The Best Wadsworth Camp Mysteries. Charles Wadsworth Camp
reasoned. Could these evident footsteps be the pallid tatters of the wall paper flapping in the wind? He remembered they were near the ceiling, while this sound had come from the floor. It appeared now to be in the hall. Then Anderson, Molly, or Tony—Yet none of them would have entered his room in that stealthy fashion, or, entering, would have refused to answer.
Slipping out of bed, he tiptoed to the door. As he had agreed with Molly he had left it open only a crack. Now it stood wide. The wind, he argued, might be responsible. Yet he hurriedly pushed it to. He felt a physical aversion for the black void of the hall where the footsteps strayed.
“Andy!” he said under his breath. “Tony!”
No one answered. The house was completely silent now except for the rattling of the casements.
He returned to the bed, arguing that the footsteps had been imagination or some trickery of the wind, but he could not convince himself.
Little by little, as though the footsteps had started the train, his mind began to play with the thought of a woman’s violent death in this room. He knew practically nothing beyond the bare fact. After pampering her, Anderson and the agent had said, Noyer had killed her, had cut her throat; and that had almost certainly happened in this room, perhaps, in this bed, with the arabesques writhing in the candle-light.
He pictured the lawless slaver coming swiftly down that path through the dangerous forest; tramping up the stairs; furiously bursting through that door, which he had just now found mysteriously open; leaning over the bed; killing there that which in his uncouth way he had loved. Had she struggled in the bed? Had she had time to cry out before the great hands had tortured her throat and the knife had flashed?
The theory that the essence of tragedy lingers at the place of its making had never impressed Miller. He did not yield to it now. Yet in spite of his mental struggles, these fancies, these questions persisted. Even the thought of the girl was powerless to guide his imagination to solider ground, although he realised that his future in relation to hers depended on his conquest of a subtle force to which his present experience might, indeed, be traced. He found himself listening for the footsteps again. Were they what Molly awaited when she held her head on one side in an attitude of strained expectancy?
The footsteps did not return, but soon another sound stole into his consciousness—a slow, even, heavy dripping. This time there was no doubt. The sound was in his room, within hand’s reach, close to the head of the bed, as though—
He shuddered. He sat upright. The quick motion set the arabesques writhing behind his eyelids. He brushed his hand across his face. He made an effort to regain his sense of proportion. He would find out what that sound was. No matter how much courage it took to reach for his slippers beneath the bed in the vicinity of that sodden, suggestive dripping, he would get up. He would light the candles.
His unwilling fingers found the slippers. He stepped to the floor. He pushed through the inky blackness to the bureau.
The dripping sound followed him. He paused, the match in his hand, wondering if Noyer had heard something like that—had heard and fled from his lifeless, disfigured victim.
Then what he had half expected rang through the echoing house—the cry of a woman, full of terror, strangled, suddenly broken off.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BLUE FLAME
Although he shivered with cold Miller felt the perspiration spring out on his forehead. He struck the match and held it to the candles. The arabesques appeared to twist and twine more violently. The odour from the paper seemed more pungent in spite of the open window. The dripping ceased. He glanced at the floor near the head of the bed, but he saw nothing. It was several minutes before he realised it was Molly who had screamed.
He threw on his clothes, picked up a candle, snatched his revolver from beneath the pillow, and stepped to the hall.
Molly’s cry had not been repeated, but something was moving at the foot of the stairs, and he could hear thick breathing. He paused before the door, open a little as Molly had promised. He was afraid to knock, afraid to ask. Finally he forced the words.
“Andy! Molly called—”
Molly’s voice, still a little choked, came to him.
“There’s something in this room.”
Miller pushed the door open.
“Wait!” Anderson commanded in a level, lifeless voice. ” There’s danger. I said the circle was closing. It is closing.”
Miller paused on the threshold. Molly sat up in bed, a dressing gown thrown over her shoulders. Anderson leaned on his elbow.
“Don’t come in, Jim,” he said. “Listen!”
Miller looked around the room. He spoke reassuringly.
“There’s no one—nothing.”
“Listen!” Anderson repeated.
Miller heard nothing, so after a moment he stepped into the room. Then he heard—a sound like shot shaken in a crimper.
“They’re daring,” Anderson said dreamily. “I knew they were growing daring. I was afraid they were getting ready—”
“Andy!” Miller cried. “Pull yourself together!”
He held his revolver in front of him and stooped. He looked under the bed, in the four corners. He could see nothing, but the rattle was repeated.
“You two get out of here,” he whispered. “It’s safe to step down on this side. But hurry. Get to the hall.”
When they had obeyed him he arose, followed them, and closed the door. The rattling came again, apparently from just within the room, yet Miller had seen no snake.
Shaking his head, he led them down the stairs. He found Tony, lying on the steps half way up. The man raised his bearded face to the candle, mouthing horribly.
“I tried to come,” he muttered, “I tried—”
“You’re not hurt?” Miller asked sharply.
Tony shook his head. He crept backwards down the stairs, his face turned to the light.
The diningroom fire smouldered. As he entered Miller felt a cold breath on his cheek. He hurried through to the kitchen. After a moment he called :
“Tony! Did you open this window?”
He came back.
“Open of those windows—you saw me close it and lock it. You must have opened it, Tony.”
Vehemently the native shook his head.
“Did you hear anything come through here?”
“All night,” Tony answered, pointing to the hall door,” something moving—walking out there.”
“And the window in your bedroom,” Miller said to Anderson. “That was open, too, but it’s high and on the side.”
“Jim, remember you didn’t see anything,” Anderson said softly.
“I’m going through this house from top to bottom,” Miller said determinedly. “I shan’t sleep again until I know. Make yourselves as comfortable as possible here. Molly, fill that lamp. Let’s start this fire up.”
He stopped and threw a log on the andirons.
“Did you hear?” Molly asked under her breath.
Still stooping. Miller turned to her. She had assumed again that tense, listening pose.
“What?” he asked.
She put her finger on her lips.
“Outside.