It was locked from the inside.
Rob took a small flashlight from his pocket, pushed his handkerchief under the door. Pulling straws from a broom on the screen porch he was able to spread the handkerchief out on the inner side of the door. There was a large crack at the bottom of the door, sufficient, Rob felt certain, to suit his purpose.
Using the small fountain-pen flashlight to guide his operations, he inserted the point of his knife in the lock and manipulated the key until it was in a straight up-and-down position. Then he pushed with the point of his knife, and heard the key drop on the inside of the door. He gently pulled his handkerchief towards him, and had the satisfaction of feeling the key slide along on the handkerchief.
As soon as Rob’s flashlight glinted on a bit of metal under the door, he slipped the blade of his knife through the crack, pressed down on the key, and then by pulling at the same time on both the penknife and the handkerchief, pulled the key through from the underside of the door.
After that it was a simple matter to insert the key in the lock, gently turn it, open the door and step inside.
Rob’s small flashlight sent an exploratory beam around the kitchen. He moved quietly across the kitchen to a door which led to a back stairway leading to the upper rooms.
Rob inched his way up these stairs, keeping well over to the sides to avoid creaking boards.
Once in the upper corridor, he paused to reconnoiter.
He dared not use his flashlight now, but inched his way down the corridor, listening for any sound which would indicate human occupancy, and listening in vain. The big house was silent as a cave. Rob could hear only his own breathing and the pounding of his heart.
Midway down the corridor for the first time doubt stabbed Rob Trenton’s mind with a dagger of discouragement.
Quite apparently the house was empty. The chain of reasoning on which Rob had staked everything must have somewhere in it a weak link which made it fail to hold. And because Rob knew he was working against time, that every minute was precious, his failure could become all the more cause for bitter self-reproach.
Standing there in the corridor of the deserted farmhouse, Rob checked over in his mind the various mental stepping stones which had led him here. He could find nothing wrong with any of them, yet the fact remained he had apparently followed his reasoning to a entirely erroneous conclusion.
Then suddenly as he stood there, his nostrils detected the odor of fresh tobacco smoke.
There was no faintest sound, no ribbon of light coming under any of the doors which opened on the corridor, no other sign of human occupancy, but plainly and unmistakably the fresh tobacco smoke indicated someone had just lit a cigarette.
Rob felt his skin crawling with nervous suspense. His mouth felt dry. His heart began to pound.
He moved slowly, cautiously down the corridor, trying to find the room from which the tobacco smoke was coming.
The aroma of the fragrant tobacco was all through the corridor now. It seemed impossible to trace it to any one particular source. Then, so suddenly that it startled Rob, he heard the sound of a woman’s voice, a voice that apparently was asking some question.
It was a man who answered, and the answer was evidently in the negative, a rumbling, gruff few words which effectively silenced any further conversation.
Rob moved forward, so anxious now to test the accuracy of his conclusions that he forgot to keep to the side of the corridor, away from the possibility of creaking boards.
One of these boards creaked under his weight and the sound was so sharp in that silence that it frightened Rob into jumping quickly to one side.
For a moment there was that tense silence which precedes dramatic, drastic action.
Then Rob heard the sound of a chair scraping back.
A woman screamed, “Look out!”
A man’s heavy voice muttered a threat, a door swung open, and Rob found himself dazzled by the blinding glare of a flashlight which was shining full on his face.
For a moment sheer surprise robbed the man who was holding the flashlight of the power to take action.
Rob took advantage of that split second of frozen immobility. Despite the fact that his eyes were so dazzled he could see nothing, he lowered his head, charged, and after three running steps flung himself forward in a football tackle.
Above him, a long, spitting, orange-blue flash of flame was followed by the roar of a revolver, then Rob had his arms around the man’s legs. He crashed into him in the most approved tackling style and the two men went down with a fall that jarred the house. The flashlight fell from the man’s hand, rolled over for half a dozen lopsided turns, then came to rest with its beam illuminating the opposite wall of the corridor, sending back a reflected light which furnished a dim, weird illumination. By this light, Rob was able to recognize the features of the man whom he had heard called Rex, the one with whom he had had the fist fight on the houseboat. The fact that one of the man’s eyes was swollen almost shut and badly discolored somehow gave Rob a feeling of confidence.
They wrestled around on the floor of the hallway in a sudden mad scramble, Rob fighting for either a good hold or a knock-out punch, Rex pushing himself clear, trying to get room to use his right arm.
Rob caught the glint of light on blue steel and grabbed for the gun.
He missed and flung himself to one side. The gun roared, and even in the heat of the combat, Rob’s keyed-up senses took note of the chunk knocked from the ceiling, felt the small particles of powdered plaster raining down on his head.
He ran his hand along the hot barrel of the gun, shoved two fingers in between trigger and trigger guard, effectively jamming the mechanism of the double-action revolver.
The man wrestled and pulled, trying to work the trigger of the gun. He was not able to pull the trigger as long as Rob’s finger kept it from moving back far enough to cause the double-action mechanism to function.
Rex freed his left hand, rained blows on Rob’s head. Rob, still hanging on to the gun, jerked his head forward blindly, and the impact of the top of his head smashing against the other man’s features all but stunned him.
However, the blow did the trick. Rex released his grasp on the revolver and Rob jerked it out of his hand.
Then of a sudden the house was filled with running steps, with voices that were shouting, with the shrill of police whistles.
Too late, Rob sensed Rex’s intention. He tried to dodge, but the heel of the man’s shoe crashed into his jaw.
Rob was conscious of flinging his left arm over and around, locking the leg, holding the foot under him. He felt a black wave of nausea but hung on to the man’s foot and leg with dogged persistence and kept a firm grip on the gun with his right hand.
Some unconscious inhibition kept him from using the gun, even when the man freed his right foot and poised it for another kick.
At that moment Rob’s head cleared slightly. He raised the gun and brought the barrel down sharply on his antagonist’s knee.
He heard a yell of agony and then flashlights were in the corridor like fireflies in the trees in summer. Men seemed to be all around him, business-like, uniformed men who knew exactly what to do and how to do it.
Rob felt himself jerked to his feet. The gun was yanked from his hand with an expert twist which came as such a surprise that the gun was gone even before he realized the importance of hanging on to it. Someone said, “He’s all right,” and Rob was pushed to one side.
He heard a vicious string of oaths from Rex, the sound of a blow and then the click of handcuffs.