Chapter IV: Part 4

"Rodgers and I did. A friend to tie to. Matt was doing well here, but his youngest boy, about four, died. It broke him up. Two years later he closed the house and went away. Now he's out on the Coast, sick and penniless, and he asked Rodgers to sell the place and get money to him. I'm in on this to see that no swindle is put over on him."

Dr. Stone asked: "How did the boy die, Tucker?"

"He fell down a well and was drowned."

Horror froze Joe Morrow's blood. Words passed back and forth in the room--he did not hear them. By and by the three men were in the road and headed for Farley's. He trailed along. They stopped at Mr. Sweetman's for the key.

"Doctor," the farmer said heavily, "not for one thousand dollars would I go into that house again."

"You'd buy it though," Dr. Stone said mildly.

"Not now. Since this morning I am told that when you tear down a ghost house the ghost follows you into yours. Maybe it is so. I do not take a chance."

"Who told you that?" the real estate man snapped.

Mr. Sweetman's eyes shifted. "I do not say."

The house, on this drab, gray day, was bleak and forbidding in its emptiness. Cold shadows lurked in the corners. However, there was daylight, you could see, and Joe did not feel the frozen terror of last night. Captain Tucker relentlessly searched the house. In the end he came up from the cellar with a paper in his hand.

"Find anything," Mr. Rodgers asked eagerly.

"The cover from a magazine and a scrap torn from a page. Matt's been out of here for years; this magazine is a last August issue. How did it get here?"

"What magazine?" Dr. Stone asked.

"It's called _Wonder World_. How did it get here?"

"Sweetman has a key," the real estate man said. "Wingate did have a key. Either one of them could have brought it in."

"How long did Wingate have his key?" the doctor asked suddenly.

"A month, probably. Painted in here for a while. Gave me back the key at last and said it would cost too much to change the upstairs to get a studio with a northern light."

"Then these things mean nothing," the captain grumbled in disappointment. He crumpled the cover and threw it into a blackened fireplace.

"That scrap of paper?" Dr. Stone asked.

"Half a dozen incomplete lines. Something torn out at random."

"Might I have it?"

Captain Tucker grunted in impatience. "I tell you it's merely a scrap----Oh, take it."

They emerged from the house, and almost at once Frederick Wingate came out of his own dwelling wearing a paint-smeared apron.

"By Harry!" he cried angrily, "this ceases to be a joke. Now the police are here, and next it will be in the newspapers. They'll howl it up with scare headlines, and the rabble will come down on us by train, and bus and private car. The neighborhood will be marked for sordid sensation. Sweetman's place, Farley's, mine--none of them will be worth a dollar. Nobody has heard these screams, and footsteps and heartbeats. It's hysterical imagination."

"I'll come over tonight and try my imagination," Captain Tucker said.

The artist stormed back into his house and slammed the door.

Dr. Stone, holding to Lady's harness-grip, went serenely toward his home. Mr. Rodgers talked warmly. Wingate had the right idea--hysteria. But Joe, though silent, could still feel the tremor of his nerves. There had been screams and heartbeats. And a boy had fallen into a well and drowned!

Captain Tucker and the real estate man climbed into the police car and were off. Instantly the unconcern fell away from the blind man. He held out the scrap of paper.

"Read it, Joe?"

The boy read the few, disjointed words on the triangular strip:

If the
effects
sonority
periments.
By means of
succeeded in

"Does it mean anything, Uncle Dave?" he asked, puzzled.

"Perhaps." Dr. Stone's face had become intent. "I think I'll walk into the village with Lady. You'd better stay here, Joe. I may be gone a long time."

He was gone three hours. When he returned he was whistling softly.

Darkness came early out of the drab day. Joe placed a log in the fireplace, and Dr. Stone smoked quietly and toasted his legs in the warmth of the blaze. At seven o'clock there were footsteps on the porch and a knock on the door. Frederick Wingate walked in.

"Still thinking of ghosts, Doctor?" he asked humorously. The afternoon's ill-temper had disappeared.

The face of the blind man was inscrutable. "Still thinking," he admitted.

And then, for a time, the Farley house and the ghoulish beat of its unseen heart seemed forgotten, and Joe listened to sparkling talk of the days when Mr. Wingate had been a student in Paris and Vienna. Abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, the man stopped short.

"What time will Tucker be back tonight, Doctor?"

"Eight-thirty."

The artist pulled back the sleeve of his coat and glanced at the heavy, elaborately-scrolled, silver wrist watch. "Eight-ten," he said. And then, seeing Joe's fascinated eyes upon the watch, he continued to hold up the bared wrist. "A curious trinket, Joe. I picked it up in Austria. Keeps time to the split second. But it has a curious trick. Do you hear it ticking?"

"No, sir."

"If your wrist happens to turn in exactly the right position----" The man moved his wrist, and all at once the boy heard the watch ticking out an emphatic, muffled stroke. Again the wrist moved, and the timepiece was no longer audible. The artist laughed. "Not bad, eh, Joe?"

Joe said "Gosh!" and looked at his uncle. Dr. Stone had ceased to smoke.

"It's going to be a bad night, Doctor," Frederick Wingate went on. "There's snow in the air. I'd advise you to sit snug and let Tucker do his ghost-hunting alone. It will be wasted time."

"Why are you so sure of that, Fred?"

"Come, come, Doctor. You know how I feel about goblins."

"Of course. I was wondering. Last night you insisted we hadn't heard sounds. Tonight you become more positive. You predict we're not going to hear anything. Why this added certainty? Is it because you had removed the cable running between your house and Farley's?"

Joe Morrow suddenly found himself tight and expectant. The good humor had been washed from the artist's face.

