Part 3

"Twenty--You're positive of that?"

"That's what everybody says. No. 5 got in at half-past eleven. Gosh, Uncle David, if we had told Captain Tucker last night about that car----"

"I don't think it would have made any difference," the doctor said slowly. The blind eyes had puckered again with a queer expression of baffled uncertainty. Opposite the garage he spoke to Lady, and the dog, obedient, led him in toward the pumps.

"Jerry about?"

The mechanic answered. "No, Doctor; had to go up-country with the wrecker to bring down a busted car. Hear about the hold-up?"

"Yes. Any talk about the getaway?"

"Nobody saw a car come up out of that road, Doctor. Tucker doesn't know. He had a bag over his head, and the express engine was running, and, lying on the floor, all he could hear was his own motor. Looks like whoever planned it, planned it neat."

"About twenty-two thousand dollars?"

"Twenty-eight thousand. Everybody had it twenty-two thousand at first, but it was twenty-eight thousand. Twenty thousand in paper money, and eight thousand in silver."

"In silver?" The doctor stood very still and broke into an almost soundless whistle. Joe's heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the sign--his uncle's mind, back in its shroud of darkness, had touched something tangible and significant. Quietly, after a long minute of thought, the blind man walked into the office, groped about the desk for the telephone, and called the railroad station.

"Ike, this is Dr. Stone. Did you find Carl Metz and deliver the telegram?"

"I did not. I can't find a man of the name."

"Did this man John arrive?"

"If he did he's a ghost. I watched the train for a look at who it might be was coming to Horseshoe for good fishing, and not a stranger got off."

"What time did his train get in?"

"Eleven-thirty."

Dr. Stone's voice snapped into the transmitter. "Is that the train that leaves New York at 8:11?"

"The same," said Ike; "No. 5 on the train-sheet, and the money that was stolen in the baggage car."

The receiver went back upon the hook. The blind man was on his feet.

"What time is it, Joe?"

"Half-past two."

"If we hurry----" The doctor was out the door, following Lady at an amazingly fast pace. Joe had to half run.

"Where are we going, Uncle David?"

"To the toll-bridge."

Horseshoe Lake rippled with golden sun. Sid Malloy, the bridge-tender, collected toll and Captain Tucker, grim and dour, with a ghastly black hole in the top of his cap, inspected the inside of every car. He frowned at sight of Dr. Stone, the boy and the dog.

"Doctor," he said bluntly, "this is no place for a blind man; and as for a boy----"

"Go inside, Joe," the doctor said mildly. "Keep out of the way. If trouble starts, duck low and hug the floor. Is your gun handy, Captain?"

"I always have my gun," Captain Tucker growled.

"Presently I may speak to one of the cars that stops to pay toll. Never mind questions. Have your gun out and cover that car."

The captain had had a bad day and was nettled. "Wild west stuff?" he asked.

"You wouldn't want the next bullet to go a little lower than your cap, would you, Captain?"

Joe sucked in a gasping breath. If there was shooting, what chance would a blind man stand? The question had a sobering effect, and the police captain's voice shed some of its bad wire.

"You're waiting for a car, Doctor?"

"Yes."

"What kind of car?"

"I don't know."

"Can you describe whoever'll be in it?"

"No."

Temper flamed suddenly in the harassed man. "Look here, Doctor, if you don't know what car it is, or what whoever's in it looks like, you'd better leave this business for those----"

"Who can see?" Doctor Stone asked mildly. "Sometimes the blindest persons have eyes."

A car stopped at the toll-house and, while Sid Malloy collected the toll, Captain Tucker opened the doors and inspected the inside. A clock in a village church tower struck three, and the midafternoon traffic thickened and converged upon the bridge. Cars rolled upon the bridge approach, and stopped, and rolled on again, and the sound was like the beat of some large machine.

Forgotten by Captain Tucker, for there was much work to be done and the police officer was busy probing into automobiles, Dr. Stone and Lady stood just outside the toll-house door. The smoke of a seasoned pipe drifted blue and fragrant with the breeze. Joe, trembling inside the toll-house, could see his uncle's face. It was stamped with the calm, bland, inscrutable patience of the blind.

Automobiles shuttled past, and there was a delay as each car was scrutinized. A line formed, and horns began to honk impatiently. Joe, twisting his head to see how far back the line extended, was frozen by the cold crack of his uncle's voice.

