“Haywood!” exclaimed Billings. “In Heaven’s name, how did he get here?”
O’Hara turned his flash and located the light switch. “See if the lights are still on,” he said hoarsely.
Jack turned the switch and the tights flashed on.
“I can’t stand this!” exclaimed the young man.
“I got to,” replied O’Hara. “You can go downstairs if you like.”
Billings went down the staircase at top speed and threw wide the front door and breathed deeply of pure air. Five or six minutes elapsed and the heavy tread of Dan O’Hara was heard on the stairs.
“See if you can get Amos Plympton on the phone,” he said harshly. “I’m all in. That body has been dead for a week.”
“Why should whoever stole it bring it here?” asked Billings, who moved toward the phone which stood on a table in the hallway.
“Because this is where it belongs,” said O’Hara.
“Poor Haywood, they won’t even let him rest in peace,” commented Jack as he tried the instrument to discover if it were still connected. It clicked. It was alive.
“Billings,” said O’Hara, “that isn’t Haywood.”
“Then who the devil is it?”
“We came here to find Conlin and we found him. That’s R. J. Conlin, Mr. Billings.”
“It isn’t. It can’t be.”
“Conlin had peculiar ears. So has this corpse. It is the same height, breadth and complexion. It’s R. J. Conlin. He was murdered Thursday night in the Rapidan-Sears house and the body was stolen from the undertaker’s the next night. Conlin never went to New Bedford and New York. And the reason he was brought here was because it was known that this house had been closed and they didn’t expect it would be found for months, or maybe a year.”
“Give me the office of Chief Plympton, please,” said Billings into the telephone.
“I’ll talk to him,” declared O’Hara. “And you keep away from that shotgun. I’ve got you covered.”
He laid his revolver on the table in front of him as he took Billings’ place at the phone.
“Are you crazy?” asked the astonished young man.
“Kind of. You’re under suspicion again, Billings.”
Jack laughed harshly.
“You are out of your mind,” he asserted. “If that is Conlin upstairs, what has become of Haywood?”
“That’s all a cock and bull story. You made it up.”
“Well, if this is Conlin, who killed Mrs. Conlin?”
“Oh, my hat!” exclaimed Dan. “How in hell do I know?”
“And who killed the servants?” O’Hara lifted a pleading, protesting hand.
“Plympton,” he said. “O’Hara speaking. You catch that killer? I didn’t think you would. Listen. Send a couple of men over to R. J. Conlin’s house to watch the place. Right away. The stolen body is here. Yes. And I’ll take my Bible oath it’s R. J. Conlin. I can’t help what you read in the newspapers. I’ve identified it by the ears. All right. Come yourself, and comb the countryside for the man in the Ford who killed Mrs. Conlin.”
He hung up. “And, Mr. John Billings—” he began. “Hey, stick ’em up!”
Through the open door came a swarm of men; two, four, seven of them. Two of them precipitated themselves upon Jack Billings, who had laid aside the shotgun and had only fists to present to the armed marauders. But Jack could use his fists and he floored two men before he was firmly held by two others.
“Drop that gun,” bellowed a burly blond man at O’Hara. “Surrender in the name of the law.”
O’Hara laughed impatiently. “I represent the law myself,” he retorted. “Who in hell are you?”
“Prohibition enforcement officers,” replied the blond man. “What are you doing in this unoccupied house?”
“With all my troubles I got to answer questions from a lot of Federal snoopers,” said Dan in deep disgust. “I’m Dan O’Hara, of the Massachusetts State Police. I’m hunting a murderer and I don’t want to be annoyed by you rum sniffers.”
“And who is this fellow?” demanded the leader of the revenue squad.
“My deputy,” replied O’Hara. “You guys would have saved yourselves a couple of black eyes if you told the boy who you were.”
“Credentials,” demanded the Federal man.
Dan flashed his badge and produced his card of identification.
“Glad to know you, Mr. O’Hara,” said the revenue officer. “We’re laying in wait for a rum shipment in the cove below and when the light went on up here we figured you were signaling the bootleggers. We knew this house was untenanted. What’s the funny smell?”
“There’s a man upstairs who is very dead,” replied O’Hara. “Want to have a look at him? He’s the person who was killed in a house on the bluff a week ago. The body was stolen and we’ve just located it.”
“It’s not in our line,” said the revenue man promptly. “Sorry to have butted in, Mr. O’Hara. And we’ll appreciate any assistance you can give us in enforcing the law.”
“Listen, sleuth,” said Dan contemptuously. “There have been five brutal murders on this island in a week and I haven’t any time to bother about stimulant purveyors. Just this minute I could use a swift shot of Scotch myself.”
The revenue man produced a flask.
“You come to the right shop,” he said. “It’s cold lying out on the sands all evening.”
O’Hara helped himself to a drink, but Billings refused it. After a minute the rum hunters retrieved their flask and returned to their posts, leaving the original intruders into the Conlin home to themselves.
“Jack,” said O’Hara, “I don’t like those guys. Now I’m going outside for a minute. Being as you are working for Moriaty, maybe you’d like to call up George Lake across the way and tell him that ‘Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight.’ Being an officer of the law, I can’t do it myself.”
Jack grinned. “Think it safe to leave a desperate criminal?”
“Aw hell,” replied Dan, “I don’t think these are the kind of murders that you would be interested in.”
Billings regained the phone and supplied Mr. Lake with some interesting information, after which he joined O’Hara on the porch and they sat down to wait until the local officers relieved them.
“Go see Moriaty tomorrow if he is still on the yacht,” said Billings. “Under the circumstances Tim will be as frank with you as I have been. Haywood positively was in that house on Thursday night.”
“You think he killed Conlin?”
“In self defense perhaps. It may be that Conlin attacked him.”
“But Haywood didn’t need money. No call for him to kill Mrs. Conlin. And he wouldn’t dare show himself in New Bedford or New York, even using Conlin’s name.”
“The mystery is getting deeper every minute,” said Billings. “I have been convinced all along that it was Haywood who was murdered and that the motive was the twenty thousand in cash which he carried.”
“Mrs. Conlin certainly was robbed,” declared Dan. “I’m only a cop, Billings. I got a good two cylinder brain. We need Sherlock Holmes on this job.”
“You’re sure that thing upstairs is Conlin?”
“I have his photograph,” Dan said. “His ears bulge in a funny place. So do this corpse’s. The body is the same complexion, same weight, about, and same proportions. It’s Conlin all right.”
“Somebody went to a lot of trouble to establish the fact that Conlin left Nantucket. Mrs. Conlin, who could identify him positively, has been slain. You’ve nothing to go on except the bulge in the ears. Not enough, O’Hara.”
“Don’t forget they stole the body and hid it in Conlin’s deserted house.”