Rodan was dealing, and he turned his shrewd gaze toward Glade Fitzroy; then glanced at George Seaton. He had been with these men every minute since he had left his father-in-law’s home. That fact brought secret satisfaction to Tom Rodan.
A telephone bell rang. Glade Fitzroy left the game to answer the call. The other men could hear his voice from the hall outside.
“What’s that?” Fitzroy was questioning. “Wait a minute — wait a minute — it would be better for you to talk with Sheriff Seaton. He’s here.”
Fitzroy came back into the room.
“Some big trouble, George,” he said to Seaton. “Shooting — police on the job — take the phone yourself.”
The sheriff went out into the hall. A tense silence came over the group. Serious crimes were not common in Daltona. Everyone was wondering what had happened.
The card players could hear Sheriff Seaton grunting as he listened to details over the wire. Then came a sudden pause. A cry of amazement came from the hall.
“I’ll be there” — Seaton’s voice was grim — “yes, right away. This is terrible — terrible—”
The phone thumped upon a table. A few moments later, George Seaton walked into the cardroom. His face was colorless. His friends stared at him in alarm. They knew that some terrible calamity must have occurred. Never before had any of them seen the hard-boiled sheriff weaken.
GEORGE SEATON’S eyes rested on one man — Tom Rodan. Walking across the room, the sheriff extended his hand. Rodan, staring, puzzled, accepted it. Seaton’s bluff voice broke as he tried to speak.
“Brace yourself, Tom,” he said. “You’re going to be hit hard — harder than you were ever hit before” — the sheriff’s voice was choking — “but I’ve got to tell you. It’s murder, Tom, and we’ve got the man that did it; but that won’t help you. Cuthbert Davenport is dead, and so is — so is your wife!”
Gasps of sympathy came from the group. Tom Rodan’s face never flinched. His lips were straight; his eyes stared ahead. He still gripped the sheriff’s hand, but Seaton could feel the tension of the grasp release.
The momentary pause seemed endless. Then Seaton spoke again, this time addressing the other men who were present.
“Perry Davenport did it,” he explained. “Came in there after Fitz and I had taken Tom out with us. One of the servants was killed, too. They’ve got Perry — drunk as usual. I’ve got to go over there.”
“I’m going with you,” declared Fitzroy.
The sheriff nodded.
“Look after Tom, boys,” he said solemnly.
Seaton released his handclasp. He turned on his heel and walked to the door. Glade Fitzroy joined him. Tom Rodan rose mechanically from the table.
“Wait,” he said, in his slow, even tone. “I’ve got to go along. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go with you.”
Seaton looked at Fitzroy. The latter nodded.
Walking steadily, Tom Rodan joined his two friends. A solemn trio, they left the house and entered Fitzroy’s car.
Not a word was spoken during the ride to Cuthbert Davenport’s home. The three entered the front door wordless — that door which they had left not long ago, chatting in anticipation of the evening that had lain ahead.
George Seaton glanced at Tom Rodan. The man was bearing up. The sheriff knew that his friend could meet the ordeal.
The three walked across the hall and stopped at the living-room door. Police were in attendance. Solemnly, Tom Rodan gazed at the dead body of his wife, Sonia.
Rodan’s face remained emotionless, but both Seaton and Fitzroy could picture the mental anguish that was sweeping through his brain. Their sympathy was with their friend.
The people in the room were watching them — those who had come to the rescue and the police who had arrived. The only one not watching was Perry Davenport, who was seated with bowed head. Now, the prisoner sensed that new arrivals were here. He glanced upward. His bleary eyes sighted Tom Rodan.
BEFORE his captors could restrain him, Perry was on his feet, scrambling across the room toward his brother-in-law. His eyes were gleaming with a murderous fury.
“I’ll kill you, Rodan!” raged Perry Davenport. “I’ll kill you for this!”
Men were seizing him now. Despite his helplessness, Perry was still trying to struggle forward. The sight of death had sobered him. His mind was furious, but clear. None could stop the words that he uttered.
“Let me get him! Let me get him! He did this! He is the murderer! Look at him standing there — Tom Rodan — the man who killed my father and my sister! Why is he free?”
Breathing heavy gasps, Perry looked about him and saw none but antagonistic looks. His hectic rage changed to earnest pleadings.
“Don’t you understand?” he questioned. “Tom Rodan did this! I was in my room, when he came there. He wanted me to come with him. He drove me along the lane out back; then he walked me to the front door. I saw him kill! That’s why he brought me here — so he could kill, and place the blame on me!”
Not a believing eye met Perry’s. The young man’s fury returned with desperation. Breaking free from those who held him, he plunged forward with clenched fists to attack the silent man whom he had accused.
Sheriff Seaton intervened. Stepping swiftly between Rodan and the attacker, the sheriff swung a quick upward punch that reached Perry Davenport’s jaw. Perry folded on the floor. It was a perfect knock-out.
“Gentlemen,” said the sheriff quietly. “I wish to make a statement to those of you who have heard this cowardly accusation.
“Tonight, Mr. Fitzroy and myself called at this house and talked with Cuthbert Davenport and his daughter Sonia, while they were still alive. Tom Rodan was with us when we left. He has been with us every minute since. He was playing cards with us when the news of these crimes was phoned to me.
“Tom Rodan was a real son to Cuthbert Davenport. He took the place that this scoundrel” — the sheriff indicated Perry Davenport — “had failed to fill. Tom Rodan is suffering now, on account of Perry Davenport’s work. To have him accused of something he would never have done — of crimes that he could not possibly have committed — is too much!
“I’m glad that I’m Tom Rodan’s friend. I’m glad that Glade Fitzroy is his friend. We are both here to protect him against a blackguard’s accusations. There on the floor” — Seaton shook his fist at Perry’s crumpled form — “is a yellow, lying hound. He is the murderer, and his attempt to wrong an innocent man is a new proof of his guilt. Take him away!”
A buzz of affirmation followed the sheriff’s outburst. His dynamic words had spiked the belated accusation that Perry Davenport had made. In the eyes of all, Perry Davenport was a murderer of the worst type.
It was only the sheriff’s conscientiousness of duty that made him add a short remark. Seaton could sense the fervor that was brewing; the hatred for Perry Davenport that he had aroused.
“No talk of lynch law!” he warned. “That yellow hound deserves to be strung up, but the State will take care of it. Put him in jail and watch him.”
Rough hands dragged Perry Davenport from the room. The police arranged for the removal of the bodies. Tom Rodan turned away and walked to another room, followed by George Seaton and Glade Fitzroy. These two spoke a few words of consolation to their bereaved friend. Then, as Rodan sat wearily in a chair, and turned his head toward the wall, they walked away to leave him with his grief.
As soon as the other men were gone, Tom Rodan allowed a twisted smile to curl itself upon his puffy lips. That smile brought an expression of hideous evil to his face. Had his friends seen him at that moment, they would have instinctively believed the accusations that Perry Davenport had uttered. For Tom Rodan’s features were the symbol of an evil soul.