Drury Lane’s Last Case (28 page)

“He couldn't have known there was such a document hidden in the back cover of the Jaggard,” remarked Rowe, “or he wouldn't have sold the book in the first place.”

“Naturally not. The chances are that for many generations none of the Humphrey-Bonds even suspected the existence of such a document in one of their books.”

“But why,” demanded Patience, “was the document hidden in the binding at all? And who hid it there?”

“There's a question,” sighed Lane. “I suppose it's been nestling there for centuries; it might have been addressed to a contemporary; who knows? But the fact that it was hidden at all points to an extra value or significance connected with the document itself. I believe——”

Old Quacey slipped into the study. His ancient face was wrinkled in a thousand places, and each place was the repository of bad news. He tugged at his master's sleeve. “Man named Bolling,” he complained. “Policeman from Tarrytown, Mr. Drury.”

Lane frowned. “Eternally Caliban! What
are
you talking about?”

“He 'phoned. He said to tell you that an hour ago”—the clock on the study wall showed seven o'clock—“the house of Dr. Ales was destroyed in a mysterious explosion!”

24

Holocaust and a Discovery

The house was a burning, smoking ruin. Tenuous sheets of thick yellow smoke still clung to the charred trees about, and there was a pervasive sulphurous odour which gripped the throat. The old wooden structure had been razed to its foundation; fragments of wall and roof strewed the road; the house had collapsed over the cellar and now lay, a smouldering heap, in the cindery clearing. State troopers prowled about keeping back a curious crowd. Firemen from Tarrytown were keeping the blaze under control, concentrating their efforts on preventing the flames from spreading to the dry woods. But there were ineffective water facilities, and auxiliary tanks had been rushed from Tarrytown and Irvington. The tanks soon ran dry; and onlookers were pressed into service to fight the flames.

Chief Bolling met Patience, Rowe, and Lane at the edge of the clearing. His red face was speckled with cinders and he was panting. “Devilish damn thing,” he shouted. “My two men were badly injured. Good thing nobody was in the house when it happened. Blew up at six o'clock.”

“Without warning?” muttered Lane; he was strangely agitated. “No possibility of a bomb dropped from aircraft, I suppose?”

“Not a chance. There hasn't been a 'plane near here all day. And my two men both say not a soul came near the place since we left a couple of hours ago.”

“It must have been a bomb planted in the house, then,” said Rowe grimly. “Lord, what a narrow escape!”

“Why, it might have exploded while we——” Patience went white. “It—it's just a little staggering. A
bomb
!” and she shuddered.

“Probably planted in the cellar,” remarked Lane absently. “That's the one place in the house we didn't search this afternoon. Stupid!”

“The cellar—that's the way I figure it, too,” grunted Bolling. “Well, I've got to see that my two men are carted off to the hospital. Lucky devils! They might have been blown to little pieces. We'll have a look at the ruins to-morrow, when the fire's out.”

In the old gentleman's car on the way back to The Hamlet, all three were very quiet, wrapped each in his own thoughts. Lane especially was meditative, fingering his lower lip and gazing into space.

“You know,” said Rowe suddenly, “I've been thinking.”

“What?” said Patience.

“There seems to be a nest of people involved in this thing. No question but that the Shakespearian document, whatever it is, is at the bottom of everything. We're agreed, I think, that Dr. Ales found it in the 1599 Jaggard he stole from the museum. That makes one protagonist—Ales. Another one is the gentleman who wielded the axe last night; what was he looking for if not the document? There's two, then. And there was the person who came after the hacker, the one who left the secret compartment-door open; that's three. And now the explosion; some one set a bomb. There's four, by heaven, and it's enough to give you a pain in the cervix.”

“Not necessarily,” said Patience argumentatively. “One or two of these protagonists of yours—you're so
technical
!—might have been repeaters. The second visitor to the house might have been Dr. Ales; that would cut them down to three. The hacker might have set the bomb; that would make two.… We'll not get far on that tack, Gordon. But there
is
one thing. Now that I've had time to think over this appalling explosion, I've got the queerest idea.” The film dissolved over Lane's eyes and curiosity crept into them. “We've been assuming that whoever is after the document wants it for
itself—
to steal it, keep it, or dispose of it for money—the usual crime for gain.”