"It was hard," the doctor said serenely, "to locate exactly where the sound originated. Lady, though, took me to one wall. After that, the trick was plain. A blind man's touch is sensitive, Fred. I felt the vibration in the wall. I asked Joe if the wall looked at all strange. He said it didn't. Who could break into a wall and then doctor it so it would let out sound freely and still look untouched? Who but an artist accustomed to skilfully blending colors?

"But at first I suspected Sweetman. The man's anxiety to take advantage of a ghost scare and buy cheaply fooled me. We all stumble at times. I should have seen from the start it couldn't be Sweetman. He was greedy, but he didn't have the brains. Then, too, there were no creepy manifestations whenever you appeared. By the way, who told Sweetman the ghost would invade his house if he pulled down Farley's? You?"

"You're stumbling now, Doctor, aren't you?" the artist asked. Joe saw that his eyes had become sharp and watchful.

"Not now," the blind man said. "The road is too plain. Today, when Tucker searched the house, he found the cover of the August _Miracle World_ and a fragmentary scrap torn from a magazine page. Only ten words were on that scrap, Fred, but one of them was 'sonority.' It's a word dealing with sound. On a bare chance I dropped in at the public library. There I learned that one Frederick Wingate is a subscriber to _Miracle World_, and each month turns the magazine over to the library after he has read it. But this Mr. Wingate did not turn over his August copy; the library, wishing to keep a complete file, sent for the August number. There was a significant article in that number, Fred. The librarian read it to me. It had to do with sound effects by radio and telephone."

Joe's lips were parted breathlessly. Frederick Wingate stood as though he had lost the power of movement.

"I'm not up on those things. They developed after I became blind. Exactly how you worked the trick I do not know. After reading the August number you concocted your scheme. You took your time. But in December you got the key from Rhodes on the pretext you wanted to paint in the house and try out the light. In that month you did your wiring, broke through walls, inserted your loud speakers and tuned them to the proper pitch. The transmitting cable from your house to Farley's was probably laid on the ground under the snow. No doubt you thought you would not have to give more than five or six manifestations. Let the ghost talk start. After that you could take up the cable. The thing would be done. Farley's property would be ruined; you'd buy it in for a song.

"What did you do from December to March? Practice the act? Anyway, you ran into the unexpected. Sweetman also saw a chance to buy cheaply. So you filled him with the fear of inheriting a ghost. Then, when the road seemed clear, Tucker came in. You hadn't expected the police. Today, when you protested to Tucker, Rodgers thought you were furiously indignant. I read your voice better. You were alarmed. So tonight, as soon as darkness fell, you took up the incriminating cable. You're wealthy. Why does a man of means stoop to small cupidities? Is it because he thinks it clever and smart?"

The artist spoke hoarsely. "You'll admit, Doctor, that this is all rather circumstantial?"

"It was until a little while ago. Then I found the absolute proof. Sometimes a thing becomes so much a part of a man that he forgets he has it and it betrays him. Do you mind telling me the time?"

The artist glanced at his wrist-watch. "It is now----" His eyes, startled, stared fixedly at the doctor. "I see," he said.

Dr. Stone relighted the pipe. "Might I make a suggestion. We don't want Tucker in on this. I'm more interested in Matt Farley. My suggestion is that you buy the place even below its worth, eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand will be a fortune to a man sick and penniless."

Wet blotches fell against the windows. Snow!

"Doctor," Frederick Wingate said, "will you believe me when I say I did not know Farley was destitute?" He picked his coat from a chair. "I'll see Rodgers in the morning and put down a deposit. Good night."

The blazing log broke and fell, and sparks showered up the chimney. So there really had been no ghost! Relief went through Joe Morrow in a fervent tide.

"Did--did you really have the proof, Uncle David?"

"The absolute proof, Joe. You saw it yourself."

"I saw it?" The boy was bewildered.

Dr. Stone stretched back in the chair and placed his hands behind his head. "I don't know whether he used a telephone mouthpiece or a microphone. Whatever he used he was right in front of it. His hands must have been active--he had to produce the sounds of water, footsteps, gravel. Every time the watch began its mystifying tick----"

"Oh!" Joe breathed.

"Yes," the blind man said quietly. "You and Sweetman thought it was the beating of a human heart."

AS A MAN SPEAKS

"Hard!" said Police Captain Tucker. "That's what he is, Doctor--hard," and the policeman drove a smacking fist into the palm of his other hand to emphasize the point.

The dog, lying in front of the fireplace, lifted her head. Dr. David Stone puffed his pipe serenely in the warmth of the blazing logs. The winter wind whistled about the house, a shutter banged like the report of a gun, and Joe Morrow jumped.

"Talks tough, Doctor, and sticks out his chin as though asking you what you were going to do about it. I've sent out his fingerprints. Wouldn't be surprised if it turned out he was a bit of a gangster."

"You have him safely in jail," Dr. Stone pointed out.

"Safe enough for the present," Captain Tucker admitted, "but I can't hold him forever on mere suspicion."

"Then you're not charging him with murder?"

"How can I? You can't prove a murder without producing a body. Where's the corpse? Where's Boothy Wilkes, alive or dead? He hasn't been around----. You pass his place every day, Joe. When did you see him last?"

"Wednesday," Joe Morrow, Dr. Stone's nephew, answered. "He asked me had I seen Jud Cory hanging around."

"Nobody's seen him since Wednesday. That was six days ago. That morning he and Jud had a talk outside the post office--something about money--and suddenly Jud yelled out that he'd kill him. Dozen people heard it. And since late Wednesday Boothy hasn't been seen."

"Why did Jud want to kill him?" the blind doctor asked.

"How do I know?"

"Might be worth looking into," the calm voice drawled.

"Haven't I tried to sweat it out of him? Haven't I grilled him trying to make him tell where he hid the body? What do I get? A stuck-out chin, and a scowl, and him telling me he's not a squealer. That's gangster talk."

