J. Thorne - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920)

"That is all?" said Dwyer.

"Yes." Lannen wondered if Dwyer realized the woman was lying.

"Where is this Allering now?" the officer inquired, looking about.

The servants, who had come into the room on returning to the house, shook their heads.

"I don't know," Mrs. Willoughby answered.

"Probably in his room," snapped her husband, speaking for the first time. "He is the gardener employed here."

Dwyer merery raised his eyebrows. He studied the pale patrician face of the woman, then turned to one of his assistants. "Riley, go with a servant to get him."

Dwyer and his medical adviser again traversed the lawn to the greenhouses. Lannen went with them. The operator whom Dwyer had left in charge of the body grinned a sickly welcome as they approached. Again Lannen note" d the dripping hydrant. Dwyer stalked about the grounds. Crossing to the greenhouses he opened a door and stepped inside.

He was gone but a moment. When he returned, he made a survey of the arbor, and the stone wall which surrounded the grounds. The grass was trampled and crushed; but no definite footprints were discernible.

"Stevens, go back to the house and see what's the matter that Riley hasn't found that gardener," he said abruptly.

The medical examiner, whose attention had been centered on the dead man, looked up quickly.

"It's heart failure alright, Dwyer," he said.

Dwyer merely grunted.

The man who had been with the body hitched his trousers, and passed the back of a hairy hand across his mouth. He started briskly toward the house, paused abruptly and whirling around, crossed to the hydrant. As he stopped to drink from the faucet, Lannen cried out in an unnatural voice.

"Don't do that!"

The young officer straightened abruptly. "Speaking to me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What's the matter?"

"Don't touch that hydrant."

Stevens came closer.

"I don't understand," he said.

Wondering if he were making a fool of himself, or if what Allering had said were true, Lannen hesitated. The inspector looked at him inquiringly. Lannen laughed nervously.

"Well?" said Dwyer.

He removed his horn rimmed glasses, and polished them vigorously. His keen eyes squinted. Lannen inwardly squirmed under the scrutiny.

"I may be mistaken," the lawyer said uneasily, "but I'm under the impression that the man died after drinking from that faucet." Stevens whistled.

Lannen realized he had told too much to withhold any more, and continued quietly.

"Allering came to me after Mrs. Willoughby retired. He said the dead man took a drink, then fell writhing to the ground. He may have imagined it. I don't know — but it's well to take no chances."

"Mrs. Willoughby did not mention this."

"No."

"Where did Allering go? Why hasn't Riley found him?"

"I don't know."

"Well," mused the inspector — "it's damned queer. We'll get a glass, and test this water."

"Here's a tin cup," said the younger officer, reaching for one which hung on a nail just below the hydrant.

Lannen suddenly remembered the gardener's words, when he mentioned the caution Willoughby had exercised in wiping the moisture from the faucet. He stepped forward quietly and drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it about his hand before turning the spicket, then he drew some water and handed it to the medical examiner.

It was clear as crystal.

"Willoughby has a laboratory where he makes tests in chemistry," the lawyer said.

"Stay here," Dwyer said to the operator he had left with the body before. Then he turned to the others with a curt nod of his head toward the house. "We'll use the laboratory, though I've a hunch there's nothing to this water business; but you never can tell, and we've got to locate this fellow Allering."

As they entered the house, Willoughby rose abruptly. Lannen sensed a tension in the air, as though the physician and his wife had been quarreling. The woman's face was bloodless. The great purple shadows under her eyes, and her white lips, gave her an almost ethereal beauty. She smiled a wan greeting as though welcoming the interruption of an unpleasant scene.

"Dr. Willoughby," said the inspector abruptly, "Dr. Graves, here, would like to use your laboratory for a little test if you don't mind."

"Test?" smiled Willoughby suavely.

"Yes; of the hydrant water. Mr. Lannen is under the impression that the dead hobo took a drink from your hydrant and keeled over. Water looks alright, but we'd like to make sure."

The smile never left Willoughby's face, though Lannen fancied it grew tighter.

"I'll be very glad to assist you in any way," the physician said, "though I'm positive the water had nothing to do with the poor chap's death. We don't use it for drinking purposes, but it's pure. However, as you say, it's best to make sure. Come this way if you please, my laboratory is on the top floor."

He led the way to the odorous room that was the scene of his many chemical tests. As they reached the door, for a second he hesitated. He drew a deep breath and inserted a key in the lock. It did not turn. The physician looked puzzled.

"That's strange," he muttered. He rattled the knob.

"Maybe the lock has sprung," said the inspector grimly.

Willoughby shook his head.

"It seems to be locked from the inside," he said.

The smile left his face — he became yellower if possible.

There came to them the rustle of papers inside the room, the sound of someone moving.

The men stared at each other.

Willoughby swayed a trifle, and lurched against the door.

Dwyer thrust a huge fist forward and gave the panel a resounding kick.

"Open this door!" he called — "Open it or we'll break it down."

There was silence — then a sound of footsteps, and the door was flung open. The gardener stood just inside the room. He had discarded his overalls and looked very much the gentleman in a dark, well fitting suit. Though he was ghastly pale, there was a triumphant gleam in his dark eyes and an air of success in his bearing.

The room was in absolute disorder. Papers were thrown everywhere, bottles lay at random on glass topped tables. Paper baskets were overthrown. Everything indicated a hurried but thorough search.

One instant Willoughby glared at his ransacked laboratory, then into the glowing eyes of the boy whom he seemed to recognize for the first time, then he flung himself at the younger man with an almost animal like snarl — "Damn you!"

Allering stepped aside. At the same moment, Dwyer laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Well," he smiled, but the menace in his cool tones made Lannen shiver, — "I presume you are the gardener Allering. No wonder you didn't care to give your testimony to us. We came out here to look into the matter of a heart failure; we hardly expected to be so fortunate as to lay our hands on Charlie Moore — No. 9672."

The boy flung back his head and looked bravely into the cool, hard face of the inspector.

"No. 9672?" gasped Stevens.

"Sure, the escaped con. sent up two years ago for manslaughter. Escaped six weeks ago. They say a society woman helped him bust out, but I never dreamed it was Mrs. Willoughby!"

"She's my sister!" said the boy proudly.

"Sure." Dwyer bit off the end of a cigar and stuck it in his mouth, but he didn't light it.

He looked steadily at the young man, then toward Willoughby.

The latter's eyes were bloodshot; he seemed to be controlling himself with difficulty.

"What did you know about this?" Dwyer asked him.

"Nothing," snapped the doctor.

"You didn't recognize him?"

"No!"

Young Moore laughed unpleasantly.

"That's a lie," he said. "He knew me the moment Louise brought me into this house, she knew he did, and so did I — but he didn't dare admit it. If he had he would have notified you in a minute. He wanted me out of the way, but he was afraid; so he chose the cowardly way. He made everyone think I was her lover and poisoned them against her, then—"