leave. Someone who very possibly entered this house tonight shortly before the murder and slipped up that staircase. The detective had listened to her outburst with unusual thoughtfulness. A certain wonder, perhaps at her shrewdness, perhaps at an unexpected confirmation of certain ideas of his own, grew upon his face. Now he jerked out two words. The doctor? Miss Cornelia knitted on as if every movement of her needles added one more link to the strong chain of probability she was piecing together. When Dr. Wells said he was leaving here earlier in the evening for the Johnsons, he did not go there, she observed. He was not expected to go there. I found that out when I telephoned. The doctor repeated the detective, his eyes narrowing, his head beginning to sway from side to side, like the head of some great cat just before a spring. As you know, Miss Cornelia went on, I had a supplementary bolt placed on that terrace door today. She nodded towards the door that gave access into the alcove from the terrace. Earlier this evening, Dr. Wells said that he had bolted it when he had left it open, purposely as I now realize, in order that he might return later. You may also recall that Dr. Wells took a scrap of paper from Richard Fleming's hand and tried to conceal it. Why did he do that? She paused for a second, then she changed her tone a little. May I ask you to look at this? She displayed the piece of paper on which Dr. Wells had started to write the prescription for her sleeping powders. And now her strategy with the doctor's bag and the soot Jack Bailey had got from her place stood revealed. A sharp black imprint of a man's right thumb, the doctors, stood out on the paper below the broken line of writing. The doctor had not noticed the staining of his hand by the blackened bag handle or noticing had thought nothing of it. But the blackened bag handle had been a trap and he had left an indelible piece of evidence behind him. It now remained to test the value of this evidence. Ms. Cornelia handed the paper to Anderson silently. But her eyes were bright with pardonable vanity at the success of her little piece of strategy. A thumb print muttered Anderson, who's is it? Dr. Wells said Ms. Cornelia with what might have been a little crow of triumph in anyone not a van Warder. Anderson looked thoughtful. Then he felt in his pocket for a magnifying glass. Failed to find it, muttered and took the reading glass Ms. Cornelia offered him. Try this, she said. My whole case hangs on my conviction that that print and the one out there on the stair rail are the same. He put down the paper and smiled at her ironically. Your case he said. You don't really believe you need a detective at all, do you? I will only say that so far your views and mine have failed to coincide. If I am right about that fingerprint, then you may be right about my private opinion. And on that he went out rather grimly paper and reading glass in hand to make a comparison. It was then that Beresford came in. A new and slightly rigid Beresford and crossed to her at once. Ms. Van Gorder, he said all the flippancy gone from his voice. May I ask you to make an excuse and call your gardener here? Dale started uncontrollably at the ominous words. But Ms. Cornelia betrayed no emotion except in the increased rapidity of her knitting. The gardener certainly, if you'll touch that bell she said pleasantly. Beresford stalked the bell and rang it. The three waited. Dale in an agony of suspense. The detective re-entered the room by the alcove stairs. His mane unfathomable by any of the anxious glances that sought him out at once. It's no good, Ms. Van Gorder, he said quietly. The prints are not the same. Not the same? Gasp Ms. Cornelia unwilling to believe her ears. Anderson laid down the paper and the reading glass with a little gesture of dismissal. If you think I'm mistaken I'll leave it to any unprejudiced person or your own eyesight. Thumb prints never lie. He said in a flat convincing voice. Ms. Cornelia stared at him. Disappointment written large on her features. He allowed himself a little ironic smile. Did you ever try a good cigar when you wanted to think? He queried suavely puffing upon his own. But Ms. Cornelia's spirit was too broken by the collapse of her dearly loved and adroitly managed scheme for her to take up the gauge of battle he offered. I still believe it was the doctor, she said stubbornly. Her tones were not the tones of utter conviction which she had used before. And yet, said the detective, ruthlessly demolishing another link in her broken chain of evidence. The doctor was in this room tonight according to your own statement when the anonymous letter came through the window. Ms. Cornelia gauged at him blankly. For the first time in her life at a loss for an appropriately sharp retort. It was true. In the room beside her when the stone bearing the last anonymous warning had crashed through the window pane. And yet, Billy's entrance and answer to Beresford's ring made her mind turn to other matters for the moment. Why had Beresford's manner changed so and what was he saying to Billy now? Tell the gardener Ms. Van Gorder wants him and don't say we're all here. The young lawyer commanded the butler sharply. Billy nodded and disappeared. And a stiffen. She didn't like other people ordering her servants around like that. The detective apparently had somewhat of the same feeling. I seem to have plenty of help in