CAUTIOUSLY arriving at the door, Spaylor tried the knob; the barrier yielded. With a quick thrust, he pushed the door inward and stepped into the lighted room.
He arrived just in time to see a stooped figure spring upward from a table in the far corner. A chair clattered to the floor; Spaylor smiled as he saw a trembling old man, whose withered face showed fear.
On the table lay a flat sheet of parchment; beside it, pages of penciled notes. The old man, recovered from his first surprise, was quick to turn the parchment downward. Then, with fists clenched but quivering, he cackled a challenge at the intruder:
“Who are you?”
Reggie Spaylor smiled.
“Just a friend,” he replied. “My name is Spaylor. Reggie Spaylor. Sorry that I had to intrude so unexpectedly; I suppose you did not hear my knocking at the lower door.”
The old man’s eyes were blinking. Spaylor parked his cane in a corner and drew off his gloves. Seating himself, he motioned the old man to do the same. Then, calmly, Spaylor put a question:
“You are Montague Rayne?”
The old man hesitated; then nodded, as he took his chair. Reggie’s gentlemanly manner had lulled him.
With a repetition of his friendly smile, Reggie came to business.
“I am here,” he stated, “in reference to a certain object which you recently purchased. I refer, Mr. Rayne, to a parchment scroll for which you paid five thousand dollars.”
Rayne stirred nervously. He watched Reggie’s hands. Both were in sight, like Rayne’s. The old man parried.
“A scroll?” he questioned. “A Latin scroll?”
“Yes,” returned Reggie. “One which formerly belonged to your friend, Bigelow Doyd. You paid a high price for it, Mr. Rayne. I am prepared to offer you a greater profit.”
Eyes gleamed sharply from the face of Montague Rayne. Withered features showed an avaricious look.
Then, suppressing his eagerness, the old man shook his head.
“The scroll is too valuable,” he declared. “I shall not sell it. I admit that I possess it; in fact, it is here upon this desk: but—”
“But you cannot decipher it,” smiled Reggie. “Is that the trouble, Mr. Rayne?”
“Exactly! Its wording is simple, Mr. Spaylor. It means — well, never mind the translation; it is simply a portion of a Latin fable. That is what perplexes me.”
“I learned about it by accident,” remarked Spaylor. “I was told that it cost you five thousand dollars. Suppose, Mr. Rayne, that I should offer you twice that sum.”
Montague Rayne’s head shook emphatically.
“Three times—”
Another headshake, more slowly. “Four times—”
Reggie paused; his tone a final one. Montague Rayne pursed his lips.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” decided Reggie Spaylor, rising. He reached in his pocket and drew forth a fat wallet. “Here you are, Mr. Rayne. The full amount — in bills of large denomination. Take it and keep the wallet as a souvenir. But first” — he paused, as Rayne was reaching forward — ”first I must have the scroll.”
RAYNE nodded. He picked up the parchment and turned it over. The gas lamp on the table — the only light in the room — was brilliant as it shone upon the script. Reggie could see that the scroll had been carefully embossed in jet-black ink. What pleased him more, however, was the smudge of dried blood on the edge of the parchment.
That proved the genuineness of the scroll. It was Slugger Haskew’s blood. Reggie received the scroll, and handed the wallet to Rayne. The old man stopped and pointed to the words upon the parchment.
Slowly, he read them aloud, chopping his pronunciation of the Latin words:
“Homine autem spiritum continente, ursus ratus cadaver esse, discedit.”
“You have translated the passage?” inquired Spaylor.
“Yes,” crackled Rayne. “It is part of a fable which concerns two men — one of whom was seized by a bear, but saved himself by pretending to be dead.
“Translated freely, this passage means: ‘But when the man held his breath, the bear, thinking him to be a corpse, departed.’ Only that one brief sentence, Mr. Spaylor; the rest of the scroll is no more than an embellished border. Curious, is it not, that my friend Bigelow Doyd should have chosen to value such a simple sentence?”
“Quite true,” agreed Reggie; then, eyeing the old man’s downturned face, he added: “Suppose you count the money, Mr. Rayne. Make sure that the entire sum is there.”
With trembling, eager hands, Rayne began to open the wallet. Spaylor rolled the large-lettered scroll and pocketed it. He picked up his cane with one hand; he turned his body as he did so; then, with a sudden twist, he swung about, yanking a revolver from his pocket. His finger was already on the trigger of his gun; his purpose was to shoot down Rayne in cold blood.
Rayne had heard him turn. As Reggie swung, the old man dropped the wallet, the bills half out of it, and uttered a maddened gasp as he leaped forward. His frantic speed was surprising; his clawing hands caught Reggie’s arm before the assassin could fire.
“No!” cracked Rayne. “No—”
Furiously, Spaylor hurled the old man back toward the table. Rayne’s doubled body straightened as he staggered. Hissing furiously, he still kept his clutch on Spaylor’s arm. They bowled against the table; it overturned, breaking the hose between the glass lamp and the wall. The light went out as it crashed upon the floor. The hiss of gas continued from the jet.
Spaylor had wrenched his gun hand free. He was trying to drive his revolver against Rayne’s head; the old man’s arms were flaying in the darkness, trying to stop the blow.
The strugglers locked; they rolled upon the floor. There the combat ended as suddenly as it had begun.
Of these two battlers, one was skilled to perfection. The other, though he had shown strength, could not hope to compete long with so capable a foe.
Thudding bodies rolled; then jolted upward. A head cracked hard against the floor; a gasp betokened final effort as a clutching hand tried to tug away the gun. Then a dulled revolver shot sounded in the gloom. Muffled echoes died; only the hiss of the gas jet continued.
Reggie Spaylor’s harsh chuckle sounded as the victor arose from the floor and stooped above the body that still lay there. The single shot had delivered death. Still chuckling, the victor clicked his flashlight and found the wallet; then the scroll. That rolled-up document had slipped from Spaylor’s pocket during the fight.
Two canes showed in the flashlight’s glare. One was Rayne’s; the other Reggie’s. Carefully choosing the latter, the present owner of the scroll made his way from the gable room, letting the gas jet continue its melancholy hiss.
He descended through total darkness; found the front door and turned a massive key that his fingers discovered in the lock.
OUTSIDE, a man had approached the front of the old house. Standing beside the decayed wooden steps, he was waiting for Reggie Spaylor’s exit. That waiting man was Rick Parrin; his hand was resting against the wooden wall of the house. As the door opened, Rick ran his fingers in crawling fashion, clicking a sinister signal against the house front.
Footsteps paused in the darkness of the porch. Rick repeated the signal. A cane clicked against the flooring; then a freed hand made a creeping answer against one of the porch posts. The countersign had been answered. Rick whispered hoarsely.
“Did you get the scroll?”
“Yes,” came Spaylor’s tone, calm but guarded. “I experienced difficulty, however. Did you hear the shot I fired?”
“No. I saw the light go out, though. Did you have to bump the old gent?”
“Yes. Here is the scroll. It would be best for you to deliver it. I can take no chances.”