“So you say. Damn him! The point is, I had a brief conference with Dilke in this room tonight—”
“I know you did. I watched from across the hall. That’s how I discovered Tavelli.”
He seized her wrist, jerked her close. His eyes were like sleet. “You damned little snoop! You learned—”
She was puzzled by the ferocity of his gaze, as she shook her head slowly. “Not a word. Get on with the plotting. We can’t stay here all night. Odd they haven’t been up to check on you, isn’t it?”
His strong black brows bit down in a frown. “It is. The dump’s quiet as the grave.”
She shivered, thinking of Mother Dilke, wondering if the trapdoor in the kitchen were lifted — her large flat feet would be staring up, curiously, like great leather eyes.
“Now get this,” he stated. “Dan’s around outside. You find him. Take this flash—”
“I have a flash, thank you. I’m to find Dan. Then what?”
“Give him the office to get in here in a hurry. He’s sudden death with a gat. We can take care of the three of them, Dan and I.”
“Count me in on the finish,” she instructed him coolly, and opened her hand, showing a small, mean-looking automatic.
He scowled at the gun. “Okay, but we’ll still want Dan. You’ll need a coat. Here, take mine.” He jerked up a light-weight silk-rubber raincoat from a chair, held it out. She slipped into it. It enveloped her coldly. Through the coldness she could feel the strong warmth of his arms. For just a breath she relaxed, stood very still, and he did not stir, then she slipped away, pausing before the door at his low call.
“Dan might shoot first and argue afterward,” he said grimly. “Better take this.” He drew something from an inner pocket, pressed it into her hand. She felt cold metal, glanced at it. A small bronze button, with something engraved on it. “Flash this with my S. O. S. I’m going downstairs, stall ’em along till you get back. If you hear shooting come on the double. Got if?”
“Check.”
“Dan won’t be far, nor missing anything.”
She opened the door, glanced out. The hall was dim and deserted. She slipped out, hesitated. There was something dull and heavy where her heart should have been.
Stubbornly she started to close the door, felt a hand on her shoulder, looked up to see the man’s lean, hard face just above her. His eyes were still showing the effect of the punishing glasses, of course, which made them look rather dim, almost misty. He smiled that queer one-sided smile, said very softly, “Good luck, Ellen.”
She blinked uncertainly, smiled back, so that all the harshness went out of her face. And she looked the kind of girl who belonged in a dress of peach blow taffeta, sprayed with innocent-looking rosebuds.
“Thanks — Jack,” she said. “The same to you.”
Jack, who had impersonated Louis Tavelli, the cleverest fence in the States, watched Ellen through his partially open door until she had disappeared at the end of the hall. Smart girl. She was going down the rear stairs and out the back way. He grinned thinly, shrugged. Smart girl? He wondered. He went back into the room, drew out his heavy automatic, examined it, slipped extra cartridges into his side pocket and went into the hall. The place was silent. He stood there a moment, listening to the silence, then headed for the stairs.
“Tavelli!” The low, tense tones brought him up sharply.
Vance Paget was coming along the hall, not, the other noted with relief, from the direction in which Ellen had gone.
“Yes?” Tavelli waited, hand in his pocket, head lowered a little.
Paget’s face was gray-white, marked with sweat. His thick, glossy hair was rumpled, his eyes furtive. He said thickly, “That damned jane! Where is she?”
Tavelli’s brows lifted. “Jane?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Paget rapped. “I mean that Conway frail. She’s on the loose somewhere in the house. We’ve got to find her. There’s something screwy about her, damn it! Irene got suspicious, locked her out of her room—”
“Well, why bother about her now? She can’t do any harm.”
His words were silenced by a sudden shrill scream. It came from the direction of the living room, high, clear, terror-filled. Hard on it Kato’s savage challenge rose, so that the woman’s voice blended weirdly with the howl of the beast, forming an unearthly duet.
“Irene!” Paget cried. “That’s Irene’s voice!” He plunged down the stairs, Tavelli at his heels. Paget threw open the living room door, surged in, dilated eyes flashing across to the divan. It was still in place. Then he looked at the woman. She was standing up, steadying herself by a chair back. Her face was dough-white, eyes sunken, crimson lips twitching. She did not look at the two men. Her fascinated gaze clung to the table. She kept on screaming in short staccato bursts as if she could never stop.
“Irene!” Paget cried. “Irene!”
She stopped her clamor, lifted her head like one waking from a dream. “Vance,” she whimpered. “Look! There at the table. They’re gone, do you see? The stones are gone!”
Paget’s curse was smothered in a quick, dismayed exclamation. He stared at the table. Its surface was swept clean. Where had rested a fortune in precious stones now was only a dusty, marred expanse of wood, gleaming dully under the light.
He tried to speak, but his stiff lips would not form words. The man they had known as Tavelli stepped forward, face like granite. “Who took them?” he rapped.
Irene turned slowly to look at him, blinking dully. She said, “That damned Conway girl. I had... had — fallen asleep. Something roused me. I saw her stuffing them in the sack. She was out of the door before I could move.”
Paget whirled on the man they had known as Tavelli. “Now will you insist the girl is jake? She’s fanned the ice. Kessler—”
“Where is Kessler?” Tavelli asked gently. “How do you know, Paget, that it wasn’t really Kessler who copped the swag?”
Irene began laughing, head thrown back, light glinting on her gorgeous hair. “No, no,” she choked. “It wasn’t Kessler. Kessler didn’t do it. Kessler couldn’t—”
Paget gave her a quick shove. She collapsed into the chair, still laughing hysterically. “Kessler didn’t do it,” he agreed, and like a flash he had turned, an automatic suddenly in his hand, levelled, steady.
“Quiet, guy!” he gritted. “I begin to see now. You and the jane were working together. It was all part of the plant.” He drew a long, slow breath. “Well, you’ll never live to enjoy them. Get that girl back here in one hell of a hurry or” — his finger twitched suggestively around the trigger — “it’s curtains. Long, dark curtains.”
Chapter VI
Showdown
Ellen ran blindly through the black rain. Ran until her heart was a stabbing agony and breath labored through her set teeth. With unerring instinct she avoided the trees, ducked aside from low clumps of shrubbery that might have tripped her. She hadn’t even thought of her coupé — useless, anyhow, as Paget had failed to return the keys. Her mind kept pace with her flying feet.
“Reach the gate — get on the road — out of those beastly grounds—” Some tourist on the detour might pick her up. “Dan! He said to call Dan!” She laughed gaspingly. “Like hell!” ran her tormented thoughts. “Let him die. Let them finish him. What do I care? He’s just a lousy heel. A chiseler. Why should I care what happens to him?”
Dead grasses clutched at her feet. Wet boughs slapped against her cold face. “He gave me his raincoat.” She was conscious of its warmth around her like the man’s arms in that one vivid, unforgettable moment. “Why should I care what happens to him? They’ll kill him likely. He’s their kind. The world’s better without him.” She saw his eyes in the darkness before her. Level, direct, gray eyes, hard as sleet sometimes; softening to queer laughter; blinking from the strain of Tavelli’s glasses. In the wind soughing through the great trees she heard his voice: “Good luck, Ellen.”