this case. He said with obvious sarcasm turning to Beresford. The latter made no reply. Dale rose anxiously from her chair, her lips quivering. Why have you sent for the gardener? She inquired haltingly. Beresford deigned to answer at last. I'll tell you that in a moment, he said with a grim tightening of his lips. There was a fateful pause for an instant while Dale rode nervously from one side of the room to the other. Then Jack Bailey came into the room alone. He seemed to sense danger in the air. His hands clenched to the side, but except for that tiny betrayal of emotion, he still kept his servants' pose. You sent for me? He queried of Ms. Cornelius ignoring the glowering Beresford. But Beresford would be ignored no longer. He came between them before Ms. Cornelius had time to answer. How long has this man been in your employ? He asked brusquely, man or tense. Ms. Cornelius made one final attempt at evasion. Why should that interest you? She parried, answering his question with an icy question of her own. It was too late. Already Bailey had read the truth in Beresford's eyes. I came this evening, he admitted, still hoping against hope that his cringing posture of the servitor might give Beresford pause for the moment. But the promptness of his answer only crystallized Beresford's suspicions. Exactly, he said with terse finality. He turned to the detective. I've been trying to recall this man's face ever since I came in tonight, he said with grim triumph. Now I know who he is. Who is he? Bailey straightened up. He had lost his game with chance and the loss coming when it did seemed bitterer than even he had thought it could be. But before they took him away, he would speak his mind. It's alright Beresford. He said with a fatigue so deep that it colored his voice like flakes of iron rust. But I wish to God you could have restrained your sense of duty for about three hours more. To let you get away? The young lawyer sneered unconvinced. No, said Bailey with quiet defiance to let me finish what I came here to do. Don't you think you have done enough? Beresford's voice flicked him with righteous scorn no less telling because of its youthfulness. He turned back to the detective soberly enough. This man has imposed upon the credulity of these women I am quite sure without their knowledge he said with a trace of his former gallantry. He is Bailey of the union bank the missing cashier. The detective slowly put down his cigar on an ashtray. That's the truth is it he demanded. Dale's hand flew to her breast if Jack would only deny it even now. But even as she thought this she realized the youthlessness of any such denial. Bailey realized it too. It's true alright. He admitted hopelessly. He closed his eyes for a moment. Let them come with the handcuffs now and get it over. Every moment the scene dragged out was a moment of unnecessary torture for Dale. But Beresford did not finish with his indictment. I accuse him not only of the thing he was before, but of the murder of Richard Fleming. He said fiercely, glaring at Bailey as if only a youthful horror of making a scene before Dale and Miss Cornelia held him back from striking the ladder down where he stood. Bailey's eyes snapped open. He took a threatening step toward his accuser. You lie, he said in a horse violent voice. Anderson crossed between them You knew this? He queried sharply in Dale's direction. Dale set her lips in a line. She did not answer. He turned to Miss Cornelia. Did you? Yes. Admitted the ladder quietly. Her knitting needles at last at rest. I knew he was Mr. Bailey if that is all you mean. The quietness of her answer seemed to infuriate the detective. Quite a pretty little conspiracy said, how in the name of God do you expect me to do anything with the entire household united against me? Tell me that. Exactly, said Miss Cornelia. And if we are united against you why should I have sent for you? You might tell me that too. He turned on Bailey savagely. What do you mean by that three hours more? He demanded. I could have cleared myself in three hours, said Bailey with calm despair. Beresford lacked mockingly. A laugh that seemed to sear into Bailey's consciousness like the touch of a hot iron. Again he turned frenziedly upon the young lawyer and Anderson was just prepared to hold them away from each other by force if necessary when the doorbell rang. For an instant the ringing of the bell held the various figures of the little scene in the rigid postures of a waxworks tableau. Bailey one foot advanced towards Beresford his hands balled up into fists Beresford already in an attitude of defense. The detective about to step in between them. Miss Cornelia stiff in her chair. Dale over by the fireplace her hand at her heart. Then they relaxed, but not at least on the part of Bailey and Beresford to resume their interrupted conflict. Too many nerve-shaking things had already happened that night for either of the young men not to drop their mutual squabble in the face of a common danger. Probably the doctor murmured Miss Cornelia uncertainly as the doorbell rang again. He was to come back with some sleeping powders. Billy appeared for the key of the front door. If that's Dr. Wells warned the detective admit him. If it's anybody else call me. Billy grinned acquiescently and departed. The detective moved near to Bailey. Have you got a gun on you? No. Bailey bowed his head. Well, I'll just make sure of that. The detective's hands ran swiftly and expertly over Bailey's form through his pockets probing for concealed weapons. Then slowly drawing a pair of handcuffs from his pockets he prepared to put them on Bailey's wrists. