“So you followed him down the corridor,” Moraine prompted, as she hesitated.
“Yes, I was pretty close behind him. He stepped into a room and I heard him telling Mr. Dixon that a young woman from one of the newspapers wanted to see him about a kidnapping. Dixon wanted to know which newspaper I represented. The butler said he hadn’t found out, and Dixon cursed him, told him he was a bungler, and to tell me to come back tomorrow.”
“So you went on in anyway?” Moraine asked.
“No,” she said, “Dixon kept on talking to the butler. I listened. He told the butler that he had an appointment with a young woman; that she was to come in by the side door and the butler was to leave the side door open, and then go on to bed and not to sit up.”
“There was a candle in the room?” Moraine asked.
“Yes.”
“And the butler was carrying a candle?”
“Yes.”
“So what did you do?”
“I figured it would, be better to go in the side door after the butler had gone to bed. If Dixon had a date with some girl and I broke in while the butler was there, he’d simply say, ‘James, show the woman out’ or something like that. But if I waited until the butler had gone to bed and then went in, Dixon would hardly try to throw me out himself.”
“So what did you do?” Moraine asked.
“So I groped my way back as they talked, and was standing in the dark reception room when the butler came back and said he was sorry that Mr. Dixon couldn’t see me, but I should telephone the next day and make an appointment through Mr. Dixon’s secretary at the office. Then he set the candle down, out of the wind, and opened the door for me. I went out and prowled around the house until I found the side door. It was open. I hung around for a while to make sure the butler was in bed.”
“Anyone see you there?” asked Moraine.
“I don’t know. A train came down the track. The headlight showed me pretty plainly. Someone on the engine might have seen me.”
“Not likely,” Moraine said. “What was it, a passenger car or freight?”
“A freight.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Quite a little while. I was waiting for things to quiet down, and thought perhaps the other woman would show up.”
“Did she show up?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Do you know why the house was in darkness?”
“No. I think something must have gone wrong with the electricity. There wasn’t a light in the whole house. They were using candles.”
“How long did you wait?”
“I don’t know. Until about five minutes before I telephoned you.”
“Go ahead. What did you do?”
“Well, finally I went in and groped my way around. I had some matches in my purse. I didn’t want to strike them. I found the upper floor and went down the corridor. I kept listening for some sound. There wasn’t any. There was a window open somewhere, and a lot of air was blowing down the corridor. I could hear papers blowing around in the wind. Then I came to the room. The door was open. I slipped in it and said, ‘Good evening, Mr. Dixon.’ No one said anything. I struck a match.
“The room was a wreck. The window was broken. Dixon lay on the floor, dead. There was blood on the floor. Wind was rushing in through the broken window and papers were blowing all over the room. I got a quick glimpse, and then the wind blew the match out.”
“Did you strike another match?” he asked.
“Not just then. I groped my way around until I found the secretarial desk that had the telephone on it. I picked up the telephone. I lit a match then, because I had to see to dial your number. I was nervous. I tried it twice, got rattled and didn’t get the right number. The third time I got you at the office.”
“You were pretty frightened by that time?” he asked.
“I was crazy,” she said, “but I knew I had to tell you what had happened.”
“Why didn’t you notify the police?”
“Because I didn’t know how I could explain my presence there. I was afraid it would put you in an awful spot. I didn’t know what you wanted me to do, so I called you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me something about what the trouble was?”
“I was afraid to over the telephone. I thought it was Barney Morden who answered when I called. I might have told you some more, but another one of those trains came roaring through. You can’t hear yourself think in that room when a train goes through.”
“I see,” he said. “That’s why you told me you couldn’t hear a word I was saying? Is that it?”
“Yes. I wanted you to come at once.”
He frowned and stared thoughtfully into the darkness. After a moment, Natalie Rice said, “Did I do right?”
“Yes,” he told her, “you did all right. But what about your purse?”
“I must have put it down when I dialed the telephone number. You see, I had to hold the match and dial the number.”
“And then you held the receiver with one hand while you talked with me?”
“Yes.”
“You came away and left your purse there in that room, is that right?”
“I guess I must have.”
Moraine got to his feet.
“Come on,” he said, “were going back.”
“Oh, but we can’t. I couldn’t.”
“You’ve got to,” he insisted. “We’re going back and get that stuff out of there. You’re in a spot. Phil Duncan and Barney Morden were in my office when you telephoned. Morden is a damned traitor. He’d as soon turn on me as not. He may have recognized your voice over the telephone. It’s too late to call the police now. They’d figure we’d waited too long. We’ll have to go back, telephone the police and pretend that we’ve just discovered the body, or else clean out everything of yours that’s in that room and wait for the body to be discovered by some of the servants.”
“How could I explain being there in the room?” she asked.
“That,” Moraine said grimly, “is the rub.”
“Do I have to go?” she asked. “Couldn’t you go alone?”
“No,” he told her, “you’d better come with me. I want you to show me which room it is and how to get there.”
She got to her feet, leaned against the wind, silently gathering her courage, then said, “Very well, it’s this way, Mr. Moraine.”
She ceased to be hysterical, and became the competent, self-poised secretary. Her heels clicked down the cement walk. She turned to the left, around the massive bulk of the dark building, and tip-toed up a flight of steps to a porch. She crossed the porch and indicated the door.
“Just a minute,” Moraine muttered.
He stepped forward, took his handkerchief and carefully polished the knob of the door. He twisted it, holding the handkerchief between his fingers and the knob. The door opened. Moraine stepped inside and polished the inside of the knob in the same manner as he had polished the outside.
“Can you find your way in the dark?” he whispered.
“I think so. Have you got any matches?”
“Yes.”
“If you could strike a match I could get my bearings.”
He closed the door, and scraped a match along the side of the box. By its fight, the girl stepped swiftly forward.
“Careful,” Moraine warned. “Don’t touch anything.”
He followed along behind her for a few steps.