"I'm ready for you, Tucker."

The boy wrenched himself around. The movement had changed his position; the sun, slanting in through the doorway, was in his eyes. The blurred outline of a car was in front of the house, and he was conscious of his uncle moving toward the car. Fire burned in his throat, and the world hung in a stark silence. And out of that silence came his uncle's voice.

"Rog," Dr. Stone drawled, "I'm afraid you're going to miss your breakfast in Baltimore tomorrow."

There was an oath and a movement in the car. Joe, frozen, forgot to crouch and hug the floor. When would the shooting start? And then another form was beside his uncle, and the sun glinted menacingly on cold, blue steel.

"Keep your hands up where I can see them," Captain Tucker ordered.

Joe, sick with relief, felt his knees begin to buckle and bend.

Two hours later he sat in a room in the red-bricked Town Hall with his uncle and Captain Tucker. The captain, putting down a telephone, leaned far back in his chair and gave a sigh.

"That was New York calling," he announced. "They've picked up John. He worked for the New York bank that shipped the money. The bank here has counted the shipment and it's all there down to the last nickel." His eyes went slowly from the boy to the dog and to the blind man. "Doctor, I don't know how you did it. We were all looking for that shabby car----"

"That car had me fooled for a while," Dr. Stone admitted. "Joe had me convinced it was motored for a quick getaway. This morning the car stopped at our place and the driver asked for directions. He wanted a bad hill, and I sent him to Kill Horse. When Joe came along with news of the hold-up, I started here to tell you where that car could be found; but when I learned that the hold-up took place at twenty minutes of twelve the shabby car was washed right out of the picture."

"Why?" Captain Tucker demanded.

"Because within a minute or two of 11:40 the driver of that car was asking me for directions. He couldn't have been in two places at once."

"Why were you sure it was the shabby car?"

"A blind man's ears, Captain--the sound of the motor and the driver's husky voice. And all at once I knew why he had surrounded himself with so much mystery--afraid to have Jerry Moore look under the hood, hiding down behind the cottonwoods when he did lift the hood, anxious to find a steep hill little used by other cars. The man was, without question, experimenting with a carburetor of his own design, and afraid somebody would get a slant at it before he was ready to have it patented."

Captain Tucker pursed his lips and rocked in his chair. "I follow you that far, Doctor, but how did you pick up Rog?"

"I didn't," Dr. Stone said mildly; "he dropped into my lap. Let's begin at the beginning. I met Rog and his companion at Jerry's garage, and Jerry had seen that storage-box under the car. It struck me as strange that a fisherman should try to keep fish fresh by placing them under a car and next to a red-hot exhaust pipe. Later, while Joe and I were on the lake----"

"That was last night?" the captain interrupted.

"Yes. A boat passed us; I recognized the voices of Rog and his friend. I learned that they knew there were few fish in the lake. Now, why had these men come prepared to pack fish in ice if they knew there were no fish? I found they planned to leave today--roll into line about three o'clock, they said--and that they wanted to avoid somebody named John. Coming ashore, Ike Boles told us of a telegram that had come from John. Now, if this was their John, why should they tell him the fishing was good if they knew it wasn't? On the other hand, the telegram was directed to a Carl Metz, and nobody knew a Carl Metz. Who was Carl Metz? The driver of the shabby car spoke with a German accent. Was he Carl Metz? If so, why was he never seen fishing? The thing was rather complicated."

"I don't see yet how you figured it out," Captain Tucker complained.

"I didn't," Dr. Stone chuckled. "It burst upon me. After the elimination of the shabby car, Rog lingered in my mind. I stopped at Jerry's garage; talking to Jerry might bring forth some overlooked fact that might prove illuminating. But Jerry was not there, and his mechanic dropped a bomb-shell--there was eight thousand dollars in silver in the stolen money. I began to wonder if there might be two Johns: the John who sent a telegram from New York, and the John whom Rog mentioned, an entirely different John----"

"You mean----" Captain Tucker broke in suddenly.

"Yes; John Law. The crook's name for the police. Why should they run from the police? Was it this hold-up? Eight thousand dollars in silver is something you cannot hide in your vest pocket or under your hat. They wouldn't ride with it thrown into a car; a police drag-net would probably be searching cars. That silver would have to be carried where it would defy search. Where better than a storage-box hidden away under a car, particularly if we remember two things: First, these men had said it was an ice-box for fish. Second, they knew they weren't going to get any fish. It held together except for one weak link."