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Alan Winteroud boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 15 of The Bat This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winteroud The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhart Chapter 15 The Sign of The Bat But Dale could bear it no longer. The sight of her lover beaten, submissive his head bowed waiting obediently like a common criminal for the detective to lock his wrists and steal broke down her last defenses. She rushed into the center of the room between Bailey and the detective her eyes wide with terror her words stumbling over each other and her eagerness to get them out. Oh no, I can't stand it. I'll tell you everything. She cried frenziedly. He got to the foot of the staircase. Richard Fleming I mean. She was facing the detective now and he had the blueprints you've been talking about. I had told him Jack Bailey was here as the gardener and he said if I screamed he would tell that. I was desperate. I threatened him with the revolver but he took it from me. Then when I tore the blueprint from him he was shot from the stairs by Bailey. I didn't even know he was in the house. Bailey's answer was as instant as it was hot. Meanwhile the doctor had entered the room hardly noticed in the middle of Dale's confession and now stood watching the scene intently from a post by the door. What did you do with the blueprint? The detective's voice beat at Dale like a whip. I first put it in the neck of my dress she faltered. Then when I found you were watching me look at your face. Her eyes fell on the doctor. She saw his hands steal out toward the knob of the door. Was he going to run away on some pretext before she could finish her story? She gave a sigh of relief when Bailey reentering with the key to the front door blocked any such attempt at escape. Mechanically she watched Billy cross to the table lay the key upon it and returned to the hall and the prince suspicious circle of faces focused upon herself and her lover. I put it somewhere else she repeated her eyes going back to the doctor. Did you give it to Bailey? No. I hid it and then I told where it was to the doctor. Dale swayed on her feet all turned surprisingly toward the doctor. Miss Cornelia rose from her chair. The doctor bore the battery with her eyes unflinchingly. That's rather inaccurate, he said with a tight little smile. You told me where you had placed it but when I went to look for it it was gone. Are you quite sure of that? Queering Miss Cornelia acidly. Absolutely, he said. He ignored the rest of the party addressing himself directly to Anderson. She said she had hidden it inside one of the rolls that were on the tray on the table. He continued in tones of easy explanation. Approaching the table as he did so and tapping it with the box of sleeping powders he had brought for Miss Cornelia. She was in such distress that I finally went to look for it. It wasn't there. Do you realize the significance of this paper Anderson boomed at once? Nothing. Beyond the fact that Miss Ogden was afraid it linked her with the crime. The doctor's voice was very clear and firm. Anderson pondered an instant. Then I'd like to have a few minutes with the doctor alone he said somberly. The group about him dissolved at once. Miss Cornelia her arm around her niece's waist led the ladder gently to the door. As the two lovers passed each other a glance flashed between them. A glance pathetically brief of longing and love. Dale's fingertips brushed Bailey's hand gently in passing. Beresford commanded the detective take Bailey to the library and see that he stays there. Beresford tapped his pocket with a significant gesture and motioned Bailey to the door. Then they too left the room. The door closed. The doctor and the detective were alone. The detective spoke at once and surprisingly doctor I'll have that blueprint he said sternly his eyes the color of steel. The doctor gave him a wary little glance. But I've just made the statement that I didn't find the blueprint he affirmed flatly. I heard you. Anderson's voice was very dry. Now this situation is between you and me doctor Wells. His forefinger sought the doctor's chest. It has nothing to do with that poor fool this year. He hasn't got either those securities or the money from them and you know it. It's in this house and you know that too. In this house repeated the doctor as if stalling for time. In this house tonight when you claimed to be making a professional call you were in this house and I think you were on that staircase when Richard Fleming was killed. No Anderson. Not. The doctor might be acting but if he was it was incomparable acting. The terror in his voice seemed too real to be feigned. But Anderson was remorseless. I'll tell you this he continued Miss Van Gorder very cleverly got a thumbprint of yours tonight. Does that mean anything to you? His eyes bored into the doctor. The eyes of a poker player bluffing on a hidden card but the doctor did not flinch. Nothing. I have not been upstairs in this house in three months. The accent of truth in his voice seems so unmistakable that even Anderson's shrewd brain was puzzled by it. But he persisted in his attempt to ring a confession