The Bat Part 21

Dale gave a little whimpering cry of horror.

"Oh, no, no, no," she whispered from a dry throat, automatically stuffing her portion of the precious sc.r.a.p of blue-print into the bosom of her dress. She stood frozen, not daring to move, not daring even to reach down with her hand and touch the body of Fleming to see if he was dead or alive.

A murmur of excited voices sounded from the hall. The door flew open, feet stumbled through the darkness--"The noise came from this room!"

that was Anderson's voice--"Holy Virgin!" that must be Lizzie--

Even as Dale turned to face the a.s.sembled household, the house lights, extinguished since the storm, came on in full brilliance--revealing her to them, standing beside Fleming's body with Miss Cornelia's revolver between them.

She shuddered, seeing Fleming's arm flung out awkwardly by his side.

No living man could lie in such a posture.

"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" she stammered, after a tense silence that followed the sudden reillumining of the lights. Her eyes wandered from figure to figure idly, noting unimportant details. Billy was still in his white coat and his face, impa.s.sive as ever, showed not the slightest surprise. Brooks and Anderson were likewise completely dressed--but Miss Cornelia had evidently begun to retire for the night when she had heard the shot--her transformation was askew and she wore a dressing-gown. As for Lizzie, that worthy shivered in a gaudy wrapper adorned with incredible orange flowers, with her hair done up in curlers. Dale saw it all and was never after to forget one single detail of it.

The detective was beside her now, examining Fleming's body with professional thoroughness. At last he rose.

"He's dead," he said quietly. A shiver ran through the watching group.

Dale felt a stifling hand constrict about her heart.

There was a pause. Anderson picked up the revolver beside Fleming's body and examined it swiftly, careful not to confuse his own fingerprints with any that might already be on the polished steel. Then he looked at Dale. "Who is he?" he said bluntly.

Dale fought hysteria for some seconds before she could speak.

"Richard Fleming--somebody shot him!" she managed to whisper at last.

Anderson took a step toward her.

"What do you mean by somebody?" he said.

The world to Dale turned into a crowd of threatening, accusing eyes--a mult.i.tude of shadowy voices, shouting, Guilty! Guilty! Prove that you're innocent--you can't!

"I don't know," she said wildly. "Somebody on the staircase."

"Did you see anybody?" Anderson's voice was as pa.s.sionless and cold as a bar of steel.

"No--but there was a light from somewhere--like a pocket-flash--" She could not go on. She saw Fleming's face before her--furious at first--then changing to that strange look of bewildered surprise--she put her hands over her eyes to shut the vision out.

Lizzie made a welcome interruption.

"I told you I saw a man go up that staircase!" she wailed, jabbing her forefinger in the direction of the alcove stairs.

Miss Cornelia, now recovered from the first shock of the discovery, supported her gallantly.

"That's the only explanation, Mr. Anderson," she said decidedly.

The detective looked at the stairs--at the terrace door. His eyes made a circuit of the room and came back to Fleming's body. "I've been all over the house," he said. "There's n.o.body there."

A pause followed. Dale found herself helplessly looking toward her lover for comfort--comfort he could not give without revealing his own secret.

Eerily, through the tense silence, a sudden tinkling sounded--the sharp, persistent ringing of a telephone bell.

Miss Cornelia rose to answer it automatically. "The house phone!" she said. Then she stopped. "But we're all here."

They looked attach other aghast. It was true. And yet--somehow--somewhere--one of the other phones on the circuit was calling the living-room.

Miss Cornelia summoned every ounce of inherited Van Gorder pride she possessed and went to the phone. She took off the receiver. The ringing stopped.

"h.e.l.lo--h.e.l.lo--" she said, while the others stood rigid, listening.

Then she gasped. An expression of wondering horror came over her face.

CHAPTER TEN

THE PHONE CALL FROM NOWHERE

"Somebody groaning!" gasped Miss Cornelia. "It's horrible!"

The detective stepped up and took the receiver from her. He listened anxiously for a moment.

"I don't hear anything," he said.

"I heard it! I couldn't imagine such a dreadful sound! I tell you--somebody in this house is in terrible distress."

"Where does this phone connect?" queried Anderson practically.

Miss Cornelia made a hopeless little gesture. "Practically every room in this house!"

The detective put the receiver to his ear again.

"Just what did you hear?" he said stolidly.

Miss Cornelia's voice shook.

"Dreadful groans--and what seemed to be an inarticulate effort to speak!"

Lizzie drew her gaudy wrapper closer about her shuddering form.

"I'd go somewhere," she wailed in the voice of a lost soul, "if I only had somewhere to go!"

Miss Cornelia quelled her with a glare and turned back to the detective.

"Won't you send these men to investigate--or go yourself?" she said, indicating Brooks and Billy. The detective thought swiftly.

"My place is here," he said. "You two men," Brooks and Billy moved forward to take his orders, "take another look through the house--don't leave the building--I'll want you pretty soon."

Brooks--or Jack Bailey, as we may as well call him through the remainder of this narrative--started to obey. Then his eye fell on Miss Cornelia's revolver which Anderson had taken from beside Fleming's body and still held clasped in his hand.

"If you'll give me that revolver--" he began in an offhand tone, hoping Anderson would not see through his little ruse. Once wiped clean of fingerprints, the revolver would not be such telling evidence against Dale Ogden.