The blind man's head rested against the back of the chair; his sightless eyes seemed to stare unblinkingly at some object on the ceiling; the pale face had the calmness of graven stone. Joe, highly excited by all this talk of murder and a hidden body, pulled at a thought that had occurred to him more than once in the past. Could anything happen that would shake his uncle out of that unruffled tranquillity?

"How old did you say he was, Captain?"

"Twenty."

The doctor sat up and knocked the ashes of his pipe into the fireplace, "No boy is hard at twenty, Captain. He only thinks he's hard. Mind if I talk to him?"

Captain Tucker sighed. "I was hoping you would."

Dr. Stone reached for the dog's harness. "More work for us, old girl," he said, and the dog looked at him steadily. Joe wondered if she understood. They went out to the small police car, the tawny shepherd anxiously leading the blind man through the snow to the running-board. Crowded into the car, Joe and the dog in the rear seat, they rode toward the village.

"How long is it since Jud Cory left here?" Dr. Stone asked.

"Seven years. That's what I can't understand. Why should he come back after seven years to do a murder? He used to live with Boothy; did chores for his keep. We've sent for his brother."

"Jud's?"

"No; Boothy's."

The doctor said, surprised: "I didn't know he had a brother."

"Neither did anybody else. But for that matter Boothy was a tight-lipped man who told his business to no one. After the neighbors reported him missing we searched the house. Found a will and a note written the day before the quarrel outside the post office. The note said if anything happened to him----. See that, Doctor? He was afraid that something would happen."

"He wrote that note the day before Jud threatened to kill him," the blind man said slowly.

Joe thought that Captain Tucker had the look of a man stumbling over a rock he had not seen. "Well----." The captain coughed awkwardly. "Why couldn't Jud have gone to the house several times before that meeting outside the post office? Certainly he didn't come here planning to loiter in the streets until Boothy appeared. Anyway, the note said if anything happened to him to notify his brother, Otis Wilkes, at once."

"Any witnesses to the will?"

"No. Oh, it's in his handwriting. We proved that."

"Who gets his property?"

"This brother, Otis Wilkes."

Dr. Stone said, "I'd like to meet Otis." Joe, sitting taut on the rear seat, had the feeling that his uncle had touched something hidden in the dark. The car halted outside the village lock-up.

"I won't go down with you," Captain Tucker grunted. "He wouldn't talk if I were there."

"I'll want Joe with me," Dr. Stone said, and a turnkey led man, boy and dog down a damp staircase. It was the first time Joe had ever seen this forbiddingly bleak corridor of cells, and his heart grew heavy with a sick chill. A key rasped in a lock, and the jail attendant threw open an iron-barred door.

"Somebody to see you, Cory."

"I don't want to see nobody," a voice answered harshly.

The blind man said, "Lady, left," and followed the dog into the cell. Joe saw a disheveled youth who sat scowling upon a cot. At sight of them he arose with an air of bravado. The cell door closed.

"What's the idea?" the harsh voice demanded. "Trying to scare me with a dog?"

"Nobody's trying to scare you, Jud. Don't you remember me? I'm Dr. Stone."

"Another cop?"

"No," the blind man said gently; "your friend. And here's another friend--Joe Morrow. You ought to remember Joe. He was only a little tyke then, and always followed you when you brought the cows in from pasture."

Joe saw the hard eyes waver. At that moment Jud Cory looked, not the murderous gangster, but a frightened, bewildered, sick-souled boy.

"He always brought me a cake with raisins in it," Jud said huskily. And then, like some wild animal touched by danger, the youth had sprung back against the wall of the cell. "Hey! Trying to pull soft stuff on me? Nothing doing, I don't talk."

"You've had your share of bitter days, haven't you?" Dr. Stone asked quietly.

The hard eyes wavered.

"I knew your father, Jud. It doesn't seem possible that his son could butcher a man for a few dollars."

"It wasn't a few dollars," the lad cried thickly. "It----"

Joe shivered. Then this had really been a murder for a lot of dollars. The youth had choked off the sentence and stood against the stone wall shaken by the appalling significance of what he had said.

"Jud," the blind man said, "don't try to fool me and don't try to fool yourself. You're just a poor, miserable kid who's caught in a squeeze that's too tight for him. Don't you think you ought to tell me."

The chin wasn't a hard chin now. It quivered, tried to steady itself; and suddenly, like a tree that snaps in a storm, Jud Cory broke. One moment he stood against the wall, still suspicious, still afraid; the next he was on the side of his cot, his head in his hands, sobbing.

"You don't know what it's been like in here, Doctor. Everybody telling me I was a murderer and asking what I did with the body. When I said I'd kill him I was mad. I didn't mean it. I tell you, Doctor, I didn't mean it."

The blind man groped across the cell, and sat upon the cot, and one hand reached out and rested on the boy's shoulder.

The sobbing had stopped. "We--we lived in the city," came from between the lad's hands, "my pop and me, and pop got sick and they said he should go to the country. I don't know how it happened, but we came to Boothy Wilkes'. I liked it there. Then pop died, and that changed everything. I was nine then, nine nearly ten, and Wilkes made me do all the chores--said I had to earn my keep. Telling me every day I was a pauper and threatening to send me away to the pauper farm. Then he began to shout and yell that I ate too much. That was when I lit out.

"I went to Philadelphia and sold newspapers. They told me to keep out of the way of the cops or they'd slap me in a home because I ought to be in school. It wasn't so bad in the summer, but in the winter it was tough. Snowy days I wouldn't sell many papers, and maybe I'd have to sleep in a hallway that night."

"How old were you then, Jud?"

"About fourteen."

Joe shot a glance at his uncle. The unruffled tranquillity was gone. The blind man's face was dark with a bitter wrath.