Rowe chuckled. “Pat, you're the most contrary wench! Of course. That's the normal explanation of a scramble after something valuable!”

Patience sighed. “Perhaps I'm going daft, but I can't help thinking that if the bomb was set in advance of last night, it's a possibility that the one who set it
knew the document was in the house
!”

The old gentleman blinked. “Yes, Patience?”

“Oh, I suppose it's insane, but we're dealing with violent events—attacks, thefts, explosions.… Only Maxwell was living in the house; surely the bomb-setter knew that. It's preposterous to think that the bomb was meant for that harmless old servant. Then what
was
it meant for? We've been supposing that a person or persons were after the document to keep it; I tell you there's somebody after it to
destroy
it!”

Rowe gaped for a moment, and then he threw back his head and guffawed. “Oh, Pat, you'll be the death of me. Talk about woman's arguments …” He wiped his eyes. “Who the devil would want to destroy a document of such historic and monetary value? It's insane on the face of it!”

Patience flushed. “I think you're being miserable.”

“Patience's alternative, Gordon,” said Lane shortly, “is strictly logical. You won't get far, my boy, challenging this young woman's intellect. I should say that if only the Shakespearian signature were involved, then only a madman would wish to destroy it. But there's more than the signature involved; there's the document to which the signature is appended. The bomber therefore might have been moved by a desire to keep the document, with whatever message it contained,
from becoming public knowledge
.”

“There, smarty,” said Patience.

“But to destroy …!” Rowe grimaced. “I can't imagine what sort of secret old Shake could have written which would induce a twentieth-century being to go to such lengths to keep it from becoming public. What on earth could it be? It doesn't make sense.”

“That's exactly the point,” said Lane dryly. “What can it be? If you knew that … As for it's not making sense, that's another story.”

Had Patience been asked, she would probably have said that this day, which had begun with a weird telephone call, which included an assaulted old man, a mysteriously vandalized house, and ended with a violent explosion, could hold no further surprises. But there was still another waiting her—and Rowe and Lane—at The Hamlet.

It was growing dark. There was a firefly of light on the drawbridge; Quacey's gnomish old face gleamed leathery and wrinkled before an ancient lantern.

“Mr. Drury!” he cried. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Not badly. What's the matter, Quacey?”

“There's a gentleman in the hall. He telephoned just after you left. Then he came out himself, about an hour later. He seems frightfully upset, Mr. Drury.”

“Who is he?”

“He says his name is Choate.”

They hurried into the manorial hall, like the building itself faithful to the medieval English castle from which it had been copied. The rushes sighed beneath their shoes. Far at the other end, his hands clenched behind his back, was the bearded figure of the Britannic's curator, striding up and down below the huge mask of Tragedy which it had been Lane's fancy to install at that end of the hall.

The three crossed to him eagerly. “Dr. Choate,” said Lane slowly. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Something unexpected happened.… Your face is as tragic as that mask! What's the trouble?”

“Something unexpected?” Dr. Choate was agitated. “Then you know?” He scarcely nodded to Patience and Rowe.

“The explosion?”

“Explosion? What explosion? Heavens, no! I'm talking about Dr. Sedlar.”

“Dr. Sedlar!” they all exclaimed together.

“He's disappeared.”

The curator leaned against an oak table. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Disappeared?” frowned Patience. “Why, we saw him only Saturday, didn't we, Gordon?”

“Yes, yes,” said the curator hoarsely. “He was in for a few minutes Saturday morning. He seemed quite all right. I asked him before he left to telephone me at my home Sunday—last night—about a certain matter connected with the museum. He promised. Then he went away.'”

“He didn't call?” murmured Lane.

