The Bat Part 23

"No."

"He just came in that door--said something about the weather--and was shot from that staircase. Is that it?" said the detective in tones of utter incredulity.

Dale hesitated again. Thus baldly put, her story seemed too flimsy for words; she could not even blame Anderson for disbelieving it. And yet--what other story could she tell that would not bring ruin on Jack?

Her face whitened. She put her hand on the back of a chair for support.

"Yes--that's it," she said at last, and swayed where she stood.

Again Miss Cornelia tried to come to the rescue. "Are all these questions necessary?" she queried sharply. "You can't for a moment believe that Miss Ogden shot that man!" But by now, though she did not show it, she too began to realize the strength of the appalling net of circ.u.mstances that drew with each minute tighter around the unhappy girl. Dale gratefully seized the momentary respite and sank into a chair. The detective looked at her.

"I think she knows more than she's telling. She's concealing something!" he said with deadly intentness. "The nephew of the president of the Union Bank--shot in his own house the day the bank has failed--that's queer enough--" Now he turned back to Miss Cornelia.

"But when the only person present at his murder is the girl who's engaged to the guilty cas.h.i.+er," he continued, watching Miss Cornelia's face as the full force of his words sank into her mind, "I want to know more about it!"

He stopped. His right hand moved idly over the edge of the table--halted beside an ash tray--closed upon something.

Miss Cornelia rose.

"Is that true, Dale?" she said sorrowfully.

Dale nodded. "Yes." She could not trust herself to explain at greater length.

Then Miss Cornelia made one of the most magnificent gestures of her life.

"Well, even if it is--what has that got to do with it?" she said, turning upon Anderson fiercely, all her protective instinct for those whom she loved aroused.

Anderson seemed somewhat impressed by the fierceness of her query. When he went on it was with less harshness in his manner.

"I'm not accusing this girl," he said more gently. "But behind every crime there is a motive. When we've found the motive for this crime, we'll have found the criminal."

Un.o.bserved, Dale's hand instinctively went to her bosom. There it lay--the motive--the precious fragment of blue-print which she had torn from Fleming's grasp but an instant before he was shot down. Once Anderson found it in her possession the case was closed, the evidence against her overwhelming. She could not destroy it--it was the only clue to the Hidden Room and the truth that might clear Jack Bailey.

But, somehow, she must hide it--get it out of her hands--before Anderson's third-degree methods broke her down or he insisted on a search of her person. Her eyes roved wildly about the room, looking for a hiding place.

The rain of Anderson's questions began anew.

"What papers did Fleming burn in that grate?" he asked abruptly, turning back to Dale.

"Papers!" she faltered.

"Papers! The ashes are still there."

Miss Cornelia made an unavailing interruption.

"Miss Ogden has said he didn't come into this room."

The detective smiled.

"I hold in my hand proof that he was in this room for some time," he said coldly, displaying the half-burned cigarette he had taken from the ash tray a moment before.

"His cigarette--with his monogram on it." He put the fragment of tobacco and paper carefully away in an envelope and marched over to the fireplace. There he rummaged among the ashes for a moment, like a dog uncovering a bone. He returned to the center of the room with a fragment of blackened blue paper fluttering between his fingers.

"A fragment of what is technically known as a blue-print," he announced. "What were you and Richard Fleming doing with a blue-print?" His eyes bored into Dale's.

Dale hesitated--shut her lips.

"Now think it over!" he warned. "The truth will come out, sooner or later! Better be frank NOW!"

If he only knew how I wanted to be--he wouldn't be so cruel, thought Dale wearily. But I can't--I can't! Then her heart gave a throb of relief. Jack had come back into the room--Jack and Billy--Jack would protect her! But even as she thought of this her heart sank again.

Protect her, indeed! Poor Jack! He would find it hard enough to protect himself if once this terrible man with the cold smile and steely eyes started questioning him. She looked up anxiously.

Bailey made his report breathlessly.

"Nothing in the house, sir."

Billy's impa.s.sive lips confirmed him.

"We go all over house--n.o.body!"

n.o.body--n.o.body in the house! And yet--the mysterious ringing of the phone--the groans Miss Cornelia had heard! Were old wives' tales and witches' fables true after all? Did a power--merciless--evil--exists outside the barriers of the flesh--blasting that trembling flesh with a cold breath from beyond the portals of the grave? There seemed to be no other explanation.

"You men stay here!" said the detective. "I want to ask you some questions." He doggedly returned to his third-degreeing of Dale.

"Now what about this blue-print?" he queried sharply.

Dale stiffened in her chair. Her lies had failed. Now she would tell a portion of the truth, as much of it as she could without menacing Jack.

"I'll tell you just what happened," she began. "I sent for Richard Fleming--and when he came, I asked him if he knew where there were any blue-prints of the house."

The detective pounced eagerly upon her admission.

"Why did you want blue-prints?" he thundered.

"Because," Dale took a long breath, "I believe old Mr. Fleming took the money himself from the Union Bank and hid it here."

"Where did you get that idea?"

Dale's jaw set. "I won't tell you."

"What had the blue-prints to do with it?"

She could think of no plausible explanation but the true one.

"Because I'd heard there was a Hidden Room in this house."

The detective leaned forward intently. "Did you locate that room?"

Dale hesitated. "No."

"Then why did you burn the blue-prints?"