Goodling looked toward Harry, who nodded.
“Well, Fred should be in any minute,” declared Goodling. “Suppose you start, Parrell. Lanford will probably arrive by the time you have finished with the preliminaries.”
“Just one other question,” insisted Parrell. “Is this gentleman Doctor Leo Claig?”
The detective was looking toward the white-haired man. It was Claig himself who nodded. Harry noticed a sharp gleam of the physician’s eyes.
“Doctor Claig,” continued Parrell, “you were the physician who examined Mr. Goodling and Mr. Lanford, were you not?”
“I was,” replied the physician.
“And you stated,” said Parrell, “that they had been under the influence of a powerful opiate, administered by a hypodermic syringe?”
“Precisely,” agreed Claig. “Both showed influence of the drug. Both bore marks of the needle.”
“Would that experience,” questioned Parrell, “have caused them to hold a delusion regarding the things they saw and heard during their stay at the unknown house?”
“Not at all,” interjected Claig. “Their impressions were gained prior to the injection of the narcotics. Moreover, their stories were identical.”
“Doctor Claig is experienced in such matters,” explained Goodling. “Prior to his retirement from active practice, he used his home for a private sanitarium.”
“Here in Sheffield?” questioned Parrell.
“Outside of town,” replied Claig. “Three miles north of here. I still live in the old place; but I have closed off the upper stories, since I no longer have patients there.
“You see, Mr. Parrell, opiates and narcotics are frequently required in mental cases. I am thoroughly acquainted with the actions of drugs. When I state, with full conviction, that Goodling and Lanford were not the victims of drugged impressions, my opinion is one that should carry weight.
“They, apparently, acquired a condition of complete catalepsy. Awakening, their minds reverted to the point where their recollections had left off. All their original impressions were clarified. Fully acceptable as testimony.”
DOCTOR CLAIG nodded wisely as he completed his statement. The physician’s opinion brought a gleaming smile from Parrell. It roused the detective into prompt activity.
“Good!” exclaimed Parrell. “Then we know that we are dealing with a man named Kermal; that he has a secretary named Daggart and a servant named Croy. That there was a girl there with them.”
Again Claig nodded. Goodling looked pleased.
“Daggart and Croy,” stated Parrell, “are names with which I am unfamiliar. But obviously, those men were merely servants of Kermal. I know who Kermal is. His full name is Taussig Kermal; he is a lawyer who once practiced in Boston.”
Reporters began to make notes. Harry Vincent followed suit.
“I can also name the young lady who was present,” resumed Parrell. “She is Myra Dolthan, of Boston. She is the niece of my client, Rufus Dolthan, who lives in New York.”
Parrell waited for the pencils to pause. He leaned on the side of the desk and resumed his statement.
“Rufus Dolthan is wealthy,” he explained. “So was his brother, Wade Dolthan, Myra’s father. A few months ago, Wade Dolthan died. He left his entire estate to his daughter, Myra, who was then in Europe.
“There was a second beneficiary. I refer to George Garling, stepson of Wade Dolthan. George Garling is somewhere in the West. He received a small inheritance; he would have come into the whole estate only if Myra had not been living.”
Parrell made another pause. Then, emphatically, he came to the next point of his account.
“Myra Dolthan is not yet twenty-one,” stated the detective. “Hence the estate is not yet hers. It still lies in the control of the executor. That man, gentlemen, is none other than Taussig Kermal, the Boston lawyer.
“Rufus Dolthan tried to communicate with his niece after her father died. He failed to reach her in Europe. He sought Kermal; the lawyer had left Boston. It was then that the truth dawned upon Rufus Dolthan.
“Taussig Kermal has decided to keep the girl away from everyone until her twenty-first birthday, which will be this very week. Upon that date, Myra Dolthan becomes sole heir to ten million dollars. Once she is twenty-one, any papers that she may sign will be legal documents.
“Kermal’s game is to hold her, away from all contact, until after her birthday. Then he can have her sign away the bulk of her estate into his hands. Once that is done, Myra Dolthan will be free; and also penniless. She will have a chance to see her Uncle Rufus, after it is too late for him to aid her.”
PARRELL was leaning forward as he spoke. The detective was in front of an open window, where trees and ground behind the courthouse formed pitch blackness. But Parrell was not concerned with matters outside. He was intent as he addressed his audience. He wagged an emphatic finger as he completed his statement.
“Most remarkable,” commented Doctor Claig, nodding his white-locked head. “I presume, Mr. Parrell, that you read the brief accounts of the mysterious girl in the vanished house?”
“Rufus Dolthan did,” returned Parrell. “That is why he sent me here. I run an investigating agency of my own” — he thrust a card across the desk to the physician — “and Rufus Dolthan told me to look into the case.
“After I talked with Mr. Goodling this afternoon, I wired Mr. Dolthan to come up on the evening train. He should be here within a few hours. All I needed to know” — again Parrell wagged his finger — “was that one name. Kermal. Taussig Kermal. That put us on the right track.”
“What about these others?” questioned Claig. The physician was taking a sudden interest in the case. “Daggart and Croy? You say they are unimportant?”
“Probably,” returned Roy Parrell. “Merely servants. Tools of Kermal’s. He has probably duped the girl into believing that her enforced hiding is in keeping with some term in her father’s will.”
“But the dead man at the house?” quizzed Claig. “Have you any idea who he might be? Has Rufus Dolthan any theory?”
“None at all.” Parrell shook his head. “Taussig Kermal is the only one we know about. The lawyer has proven himself to be a scoundrel. He is capable of any crime; the fact that murder was committed in his house testifies to that point.”
“We shall learn the name of the dead man,” assured Goodling, quietly. “Do not worry upon that score. Our chief problem is to find that house. We must pick up some trail; gain some proof of crime—”
The prosecutor paused. Someone was rapping at the door. Goodling gave the command to enter. The door opened. A gawky, red-faced yokel stepped into the room. The newcomer was attired in khaki trousers, a gray-flannel shirt and heavy hunting boots. He was unshaven and his face showed an ugly grin.
“Hello, prosecutor,” greeted the arrival, stepping up to the desk and dropping a battered felt hat into a chair. “Guess maybe you’ve heard of me. My name’s Yager” — he rumbled a laugh as he spoke — “Hector Yager. I live up Dobson’s Road, in by the old farm.”
“A squatter, aren’t you?” queried Goodling, sternly.
“Well,” grumbled Yager, “I ain’t got no deed for that property where I built that log cabin of mine. But I ain’t exactly no squatter, neither.”
“Certain people seem to think so. They’ve put in a protest to have you evicted.”
“Yeah? What’ve they got against me?”
“Chicken stealing. You’ve been seen a few places where you shouldn’t have been, Yager.”
THE squatter’s ugly grin faded. His eyes glowered angrily as he faced the youthful prosecutor. Then Yager’s lips formed a sneer.