from this latest suspect. Before courtly Fleming died did he tell you anything about a hidden room in this house? He queried cannelly. The detective hammered at the point again. You haven't been trying to frighten these women out of here with anonymous letters so you could get in? No, certainly not. But again the doctor's air had that odd mixture of truth and falsehood in it. The detective paused for an instant. Let me see your eyes. The detective hammered at the point again. The doctor passed it over silently. The detective glanced at the keys then suddenly his revolver glittered in his other hand. The doctor watched him anxiously. A puff of wind rattled the panes of the French windows. The storm quieted for a while was gathering its strength for a fresh unleashing of its dogs of thunder. The detective stepped to the terrace door, opened it and then quietly proceeded to try the doctor's keys in the lock. Thus located he was out of visual range and wells took advantage of it at once. He moved swiftly toward the fireplace extracting the missing piece of blueprint from an inside pocket as he did so. The secret the blueprint guarded was already graven on his mind in indelible characters. Now he would destroy all evidence that it had ever been in his possession and bluffed through the rest of the situation as he might. He threw the paper toward the flames with a nervous gesture of relief but for once his cunning failed. The throw was too hurried to be sure and a light scrap of paper wavered and settled to the floor just outside the fireplace. The doctor swore noiselessly and stooped to pick it up and make sure of its destruction but he was not quick enough. Through the window the detective had seen the incident and the next he heard his voice bark behind him. He turned and stared at the leveled muzzle of Anderson's revolver. Hands up and stand back he commanded. As he did so Anderson picked up the paper and a sardonic smile crossed his face as his eyes took in the significance of the print. He laid his revolver down on the table where he could snatch it up again in a moment's notice. Behind a fireplace he muttered into the fireplace in what room? I won't tell you. The doctor's voice was sullen. He itched gingerly cautiously toward the other side of the table. All right, I'll find it you know. The detective's eyes turned swiftly back to the blueprint. Experience should have taught him never to underrate an adversary even of the doctor's caliber but long familiarity with danger can make the shrewdest careless. For a moment as he bent over the paper again he was off guard. The doctor seized the moment with a savage promptitude and sprang. There followed a silent furious struggle between the two. Under normal circumstances Anderson would have been stronger and quicker but the doctor fought with an added strength of despair and his initial leap had pinioned the detective's arms behind him. Now the detective shook one hand and snatched the revolver in vain. For the doctor with a groan of desperation struck at his hand as its fingers were about to close on the smooth butt and the revolver skidded from the table to the floor. With a sudden terrible movement he pinioned both the detective's arms behind him again and reached for the telephone. Its heavy base descended on the back of the detective's head with stunning force. The next moment the battle was ended and the doctor, panting with exhaustion held the limp form of an unconscious man in his arms. He lowered the detective to the floor and straightened up again listening tensely. So brief and intense had been the struggle that even now he could hardly believe in its reality. It seemed impossible too that the struggle had not been heard. Then he realized dully as a louder roll of thunder smote on his ears that the elements themselves had played into his hand. The storm with its wind and fury had returned just in time to save him and drown out all sounds of conflict from the rest of the house with its giant clamor. He bent swiftly over Anderson listening to his heart. Good! The man still breathed. He had enough on his conscience without adding the murder of a detective to the black weight. Now he pocketed the revolver and the blueprint, gagged Anderson rapidly with a knotted handkerchief and proceeded to wrap his own muffler around the detective's head as an additional silencer. Anderson gave a faint sigh. The doctor thought rapidly. Soon or late the detective would return to consciousness. With his hands free he could easily tear out the gag. He looked wildly about the room for a rope, a curtain haha he had it, the detective's own hand cuffs. He snapped the cuffs on Anderson's dress, then realized that in his hurry he had bound the detective's hands in front of him instead of behind him. Well, it would do for the moment. He did not need much time to carry out his plans. He dragged the limp body its head lolling into the billiard room where he deposited it on the floor in the corner farthest from the door. So far so good. Now to lock the door of the billiard room. Fortunately the key was there on the side of the door. He quickly transferred it, locked the billiard room door from the outside and pocketed the key. For a second he stood by the center table in the living room, recovering his breath and trying to straighten his rumpled clothing. Then he crossed cautiously into the alcove and started to pad up the alcove stairs, his face white