The pale man winced at mention of his name. Then his stern expression returned.
“I shall talk with them,” he announced. “It would be best for you to return upstairs.”
“Very well,” challenged the girl. “I shall talk with Mr. Kermal, since you have come from him, Daggart.”
Croy — Daggart — Kermal — the three names were buzzing through the minds of both Goodling and Lanford as the girl departed into the hall. Goodling no longer felt tense. He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it as he faced Daggart.
The pale man shifted his arm in his sling; then spoke quietly to Goodling and Lanford. Daggart’s tone was reserved, yet friendly.
“You are strangers here,” he told the two men. “Your unexpected arrival, at so late an hour, was a bit disconcerting to our servant. That is why he ushered you in here so abruptly.
“I am the secretary of the gentleman who is the master of this house. I have come to inform you that he will be here shortly. Kindly be seated and forget the odd incidents which followed your arrival. The master of the house will interview you presently.”
Goodling nodded as he sat down. Lanford took a chair; Daggart bowed and walked out into the hallway. They heard the secretary’s footsteps fade toward the distant stairway.
“Fred!” Goodling’s whisper was tense. “That fellow didn’t intend to come in here. He was sent down to look us over.”
“Why did he enter then?” queried Lanford, in a low tone.
“Because the girl was talking to us,” explained Goodling. “Daggart has gone up to report. That big fellow, Croy, is still upstairs. We’ll hear this man Kermal when he comes down. We’ve a few minutes yet.”
“For what?”
“To take a look around. Come.”
RISING, Goodling made for the curtains at the rear of the room. Spreading them, he tried the sliding doors. There was a catch on the other side of the barriers; but the doors were old and shaky. Goodling juggled them; the curtains muffled the sound.
“Go easy, Jay,” warned Lanford. “Somebody’s liable to hear you—”
A click ended Lanford’s statement. The catch had juggled loose. Goodling slid one door open, slowly and carefully. The two men peered into a dimly lighted living room.
The new apartment afforded a beautiful setting. Contrasted with the stuffy front parlor, it was luxurious. Tapestries adorned the walls. Antique Oriental rugs were spread about the floor. The furniture, though of light construction, was exquisite in its workmanship.
Goodling noted chairs and a large couch, the back of which was toward the parlor. He saw a writing desk in the corner. By the farther wall, near a door beyond, was a Russian wolfhound, reposing on a large mat.
The dog, apparently, had been trained to accept strangers, for it merely raised its head to survey the intruders; then placed its nose between its paws. Goodling shrugged his shoulders as he stepped a few paces into the room. He was about to turn and go back into the parlor when Lanford uttered a hoarse whisper:
“Look!”
Goodling stared as Lanford pointed. From their new angle, they could see just past the end of the couch. There, on the floor, they spied a man’s feet. The tips of the shoes were pointed upward.
Goodling sprang forward, Lanford close behind him. Reaching the end of the couch, they stared in horror. The feet were those of a dead body. A man almost as huge as the servant, Croy, was lying on his back, his unseeing eyes staring upward.
“Who — who is he?” gasped Lanford. “Another — another servant? Or — or someone who came here — like ourselves—”
Goodling held up a hand, warning for silence. He approached and kneeled beside the dead body. Lanford joined him. They surveyed a face that had once been handsome, despite the over-largeness of its features. Death, however, had given a ghastly ugliness to the countenance.
The man had black hair, tanned skin, large nose and square jaw. He had eyes that seemed dark, despite the conspicuous whiteness that their bulge produced, and heavy black eyebrows. These were points that Goodling checked mentally.
The prosecutor raised the dead man’s right arm. It swung stiffly; then thumped as if on a spring, when Goodling released it. Goodling noticed that the blue-serge coat was buttoned. He opened it; then grunted as he saw the man’s vest. A gaping, ugly wound showed upon the dead man’s breast.
“Shot through the heart,” whispered Goodling. “Look at those singes, Fred. Close range — probably a revolver of large caliber—”
“Shh!” gasped Lanford, faintly. “Someone is coming — down the staircase—”
Goodling threw the coat front over the wound. He popped up from beside the corpse. Lanford was pale, shaking, unable to respond. Goodling caught his arm and dragged him toward the parlor.
Footsteps were already in the hall as the two reached the front room. There was no time to close the sliding doors. Goodling thrust Lanford into a chair; then pulled a curtain over the adjoining door. He was lighting a cigarette when the footsteps reached the hallway door.
THE man who entered was a newcomer. Though almost six feet tall, he looked shorter because of his thick-set build. He was well dressed, but his hair was shaggy and unkempt. His face was sallow; his tousled hair an iron-gray.
“Mr. Kermal?” inquired Goodling, casually.
“Yes.” The bulky man’s voice was a harsh rasp. His features, though well formed, looked ugly as he scowled. “So you know my name, eh? The girl told you?”
“She did,” replied Goodling, with a nod. He was stalling, so that Kermal would not notice Lanford, who was staring, pale faced, from his chair. “Allow me, sir, to introduce myself. Also to tell you why I came here.”
“That is not necessary!” Kermal’s tone was fierce. “I do not care why you came! Your actions here are what concerns me!”
“Our actions?” queried Goodling, feigning surprise.
“Yes,” sneered Kermal. “My servant heard you from the stairs. He realized that you had managed to pry into the next room. He has entered there already.”
Kermal looked toward the curtains. Goodling wheeled about. He saw Croy, coming through. The servant’s face looked even uglier than before. Croy nodded to Kermal.
“You are sure they saw?” quizzed Kermal.
“Coat unbuttoned,” responded Croy, gruffly.
Kermal smiled. He was looking at Lanford. Fred’s paleness was a giveaway that he had seen the corpse in the next room.
“Well, gentlemen,” decided Kermal, “who you are and why you came here does not matter, now. Circumstances compel me to keep you in temporary custody until—”
He did not finish the sentence. Goodling was bounding forward uttering a sharp cry to Lanford to aid him. From his pocket, the prosecutor was whipping a stub-nosed revolver, a weapon that he always carried.
CROY hurtled in from the curtains. Before Lanford could intervene, the servant was upon Goodling. Seizing the prosecutor as one would pounce upon a trouble-making child, Croy twisted Goodling’s gun away. Then, as the prosecutor still struggled, Croy hurled him across the room. Goodling’s head thumped the wall. He rolled half stunned, upon the floor.
Goodling’s gun had struck thin carpeting. Lanford bounced from his chair and seized it. He came up, aiming at Croy. Again, the big servant was quick in action.
Lunging furiously, he hoisted Lanford upward and backward. Fred hit the chair back and sprawled to the floor, the chair rolling upon him. Like Goodling, Lanford lost hold of the revolver and lay half senseless from the force of the blow.
“Turn out the lights,” ordered Kermal. Arms folded, the shaggy-haired man was standing at the door. “Watch these fellows, Croy, until I return.”