"I figured I'd go some place where there wouldn't be so much cold, so I beat it to California. There I got jobs doing this and that, and got along. One day, when I was out of work and feeling pretty low, a man stopped me and asked wasn't I Jud Cory. He said I looked as though I was on my uppers, and I said I was. He said I must have gone through the money pretty fast, and I asked him what money, and he said he had been cashier for the bank here and that just a few days before my father died he was sent for, and went to Wilkes' house, and that my father put nine thousand dollars in Wilkes' account for me. It seemed pop didn't want any dealings with lawyers and courts and thought Wilkes was honest. Maybe this man was telling me straight and maybe he wasn't. I got thinking it over, and it seemed maybe Wilkes had laid it on me heavy so I'd light out and he'd have the money to himself. So I came back here, and the first time I spoke to Wilkes I knew it was true."

"How?" Dr. Stone asked.

"By his face."

"What was the name of this man, Jud?"

"I--I don't know. I got so excited I forgot to ask, and when I went looking for him afterwards I couldn't find him. Does that make any difference?"

"I'm afraid so."

Jud Cory's hands went out in a hopeless gesture. "I don't suppose anybody'll believe me." He was up from the cot, frantic, terror-stricken. "But I didn't kill him. I didn't."

"I know you didn't," Dr. Stone said quietly. "I've known that for the past ten minutes."

Serenity had come back upon the blind man. Holding the handle-grip of Lady's harness he followed the dog up the damp stairway to the headquarters room. There he told Captain Tucker Jud Cory's story.

"A fairy tale," the police captain scoffed. "He got it out of a book or the movies. Anyway, it doesn't explain the riddle. Where's Boothy Wilkes' body?"

"Let's go to the bank," the doctor suggested.

Again they rode in the police car, and again Lady cautiously conducted her master through the snow. Bryan Smith, president of the bank, admitted them to his private office and closed the door.

"The Wilkes case, gentlemen?"

Captain Tucker shrugged. "In a way. Cory has burst forth with a wild----"

"Just a moment, Captain," Dr. Stone said sharply. "Mr. Smith, did a cashier resign eight or nine years ago?"

"Eight or nine years?" The banker considered. "That would be Herman Lang. He resigned about that time."

"Do you know why he resigned?"

"Yes. He had an offer to join a land development company."

"Where?"

"In California."

Joe saw Captain Tucker's mouth sag, but his uncle's face was impassive. Bryan Smith lowered his voice.

"Ordinarily, gentlemen, we do not discuss our depositors' business. However, there is something I think you should know. Boothy Wilkes drew out five thousand dollars in cash the day he vanished. Cash!"

The sag that had been in Captain Tucker's jaw was gone. Out in the car he spoke a positive judgment.

"There's your motive, Doctor. Find Boothy's body and Cory'll soon tell us what he did with the five thousand dollars. Anyway, we all know Boothy kept a tight fist on a dime. Suppose he did rob the boy. Is that any excuse for murder?"

"You haven't yet proved Jud did commit a murder," the blind man suggested gently.

"The body?" Captain Tucker snapped an impatient finger. "That's only a matter of time. It couldn't have been taken far."

Outside the village town hall a constable awaited their coming. Otis Wilkes, he said, had arrived from Baltimore and was now at the Wilkes farm. Captain Tucker turned the car about. Fifteen minutes later they swung into a driveway between trees and skidded to a stop. On the Wilkes porch a thin, wiry man paced back and forth restlessly.

"I'd know him for a Wilkes anywhere," Captain Tucker said in an undertone. "Favors Boothy in looks, only this one's all whiskered. Mind if I use Lady while you're here, Doctor?"

"What for?"

"Clues. She might scent us something."

As they left the car and came toward the house, Joe Morrow had eyes only for the man on the porch. A voice called down to them across the railing.

"Captain Tucker?" The tone carried a high, nasal twang. "Land o' Goshen, I've been a-waitin' for you until I'm like t' freeze." The sentence ended in a choking, sputtering cough. The man spat violently with a burst of breath. "Come in; come in out of the cold."

The house, untenanted for a week, was scarcely warmer than the outdoors. But it was the house from which a man had disappeared, and Joe Morrow kept staring about uneasily as though expecting to find a ghost. They went into a front room that overlooked some of the land bordering the road. Here, at least, there was sun.

"Did they get him?" Otis Wilkes demanded. "This Jud Cory?" Speech was momentarily halted by that same choking cough, that same sputtering outburst of breath. "This Jud Cory who killed Boothy."

Joe was conscious of a sudden, intent look on his uncle's face. Captain Tucker answered very, very slowly.

"Did you stop at the police station, or did you come straight to the house?"

"To the house, of course. Where else with maybe Boothy lying dead?"

"How did you know he was dead?" Captain Tucker demanded.

"He wrote me, Boothy did." One hand made a frantic reach for the inside pocket of his coat and drew forth a folded paper. "Boothy said it was on him. Here!"

Captain Tucker read the letter aloud:

Dear Otis: Like as not you'll be surprised to get this letter seeing as
we have not seen or heard of each other in twenty years. But when a man
feels he is going to be took, it is natural he should turn to his only
kin. I have wrote a will leaving everything to you, and you will be
notified when necessary. If anything should happen to me sudden, look
for Jud Cory. He has made talk of killing me, and I think he is the
kind to do it.

Your brother,
Boothy.

Captain Tucker folded the letter. "Well, Doctor?" he asked in poorly-concealed satisfaction.

The blind man's face was inscrutable. "Does a man facing death, a man known to keep a tight fist on a dime, stop to draw five thousand dollars in cash from a bank?"

"Boothy was a-tryin' t' buy him off," Mr. Wilkes shrilled.

