I put the map back in my hip pocket and moved forward as Ted Dillon must have moved forward on the night he was murdered.
Keeping to the shadows, I crossed the clearing, passed within forty yards of the dark massive bulk of the house whose windows showed chinks of light, and kept on until I reached another wood, then I paused and once more checked my bearings.
Somewhere to my right should be the summer house. The path led into the wood which was dark and silent. I moved forward, and it wasn’t until I began blundering into trees, that I decided I’d better use my flashlight.
Shielding the light with my fingers, I moved forward more quickly. A sudden whirring sound made my heart skip a beat, and looking up I made out in the dim light row upon row of pheasants sitting on boughs of trees, staring down at me.
The sight of all these birds, sitting shoulder to shoulder, and looking down at me with their little ruby eyes gave me the shakes. I moved faster, and twenty yards further on, I came out into a clearing. Bang in the middle of the clearing was the summer house.
It was a verandah-surrounded, knotty pine cabin; its dark windows, like sightless eyes, reflected the light of the moon.
I crossed the clearing and mounted the steps that led up to the verandah. The door was locked and didn’t yield to pressure. I decided it would be easier to get in by a window.
I moved silently around to the back of the summer house. I found two small windows and a casement window to choose from. A quick examination showed me one of the small windows was unlatched, and with the help of my pocket knife, I levered it half open. Before climbing in, I paused to listen.
The night was full of soft, eerie sounds. I could hear the slight wind in the trees, the creaking of the boughs under the weight of the pheasants, the sudden fluttering of wings, the tap of some climbing plant against the cabin: sounds that could mask the soft approach of one of the guards.
Feeling spooked, I pushed up the window, slid my leg through into darkness and stepped down on to a thick pile carpet.
Shielding the light of my flashlamp I took stock of the room I was in.
It was a large room with lounging chairs and settees. I examined the heavy drapes; deciding they were heavy enough to shut in any light, I pulled them across the windows, then found the light switches and turned them on.
I could see then that the cabin hadn’t been used for a long time. Dust lay everywhere, and a few cobwebs floated from the ceiling.
I began a careful search of the room. There was a small bar at one end, containing a comprehensive selection of bottles. A glass with a smear of lipstick on it stood unwashed by a bottle of Scotch. A bowl of salted almonds, thick with dust, was nearby.
It looked to me as if this little summer house had been suddenly locked up, and no servant had been allowed in to clean up, before it was closed.
I surveyed the expanse of Turkey carpet. Was what I was looking for under the carpet? I pushed a settee out of the way and rolled back part of the carpet. Knotty pine planks stared up at me. There seemed nothing suspicious about them, but there was still quite an expanse of flooring I couldn’t see.
Working quickly I moved the furniture back on to the part of the flooring I had examined, and investigated the rest of the planks. The right hand corner of the room rewarded my effort.
A dark stain, the colour of old mahogany, roughly a foot square in size, marred the creamy white of the pine.
I knelt down and played the beam of my flashlamp on it. I had no doubt that it was an old blood stain. Someone had lain on these planks and had bled from a wound. I had no doubt either that the blood had come from Dillon’s dying body.
I took out a pocket screwdriver I had brought with me. Looking closely I could see some of the screw heads that secured the planking looked newer and less rusty than the others. Working quickly I took out all the newer looking screws. They came out easily. Then I dug the point of the screwdriver between two planks and levered one up. My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding as I turned the beam of my flashlamp down into the cavity.
Although I was expecting a gruesome find, the grinning skull, picked clean by rats, that stared up at me out of the darkness, made me catch my breath.
The glimpse I had of the dusty leather wind cheater told me I was looking at all that remained of Ted Dillon.
II
For perhaps ten seconds I stared down at the skull, then, with cold sweat on my face, I pulled up another plank so I could see more of him.
It was Ted Dillon all right. The wind cheater and corduroy trousers as well as a forked stick from which hung perished elastic that lay near him, made identification certain. There was a hole and powder burning on the left side of the wind cheater to tell me he had been shot at close quarters, and as I stared down at the tell-tale hole I wondered how it was the sound of the shot wasn’t heard up at the house which was no more than a hundred yards or so from the cabin.
Working quickly, I replaced the two planks and screwed them down. Then I flicked the carpet back into place and shifted the furniture into its original position again.
I straightened up and wiped the sweat off my face. I had seen what I had come to see, and there was no point in remaining here any longer.
As I crossed to the light switch, I heard a board creak somewhere on the verandah. I hurriedly turned off the light and listened.
Only the heavy beating of my heart and the faint sighing of the wind in the trees outside came to me.
I moved silently across the room to the window, drew the drapes and looked out on to the moonlit clearing. I could see only the dark trees and darker shadows: shadows deep enough for someone to be lurking there unseen.
I fumbled in my hip pocket for Juan’s gun, pulled it out and slid back the safety catch. I didn’t think anyone was out there, but I had an uneasy feeling there might be.
I stood still, leaning against the wall, looking out into the darkness. Minutes ticked by and still nothing happened. I neither saw nor heard anything.
Then just as I was deciding to take a chance and climb out of the window on to the verandah, a pheasant gave a frightened squawk and rose out of a nearby tree with a great flapping of wings that scared me silly.
I peered through the window, my heart thumping, my gun thrust forward. Someone was out there, I thought. Someone who was sneaking towards the cabin and who had disturbed the bird.
Then my attention shifted from the dark shadows outside to a faint sound that seemed close to me. I felt the hair on the nape of my neck rise as I listened. It was as if someone near me had put their weight on a loose board and the board had given slightly.
I was so scared I couldn’t bring myself to look over my shoulder. If someone was in the room, whoever it was could see me outlined against the window. I made a sweet target for a shot in the back.
I imagined now I could hear someone breathing, but maybe that was only my scared imagination scaring me still more. Close to me was a big settee. A quick jump would get me under cover, but I had left it too late. As I tensed myself to dive, Cornelia Van Blake said out of the darkness, ‘Don’t move and drop that gun!’
There was a bite in her voice that warned me to obey. Sliding the safety catch up, I let the gun drop on to the carpet, then the light clicked on and I slowly turned my head.
She stood against the wall, a .22 automatic in her hand, her face ivory white, her scarlet lips too vivid against her pallor. She had on a black silk shirt, black slacks and crepe soled sandals.
For a long moment we looked at each other.