Drury Lane’s Last Case (22 page)

“I see,” murmured the Englishman. “Most distressin', to be sure. Yes, that's quite correct, gentlemen. I arrived in New York a week earlier than I publicly announced. But still I fail to see——”

“What's the game? Why'd you lie?”

Dr. Sedlar smiled. “An ugly word, Inspector. I see that I'm on what you Americans so vigorously term ‘the spot.'” He leaned suddenly against Dr. Choate's desk and folded his arms. “You're entitled to an explanation. I know Dr. Choate will forgive the prevarication, but the point is that I wanted a week in New York to myself. Had I announced my arrival, I should have been constrained to get in touch with the Britannic at once, which would have hampered my movements. To avoid the necessity of—ah—rather tedious explanations, I simply said that I'd crossed a week later than I did in actuality.”

“What was this week's vacation in the city for?”

“That, Inspector,” replied Dr. Sedlar with a courteous smile, “I'm afraid I must refuse to answer. It was purely a personal affair.”

“Oh, yeah?” sneered Thumm. “I thought——”

Mr. Drury Lane said gendy: “Come, come, Inspector, a man has a right to a certain amount of privacy, you know. I see no purpose in heckling Dr. Sedlar. He has explained away a curious detail——”

Joe Villa bounced to his feet, his features writhing with passion. “Sure! I knew it!” he screeched. “Sure you'll believe
him
! But I tell you 'at's the guy hired me to pull the Saxon job an' the guy I tailed here that day! Gonna let him get away with it?”

“Sit down, Joe,” said the Inspector wearily. “All right, Doctor; only I'm telling you right now it looks screwy to me.”

Sedlar nodded a little stiffly. “I'm sure you'll find it all a mistake. At that time I shall of course expect an apology.” He screwed the monocle back under his eyebrow and stared icicles at Thumm.

“If I may ask a question,” said Patience in a charming voice in the silence. “Dr. Sedlar, do you know this man who calls himself Ales?”

“Child——” began Lane.

“Oh, it's perfectly all right, sir,” said the Englishman with a smile. “Miss Thumm no doubt has the right to ask. No, I can't say I do. It strikes a faintly reminiscent note——”

“He used to write for
The Stratford Quarterly
,” said Rowe suddenly.

“Ah! No doubt that's why I thought I had heard it somewhere.”

“And now,” interrupted the curator, coming nervously forward, “I'm sure we've had enough of accusations and recriminations. Inspector, I suggest we all forget to-day's little unpleasantness. I see no point in pressing a charge against this man Villa——”

“No, no,” agreed Dr. Sedlar politely. “No harm done at all.”

“Here, wait a minute,” objected Coburn, the policeman. “I've got my duty, gentleman. This man's got a charge of attempted burglary against him, an' I can't just let him go. And then he's just confessed to breakin' into Mrs. Saxon's mansion …”

“Good heavens,” sighed Patience to her young companion. “We're getting mixed up again. My head's spinning.”

“There's something uncommonly rotten about all this, darling,” muttered the young man. “All right, Pat, not darling! But I feel there's just one little key to the whole business, a clarifying element——”

Joe Villa stood very still, his vulturous head swaying from side to side, his little eyes gleaming darkly.

“Well——” began Thumm doubtfully.

“Inspector,” murmured Lane. Thumm looked up. “One moment, please.” The old gentleman took him aside and for a moment they conferred in low tones. Thumm continued to look doubtful; then he shrugged his shoulders and beckoned to Coburn. The officer reluctantly relinquished his grip on Villa and stalked over to listen with a grim expression to the Inspector's gruff voice. The others looked on in silence.

Finally Coburn said: “Well, okay, Inspector, but I'll have to hand in my report just the same.”

“Sure. I'll make it all right with your lieutenant.”

Coburn saluted and pounded away.

Joe Villa sighed and relaxed against the table. Thumm left the room in search of a telephone, ignoring the instrument on the desk. The curator began an earnest murmur of conversation with Dr. Sedlar. Mr. Drury Lane dreamily regarded a crisp old engraving of the Droeshout portrait on Dr. Choate's wall. As for Patience and Rowe, they stood shoulder to shoulder without speaking. It was as if they all waited for something to happen.

The Inspector stamped back. “Villa,” he said shortly. The thief snapped to attention. “You're my baby. Come along.”