“No. I tried to get him at the Seneca; he wasn't there. All day to-day I waited for him, or for word from him. But there was nothing.” Dr. Choate raised his shoulders. “It's so—so imbecilic! He said nothing about going away. I thought perhaps he might be ill. I called again this afternoon and discovered that he hadn't been seen at the hotel since Saturday morning!”

“That doesn't necessarily mean he disappeared Saturday,” muttered Rowe.

“I suppose not. But it's strange. I didn't know
what
to do. Call the police or … I tried to get in touch with your father, Miss Thumm, but the girl in the office said …” The curator sank into a chair, groaning.

“First Donoghue, then Dr. Ales, now Sedlar,” said Patience tragically. “All these disappearances! It's—it's indecent.”

“Unless Sedlar is Ales,” pointed out Rowe.

Dr. Choate seized his head. “Good God!”

“I wonder,” frowned Patience, “if it mightn't mean that Dr. Ales
is
Sedlar, that he's got the document, and that he's skipped out!”

“My dear Miss Thumm. The hotel people say all his effects are still in his room. That's scarcely consistent with an escape, I should say! And what document are you——?”

Lane looked very tired; there were deep rings under his eyes and his skin was like creased parchment. He shook his head wearily. “These speculations get us nowhere. Unexpected development … The only thing I can suggest is that you try to find out what's happened to Sedlar.”

It was very late when Patience and Rowe reached the city. They parked the roadster outside the Hotel Seneca and sought out the manager. After some delay they were permitted to see Dr. Sedlar's room. It seemed quite orderly; English-cut clothes hung stiffly in the wardrobe, the bureau was full of fresh linen, and the man's two trunks and three bags were unpacked. The manager, who seemed eager enough to keep the police out of it, glanced again at Patience's credentials—which belonged, of course, to the Inspector—and wearily permitted a search of the room.

The luggage and clothing were uniformly English; there was some correspondence, postmarked “London” and addressed to “Dr. Hamnet Sedlar.” It was of an innocent nature, apparently from former associates of the Briton. The passport, properly viséd, was found intact in one of the bureau drawers; it was made out to Dr. Hamnet Sedlar and bore a small familiar photograph.

“Sedlar, all right,” scowled Rowe. “This thing is beginning to get on my nerves. There's certainly no indication here that the man intended to skip the country.”

“Bother!” groaned Patience. “Gordon, take me home and—and kiss me.”

25

Murder

The sun beamed and the fire was out. The smoke had dissipated overnight. Only the charred embers, the heap of wreckage like a prehistoric mound, and the scorched trees remained to tell of the explosion the evening before. Firemen and police were busy digging about in the ruins. One man, a dark quiet fellow with a sharp eye, was directing operations. He seemed particularly anxious to get the
débris
cleared away so that he could descend into what remained of the cellar.

They looked on from the edge of the trees, a warm early-morning wind blowing their clothes about. Bolling watched the workmen grimly.

“See that bird over there with the eagle eye? He's a bomb expert. Thought I might as well do this right while I was doing it. I want to know how this damn thing
happened
.”

“Do you mean to say he'll find something in that rubbish?” demanded Rowe.

“That's what he's here for.”

The workmen made huge progress. In a short time the wreckage had been cleared out of the hole in the ground and passed from hand to hand to make a ragged heap thirty feet away. When the cellar had been sufficiently excavated to permit descent, the quiet man scrambled into the pit and disappeared. He emerged after ten minutes, looked about as if measuring the circumference of the explosion, and vanished again, this time among the trees. When he returned he dived into the cellar again. On his third appearance he wore a look of quiet satisfaction and he carried in his two hands a heterogeneous mess of small iron fragments, rubber, glass, and wire.

“Well?” demanded Bolling.

“Here's the evidence, Chief,” said the bomb expert casually. He held up a small piece of clock-like apparatus. “Time-bomb.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Drury Lane.

“Crude, home-made. Set by a clock to go off at six. Swell charge of trinitrotoluol—TNT.”

The same question leaped to the lips of Patience, Rowe, and Lane. It was Lane, however, who said sharply: “When was the bomb planted?”