The light of the downstairs chamber faded as they ascended, and by the time they reached the landing upstairs they were in iced and murky darkness.
Glücke stumbled on the top step. “Aren’t there any lights in this blasted morgue?” Dr. Junius brushed hurriedly and sure-footedly by.
“Just a moment,” he whined. “The switch is—”
“Wait,” said the Inspector. Ellery waited. But, strain as he might, Ellery heard nothing but the hiss of the fire downstairs and the murmur of Butcher’s voice soothing Bonnie.
“What’s the matter?”
“Thought I heard some one scramble away. But I guess I was wrong. This place could drive a man nuts.”
“I don’t think you were wrong,” said Ellery. “Our aged friend has probably been ensconced up here for some time, eavesdropping, as you suggested.”
“Switch those lights on, Junius,” growled Glücke, “and let’s have a look at the old turkey.”
The magic of sudden light after darkness materialized a wide draughty hall, thickly carpeted and hung with what seemed to Ellery a veritable gallery of old masters — lovely pictures with the rich brown patina of the Dutch period and uniformly framed in a dust no less rich and brown. There were many doors, and all were closed, and of Tolland Stuart no sign.
“Mr. Stuart!” cried Junius. There was no answer. He turned to the Inspector piteously. “There you are, Inspector. Can’t you come back tomorrow? He’s probably in an awful state.”
“I can, but I won’t,” said the Inspector. “Which one is his cave?”
The doctor made a despairing gesture and, crying out: “He’ll probably shoot us all!” led the way to a double door at the farthest point in the corridor. Trembling, he knocked.
An old man’s voice quavered: “Keep out!” and Ellery heard scuttling sounds, as if the possessor of the voice had scrambled away from the other side of the door.
Dr. Junius yelped and fled.
Glücke chuckled: “The old guy must have something at that. Chicken-hearted mummy!” And he thundered: “Come on, open up there, Mr. Stuart!”
“Who is it?”
“The police.”
“Go away. Get off my grounds. I’ll have no truck with police!” The quaver was a scream now, with a curious lisping quality to the syllables which could only be effected by a toothless mouth.
“Do you know, Mr. Stuart,” shouted the Inspector sternly, “that your daughter Blythe has been murdered?”
“I heard ’em. I heard you! Get out, I say!”
Bonnie came running up the hall towards them, crying: “Grandfather!”
Dr. Junius sidled after, pleading: “Please, Miss Stuart. Not now. He isn’t — pleasant. He’ll upset you.”
“Grandfather,” sobbed Bonnie, pounding on the door. “Let me in. It’s Bonnie. Mother — she’s dead. She’s been killed, I tell you. There’s only us now. Please!”
“Mr. Stuart, sir,” whined Dr. Junius, “it’s your granddaughter, Bonnie Stuart. She needs you, sir. Won’t you open the door, talk to her, comfort her?”
There was no reply.
“Mr. Stuart, sir. This is Dr. Junius. Please!”
Then the cracked, lisping voice came. “Go away, all of you. No police. Bonnie, not — not now. There’s death among you. Death! Death...” And the shriek was choked off on its ascending note, and they distinctly heard the thud of a body.
Bonnie bit her fingers, staring at the panels. Butcher came running up. Glücke said gently: “Stand aside, Miss Stuart. We’ll have to break the door in. Get out of the way, Junius.”
And Ty came up, too, and watched them from narrowed eyes as he stood quietly at the other end of the hall.
The Inspector hurled himself at the juncture of the two doors. Something snapped inside; the doors flew open. For a moment he stood still, breathing hard. The moment seemed interminable, with the infinitude of some arrested moments.
The room was vast, and gloomy, and filled with solid pieces like the great chamber downstairs; and the four-poster English bed of hand-carved antique oak, with its red fustian tester, was disheveled; and, surely enough, there stood a heavy shotgun by its side, handy to a reaching arm. And on the floor, before them, lay the crumpled body of the old man Ellery had glimpsed outdoors, clad in flannel pajamas and a woolen robe, thick socks, and carpet slippers over his bony feet. The only light came from a brown mica lamp near the bed; the fireplace was dark.
Dr. Junius hurried forward to drop on his knees beside the motionless figure.
“He’s fainted. Fear — venom — temper; I don’t know what. But his pulse is good; nothing to worry about. Please go now. It’s useless to try to talk to him tonight.”
He got to his feet, and stooped, and with a surprising strength for a man of his sparse physique and evident years, lifted the old man’s body and bore him in his arms to the bed.
“He’s probably shamming,” said Inspector Glücke disgustedly. “Crusty old termite! Come on, folks, we’ll be riding the air back to Los Angeles.”
Chapter 8
Two for Nothing
“Where to?” asked the pilot.
“Municipal airport, L.A.”
The plane was not large, and they sat about in a cramped silence while the pilot nosed his ship sharply northwestward. He sought altitude; and soon they were flying high above a black valley, splitting the breeze to a hairline above and between the San Bernardino and San Jacinto ranges.
“What’s happened to my plane?” asked Ty, his face against a drizzle-misted window.
“It’s probably in Los Angeles by this time,” replied the Inspector. He paused. “Of course, we couldn’t leave them... it there.”
Bonnie stirred on Butcher’s motionless shoulder. “I was in a morgue once. It was a movie set. But even in make-believe... It was cold. Mother didn’t like—” She closed her eyes. “Give me a cigaret, Butch.”
He lit one for her and stuck it between her lips.
“Thanks.” She opened her eyes. “I suppose you all think I’ve been acting like such a baby. But it’s just that it’s been... a shock. It’s even worse, now that I can think again... Mother gone. It just isn’t possible.”
Without turning, Ty said harshly: “We all know how you feel.”
“Oh? Sorry.”
Ellery stared out at the stormy dark. A cluster of lights far below and ahead began to mushroom, resembling loose diamonds strewn on a black velvet cushion.
“Riverside,” said the Inspector. “We’ll pass over it soon, and after that it’s not far to the airport.”
They watched the cluster glow and grow and shrink and fade and disappear.
Ty suddenly got up. He blundered blindly up the aisle. Then he came back. “Why?” he said.
“Why, what?” asked the Inspector, surprised.
“Why was dad knocked off? Why were they both knocked off?”
“If we knew that, son, it wouldn’t be much of a case. Sit down.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Were they robbed? He had a thousand dollars in cash on him. I gave it to him only this morning as a sort — sort of wedding gift. Or — Bonnie! Was your mother carrying much money?”
“Don’t talk to me,” said Bonnie.
“It’s not that,” said Glücke. “Their personal belongings weren’t touched.”
“Then why?” cried Ty. “Why? Is he a lunatic?”
“Sit down, Ty,” said the Boy Wonder wearily.
“Wait!” His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Could it have been an accident? I mean, could it have been that only one of them was meant to be killed, that the other one was a victim of some—”
“Since you’re discussing it,” drawled Ellery, “Suppose you discuss it systematically.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think motive is the keystone of this case.”