"How do you know that, Mr. Wilkes?"

"Reasonable, ain't it? Reckon a man would ruther pay five thousand dollars than be laid out stiff. What about Jud Cory?"

"We have him," Captain Tucker answered, "but Boothy's missing. We believe he's been murdered."

"Then why you standin' 'round wastin' time doin' nothin'?" Mr. Wilkes' outburst arose to a tremulous falsetto. "Find him. I'll pay a reward."

"We're starting a search now with the dog," Captain Tucker soothed the agitated man. "If you wish to come along----"

But Mr. Wilkes was seized with a shuddering reluctance. "It ain't fitten' I should, seein' as folks might say I was powerful anxious t' find him so's t' claim the property. Besides----" Straggling hairs again bothered his mouth, and there was another spell of coughing and sputtering. "Besides, I ain't so spry anymore and the cold gits into my bones. I'll set here by the window in the sun an' watch out through the apple orchard."

"It's a fine orchard," Captain Tucker observed.

"Boothy set great store by it," Mr. Wilkes said feelingly. "Blasted the soil with dynamite before settin' out the trees."

"Coming, Captain?" Dr. Stone asked.

There was an undercurrent to the words. Joe, roused out of his expectation of a ghost, saw that the strained lines were gone from his uncle's mouth and that now the face was placid and serene. The boy knew the sign. Once more Dr. Stone had touched something hidden in obscurity. Light had come to the brain that lay behind those blind eyes. And so they came outdoors, to the snow and the frozen ground.

"Careful, Doctor," Captain Tucker warned.

"Lady won't let me on ice," the doctor answered. "Search, old girl."

The dog winnowed through the snow, back and forth, ever advancing. The quest took them past the house, on past the summer kitchen. Suddenly the animal, no longer advancing, began to dig in the snow with her paws.

"She's found something," Joe cried.

Out from under the snow Lady dragged a hat. Captain Tucker seized it eagerly.

"It's Boothy's, Doctor. Here are his initials. B. W."

The doctor asked a question. "Where are we, Joe?"

Joe's throat ached. "On the driveway to the barn."

"Doesn't it strike you as strange, Captain, that Boothy's hat should be found here?"

"What's strange about it? Isn't this the driveway?"

"That's exactly what's strange about it," the blind man answered. "If somebody wanted to dispose of a body would he drag it through the open or would he seek cover? Might not the hat have been left here to be found?"

But the police officer was absorbed in a fresh discovery. The hat was sodden with snow; and yet, darker than the soak of water, was a stain above the sweat-band.

"Doctor, there's something on this hat."

"What?"

"Blood."

Dr. Stone's lips formed to a soundless whistle. "Boothy's blood?"

"Why not?"

"Because, Captain, if that had been human blood Lady would have shied, and whimpered, and trembled. She would have called our attention to it, but she would not have brought the hat out to us."

Captain Tucker flared into temper. "Doctor, that's going too far. Even a clever dog is only a dog. We're going back."

The police officer carried the gruesome find to the house. Joe stumbled in the snow. There had been that dark stain near the sweat-band; he had seen it, and was troubled. Was Uncle David wrong? They crossed the porch and entered the room where Mr. Wilkes waited, and on the instant the man cried out in nasal horror:

"It's Boothy's hat. And there's blood on it."

"I'm going back to the village," Captain Tucker said hurriedly. "I'm coming back with a crew of men. We'll find what's hidden here. We'll find it if we have to dig up every foot of this farm."

The captain was gone. The outer door closed. Dr. Stone still stood just within the room. Outside a motor roared, and suddenly the blind man shouted.

"Tucker! See that Herman Lang comes here as soon as he arrives."

It seemed to Joe that Mr. Wilkes leaped and jerked in every muscle. "Lang? What about Herman Lang?" Another fit of sputtering and coughing seized him, and he spat violently. "What about him?"

"Oh!" The doctor's voice was soft. "So you know Herman Lang?"

"Never heerd o' him. Who is he?"

"He's the bank cashier who was at this house the day Jud Cory's father trusted Boothy with nine thousand dollars. Jud came here to get that money."

"Bah! A likely tale. What am I supposed to do about it?"

The blind man, holding to the dog's leash, stepped well within the room. Joe edged a little to the side. He had been with his uncle on so many adventures he had developed an instinct that told him when a trap was to be sprung. And instinct told him a trap was to be sprung now.

"You might answer a few questions, Mr. Wilkes. You and Boothy hadn't seen or heard from each other in twenty years?"

"Maybe it was twenty-one years."

"Then how did you know Boothy used dynamite to break the hardpan when he set out his orchard. Those trees were planted in the spring of 1920, thirteen years ago."

Joe saw the Adam's apple in the man's throat work convulsively. "Likely I heard about it somewhere."

"When Tucker came in, how did you know he had Boothy's hat?"

"It must have been Boothy's--Boothy allers wore the same kind."

"How did you know of the blood? You were across the room. You couldn't have distinguished a stain on a wet hat. Or--" The blind man paused. "Or did you know, before we left the room, that we were going to come back with a blood-stained hat?"

Joe could almost feel the man tremble. But no words came from the stark, startled lips.

"Nine thousand dollars," Dr. Stone mused. "Simple interest for eleven years at six per cent. Five hundred and forty dollars a year. A total, principal and interest, of fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars. Sit down, Wilkes."

Mr. Wilkes sat down.

"Make out a check to Jud Cory for fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars."

Joe expected shrill, nasal protest. Instead the man sat there, huddled in tremulous abjection. By and by the fingers, strong and work-hardened, began to move slowly; and with that Joe saw a look of shrewd, calculating cunning steal into the eyes. He was like a man who, lost, sees a glimmer of hope.