"What was that?"

"Had they received word from New York that this money was coming? That stuffed figure lying in the cobbled road meant just one thing--the highwaymen not only knew that money was coming but they knew it was coming on No. 5. In order to know that they must have received a message. That telegram came into the puzzle again. I called Ike Boles. He had not found Carl Metz; he had watched the train that should have brought John and no stranger had got off. John had said he would leave New York on the 8:11. The 8:11 was No. 5."

Captain Tucker scratched a puzzled head. "But if nobody got that message----"

"Captain, let's suppose they know whatever message was sent would be filed in New York at a certain time. What better safeguard than to send it to a name unknown here? What's to prevent the one to whom that message is really intended loitering about the station and listening for it to click into the office?"

"You're assuming they know telegraphy?"

"I wasn't assuming, captain; I knew. Last night, when I walked into Jerry's while he was looking over that storage-box, fingers began to tap a window. It was a message. It said: 'Too much attention; let's scram.' I knew those men could read Morse."

Captain Tucker stood up. "Doctor, any time you'd like a job as a detective----" He broke off short. "What made you so sure they wouldn't make their getaway up-country?"

"I heard Rog say they'd roll into line. There's only one spot in this village where a car has to roll into line. That's at the toll-bridge."

Out in the village street Dr. Stone filled his pipe and puffed contentedly. Rog's car stood in the police driveway beside the Town Hall; and the steel storage-box, wrenched loose by crowbar and hammer, lay upon the ground.

"You took a chance, Uncle David," Joe said hoarsely. "If that car had slipped past----"

"Rog threatened us on the lake path last night," the blind doctor said mildly. "If I had released the harness-grip Lady would have torn him down. I knew only two persons in town who had met the car, or Rog: Jerry, and he was up-country. You; but it was dark last night and you wouldn't have recognized the car. That put it up to Lady."

Joe blinked.

"If you owned a dog," Dr. Stone went on, "it would be your dog. I'm blind. Lady knows it. Lady believes she owns me, and she never forgets. To her Rog will always mean danger--to me."

"Oh!" Light broke upon the boy. "Then Lady----"

"Yes," said Dr. Stone. "I knew when Rog's car stopped at the toll-house. Lady growled."

THE UNKNOWN FOUR

Dr. David Stone, walking rapidly beside Lady, seemed unaware of the penetrating chill of the pale, thin dawn. His broad shoulders swung with his stride, his coat was open, and no hat covered the white hair of his magnificently-formed head. But Joe Morrow, his nephew, huddled down into a turtle-neck sweater and shivered.

"Joe," said Dr. Stone, "I shouldn't have let you come along on this. You've never seen a dead man before."

Chill shook the boy's teeth. "A dead man can't hurt anybody."

"True; but this may be nasty business. Captain Tucker says old Anthony was murdered."

The boy sucked in his breath and was momentarily sorry the telephone that had called his uncle had awakened him. Crows, cawing faintly, loomed against the early light of the cold sky. The grass was wet, and saturated the bottoms of his trousers.

"They--they don't know who did it?"

"That's the trouble, Joe. So many persons might have wanted to." Since turning into Meadow Road the doctor had been counting paces, and now his voice changed abruptly. "We should be near there."

"It's right ahead, Uncle David."

Dr. Stone said, "Lady, left," and the great, tawny dog turned obediently. They went up a weed-bordered path to a house that had once been noble, but which now lay in peeled-paint neglect.

Captain Tucker let them in. Four men sat in a room off the hall, and they watched the doorway in silence as Dr. Stone and the dog appeared. Joe, crowding at his uncle's heels, was conscious of a studied ease and a cautious wariness in all of them. He identified them as Police Captain Tucker made them known to the blind man--Ted Lawton, marked by a certain furtiveness; Ran Freeman, cool and self-contained; Fred Waring, silently grim, and Otis King, dapper and assured. Lady, restless on her leash, suddenly gave an eerie, dismal whine.

Waring flared. "Stop that confounded dog."

"She knows," Dr. Stone said quietly, "that there has been death here--by violence."

