“How? I’ll tell you. I’m going up on that gallery, and work at it from there. Ghosts! Maybe one will try to grab me in the dark. Ha-ha!”
Jasper smiled at the detective’s derisive laugh. He placed his hand within the study door and rested it there for a moment.
“Go to it, Terwiliger,” he said. “I’m turning in — my room’s at the end of the hall. Call me when you find something — if you find it. I think you’re wasting your time.”
“You’ll see,” returned Terwiliger.
The detective went down the steps. Jasper entered the study. He stood just within the door; his forehead narrowed with a frown. He closed the door behind him and pressed the light switch. In the darkness, Jasper began to mumble to himself.
MEANWHILE, Terwiliger had reached the reception hall. The detective entered the huge, gloomy apartment, and closed the door behind him. He made for the spiral stairway with his flashlight, and ascended a flight of steep, creaky steps.
On the gallery, the detective noticed the hushed atmosphere of the place. His footsteps made peculiar echoes. Terwiliger paused. This gallery was spooky enough. What did that matter? He had a job ahead.
He turned the corner of the gallery. He chuckled as he neared the end wall, where the passage made another turn. The sound of his mirth traveled strangely. Terwiliger stopped and waited until the echoes had died. Then, nearing the end of the passage, the detective stooped and began to examine the wainscotting with his flashlight, using the luminous beam to form a close-up circle.
His free hand moved upward. It came to an ornamental molding. Terwiliger jockeyed with the bulky wood. Another chuckle came from his lips, and echoed along the gallery.
Click!
The molding raised. Terwiliger, peering close, found himself looking through a horizontal slit. He turned off his flashlight.
In the dim illumination from the other side of the panel, Terwiliger could see the landing at the top of the stairway!
Eagerly the sleuth began to look for another catch: one that would release the entire panel to allow the passage of his body. He tried a molding at the side. It seemed to move a trifle. Intense and breathing eagerly, Terwiliger was unconscious of his surroundings until the big grandfather’s clock began to whir from the reception hall below.
The unfamiliar sound was startling. Terwiliger turned and quickly ran his flashlight’s beam along the gallery in each direction. Then he shot its rays down into the reception hall.
The sleuth could see that both the gallery and the big room were empty; then his eyes and ears simultaneously discovered the cause of his alarm. Just as the flashlight’s rays revealed the face of the grandfather’s clock, the immense timepiece began to chime.
Terwiliger chuckled. New echoes came with the chimes. Again, the detective ran his light along the gallery to make sure that all was well. Just as the chimes were ending, he turned back to the panel that had engaged his attention.
The clock began to strike twelve. The booming sounds were loud in that musty, high-ceilinged chamber. They drowned out lesser noises.
As the strokes chimed, Terwiliger still worked at the vertical molding. It moved; he heard a slight click amid the strokes of the clock; but nothing happened.
Terwiliger turned out his light again, and let it fall into his pocket. With both hands, he pressed at the molding. Then, as the clock neared its final boom, the sleuth gargled huskily.
Firm hands were clutching his neck from behind. Powerful fingers were twisting at his throat. A strangling grasp was choking him; a powerful force was thrusting him downward toward the floor!
THE clock still clanged. Terwiliger, clawing vainly in the darkness, heard the final strokes amid a roaring sound that increased momentarily in his ears. His coughing gasps were stifled.
As the echoes of the stroke of twelve seemed to creep through the confines of the whispering gallery, Terwiliger’s fight was lost. The detective’s struggle was not ended; but his hands were feeble and his vain coughs were rattling in his throat.
The sleuth’s body writhed spasmodically. The clutch of death still tightened. Time passed weirdly in the Stygian gloom. At last, the detective moved no more.
More time went by in Delthern Manor. Some minutes after those clutching hands had performed their purpose with the unwary detective’s throat, Jasper Delthern was seated at the big desk in the second-floor study.
The youngest of the Delthern brothers — only survivor of the three — was grinning with an evil leer as he rested his heavy hand upon the telephone. Slowly, Jasper picked up the instrument. His smile grew more intense.
It was a fiendish grin that betokened the consummation of an evil deed; Jasper, however, intended it as a leer of triumph. He was gloating over the end that had come to a man who had failed to use discretion.
New death had entered the walls of Delthern Manor. Again, a murderer had stalked his prey. This time, the victim should have been forewarned; instead, he had unwisely prepared himself for the end that he had met.
Detective Harold Terwiliger, ace of the Newbury force, had gone to his doom. The sleuth had used keen deduction at Delthern Manor tonight; but he had talked too much!
CHAPTER XIX
JASPER CALLS A MEETING
LATE the following afternoon, Warren and Clark Brosset were seated in the president’s office at the City Club. The two men had been together frequently during the past few days. On each occasion their conversation had reverted to the subject of Jasper Delthern.
“We’re playing a safe game, Warren,” observed Brosset, as he tapped his desk thoughtfully, “but I wonder where it is going to lead us.”
“So far,” returned Warren, “the police do not appear to have gained any clews that lead to Jasper.”
“No,” admitted Brosset, “but, on the other hand, they have not suspected that you were at Delthern Manor on the night of the murders. That’s why I have constantly advised you to keep peace for the present.”
“Watch and wait,” smiled Warren. “There’s bound to be a break, Clark. When there is—”
“You can rely on me. Use discretion always, Warren.”
“I have been doing so. Your advice to ignore the Delthern affairs has been helpful. I haven’t even seen Horatio Farman.”
“Why should you? He is merely the administrator of the estate. Let well enough alone. I have a hunch, Warren, that Jasper will make trouble for himself. When that time comes—”
The ringing of the telephone caused an interruption. Clark Brosset lifted the receiver. A puzzled look appeared upon his face as he spoke.
“I think he is somewhere about,” declared the president of the City Club. “Hold the line a short while.”
He covered the mouthpiece and looked toward Warren with an anxious air.
“It’s for you,” said Brosset, in a low tone. “Old Horatio Farman. Listen, Warren — whatever he wants — even if it is just an appointment in his office — say that you are occupied. Ask him to wait a few minutes until you can find out about arranging your plans. Then you can tell me what it’s about. Understand?”
Warren nodded. Taking the telephone, he spoke to Horatio Farman. Clark Brosset listened intently.
“Yes,” said Warren. “Glad to hear from you, Mr. Farman… Yes… Yes… Why, I suppose so… But… Of course. There’s no reason for him to be reluctant… Tonight? That is unexpected… I was going out with some friends from the club. I wouldn’t like to cancel the engagement unless they are willing… All right. Yes. Suppose you hold the wire until I speak to them. They are in the lounge…”
Warren quickly covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Clark Brosset in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. He gave the news in terse syllables.