“Where—where you takin' me?”

“You'll find out soon enough.” The scholars had stopped talking and were regarding Thumm with anxious, solemn eyes. “Dr. Sedlar, you remaining here?”

“I beg your pardon?” murmured the Englishman, astonished.

“We're taking a little jaunt out to this Dr. Ales's house,” explained the Inspector with a sly smile. “I thought you might like to come along.”

“Hey——” croaked Villa.

Dr. Sedlar frowned. “I'm afraid I don't quite understand.”

“Dr. Sedlar and I have many things to go over to-day,” said Dr. Choate frigidly.

“Quite so.” Lane moved suddenly. “Inspector, please. I shudder to think of what Dr. Sedlar will think of our American hospitality after this ghastly affair. By the way, Doctor, where are you stopping in the event we need you in an—ah—emergency?'

“At the Hotel Seneca, Mr. Lane.”

“Thank you. Come along, Inspector. Patience, Gordon, I suppose we can't shake you off, eh?” The old gentleman chuckled. “Ah, inquisitive youth,” and he shook his head sadly and moved toward the door.

19

The House of Mystery

At the sullen direction of the dark Italian, Dromio swung the Lincoln off the main highway between Irvington and Tarrytown into a narrow road, little more than a gravelly lane bordered by overhanging trees. From a humming concrete world they plunged suddenly into a cool wilderness. Birds and insects stirred the leaves above and about them. There was no sign of human life anywhere. The road wound and pirouetted through the green trees like a live thing.

“Sure this is it?” asked Thumm fretfully.

Villa nodded in a wary way. “I oughta know.”

They drove through what seemed an interminable forest, and all were pale and silent. Dr. Ales at last! It did appear as if the perplexities of the past few weeks would be cleared away. Tensely they watched the trees flow by.

Then, without warning, the foliage fell away and they came upon another lane—the first exit they had encountered since turning off the main road a mile behind. This lane was a rough driveway branching snakily off to the left, running through thick dusty underbrush to what appeared to be a house set some fifty yards away. They could see a crumbling, patchwork, gabled roof through the trees.

“Turn off here,” croaked Villa. “This is it. Now can I——?”

“You sit tight,” said the Inspector grimly. “Take it easy, old boy,” he ordered Dromio, who had brought the big car to rest. “We don't want to scare anybody away. Quiet, everybody.”

Dromio nosed the machine into the narrow side-lane, handling it as if it were a feather. The car crept softly along; the lane widened a trifle; and then it emerged into a small clearing before a weather-beaten wooden house which looked like the grandfather of all neglected old houses. Its paint, once white no doubt, was now a dirty grey-yellow; it hung in curled slivers from the walls, giving the structure the disagreeable appearance of a peeling potato. There was a tiny porch before the house, and the wooden steps leading up to it sagged crazily. All the visible windows were tightly shuttered, and these seemed stout enough. The trees on the sides brushed the walls. On the left side of the house leaned a tired old woodshed. Not ten feet from the shed there was a dilapidated little one-story building, apparently a garage; its double door was closed. Telephone and electric wires stuck out from the house and the garage and plunged mysteriously into the wilderness beyond.

“What a lovely old ruin!” exclaimed Patience.

“Ssh!” said the Inspector vehemently. “All right, Drome. You stick here, you people, while I do a little scoutin' around. A funny business, Joe. If you're on the level about this, I'll see you don't suffer.”

He climbed quickly out of the car, crossed the clearing, and with amazing lightness for a man of his bulk mounted the steps to the porch. The door was a solid one, although it suffered from the same paint disease which afflicted the walls; there was an electric bell-button at one side. He avoided this, creeping about the porch, trying to peer into the window which looked out upon it. But the shutter effectually prevented peeping; and he softly retreated down the steps and disappeared to the left side of the house. After three minutes he appeared from the right, shaking his head.

“Damn' place looks deserted. Well, let's see.” He boldly mounted to the porch and jabbed at the pushbutton.

Instantly—so quickly that he must have been watching them through some peephole of his own—a man opened the door and stepped out. As the door swung open a bell jangled—an antiquated device at the top of the door coiled on a spring which shivered and tinkled at the least movement of the door. The man was a tall, gaunt old fellow, shrunken within his sombre clothes, with a seamed and pitted face of remarkable pallor. His faded grey eyes rested briefly upon the Inspector, peered out in the bright sun toward the car, and then swung back.