and strained with excitement and hope. And it was then that there happened one of the most dramatic events of the night. One which was to remain for the next hour or so as bewildering as the murder and which had come a few moments sooner or a few moments later would have entirely changed the course of events. It was preceded by a desperate hammering on the door of the terrace. It halted the doctor on his way upstairs, drew Beresford on a run into the living room and even reached the bedrooms of the women up above. God, what's that? Beresford panted. The doctor indicated the door. It was too late now. Already he could hear Miss Cornelia's voice above. It was only a question of a short time until Anderson in the billiard room revived and would try to make his plight known. And in the brief moment of that resume of his position, the knocking came again. But feebler as those the suppleant outside had exhausted his strength. As Beresford drew his revolver and moved to the door, Miss Cornelia came in followed by Lizzie. It's the bat! Lizzie announced mournfully. Goodbye, Miss Neely. Goodbye everybody. I saw his hand all covered in blood. He's had a good night for sure. But they ignored her and Beresford flung open the door. Just what they had expected, what figure of horror or fear they waited for, no one can say. But there was no horror and no fear. Only unutterable amazement as an unknown man in torn and muddied garments with a streak of dried blood seeming his forehead like a scar fell through the open doorway into Beresford's arms. Good God, muttered Beresford dropping his revolver to catch the strange burden. For a moment the unknown lay in his arms like a corpse. Straightened dizzily, staggered into the room, took a few steps toward the table, and fell prostrate upon his face at the end of his strength. Doctor, gasped Miss Cornelia daisily, and the doctor whatever guilt lay on his conscience responded at once to the call of his profession. He bent over the unknown man, the physician once more, and made a brief examination. He's fainted, he said rising, struck on the head, too. But who is he? faltered Miss Cornelia. I never saw him before, said the doctor. It was obvious that he spoke the truth. Does anyone recognize him? All crowded about the unknown trying to read the riddle of his identity. Miss Cornelia rapidly revised her first impressions of the stranger. When he had first fallen through the doorway into Beresford's arms she had not known what to think. Now in the brighter light of the living room she saw that the still face beneath its mask of dirt and dried blood was strong and fairly youthful. If the man were a criminal he belonged like the bat to the upper fringes of the world of crime. She noted mechanically that his hands and feet had been tied. Ends of frayed rope still dangled from his wrists and ankles. And that terrible injury on his head she shuddered and closed her eyes. Does anyone recognize him? Repeated the doctor, but one by one the others shook their head. Crook, casual tramp or honest labor unexpectedly caught in the sinister toils of the Cedar Crest Affair his identity seemed a mystery to one at all. Is he badly hurt? Asked Miss Cornelia shuddering again. It's hard to say, answered the doctor. I think not. The unknown stirred feebly made an effort to stood up. Beresford and the doctor caught him under the arms and helped him to his feet. He stood there swaying a blank expression on his face. A chair said the doctor quickly. Ah! He helped a strange figure to sit down and bent over him again. You're all right now, my friend. He set in his best tones a professional cheeriness. Dizzy a bit, aren't you? The unknown rubbed his wrists where his bonds had cut them. He made an effort to speak. Water, he said in a low voice. The doctor gestured to Billy. Get some water or whiskey if there is any. That'd be better. There's a flask of whiskey in my room, Billy. Added Miss Cornelia helpfully. Now, my man, continue the doctor to the unknown. You're in the hands of friends. Brace up and tell us what happened. Beresford had been looking about for the detective. Puzzled not to find him as usual in charge of affairs. Now, where's Anderson? This is a police matter, he said. Making a movement as if to go in search of him. The doctor stopped him quickly. He was here a minute ago. He'll be back presently, he said. Praying to whatever gods he served that Anderson, bound and gagged in the billiard room, had not yet returned to consciousness. Unobserved by all except Miss Cornelia, the mention of the detective's names had caused a strange reaction in the unknown. His eyes had opened, he had started. The haze in his mind had seemed clear away for a moment. Then, for some reason, his shoulders had slumped again and the look of apathy came back to his face. But stunned or not, it now seemed possible that he was not quite as dazed as he appeared. The doctor gave the slumped shoulders a little shake. Rouse yourself, man, he said. What has happened to you? I'm dazed, said the unknown thickly and slowly. I can't remember. He passed a hand weekly over his forehead. What a night! sighed Miss Cornelia sinking into a chair. Richard Fleming murdered in this house and now this? The unknown shot her a stealthy glance but when she looked at him his face was blank again. Why doesn't someone ask his name? Query Dale and where the devil is that detective, murdered Beresford, almost in the