Had he taken out the revolver? Or had someone removed it? Salisbury remembered what Wellington had said about persons being in the bank.
This was something that the investigator should know, Salisbury decided. It might be a minor clue nevertheless, it was of value. Salisbury's revolver was a .38 of a special pattern, with his initials on the handle. If they should locate it, he would be able to identify it immediately.
It was time to join Wellington. Leaving the desk, Salisbury started across the floor of the banking room. He felt a slight reluctance about joining Wellington unarmed. Then he realized that the investigator had two guns, and would probably provide him with one.
Nearing the head of the stairs, Salisbury stopped short.
From below came the report of a revolver! Wellington had said that he would fire on suspicion. Had he encountered some one?
Without hesitation, Salisbury shouted and dashed down the stairs. He totally forgot that he was without a weapon.
The room below was lighted. Turning the foot of the stairs, Salisbury nearly stumbled over the body of a man. He looked about excitedly for Wellington. The room was empty — save for the huddled form. In consternation, Salisbury stooped and raised the victim's face. It was Wellington — dead!
The investigator held no weapon; but on the floor, several feet away, lay a revolver.
Hubert Salisbury, like a man in a trance, leaped and seized the gun.
He looked everywhere about the heavy-walled room, and stared through the iron grille work behind which the safe-deposit vaults were located. Had the shot come from there — and had the revolver followed it?
Realizing his dangerous position, Salisbury turned and dashed up the stairs. At the head, he confronted the gleaming torch of the watchman.
"Get help!" exclaimed Salisbury. "Call the police while I wait here! Some one has killed Wellington!" The watchman hastened away, leaving Salisbury peering down the stairway. The watchman had not heard the shot; it was Salisbury's shout that had brought him here.
Cautiously, Salisbury crept down the stairs again and stood there, peering around the corner, over Wellington's body. He turned quickly as he heard men at the top of the stairs. The watchman was coming with a Middletown police sergeant. With a sigh of relief, Salisbury stepped toward Wellington's body, and leaned against the wall as the others arrived.
"I don't know who killed him," he said in a tense voice. "I heard the shot and I rushed down—" With solemn face, the police sergeant plucked the revolver from Salisbury's hand. He glared suspiciously at the young man's pale face. The sergeant examined the weapon.
"This is the gun that killed him?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes," replied Salisbury.
"Where did you get it?"
"I found it here — on the floor. I picked it up" — Salisbury suddenly began to realize the unusualness of his story — "because I thought some one must be here. The shot must have been fired by some one — unless Wellington killed himself—"
"You have a gun of your own?" inquired the sergeant.
"No," said Salisbury weakly, "I was unarmed—"
"Yet you ran down here?"
"Yes."
The sergeant looked at the weapon in his hand. Salisbury looked at the weapon. An astonished gasp came from his lips. It was his missing revolver!
"That — that is my—"
Salisbury stopped as he was blurting out his discovery. Gripped by sudden apprehension, he could go no further. But the sergeant, catching his tone, prompted him.
"What were you saying?" he quizzed.
Denial was useless. Salisbury, though realizing that he was placing himself in a hopeless position, was forced to rely upon the truth.
"That looks like my revolver," he gasped.
"Yes?"
The sergeant's eyes were quizzical as he looked first at the man, then at the weapon.
"H.S.," he said, noting the initials on the handle.
He broke open the revolver, and saw the one fired chamber. He looked about the room.
He could see but one answer to the situation.
"You say you were unarmed," he announced, to Salisbury. "You came down here because you heard a shot. You picked up the gun and started up again. Where did you meet the watchman?"
"Just above the head of the stairs," admitted Salisbury.
"Yes?" queried the sergeant. "You didn't expect to meet him, did you?"
"No."
"Hm-m-m," declared the sergeant. "You might have been on your way out, young fellow. The watchman says you sent him to get us. Lucky he found us right outside the door of the bank — before you had time to get away."
"Get away?" echoed Salisbury.
"Yes." replied the sergeant firmly. "You've told your story, Salisbury. It doesn't go with what I've seen here. Those stairs are the only way in and out of this place. There's the dead man. You're here, with your own gun. And there's no question about it — this gun killed Wellington!"
The sergeant made a motion to two policemen who had followed him. They stepped forward and seized Hubert Salisbury, who sagged limply within their grasp.
"I'm arresting you for murder!" declared the sergeant.
All went black before Hubert Salisbury's eyes. The facts seemed all against him. Innocent though he was, Hubert Salisbury knew that the burden of this crime would be laid upon him!
Chapter X — Ferret Displays Craft
Ferret nudged Butcher as the two men stole along the gravel path outside the secluded home of Roland Delmar. The big man stopped.
"He's in that room," whispered Ferret, indicating a lighted window on the ground floor.
"I'm going to watch. You stay here."
The window was partly opened. Approaching it, Ferret crouched in the darkness; then slowly raised his head and peered within.
Roland Delmar was seated at a desk, his face haggard, staring absently at the wall. While Ferret watched, the telephone rang. Delmar arose eagerly from his reverie and went to answer the call at a table in the corner.
"Yes, yes," Ferret heard him say. "Ah, Mr. Traver. Have you been able to change your decision?… What is that?… I see…"
His voice ended wearily as the banker listened to the other speaker. Then a fiery light came into Delmar's eyes — a spark of antagonism.
"I see your game, Traver!" he exclaimed. "You want me to go to the wall. You're going to ruin our bank… No!… I don't believe you!"
His sudden indignation died, and he became almost pleading in tone.
"Maybe I'm wrong, Mr. Traver," he said. "I'm very nervous — you must excuse my outburst. But what am I to do? It means the end for me—"
A startled look appeared upon Delmar's face as he heard some subtle suggestion.
"You mean that?" he demanded. "Do I understand you correctly? You can't mean" — he was almost whispering — "you can't mean — but you may be right—"
With an abrupt motion, Roland Delmar hung up the telephone. Ferret, watching the old banker's profile, was astonished by the change and surge of emotions that passed over it. He wondered what happened. One moment, Delmar seemed fuming and defiant — another, he became pitiful in expression. Ferret could not understand.
It was in one of his moments of hopelessness that Delmar walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and removed a revolver. He stood dazed as he held the weapon in his hand. The banker stared into the muzzle, and made a gesture as though to raise the gun to his head. Then, with a fierce ejaculation, he brought the revolver down upon the desk. Muttering to himself, he strode about the room like a warrior. Ferret still wondered.
A new mood seized Delmar. He became calm and decided. He sat down at the desk and picked up pen and paper. Ignoring the revolver, he began to write.