Ice ran in Joe's veins. Otis King lit a cigarette and calmly meditated the glowing end. The doctor said, "Lady, chair," and the dog led him to a seat. Freeman, sitting on a stool in front of a piano, dropped one arm and the elbow awoke a crashing, jangling chord.

Lawton jumped. "Did you have to do that?"

"Better take something for your nerves," Freeman said mildly, and ran one hand soundlessly over the keys of the piano.

Captain Tucker's voice bit into the silence. "One of you four has every right to be nervous." He turned to Dr. Stone. "I sent for you, Doctor, because I am baffled. All four of these men came here late yesterday. Cagge says----"

"Who's Cagge?" the doctor broke in.

"Old Anthony Fitch's servant. He says all four quarreled violently with Anthony last night, and that the old man cackled at them, and goaded them, and invited them to remain so that today the comedy could be resumed. About eleven o'clock he went off to bed, holding to Cagge's arm, after telling the servant to show the visitors to rooms."

"And then?" the doctor asked.

"Cagge says he awoke about three o'clock this morning and heard groans. He went to Anthony's room, and there he found the old man crumpled on his bed. He had been struck on the temple by a heavy brass candlestick that lay on the floor. Cagge says he tried to speak, and muttered one word several times before he died."

"That word was?"

"Four. Over and over again. 'Four, four, four.' What do you make of it?"

Slowly Doctor Stone filled a pipe, struck a match, and puffed in unhurried contemplation. "It may be, Tucker, he meant that all four were concerned in his murder."

Otis King laughed. "Doctor," he said easily, "that shot misses the target. There isn't one of us trusts any of the other three. You couldn't get us into a combine."

"You must know each other," the doctor observed.

Fred Waring jumped angrily to his feet. "Look here, Doctor----"

Lady growled deep in her throat, and Waring slumped into a chair and watched the dog.

"Then," Dr. Stone said slowly, "if all of you are not concerned, one man's hand is stained with blood."

Freeman still continued to run his hand soundlessly across the keys. Lawton gave the doctor a quick, sidelong glance, and stared down at the floor.

"Which one?" King asked coolly; and now, for the first time Joe noticed that he alone, of the four in the room, was fully dressed.

Dr. Stone's hand touched the dog's head. "I may tell you--later. First, I should like to know how all of you happened to arrive here yesterday. Did the old man invite you?"

"No," Otis King drawled; "but I rather fancy he expected us. Did you know he was writing a book? It was to be one of those brutally frank things--fire the gun and let the shots hit whom they may. Anthony dropped each of us a letter. We were to be in the book. So, knowing Anthony, we all raced for the Grand Central and met on the same train."

"And killed him," Dr. Stone said.

"Some one did," King admitted blandly. "And I'm not denying that any of the four of us had reason to do the job."

Fred Waring spoke bitterly. "You always did talk too much, Otis." He lapsed into silence, and presently spoke to the doctor. "If you knew Anthony Fitch--"

"Perhaps I do," the doctor said mildly. "For several years he was mixed up in shady transactions, but managed to stay just inside the law. Slippery, and clever, and unscrupulous."

"That was Anthony on the outside," Waring said passionately. "Inside he was vindictive, and cold, and merciless. Those claw-like hands of his were the talons of a hawk. He took a pleasure in refined torture. Years ago we were all tied up with him, and--"

"You don't have to go into that," Ted Lawton cried warningly.

"I'm not going to. Anyway, we broke away, and one of his schemes failed. He told us then that some day he'd pay the score. Lately he set out to write a book. It was to be called 'Confessions of a Rascal.'"

"I see." The doctor's face was expressionless. "Naturally, you gentlemen objected to being included in the book."

Waring ripped out an oath. "He had gone back fifteen years to rake open old sores. God, man, do you know what that meant? We thought we had lived down those old mistakes. We had established ourselves. I am cashier at a manufacturing plant. King is manager of a branch brokerage house. Lawton is in business for himself. Ran Freeman is engaged to marry Lilly Panner----"

Dr. Stone sat up straight. "The Calico Heiress?"

Freeman's fingers still played imaginary music. "Exactly, Doctor," he said quietly. "The newspapers have made the family fairly well known. Fine old traditions--that sort of thing. Let this book of Anthony's appear and my marriage to Miss Panner would be overboard."

