“Hello, Tom,” greeted Glade Fitzroy, “Where’s Cuthbert? Oh, there he is, in the living room. Hello, Cuthbert. Good evening, Sonia.”
Both of these visitors were old friends of the Davenport family. Cuthbert Davenport shook hands with the attorney and the sheriff, and they exchanged pleasant words with Sonia. Then Tom Rodan announced that he was going over to Fitzroy’s home for a few hours. After kissing Sonia good-by, he departed with the two men, saying he would be back at the usual time.
SONIA DAVENPORT and her father remained in the living room. The girl did not mind her husband’s absence, because it was seldom that Tom Rodan went out in the evenings. On the rare occasions when he was absent, he invariably returned by midnight.
A half hour drifted by. Sonia Davenport was reading a book; her father was smoking a cigar, deeply engrossed in thought. It was the sound of the front door opening that made them both look into the hallway. Two men had entered the house. One was Tom Rodan; the other was the black sheep, Perry Davenport.
Trembling with suppressed anger, Cuthbert Davenport arose at sight of his son. Sonia laid a restraining hand upon her father’s arm. Tom Rodan and Perry were approaching. Rodan was supporting Perry, who was evidently in a hopeless state of intoxication.
“I saw Perry on the street,” remarked Rodan, in a low voice. “I left Fitzroy’s car to look out for him. He wanted to come here — I couldn’t talk him out of it, so I brought him.”
“Wuz I on the street?” questioned Perry thickly. “Thass funny. Thought I wuz in my room. Thought you came in there to get me. Thass funny.”
“He is befuddled mentally,” remarked Rodan.
Sonia Davenport looked wonderingly at her husband. There was something in Tom’s tone that seemed unfamiliar. He was speaking without his usual precision. Yet there was no mistaking that this was her husband. Tom Rodan’s unhandsome features were unlike those of any other man she had ever seen. Other persons had often remarked the same.
“Come on, Perry,” said Rodan briskly. “Brace up. Here you are. Did you want to talk to your father?”
Rodan shook Perry roughly. The black sheep stared at Cuthbert Davenport. The old man’s challenging attitude awoke an instant response in the besotted son. Perry Davenport’s face reddened with antagonism, as it had so many times before.
“Wanna talk to my father?” questioned Perry coarsely. “Course I wanna talk to him. Wanna tell him what I think of him. Wish he never was my father — thass what I wish! Says he’s got no use for me, eh? Well, I’ve got no use for him!”
“Out of my home!” ordered Cuthbert Davenport. “Out of here, you ne’er-do-well!”
The old man shook his fist in Perry’s face. Rodan suddenly released his grip upon the son, and Perry staggered until his hands gripped the back of a chair. Sonia Davenport was watching those two, while Tom Rodan quietly stepped away.
“Out of here!” ordered Cuthbert Davenport.
Perry’s response was an angry thrust. He let go of the chair and precipitated himself forward. He seized his father with one hand and tried to pummel him with the other. Cuthbert Davenport broke away and staggered back, Perry following him.
TOM RODAN was standing by the telephone table. As Perry Davenport began to cry out mad expletives, Rodan pushed the telephone to the floor. The receiver fell off. The operator’s voice could be heard buzzing over the line.
“I’ll kill you!” exclaimed Perry Davenport. “Thass what I’ll do! Kill you!”
“Perry!” Sonia shouted out. “Don’t! Remember — he’s your father!”
The girl leaped forward and threw her arms about Cuthbert Davenport. With one free hand, she tried to ward off Perry’s staggering advance. In her fear for her father, she had forgotten the presence of her husband.
By the telephone table, Tom Rodan had calmly drawn a revolver from his pocket. He aimed it deliberately, but not at Perry Davenport. His objective was Cuthbert. Rodan pressed the trigger.
Sonia screamed again, as she felt her father’s body fall away. Turning, she saw Tom Rodan, the smoking gun in his hand.
Sonia gasped as she observed her husband’s face. No longer were those features impassive. Tom Rodan’s lips had twisted into a terrible, evil smile — the grotesque grin of a heathen idol.
Wild indignation overruled the girl’s terror. Clenching her fists as she faced this hideous traitor, Sonia screamed her accusation.
“You’ve killed him!” she cried. “You’ve killed my father! You — you beast—”
Deliberately, Tom Rodan pressed the trigger of his revolver. His aim was calculated. The bullet found its mark in the girl’s heart.
As Sonia Davenport collapsed to the floor, her brother Perry came to his senses. With a cry of madness, he plunged toward his false brother-in-law.
Rodan, still maintaining his evil smile, turned swiftly as he detected footsteps in the hall. A man appeared at the door of the living room. It was Fairchild, Cuthbert Davenport’s house man. Perry Davenport fell upon Tom Rodan just as Fairchild appeared. But Perry was too late to prevent Rodan’s next deed.
Coolly, Rodan fired two shots into Fairchild’s body. The servant collapsed. Then Rodan sprawled upon the floor, under Perry’s plunge. Perry’s attack was futile, however. With one swift motion, Rodan sent the besotted young man rolling across the floor. Rising, Rodan looked quickly at the three persons whom he had shot. The bodies lay motionless. A chuckle came from Rodan’s twisted lips.
The way was clear for escape. Rodan gave one last glance toward Perry, who was trying to rise from the floor. He threw the revolver against Perry’s shoulder; then turned quickly and left the room. Hurrying through the hallway, Rodan slipped out through a side door and made his exit to the darkened lawn.
A few minutes later, Billings, Cuthbert Davenport’s chauffeur, arrived upon the scene. The man had been asleep on the third floor. He saw the motionless bodies; he saw Perry on hands and knees, trying futilely to pick up a revolver. The front door burst open, and two neighbors came dashing into the house. Billings pointed to the horrible scene.
Seeing the arrivals, Perry Davenport clutched the revolver and stared with challenging gaze. He shouted the name of a man whom he did not see.
“Tom Rodan!” he cried. “Where’s Tom Rodan? I’ll kill him, thass what I’ll do! I’ll kill him for this!”
Three men leaped upon Perry Davenport and bore him to the floor as he tried to rise. The revolver was wrested from the young man’s clutch.
A siren sounded from the outer street. The police were coming, summoned by the telephone operator. Grim-faced men were holding Perry Davenport until help should arrive.
CHAPTER VIII
HELD FOR MURDER
“YOUR deal, Tom,” said Sheriff Seaton.
A group of men were in the midst of a card game at Glade Fitzroy’s home. This had started immediately after Fitzroy, Seaton and Rodan had arrived.
Tom Rodan picked up the pack and began to shuffle. His face was immobile — a perfect poker face — save for the slight beginning of a smile that was wavering upon his thickened lips.
Off in the distance, Rodan fancied that he heard the faint echoes of a shrill sound. Mentally, he pictured a police car traveling through the streets of Daltona. But he made no comment.
Then Rodan’s thoughts reverted to the last hour. He saw himself seated with Cuthbert and Sonia Davenport; he remembered the arrival of Seaton and Fitzroy. Then he pictured himself driving directly to Fitzroy’s home, where he was now.