“Burt, I’ve told you a dozen times that you’re not to worry about me,” Lola Strague said tartly. “I’m able to take care of myself.”
“Oh, yes. A murderer’s hanging around the country and I’m not supposed to worry... Well, skip it. I’ve certainly been combing these hills for you, prowling the trails, looking all over. Incidentally, Rod, I walked through one of your camera traps down there by the fallen log where you got the picture of the squirrel.”
“Tonight?” Rodney Beaton asked.
“Uh huh. Set off the flashlight. You probably got a good picture of me. As worried and annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh when that flashlight burst into illumination, thinking about how you’d feel when you made the rounds of your camera traps, got what you thought was a swell deer picture, started to develop it and saw me plodding along the trail.”
Beaton looked at his notebook. “That flashbulb exploded at nine-five,” he said. “Do you mean to say you’ve been wandering around all the time since then?”
“I’ve been all over these mountain trails, I tell you. I even went up to the old mining tunnel.”
Lola Strague became indignant. “What did you think I’d be doing in that old mining tunnel?”
“I didn’t know,” he said. “I got to the point where I was just a little bit crazy. I couldn’t find you anywhere... Just as a point of curiosity, where were you?”
“Out on that point where Rodney painted the picture of the sunset,” Lola said. “From there we can look down on the valley and tell whenever a flashlight goes off.”
Rodney Beaton said, “It’s my new system. Beats blundering around over the trails, and scaring the game to death.”
“And you mean to say you were up there all the evening?” Burt Strague asked, suspicion once more apparent in his voice. Rodney Beaton flushed.
“And you didn’t hear me whistle? Why, I walked past that trail whistling that whistle I always use to call Lola!”
“Sorry,” Beaton said somewhat stiffly.
“We didn’t hear you,” Lola said, then added hastily, “but of course, we weren’t particularly listening for you. We weren’t expecting to hear a whistle.”
Myrna Payson laughed, said as though closing the subject, “Oh well, the lost is found, so why worry about it?”
The strained silence of tension settled on the room. Quite apparently Burt Strague wanted to say something, yet was managing with difficulty to restrain himself for the moment. Rodney Beaton, while retaining his poise, yet maintained toward Burt Strague the attitude of an annoyed grown-up dealing with an impudent child.
“Well,” Myrna said, laughing and trying to make her voice casual, “someone say something.”
No one did.
It was apparent that when that silence was broken, friendships would also be broken. Lola Strague was perhaps the only one who had it in her power to ward off what was coming, and for some reason she seemed incapable of doing so at the moment.
It was against that background of a silence charged with static hostility that Adele Blane’s scream, high-pitched with terror, caught everyone by surprise.
Rodney Beaton whirled. “Good Lord, Raymand! That came from the room where Hardisty was murdered.”
Myrna Payson, without a word, got to her feet, started running toward the closed door which led to the bedroom. She had taken no more than three steps when the door burst open. Adele Blane, her hair streaming back from her head, her eyeballs glistening in the light of the gasoline lantern, her mouth stretched open to its fullest capacity, screamed into the corridor.
Behind her there was a glimpse of a shadowy figure; another figure darted across the field of illumination from the doorway. An arm lashed out in a blow. There was the sound of a brief struggle.
Myrna Payson caught Adele in her arms, said, “There, there, Honey. Take it easy.”
So imbued was Adele with the idea of flight, that she struggled to free herself, still screaming.
“What is it, Adele?” Rodney Beaton asked.
Harley Raymand said nothing. He pushed past the others, ran down the corridor which led to the bedroom. After a quick glance at Adele, Rodney Beaton crowded into the corridor behind him. Burt Strague took a hesitant step, then paused and turned to his sister. “Look here, Lola, you—”
She turned her back on him, and by that gesture shut off the unfinished sentence.
Harley Raymand went through the door of the bedroom, recoiled for a moment as the beam of a powerful flashlight stabbed him full in the face with blinding brilliance.
The voice of Jameson, the deputy sheriff, sounded crisp and competent. “It’s all right, Raymand,” he said. “We’ve just put Dr. Macon under arrest, and while we’re here, we’ll pick up Miss Adele Blane as a material witness.”
Raymand fell back in sheer surprise. Jameson pushed his way into the corridor. Behind him an assistant deputy was wrestling the handcuffed, and still struggling Dr. Macon toward the doorway.
Jameson said to the chalk-faced Adele Blane, “And the next time, Miss Blane, you play the police for a bunch of suckers, you might remember that we’re not entirely dumb.”
Chapter 15
In the midst of the excitement the arrival of Perry Mason and Paul Drake went unnoticed. Not even after Mason had pushed open the door of the cabin did anyone take immediate notice of him.
Dr. Macon had quit struggling against the grip of the handcuffs. Jameson, smilingly triumphant, was exhibiting the small black object which he held in the palm of his hand. “I’m calling on all of you,” he said, “to witness that this is the bullet which Dr. Macon was trying to remove from the place where he had hidden it. I’m going to make a small scratch on the back of the bullet, so that we’ll have a definite means of identification... Do you care to make a statement, Doctor?”
Dr. Macon simply shook his head.
“And you, Miss Blane,” Jameson said. “You, I believe, saw him enter through the window?”
She nodded.
“And do you care to make a statement at this time, telling what you saw, and explaining how you happened to be in that dark bedroom, apparently hiding from—”
Perry Mason stepped forward. “I don’t think Miss Blane cares to make any statement at the present time,” he said. “As you can plainly see, she’s upset and frightened.”
Jameson apparently saw Mason for the first time. “You again?”
Mason nodded and smiled.
“How the devil did you get here? We’ve had the place under surveillance.”
Mason said, “Mr. Drake and I just arrived.”
“Oh.”
“And since I’m here, I’d like to talk with Miss Blane.”
It was Jameson’s turn to smile. “Unfortunately, Mr. Mason, we’re taking Dr. Macon with us, and Miss Adele is going along as a material witness. Your arrival was opportune, but I’m afraid, Mr. Mason, it was just a little too late to save your client from sticking her head in a noose.”
Jameson nodded to the deputy who was assisting him. “All right,” he said, “let’s get them out of here. And,” he added after a moment during which he sized up the possibilities of the situation, “let’s get them out of here fast.”
It was as Dr. Macon and Adele were being hustled through the door, that Mason said to Paul Drake in an undertone, “Notice the reddish clay mud on Rodney Beaton’s shoes.”
Adele Blane flashed Mason an appealing look.
Mason surreptitiously lowered his right eye, raised an extended forefinger to his lips.
Jameson said to Rodney Beaton, “You have a car here, Beaton. Our car is parked down at the foot of the grade. Take us down there, will you please?”