“Yes, sir?” he said in a shrill voice. “What can I do for you?”

“This house occupied by a Dr. Ales?”

The old man bobbed his head eagerly; for an instant he was animated. He smiled and scraped. “Oh, yes, sir! You've heard from him, then? I was beginning to get worried——”

“Oh,” said the Inspector. “I see. Just a minute.” He stumped to the edge of the porch. “Better come up here, folks,” he called out in bitter tones. “It looks as if we're in for a long session.”

The gaunt old man led them through a narrow passage to a tiny parlour. The interior of the house was dark and cool. The parlour was furnished with solid old pieces glazed with age, old carpets, and older hangings. A musty odour, like the cold stale smell of a crypt, assailed their nostrils. Seen in the light of day as the old man hastened to push back the shutters and pull up the blinds, the room was threadbare and repulsive.

“First thing we want to know,” began the Inspector curtly, “is who
you
are.”

The old man smiled cheerfully. “My name is Maxwell, sir. Been working for Dr. Ales as sort of general man around the house. Cook, clean, chop firewood, shop in Tarrytown——”

“Handyman, eh? You the only servant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dr. Ales isn't at home, you say?”

Maxwell's grin changed into an expression of alarm. “I thought——Didn't you know? I thought maybe you had news of him, sir.”

“And that,” sighed Patience, “just goes to show. Damn! You were right, Mr. Lane. Something's happened to him.”

“Hush, Patty,” said her father. “Maxwell, we're looking for information, and we've got to locate this employer of yours. When——”

Maxwell's faded eyes clouded with suspicion. “Who are you?”

Briefly the Inspector revealed a glittering shield; it was his old one which he had neglected to turn in upon his retirement; and he kept it to flash upon such occasions as he felt demanded a judicious show of authority. Maxwell retreated. “The police!”

“Just answer my questions,” said Thumm sternly. “When was Dr. Ales last home?”

“I'm glad you've come, sir,” murmured Maxwell. “I've been very worried. Didn't know what to do. Dr. Ales often took little trips, but this is the first time he's been away for such a long time.”

“Well, for God's sake, how long has he been away?”

“Let's see, now. To-day is June twenty-second. Oh, it's over three weeks now, sir. May twenty-seventh it was; yes, sir, May twenty-seventh on a Monday when Dr. Ales went off.”

“The day of that funny business at the museum,” muttered Thumm.

“Di'n' I tell you?” cried Joe Villa.

Mr. Drury Lane took a short turn about the parlour; Maxwell watched him with anxiety. “Suppose,” he said slowly, “suppose you tell us what happened here, Maxwell, on the twenty-seventh. I have a notion it's an interesting tale.”

“Well, Dr. Ales left the house in the early morning, sir, and he didn't come back till late in the afternoon; toward evening, I'd say. He——”

“How did he seem?” asked Rowe curiously. “Excited?'

“That's right, sir! Excited, although he is a very cold sort of person and never shows any—any … you know what I mean, sir.”

“When he returned, was he carrying anything?” Rowe's eyes gleamed.

“Yes, sir. A book, it looked like. But then he'd gone off with the same book in the morning, so——”

“How do you know it was the same book?”

Maxwell scratched his chin. “Well, it looked the same.”

The old gentleman said softly: “It all fits admirably. He went off Monday morning carrying the 1606 Jaggard, and returned with the 1599 Jaggard he had taken from the Britannic, after having left the 1606 in its place. Hmm … Go on, Maxwell. What then?”

“Well, sir, Dr. Ales was no sooner in the house than he told me: ‘Maxwell, I shan't want you any more to-night. You can have the night off,' he said. So, seeing that I'd left supper for him all prepared, I went away—walked down the lane to the main pike and caught the bus there for Tarrytown'. I live in Tarry-town; have folks there.”

“And that's all you know?” grumbled Thumm.

The man looked crestfallen. “Well, I——Oh, yes, sir! Before I went he told me he was leaving a package in the hall for me to send the next morning. Not to mail, he said, though; when I got back Tuesday morning I was to take the package into Tarrytown and send it off by messenger, he said. Well, when I got back Tuesday morning, sure enough, Dr. Ales wasn't there but the package was, so I took it into Tarrytown and sent it.”