"And with it the Panner fortune," the doctor observed dryly.

"That, too," Ran Freeman admitted without emotion.

The pipe had gone out. The blind man ran the bowl absently along one sleeve. Dishes clattered in the kitchen.

"It seems," the doctor said, "you've given yourself sufficient motive for murder, Freeman."

"We all have sufficient motive," Freeman said frankly. "How long could Waring remain a cashier if his past were dug out? How long would King be manager of a brokerage house? How long would Lawton have enough credit left to stay on in his business?"

The room fell into silence, and Joe felt sweat on the palms of his hands. These men discussed murder as other men might have talked of the loss of a button from a coat. Dr. Stone put the pipe away and turned his sightless eyes toward the spot from which Waring's voice had sounded.

"You say Anthony wrote you?"

"All of us. A devilish letter telling what was going into the book concerning us. Do you get that? Paying off, after all these years, the old score; ramming in the knife and turning it around. Giving us the prospect of months of anticipation and worry waiting for the book to appear. So we came up here----"

"And threatened him?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," Waring answered after a momentary hesitation. "He laughed at us. He said the only way to stop that book was to kill him, and invited us to do it. He said there was a blind man in the village with the very devil of a dog and that the man who killed him would be tracked down." Waring's voice rose. "But, for once, Anthony was wrong. He forgot----" The passionate flow of words stopped with startling suddenness.

"What did he forget?" Dr. Stone asked.

Waring said nothing.

"Did he forget that there was such a thing as the manuscript being stolen?"

Captain Tucker spoke. "What good would that do? The old man could write it again."

"Could he?" Dr. Stone mused. "I'm not so sure. A man who has to lean on a servant's arm is a sick man--perhaps a dying man. By the way, Tucker, did you look for the manuscript?"

"Yes. He kept it in his bedroom."

"And?"

"It's gone."

"Waring," Dr. Stone said slowly, "you checked yourself too late. So Anthony forgot--and the manuscript _is_ stolen. That unfinished sentence could convict you."

"Of what?" Waring snapped.

"Of murder. The man who stole that manuscript killed Anthony Fitch."

Lady whimpered uneasily, and, in the hard silence, the sound was like the wail of a ghost. Joe's temples throbbed, and he was conscious of Lawton watching his uncle in a sort of bleak dread. Slowly he came to the realization that the blind man, sitting there in a handicap of darkness was the dominating figure in the room.

Softly, almost soundlessly, a man wearing an apron appeared from the kitchen. This, the boy guessed, was Cagge.

"I've made coffee," the servant announced in a nasal monotone. "Anybody want some?"

Freeman's hand came away from the piano. "What's the matter with the bacon and eggs?"

Lawton gave a grunt of distaste. "Ugh! Who could eat food now?"

"Is Anthony's death supposed to fill any of us with sorrow?" Freeman asked blandly.

"Fry mine on both sides," said Otis King. He stretched his legs and smoothed his trousers. "Cagge, you were with Anthony how long?"

"Three years."

"Any trouble collecting your wages?"

Joe saw the servant's face flame. "Trouble? Why, the tight-fisted, old skin-flint----. Do you know how much he's paid me this last year? A couple of dollars here and there when I could wring it out of him. And now he's dead, and where am I going to collect the four hundred dollars he owes me?"

"Did you say four hundred dollars, Cagge?" King asked softly.

"I said four hundred dollars and I mean four hundred dollars." Like a shadow, almost without sound, the man was gone. The clatter of a pan came from the kitchen.

Otis King tapped a cigarette against a silver case. Joe's hands had gone dry. Somewhere in the house a clock struck seven.

"Four!" King said thoughtfully. "What would you call that, Doctor, coincidence or--something else? Many a man has killed for less than four hundred dollars."

Dr. Stone stood up. Holding to the harness-handle of the dog's leash he spoke to the four men who watched him intently. "Would a murderer first tell that his victim kept muttering 'Four, four,' and then add that the slain man owed him four hundred dollars? Lady, upstairs." The shepherd dog guided him across the room skillfully preventing him from bumping into chairs and furniture. With his feet on the first tread he spoke again. "It wasn't Cagge, gentlemen."

"Do you always leap at conclusions?" Otis King asked insolently.

"I usually keep off paths other men mark for me," the doctor said quietly.