“We will say it was like this: Blake, with the half of the letter in his possession, was arrested and, fearing that the police would see some significance in the message, intrusted it to Copeland. He learned that you had removed Copeland from the hospital and figured that the vagrant had given you the capsule then and there. He sent the girl to your house, not knowing that you were out calling on Copeland. Follow me?
“Well, between the time you left Copeland’s rooms and got back to your house, other spies had found Copeland and had murdered him in an attempt to get the paper.
“Then they found that they had made a mistake. The girl returned and reported that you had the capsule, so Blake rigged up this sick-father business and had a try for it himself. That’s the way I’ve got it sized up.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said I. “By the way, I presume this letter was written to Blake. You remember, it starts out, ‘ake.’ The ‘b’ and the ‘l’ were torn away. Now as to the man who wrote the letter. How will we get some trace of him?”
Heywood bowed over his steak.
“I have anticipated you, my friend,” he smiled. “The letter mentions stuff. Since Blake is an importer, stuff would probably be jewels of some kind. The letter is signed ‘Joshua Ba.’ I picked up a city directory and looked under jewelers. There I found a man named Joshua Barton. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to suppose that he is the writer of the letter?”
“It would. What’s our next move?”
“Well, to-morrow I’ll dig around in the police department among some friends of mine and try to get a line on what Blake has been up to lately. This capsule is undoubtedly connected with some of his schemes. If we can hit the right one, the rest will be easy. Then we’ll give Brother Barton a look, see what kind of a bird he is and try to figure out his connection with Blake.
“If we uncover anything, all well and good. If we don’t, we’re up a tree.”
We finished our meal in silence. I found myself thinking of the dark-haired invader who had temporarily changed my scheme of life.
“I don’t believe it,” I said suddenly.
“Don’t believe what?” demanded Heywood. He looked at me like a startled hawk. “Why, it’s all as plain as the nose on your face. Of course, we don’t know what the letter means, but we’ve got a good line on—”
“I didn’t mean that,” I confessed. “I was merely thinking aloud. I don’t believe the girl is crooked. There is something queer there, Heywood. She had a look about her that got inside of me. I tell you it’s—”
“Rats,” said Heywood. “Nice girls are usually found prowling around a man’s house at midnight, aren’t they? Forget it, doc, old boy. She is probably twice as crooked as a pretzel.”
Chapter VII
The Night Attack
But I found myself unable to forget it as Heywood had advised and long after he had gone, I sat before my fire, trying to find some plausible excuse for the girl in the green dress, some explanation that would reveal her as the innocent victim of the plotters. Each time my mind went around the cycle of events and came back to the same starting point, always confronted by this one question:
If the girl was not a member of Blake’s crowd why had she not spoken? Why hadn’t she allowed me to protect her from whatever it was she feared?
Perhaps, I told myself, she had been watched from outside by another one of the conspirators.
The clock struck eleven. My efforts had come to nothing. I found myself wondering what part of the drama was being unfolded at Blake’s house this night. Why not go and see? Give old Heywood a surprise and some information on the morrow. I set my jaw resolutely. I would do it.
A few minutes later I was backing the roadster out of the garage. It was another vile night. Great oily black clouds rolled in from the river and the air was heavy with the threat of the storm to come. I settled my chin deep into the collar of my coat, headed the car toward the heights and stepped on the accelerator.
I parked my car a block from the house which I readily recognized from Heywood’s description. A yellow moon peeped from between the rifts in the clouds that swept majestically across the sky and in the dim light I could see the broken sidewalk that ran past Blake’s home. The street, lined with great maple trees, had been a fashionable one in its day, but it had fallen upon evil times and was now the host to innumerable cheap boarding houses.
Blake’s place stood a little distance from the road in the center of a generous but unkempt yard. It was dark and forbidding. There was no sign of life.
I groped my way up a side drive and found an opening in the hedge. The moon had buried itself behind an ink-black cloud and the darkness was intense, for which I was grateful. I stumbled through a small garden and finally brought up against the rear wall of the house. It was then that I caught sight of a narrow ribbon of light which came from beneath the window curtain of a back room.
My breath whistled between set teeth. So far so good. Step by step I edged toward the window. From the river came the far-off rumble of thunder. I hoped, fervently, that the gods would dispense with any display of lightning. It would surely betray me.
I applied my ear to the window. Within a woman was speaking in a vibrant, passionate voice.
“What are we going to do now?” she demanded. “The success or failure of our whole venture depends upon getting the letter away from that fool of a doctor. Why are you waiting? Suppose he goes to the police? Then where will we be, my chesty one? Where?”
A man laughed. It was a hearty. Boastful bellow. Surely this was the same fellow who had ransacked my room.
“He won’t go to the police,” he assured. “He’s sitting tight to see what happens next. Blake will take care of him nicely. We want to get the capsule from him quietly. Can’t afford to have too much fuss about it, for the idiot has probably talked and violence would lead to much trouble. Patience—”
“Bah!” cried the girl. “We have no time for patience. Let us strike now!
“What is the matter with Blake?” continued the petulant feminine voice. “Has he quit us?”
The man’s reply, soothing in tone, was unintelligible to me. I must see these people. They had spoken of Blake. If the man was the chap who had visited me that day, then he was evidently not Blake. That would be my first information for the cocksure Heywood.
I glanced about me and saw that there was a smaller window high up in the wall. It had no curtain, but its panes were of colored glass. I peered at them closely. The uppermost piece was of plain glass. Perhaps I could see through it into the room.
“Worth trying,” said I, and felt my way along the wall until I came to a small porch. I climbed up on its rickety railing and stretched my neck until I thought it would crack. I could just see the tops of the heads of the two persons in the room. One was the girl in the green dress and the other was the huge young man who had tried to trick me out of the capsule.
I let myself down from the porch cautiously. There was nothing more to be gained by staying there, and I confess that I was getting increasingly uneasy. I started back through the garden the way I had entered. The rolling of the thunder grew louder and a vivid flash of lightning split the sky, outlining the trees, the walk and a sun-dial in clear relief. Then utter darkness. Another flash. I halted in my tracks, my heart pounding wildly.
Through the garden, like the shadows of doom, three men were approaching me, silently and quickly, with jaws out-thrust and arms swinging menacingly. I had no time to take in their features as they converged on me in the gloom.
Well, here was something that I could understand. Here was no mystery of tom papers and puzzling conversation. This meant fight and my overwrought nerves welcomed the combat. I was a big, strong fellow for all my bookish ways, and I told myself that these thugs would know, when the battle was over, that they had been to the wars.