Maxwell Grant
The Third Skull
CHAPTER I. DEATH BY NIGHT
“WHO’S there?”
The voice was a quavering tremolo. It came from the dried lips of a thin-faced old man, who lay propped in bed. Sharp, suspicious eyes glistened from a withered countenance that was as white as the pillows that supported it.
There was no answer to the old man’s call. The white face showed worriment. Even the dull lights in the shaded wall brackets were sufficient enough to reveal the tense pursing of the withered lips.
“Tristram,” came another quaver. “Is it you, Tristram? Have you returned?”
No answer. Parchment lips relaxed.
“Wingate?” The old man’s voice was questioning. “Are you here, Wingate? Have you arrived at last?”
Silence followed. This second-story room held the stillness of a tomb. Pervading gloom seemed creeping inward from the hushed house below.
The old man raised a trembling clawlike hand from beneath the whiteness of the bedspread. He ran his fingers through the long white hair that formed a shock upon his head. He cackled a nervous laugh.
Death hovered above this scene. There was something preternatural in the stillness of the room. The pallor of the old man’s countenance spoke of ebbing life. Darkness, thick at the doorway, gave the semblance of waiting specters, ready to claim a passing soul.
Closed windows, drawn curtains, closed off the outer world. This room might well have been the most isolated spot in all the globe. That fact must have occurred to the withered old man, for he expressed his thoughts with a chuckle that was contrast to his previous nervousness.
“New York!” he cackled. “New York, with all its clamor! Everywhere about — noise and commotion — yet none close by!”
The words were followed by a trailing chortle from half-opened lips. Propping himself upon one elbow, the old man listened again. He was trying to detect sounds from below; noises that he had fancied he had heard before. But his ears caught nothing.
There was a table beside the old man’s bed. Upon it rested five objects: a candlestick with a half-burned candle; a box of matches; a pad of paper; a fountain pen and a book.
The old man stretched long fingers toward the table. He fumbled with the match box, extracted a match, struck it and managed to light the candle. He shook the match to extinguish it; then, by the glow of the quivering candlelight, he tore a sheet from the pad of paper.
Clutching the book and the fountain pen, the old man leaned back against the pillows. With his left hand holding the sheet of paper on the book, the old man delivered a satisfied sigh; then began to write with the fountain pen.
One phrase completed, the old man read the words aloud, in senile fashion, his lips forming a cracked smile as he quavered:
“I, Hildrew Parchell, being of sound mind—”
Quavering words ended; but the hand kept on writing, while the lips uttered intermittent chuckles.
Steadily, line after line, old Hildrew Parchell completed the document that he was inscribing. He finished with a scrawled signature. He laid book and pen aside; but retained the paper, to read what he had written.
Ink dried. The old man folded the paper, crinkling it between his hands. His grinning face was grotesque in the candlelight. Then came a waver of the flame.
The old man stared at the candle; then glanced sharply toward the door of the room. His dried countenance hardened.
A MAN was standing on the threshold. The light from the wall brackets showed the intruder to be a hunch-shouldered individual of slight build. That same light revealed a sallow, scheming face. Hildrew Parchell recognized the newcomer.
“Hothan!” exclaimed the old man, harshly. “Homer Hothan! What brings you here? I thought you had left New York.”
“I had.” The intruder stepped forward. His face was somewhat youthful; his voice was almost pleading. “I did leave New York, Mr. Parchell — after you dismissed me. But I had to come back, sir, when I learned that you were dying — that you were very ill, sir, and—”
Hothan’s hesitating tone brought a snorted chortle from old Hildrew Parchell. Hothan’s ratlike countenance belied the sympathetic words that the man was uttering. Hildrew Parchell was keen enough to note it.
“You came back, eh?” sneered the old man, rising to one elbow. “You came back because you were sorry for me, eh? Do you think I am a fool?” Parchell’s tone was caustic. “Do you think I am fool enough to believe that fable?
“I know why you are here, Hothan. You want to find out what you sought before: The secret of my hidden wealth. When you worked here as my secretary, you pried about, trying to uncover my private business. I caught you in the act. I was lenient enough to discharge you without making your treachery public.”
“I–I was wrong, sir,” began Hothan. “My curiosity carried me too far, Mr. Parchell—”
“Curiosity, bah!” interjected the old man. “You were paid for your treachery, Hothan, and I know who hired you. You came back tonight hoping that you might accomplish what you failed to gain before. I heard you enter, downstairs, Hothan!”
“The door was unlocked, sir I looked about for Tristram—”
“You mean you were lurking outside; that you saw Tristram leave. With my trusted servant gone, you decided that you could enter. You did find the door unlocked: that much is true. It was left open for Weldon Wingate!”
The name brought a sharp glance from Hothan. The ex-secretary had entered the room; he was close by the old man’s bed when Hildrew Parchell spoke of Weldon Wingate. Hothan’s change of expression was sufficient enough to bring a harsh chuckle from old Parchell.
“That interests you,” sneered the white-haired man. “It worries you, Hothan, doesn’t it, to learn that my lawyer is due here tonight? Well, it should interest you, because Wingate is going to find out those facts that you sought to learn and failed!”
Hothan’s fists clenched tightly. A sharp hiss came from his lips, as they formed an evil twist. Old Parchell merely chuckled. Hothan’s betrayal of his real nature was pleasing to the old man.
“Wingate will not be here alone,” added Hildrew Parchell. “I am not fool enough to confide in one man, even though he is my lawyer. Doctor Deseurre will be here also. You remember him, Hothan. My physician. I expect him shortly after Wingate.
“Also Selwood Royce. His father was a friend of mine. I sent Tristram out to call Royce. So Tristram will be back shortly. That will make four men who will learn my secret; four who will act promptly to carry out my wishes. Four who will hold the secret of my wealth and its disposal. Wingate, Deseurre, Royce, Tristram—”
HILDREW PARCHELL paused abruptly. He noted the nervous, defeated look upon Hothan’s face. He knew that the man was fuming inwardly at the thought of defeat. Harshly, old Parchell added a sarcastic humiliation.
“I said four men would learn my secret,” he cackled. “Four — so that no one man could play me false. I was wrong when I said four. There will be five!”
“Who will be the other?” questioned Hothan.
“Yourself,” sneered old Parchell. “I shall have you remain; to learn a secret which will be of no use to you. Or to the man who hired you” — Parchell paused, eyeing Hothan closely — “the man who bribed you to betray me; the man whose name I know. He will be as helpless as you, Hothan, because I shall tell all to look out for his treachery.”
Hothan chewed his lips. He stared sullenly; then began to look about the room. His gaze rested upon a filing case in the corner; a wall safe beyond it.
Old Parchell chuckled.
“You searched those places, Hothan,” he reminded, “and you learned nothing. Why? Because the secret was not there. It was in my brain, Hothan” — with a clawlike finger, the old man tapped his withered forehead — “here in my brain. The details of where my treasure is hidden; with orders concerning what is to be done with it.”