Under ordinary circumstances the natural thing for me to do would have been to follow the right bank of the creek from the base of the hill. Instead, however, finding my view of the factory obstructed by the small growth of trees between the base of the hill and the creek, and imagining that I could secure a clearer view from the opposite bank, I tested the depth of the water and finding that it appeared shallow, sat down and removed my shoes and stockings. Then, turning up my trousers to the knees, I forded the stream and on the opposite bank put my shoes, etc., on again, taking up my search from that side.
It was approximately two o’clock when I left Grimes at the edge of the forest and nearly two hours later when I found myself in the gully between the two hills just opposite the swamp in the rear of the little president’s residence.
Deciding that I had gone far enough in a northeasterly direction and finding nothing of a suspicious nature on the left bank of the creek, I quickly forded the stream again and set off along the right bank, intending to skirt the swamp, returning to the house in time to dress for dinner.
Suddenly, I noticed a suspicious movement in a clump of bushes near the edge of the wooded hill. I stopped short, then dropped on hands and knees, intending to creep forward and investigate.
As I did so, a report came from the brush and a bullet whistled past my head. Had I been a tenth of a second later, my life would probably have paid the penalty.
I am not a coward by any means. But neither am I inclined to be foolhardy. I dislike to take human life, but I was forced to defend myself. I replied to the attack by pumping half a clip of shots into the clump from which the bullet had come, at the same time dodging behind a convenient tree.
I remained for probably ten minutes, keeping a sharp lookout for my antagonist. Then, hearing nothing more, I cautiously skirted the bushes, approaching them from behind.
My mysterious assailant had flown. I found the spot from where he had fired, however, as an empty cartridge testified, while the grass was tramped flat where he had been lying.
Close by, where it had been dropped in his flight, was a handkerchief scented, with lavender. In the corner was embroidered the letter “I.”
Innis, the diplomatic attorney, who had objected so strenuously, though courteously, to my retention as an investigator, had, I had noticed at the morning’s meeting, kept his handkerchief strongly scented with lavender — an odor which is extremely repugnant to me—so repugnant that I had noted it particularly.
Chapter VI
Here was a puzzle. Why should Innis—for I now felt certain that it had been the lawyer who had fired upon me—object so strongly to my presence that he felt it necessary to murder me in order to put me out of the way? Could he be the mysterious masked man? It did not seem probable. And, yet, I had suspected Joan Marne with no more evidence against her — in fact, not as much—as I had against the lawyer. It pleased me to think that the trail was leading in another direction. Anybody but Joan, I felt.
Evidently the note pinned to my door had told the truth. There were “too many people mixed up in the case” to take any chances. The band led by the masked mystery would not stop even at murder in order to carry out their ends.
Clearly, it was up to me to move cautiously. There was something decidedly “rotten in Denmark.” Something was going on of which the little president was not informed. The affair, rather than being as simple as I had at first believed, was rapidly assuming complications of gigantic proportions. Every time I turned around I bumped into some new piece of evidence. There was too much of it. Was it being “planted” in order to confuse me? Or, as I was rapidly beginning to believe, were more people—and people of prominence—involved than appeared on the surface?
My brain whirling, I started off in the direction of the house, intending to place my suspicions squarely before Grimes and find out, before going any farther into the case, just what he knew and what he suspected—for I was growing of the opinion that he suspected something strongly against, some one when he took sides squarely against his directors, even to the extent of paying all bills himself.
I had proceeded scarcely a hundred yards when a peculiar threshing about in a thicket of coarse swamp grass attracted my attention.
Drawing my revolver as a matter of precaution—for my previous experience had taught me a lesson—I crept forward until I could almost touch the confused tangle with my hand.
A crumpled heap of blue lay face downward. I sprang forward and bent over the man.
It was Backus.
“Chief!” I cried.
A groan answered me. As easily as I could I turned the big policeman over and, tearing open his coat and shirt, found a tiny, black hole through the chest close to the heart from which the crimson was slowly gushing. He was dying. That I could see at half a glance.
“Who shot you?” I demanded.
Backus opened his eyes weakly. He attempted to raise his arm as if to point. The effort caused a paroxysm of coughing. Yet, game to the last, he tried to tell me his story.
“Got—idea,” he muttered. “Followed — creek—met ‘Man in—Black—Mask’ — it was—”
His voice ended in a gurgle and he fell back in my arms—dead.
Chapter VII
“Stick up your hands—and do it quick!”
I turned quickly—my hands moving heavenward—to gaze into the muzzle of a vicious-looking automatic in the hands of a dapper—almost dainty—little man attired in overalls, his face covered entirely by a mask of dark gauze. Through two slits his eyes gleamed dangerously. A large felt hat covered his head; beneath it peeped a fringe of light-brown hair. Plainly the entire makeup was a disguise.
Before I had time to make more than a cursory survey, however, the masked man spoke again.
“There is a revolver in your right hip pocket. I saw you put it there when you bent over Backus. Turn your back to me, keep your left hand in the air and remove the gun with your right. Move lively.”
I did as ordered.
“Now throw the gun into the creek. Quick!”
With a light splash the weapon struck the water a dozen paces away.
“Now turn to your left and go ahead — and keep your hands up!”
A walk of possibly a hundred yards brought us to the edge of the swamp. In response to my captor’s curt command I again swung to the left, and, a moment later, found myself staring into the mouth of a cave, the opening being, however, but little larger than an ordinary door. I passed through the gloomy entrance into the darkened interior, my captor following close behind. There was a sharp click and a huge stone slid almost noiselessly across the opening, closing it completely.
It was as neat a piece of camouflage as I have ever gazed upon—and I viewed the work of the best artists in the world, overseas. In fact, so cleverly was the hillside disguised that one might pass within a dozen feet of the opening and, unless he knew the secret, never observe it. Even portholes were cut in the rock, blocked by heavy pieces of stone cut to fit, and removable from the inside, yet so covered as to be indistinguishable to the passerby. I am confident that, had occasion demanded, the fortress—for a fortress was really what it was—would have withstood any ordinary assault except the fire of heavy guns.