same instant. Neither question was answered and Beresford increasingly uneasy at the continued absence of Anderson turned toward the hall. The doctor took Dale's suggestion. What's your name? Silence from the unknown in that blank stare of stupefaction. Look at his papers. It was Miss Cornelia's voice. The doctor and Bailey searched the torn trouser pockets, the pockets of the muddied shirt while the unknown submitted passively not seeming to care what happened to him but search him as they would it was in vain. Not a paper on him, said Jack Bailey at last, straightening up. A crash of breaking glass from the head of the alcove stairs put a period to his sentence. All turned toward the stairs or all except the unknown who for a moment half rose in his chair his eyes gleaming his face alert the mask of bewildered apathy gone from his face. As they watched a rigid little figure of horror back slowly down the alcove stairs and into the room Billy the Japanese his oriental placidity disturbed at last incomprehensible terror written in every line of his face. Billy. Billy, what is it? The diminutive butler made a pitiful attempt at his usual grin. It nothing, he gasped. The unknown relapsed in his chair again the day's stranger from nowhere. Beresford took the Japanese by the shoulders. Now see here, he said sharply you've seen something, what was it? Billy trembled like a leaf. Ghost! Ghost! he muttered frantically his face working. He's concealing something, look at him. Miss Cornelius stared at her servant. No, no! insisted Billy in an ague of fright. No, no! But Miss Cornelius was sure of it. Brooks closed that door, she said pointing at the terrace door in the alcove which still stood ajar after the entrance of the unknown. Billy moved to obey, but just as he reached the alcove the terrace door slammed shut in his face. At the same moment, every light in Cedar Crest blinked and went out again. Billy fumbled for the door knob in the sudden darkness. The door's locked, he said incredulously. The key's gone too. Where's your revolver Beresford? I dropped it in the alcove when I caught that man called Beresford cursing himself for his carelessness. The illuminated dial of Billy's wristwatch flickered in the darkness as he searched for the revolver as round-blowing spot of phosphorescence. Lizzie screamed, the eye, the gleaming eye I saw on the stairs, she shrieked, pointing at it frenziedly. Quick, there's a candle on the table, lighted somebody. Never mind the revolver, I have one called Miss Cornelius. Shearley in reply. He found the candle, lit it. The party blinked at each other for a moment, still unable quite to coordinate their thoughts. Bailey rattled the knob of the door into the hall. This door's locked too, he said, with increasing puzzlement. A gasp went over the group. They were locked in the room while some devilment was going on in the rest of the house. That they knew. In the wake, they had not their emotist idea. They were too distracted to notice the injured man, now alert in his chair, or the doctor's odd attitude of listening above the rattling banging of the storm. But it was not until Miss Cornelius took the candle and proceeded toward the hall door to examine it that the full horror of the situation burst upon them. Neely fastened to the white panel of the door, chest high and hardly more than just dead was the body of a bat. Of what happened thereafter, no one afterward remembered the details. To be shut in there at the mercy of one who knew no mercy was intolerable. It was left for Miss Cornelius to remember her own revolver, lying unnoticed on the table since the crime earlier in the evening and to suggest its use in shattering the lock. Just what they had expected when the door was finally open, they did not know. The door was quiet and in order. No new horror faced them in the hall. Their candle revealed no bloody figure. Their ears heard no unearthly sound. Slowly they began to breathe normally once more. After that they began to search the house. Since no room was apparently immune from danger, the men made no protest when the women insisted on accompanying them. As time went on and chamber after chamber was discovered empty and undisturbed, gradually the courage of the party began to rise. Lizzie, still whimpering, stuck closely to Miss Cornelius' heels, but that spirited lady began to make small side excursions of her own. Of the men, only Bailey Beresford and the doctor could really be said to search it all. Billy had remained below impassive of face but rolling of eye. The unknown after an attempt to depart with them had sunk back weakly into his chair again and the detective Anderson was still unaccountably missing. While no one could be said to be grieving over this, still the belief that somehow somewhere he had met the bat and suffered at his hands was strong in all of them except the doctor. As each door was opened they expected to find him probably fouledly murdered as each door was closed again they breathed with relief and the silence and peace remained unbroken. The conviction grew on them that the bat had in his manner achieved his object and departed, had done his work, signed it after his usual fashion and gone. And thus were matters when Miss Cornelia, happening on the attic staircase with Lizzie at her heels decided to look about her up there and went up. End of Chapter 15 Recording by Alan Winterout boomcoach.blogspot.com music