"Doctor, most likely this Jud Cory's been a-tellin' you a passel o' lies. But it ain't fitten to speak ill o' the dead, and Boothy's my brother and I don't hanker t' have folks a-whisperin' about him and makin' light o' his good name. Tell you what I'll do, Doctor. I'll give this Jud Cory enough to stop his mouth. Likely he'll need it, anyway, t' pay his trial lawyer."

"That's kind of you," Dr. Stone said dryly.

Mr. Wilkes wrote a check and pressed it into the blind man's hand.

"It's no more than fair to tell you, Wilkes, that Herman Lang is not expected here."

With a snarl the man was on his feet. "Give me that check!" Lady gave a warning growl, and on the instant the grasping hand was stayed. Mr. Wilkes shrank back.

"It would be a simple matter to telegraph and bring him East," the doctor said pointedly.

As slowly as it had come the shrewd cunning faded out of the man's eyes. He sank back into the chair.

Dr. Stone held out the slip of paper. "How much is it for, Joe?"

"Five thousand dollars, Uncle David." This time it was the boy who trembled. Five thousand dollars was the amount of cash Boothy Wilkes had drawn from the bank.

"Signed by whom?"

"By Otis Wilkes."

Without haste the doctor folded the check twice, and tore it into bits.

"Write another check," he ordered quietly. "This time write it for fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars. This time sign your own name. Sign it Boothy Wilkes."

To Joe Morrow the world went topsy-turvy. Through an incredulous haze he saw a snarling man sign a check and almost hurl it into his uncle's face. As they came out upon the porch with Lady, Captain Tucker's car swung into the driveway from the road.

"I'll have men here in half an hour. Where's Otis, Doctor?"

"Gone. Boothy's inside."

"Boothy?"

"Otis, if you like that name better," the doctor said pleasantly.

For the second time that day Captain Tucker's jaw sagged. Dr. Stone brought out his pipe, filled it, and puffed with calm enjoyment.

"You see," he said, "Jud Cory told us the truth. When he arrived with the information that he knew of the money that was his, it was like plunging a knife into Boothy's heart. Money has rather been Boothy's god. The way to save the money came with Jud's threat to kill him that so many persons overheard. Boothy went to the bank, drew out five thousand dollars, wrote the will and the note that you found, wrote himself the letter he showed you, and went to Baltimore to await the results he knew would follow. When it was discovered he was gone people remembered Jud's threat. And so Jud was arrested, and you wrote Otis to come on, and the search began for a body that would never be found.

"Boothy had it figured out nicely. As Otis he would have five thousand dollars to live on. There was no hurry. Let Jud Cory stew in jail. He would never be tried for murder, for without a corpse no murder could be proved. Public opinion, though, might try Jud for threatening life, or for disturbing the peace, or for something else. He might even be sent to the county penitentiary for nine months. All right; let him go. When he was released he would be so sick of the game, so glad to be at liberty again, that he'd take the first train out and never come back. And then, after an interval, Boothy would reappear. What story would he have told? Well, he might have claimed a complete loss of memory--aphasia, as it is called. And there he'd be with his nine thousand dollars intact and Jud Cory gone for good."

Captain Tucker had recovered from his chagrin. "I can see all that now, Doctor. But how did you know he was Boothy? Man, he had me completely fooled."

"There were several signs," Dr. Stone answered. "An apple orchard, for one; a hat for another. But the real give-away--" He passed the pipe under his nose and inhaled the aroma of the burning tobacco. "You wear false teeth, Captain?"

"What has that to do with it?" Captain Tucker demanded impatiently.

"Took you a while to get used to them, didn't it?"

"Of course."

"There's the answer. Boothy didn't take time to get used to them. They kept straggling out of place and interfering with his speech."

"What are you talking about?" Captain Tucker cried impatiently. "False teeth?"

"No," the blind man said mildly. "False whiskers."

ARM OF GUILT

Hurrying along the shadowed road beside Dr. David Stone and Lady, Joe Morrow was conscious of the hard pounding of his heart against his ribs. The telephone call from Police Captain Tucker had been terse and abrupt, but out of it had come alarm and revelation. The explosion he and his uncle had heard an hour ago had not been the backfire of an automobile, but the murderous bark of a pistol. And Ira Close, the Foster's hired man, had been shot, and nine-year-old Billy Foster had been kidnaped. Joe gulped. He had seen the small boy at school that afternoon.

Moonlight flooded the yard in the rear of Ben Foster's house, and black shapes stood out in sharp relief. Pressed against the powerful flanks of the dog Joe strained his eyes and made them out: Mr. Foster, agitated, walking back and forth restlessly; Captain Tucker staring hard at the ground, and a third man--Why, the third man was Ira Close. The boy gave a suppressed cry.

"He's there, Uncle David."

"Billy?" Dr. Stone asked eagerly.

"No, sir; Ira. Ira wasn't shot badly. It's only his hand. His hand is bandaged."

Dr. Stone said: "Lady, left," and the dog swung them into the Foster yard. At the sound of their feet on the driveway gravel Mr. Foster gave a cry and hurried toward them.

"Thank God, Doctor, you're here. If you can find him, if you can get him back----"

"Are you sure," the doctor broke in quietly, "he hasn't gone to a friend's house and stayed for supper? Small boys sometimes forget to come home."

Captain Tucker shook his head. "It's kidnaping. We have the ransom note. Five thousand dollars."

"Ten thousand!" Mr. Foster cried wildly. "Fifteen! Any amount, so long as he comes back unharmed."

"Easy," said Dr. Stone, and took out his pipe and reached into a pocket for tobacco. Amid the hysterical panic he was controlled, steady. "If we're to get any place we must try to think clearly. When was the boy seen last?"

Captain Tucker answered. "Four o'clock."

