Francis Stevens - Citadel of Fear

He strode to the door, but his last command was disregarded. When he entered the reception hall Rhodes was behind him, still protesting, while Cliona and the strange girl brought up the rear.

"Ah, Mr. O'Hara!" And MacClellan's rather heavy and stolid, countenance brightened as he beamed upon the advancing Irishman in a manner singularly cordial to be bestowed upon a murder-suspect. "I thought I might find you here. Quick work, eh? I suppose you've read all about it in the early afternoon editions?"

"No." Colin favored his prospective captor with a morose stare. "I'd no notion they'd be having it-so early."

"Oh, they got it at headquarters. We tried to phone out to Mr. Rhodes here, but they said you didn't answer. Line out of order?"

"Not that I know of." Rhodes was nervous. He was becoming more and more positive that MacClellan was innocent of any knowledge dangerous to O'Hara, but at the same time there was imminent peril of his acquiring such information within the next few moments. O'Hara must be kept quiet until there was time for further conference.

"More likely something wrong with the operator," he continued. "But I read the paper, MacClellan, and was just going to show it to the rest when you arrived."

"And I was just on my way," began O'Hara, but Rhodes forestalled him, speaking very loudly and quickly.

"It's the bungalow again, Colin. The bungalow received another visitation last night!"

And pulling the folded newspaper from his pocket, he thrust it into O'Hara's hands, pointing to the column in question and for the moment at least effectually distracting his attention.

Cliona, keyed to a worse calamity, laughed and exclaimed involuntarily: "Is that all?"

"Ain't it enough?" MacClellan looked a trifle offended. No man likes to bear news of a mountain and hear it called a mole-hill. "I tell you, Mrs. Rhodes, it was enough to send me and Forester here shooting out to Carpentier within ten minutes after we got word of it. The news was phoned in by a milkman-name of Walker-and he said when he went up there to deliver the milk, there wasn't, in a manner of speaking, any place to deliver it at. Said you'd been living there alone, Mr. O'Hara, and the way he talked we got the idea you was murdered and laid out in the ruins.

"So Forester, here, and me shot out there, and sure enough the place was pretty well smashed up, but not a sign of you or anybody else hurt. So on the train comin' in we got talkin' with the conductor-we central office men pick up lots of valuable clues just talking, here and there-and he says the night man told him how you and a lady went in town somewhere after eleven-thirty last night.

"Well, we was anxious to get in touch with you, just to let you know we're on the job, so I tried to get Mr. Rhodes by phone. While I was trying, Forester, he called up the hotels and drew them blank, so I says the best thing was to come straight out here, and we did and here's Mr. O'Hara, just like I thought."

MacClellan was so enamored of his own perspicacity in locating Colin that he was quite good-natured again. But to that gentleman himself it seemed a childishly simple feat-particularly when compared to the one which he had suspected MacClellan.

He had meant to make the whole of last night's doings known to the complacent detective, but now he hated to do it. Somehow MacClellan would arrogate to himself as much credit as if he had captured a desperate criminal in the red act of assassination. Besides, there was the bungalow. After waiting six weeks for that visit, it had come in earnest during his one night of absence!

"So the place was pulled down?" he asked slowly, scanning the headlines.

"Oh, no. That was Walker's exaggeration. But it was pretty well wrecked up all right-worse than the first time. And Walker said that when he got up there, there was a horrible smell about the place. Some sort of chemical, I guess, though that may have been some more of his imagination. It didn't look to me like there'd been any explosion."

"I smelled something queer myself when we went inside." This from Forester, an intelligent-looking but very young man. "Don't you remember I called your attention to it?"

"Yes, and I said you was dreamin'," snapped his superior. "If there was any smell it got out the windows before we reached there."

Forester shrugged and subsided. But to O'Hara this talk of a mysterious odor called up a memory. The scene was a large, bare, dusty interior, illuminated by one leaping white ray. Faith, and it was a most unpleasant stench the place had been filled with! The front and the back door of that storehouse had stood open-open! And it was from Reed's place that Genghis Khan had wandered all the way to Carpentier-and tried to strangle him! Had Khan "wandered"?

"I'll be returning to the bungalow," he announced.

"Oh, no!" To Cliona, Carpentier and its vicinity were by this time doubly enhanced with terror. "Colin, darling, promise me you'll never go near there again!"

"I'll have to. Sure, every stitch of clothes I have but these are out there. You'd not have me sacrifice my entire wardrobe, Cliona?"

"You can send for them-besides, that's not your reason!" she added suspiciously.

"And what if it's not? In broad daylight! For shame, little sister, 'tis not like yourself to be so unreasonable!"

"I don't mean to be," Cliona considered, while MacClellan turned away to examine a picture-and grin. He disliked this domineering Irishman as instinctively as O'Hara despised him, and it was highly amusing to hear him plead against petticoat rule as meekly as the least of his fellows. "You may go," decreed Cliona at last, "if you'll take these gentlemen with you."

Rhodes laughed. "I'm going myself, so you'll have quite a bodyguard, Colin."

Somewhat to his surprise Cliona offered no objection to that. Perhaps she felt there was safety in numbers, and anyway, on reflection, a daylight expedition to the bungalow could rouse little dread. There must be people all over the place, too, as she had been told there were while first she lay there unconscious.

"Where's the-the-Miss Reed?"

It was Rhodes who asked. All the time they talked, the girl had stood close to Cliona, partly in shadow and so motionlessly silent as to be practically forgotten by all save Colin. He never quite forgot her, but she had been pushed to the back of his mind by these more pressing matters.

"I think-perhaps she went back in the breakfast room. Shall I look for her?" Cliona made a motion toward the door, but her brother checked her, drawing her somewhat aside from the rest.

"'Tis as well," he said in a guarded tone, "that MacClellan does not see her just now. Who knows what the day may bring? I'll not bid her farewell, either, for the poor lass might not understand. Just tell her I've gone and will return soon, and do you try and get at the truth of this business of her father. I'd not be surprised if there was real truth behind that. Be good to her and gentle-ah, I know there's no need to say that! Were you ever aught else in your life, little sister? But indeed, I'm that troubled — "

"Colin, MacClellan says he has only another hour or so to spare. If we're going we'd better start." This from Rhodes.

"I'll take care of her, Colin." Cliona gave his arm a reassuring pat as he turned to obey Rhodes' summons. But she looked after him with a sadness in her eyes.

Though so much younger, she understood Colin, as a mother understands a beloved son, and she knew that it was not only shame or despair for his deed at Undine that had taken all the buoyancy from his step, all the happiness from his face. She had seen him look at the girl he had brought here, heard his voice when he spoke of her-and the girl was so lovely-so hopelessly, pitifully lovely!