"Then we know he wasn't kidnaped until after four. And about eight o'clock you were given a ransom note. That means the kidnapers were in the neighborhood an hour ago. How did the note get here?"

"It was brought to me," said Mr. Foster.

"Who brought it?"

"Ira."

Dr. Stone's hand came out of his pocket without the tobacco pouch. Joe, startled, saw his uncle's eyes turn, as though by instinct, toward the hired man he could not see. Ira Close, always given to a dull, stupid sullenness, shifted his thick-set, muscular body awkwardly.

"I sent him out to find Billy," Mr. Foster explained. "The boy had been gone since four o'clock when he went out of the house with a plate of food for his rabbits. I thought he might have gone trailing after that organ-grinder----"

"What organ-grinder?" Dr. Stone asked sharply.

Again it was Captain Tucker who answered. "A stranger, doctor. Gave his name as Pasquale Monetti. Came to the police station four days ago and paid two dollars for a permit. Had a monkey on a chain. The kids have been following him all over the village."

The doctor said quietly: "How did you come to get the note, Ira?"

"I went for Billy like Mr. Foster said." The man's voice was a low rumble. "Down by the Howard's woodlot there's a bang and I know I'm shot."

"The right thumb," said Captain Tucker. "The bullet creased the skin."

"It bled," Ira Close said unemotionally, and Joe saw blood on the handkerchief-bandage. "He tells me not to move, and ties my arms behind, and puts the note in my pocket."

"He," Dr. Stone said. "What he, Ira?"

"The organ-grinder."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Did you see him?"

"No; I have my back turned. He does not talk our kind of American."

Captain Tucker gave a grunt of exasperation. "That's too thin for identification. A thousand men within twenty miles might talk with a foreign accent. I can't understand this, Doctor. If somebody wanted to use Ira to carry a message why did they shoot close enough to hit him?"

"I wonder," Dr. Stone said gravely. His hand went into his pocket and this time came out with the pouch. Slowly, almost leisurely, he filled the pipe.

Joe Morrow, groping in the dark for light, abruptly grasped the cords of memory. "Ira could have known his voice," the boy cried, excited.

"How's that?" Captain Tucker barked.

"I saw Ira talking to the organ-grinder yesterday in front of the bank."

"I asked him about the monkey," Ira said stolidly. "I thought maybe I might buy one for Billy."

"Why didn't you tell us that?" Captain Tucker flared in a temper. "Here we're wasting time----"

"And my boy being taken farther away every minute," Mr. Foster groaned in sick despair. "Do something! I tell you I can't stand this waiting, waiting! Do something!"

"Perhaps," Dr. Stone said gently, "we have already done something. How was Ira tied, Tucker? Tight?"

"I've seen them tied tighter. Didn't have to cut the rope--slipped it down over his elbows. A botchy job."

"This organ-grinder?"

"Swarthy, with a heavy mustache. Not over four and one-half feet tall and weighing about 135."

"How much do you weigh, Ira?" the doctor asked.

The hired man answered without interest. "One hundred eighty-five pounds."

Joe, trying to read his uncle's face, found it inscrutable. And yet the question meant something. The pipe had gone out; Dr. Stone lighted it again.

"Let's try to reconstruct this crime, Tucker. At four o'clock Billy left the house with feed for the rabbits. After that--a blank. Did he feed the rabbits and wander on? Did he ever reach the warren?"

"No," Mr. Foster choked. "Whatever happened to him happened here."

And then, for the first time, Joe saw what lay upon the ground in the moonlight--the shattered pieces of a blue plate, scraps of lettuce and carrot, and a boy's cap. Evidently, Billy Foster had never reached the rabbit warren with the feed. While Captain Tucker described the scene to the blind man, Joe picked up the cap. Why, they were in full view of the house. Could a boy be kidnaped in broad daylight from his own doorstep?

"It couldn't have happened," Captain Tucker insisted testily. "Not here. The place is too open. Probably something startled the boy and he dropped the plate."

"If he were frightened," Dr. Stone asked mildly, "why didn't he run to the house? What frightened him? Did whatever happen happen so quickly that there was no time to run? And then there's something else."

"What?" Captain Tucker snapped.

"The cap. It would take quite a fright to pop a cap off a boy's head." The blind man put the pipe back in his pocket. "You've kept track of this organ-grinder, haven't you, Tucker? Where has he been staying?"

"Petey Ring's shack on the river."

"I think," Dr. Stone said, "it might be worth our while to go down toward the river." A dozen steps toward Captain Tucker's car he paused. "You'd better have that finger looked at, Ira. Gun-shot wounds can develop lock-jaw."

"Doctors want money," Ira Close said resentfully.

"It's a common failing," the blind man observed pleasantly.

Joe tingled. Something lay behind those four words. But again the bland face was expressionless.

Petey Ring, unkempt and wrapped in a soiled apron, met them in the frowsy public room of this river "hotel."

"Cap," he said, "I was just thinking of giving you a buzz. You know that bird who's been penny snatching with a monk?"

Joe's mouth fell open, and Dr. Stone stopped dead in his tracks.

"Where is he?" Captain Tucker demanded.

"Ask me. I ain't clapped a peeper on him since this morning. Looks to me like he's taken it on the lam. You got a line out for him, Cap?"

The captain shrugged. "Just checking up, Petey. What time did he shove off."

"You're asking me? I thought he was out working his graft. Then there's a jabbering from his room, and there's the monk all alone in there throwing fits."

Dr. Stone's voice cut in. "Where's his room?"

Petey, stepping past the dog warily, led the way. The room was a squalor of untidiness. Dirty blankets were tumbled on the army cot bed, and a cracked mirror stood upon a paint-chipped dresser. The hand-organ, gaudy with cheap trappings, leaned in a corner and, attached to it by a light chain was a wizened, wrinkled, black-faced monkey. The animal flew into a rage, climbed the length of its chain and, from the top of a window-casing, shrieked and chattered.

"Ira was right," Captain Tucker said harshly. "And we're too late."

Joe's throat ached. Jolly Billy Foster taken by violence and held for ransom! Hidden away in some dark hole, probably, homesick and terror-stricken. He looked at his uncle. The blind man's face had become intent.

"This room reeks," Dr. Stone said, "with the stench of cheap shaving soap. Search it."

"For what?" Captain Tucker asked, puzzled.

"Hair."

Joe, conscious only of the stale stench of the room, marveled that his uncle could detect the smell of soap. He poked into the corners. Petey, lounging in the doorway, watched the search narrowly.

"What's this bird been pulling, Cap?"

"Kidnaping," Captain Tucker threw at him.

Petey went white. "So help me, Cap. I'm out of it. You ain't got a thing on me. Take my oath. I ain't touching nothing like that. Who'd he snatch?"

There was no answer. Lady, pawing, had brought a ball of paper out from under the bureau. Captain Tucker opened the wad.

"Hair," he said.

"There's blood, too," Joe cried.

The blind man whistled soundlessly. "A shaved off mustache and a cut lip."

"Tried a disguise and marked himself." Captain Tucker bolted for the door. They pushed past the alarmed, agitated Petey and left him crying after them.

At the railroad station a strange agent, a relief for the regular man, came to the ticket window.

"Did you sell a ticket late this afternoon or this evening to a man with a cut lip?" Captain Tucker barked the question.

"Why, yes." The agent spoke with a slow, maddening drawl. "Short, dark fellow. Couldn't help noticing that lip. Looked as though----"

"How many tickets did he buy?"

"Why, if I recollect, he bought one. Yes; one ticket."

"Where to?"

"Peekskill. Yes; I remember that. Just happens that I have a married daughter in Peek----"

Captain Tucker frothed. "Never mind your family. This is important. What train did he take?"

The agent was galvanized into more rapid speech. "The 6:29."

"Did you see him get on?"

"Yes. Yes; I did. I happened to be looking out the window----"

"Did he get on alone or did he have someone with him. Quick!"

"He got on alone."

No flicker of change showed in Dr. Stone's face, but Captain Tucker was staggered. Joe was suddenly wan and bleak. Had they followed the trail this far only to have it fail them. And then, abruptly, the police captain was pounding the grille of the ticket-window with a huge fist.

"What time does that train make Peekskill? In twelve minutes? Get that key working. I want that man with the cut lip held. If he doesn't get off the train have it searched. Give me that telephone."

The captain called Peekskill police. Presently they were out on the platform and he took off his cap and fanned his face. Green signal lights blinked out of the darkness down the right of way.

"Doctor, what did he do with the boy?"

"Perhaps he did nothing," the doctor said quietly.

Joe stiffened with new hope. That tone of his uncle's--? But the captain, brooding, was lost in his own thoughts.

"There's a slant to this I don't understand," he said slowly. "That boy was kidnaped in broad daylight. Snapped out of his own yard. How could a stranger have brought him through a village where he was known? How could he have been taken past his own house out to the road?"

"I have been thinking about that," Dr. Stone admitted. The blind face was again intent. "Suppose we go back to the house."

Mr. Foster hurried toward them with pathetic haste. "Any news?"

"The organ-grinder left for Peekskill on the 6:29," Captain Tucker told him. "I've telephoned and wired. They'll pick him up when the train gets there."

"Was Billy with him?"

The captain made a merciful answer. "I'm not sure."

Ira Close came across the yard through the moonlight. "You want me to pick up those pieces of plate, Mr. Foster?"

"I'll take care of them, Ira. I--I don't want Mrs. Foster to see them."

"Have you his cap?" Dr. Stone asked with that same understanding gentleness. "I don't believe he was ever taken out to the road. Now, Tucker, if you'll lead me to where the plate was dropped--. Lady, forward."

Joe could feel Ira Close beside him rubbing the injured hand as though it pained, but his eyes were on the man walking beside the dog. They came to the shattered pieces of crockery. The doctor held the cap to the dog's nose.

"Lady, find," he said quietly.

Joe trembled. What now? Nose to the ground, the great, tawny dog sniffed for the scent. And then it moved, not toward the road but off to the left toward a grove of apple trees. The blind man pulled on the leash and the dog stopped.

"What lies ahead, Foster?"

"The orchard, the barn where Ira has a room in the loft, the chicken runs, the cow shed, and Billy's rabbits."

Captain Tucker exploded. "Doctor, this is getting nowhere. The boy may have gone to the rabbits. That's the trail you may be following this minute."

In the moonlight the sightless eyes were calm. "Aren't you forgetting the broken plate, Captain? He started out with feed. Why should he go on without it?"

Beside him Joe Morrow could feel the hired man still rubbing the hand and hear the soft scraping of flesh along the bandage. The doctor appeared to listen to something in the night.

"Are you going on?" Mr. Foster cried.

"Tomorrow," the blind man said with that same gentleness. "The night offers obstacles. We might miss something we should see."

"But to wait--to wait--" The voice broke.

"We wouldn't hold you in suspense a moment longer than necessary. Tomorrow, at daybreak. Have you the cap, Joe? Don't lose it."

Ira rumbled a heavy "good-night" and passed from the moonlight into the shadow of the orchard. A woman's voice called: "Pa! Pa! Captain Tucker's wanted on the telephone." The captain hurried toward the house. Dr. Stone spoke softly:

"Ira's been with you a long time, Foster?"

"Nine years. Surly, but a good worker. A bit gruffer than usual tonight. Billy was always a little afraid of him; that's probably on his mind. And then this shooting and the loss of his money."

"Money?"