The old man dropped his right hand. It rested beside his other claw; unconsciously, old Parchell began to crinkle the folded paper as he had done before.
Hothan breathed hard, suddenly. For the first time, the discharged secretary noted the document. White against the bedspread, the paper had not previously gained his attention.
Hildrew Parchell looked up. His cackled laugh was a bluff. He was covering the fact that he had actually written out his secret; that this paper in his hands contained the very information that Hothan was here to get before others arrived. But the sudden glare in Hothan’s eyes told Parchell that the game was ended.
The sallow-faced man advanced, his face venomous.
Hildrew Parchell performed a sudden twist. His face contorted with pain from the strain that the effort cost him. Flinging away from Hothan’s approach, the old man used his left hand to clutch the table on the opposite side of the bed. With his right, he thrust the folded paper squarely into the flickering flame of the candle.
Snarling, Hothan leaped forward. He bounded across the bed. Old Parchell swung up to meet him. With his left hand, the old man beat wildly against his foe while his right hand waved the paper as a firebrand.
The document had caught fire at one corner. Grimly, Parchell was fighting to destroy it.
Hothan caught the old man’s wrist and twisted it with spiteful force. Old Parchell gasped. His fingers loosened; but he managed to fling the burning paper to the floor. Half of it ablaze, the precious document was flaring like a miniature torch.
As Hothan dived for the paper, Parchell grabbed him. The old man’s hands sunk deep into the secretary’s flesh as they found Hothan’s neck. Together, the two men rolled from the bed.
Hothan’s fist caught Parchell’s jaw. The old man’s head rebounded hard against the corner of the table.
Hothan pounced upon the paper, beating out the flame with his hands. As he did, old Parchell’s form collapsed. Clutching hands were gripping the table. It tumbled as the white-haired man collapsed. The candle plopped from the candlestick. Flaming, it landed in the folds of a sheet.
The bedding took fire. Hothan had risen; he was scanning the half-burned document, muttering oaths as he read lines that were no longer complete. Old Parchell had sprawled crazily upon the floor; his head was beside the book and the writing pad that had fallen from the table.
Thrusting the half-burned paper into his pocket, Hothan snarled as he looked toward Parchell. Then the ex-secretary’s eyes became glued at the scene before him. Hothan dropped back as the heat of the flame made a sudden impression upon him.
HILDREW PARCHELL was motionless. The drawn expression upon his upturned face was proof that he was dead. Beyond the old man, flames were rising. The half of a bed sheet was ablaze; the fire was licking at the dried wood of the high-topped bedstead.
A moment’s pause by Hothan. Then, with a sharp oath, the secretary turned and fled. His sallow face half terrified, half gloating, Hothan headed out through the darkened hall to a spot where flickering reflections of the blaze showed the top of a banistered stairway.
Looking backward as he stumbled down, Hothan could see reflected glimmers from above. He reached the lower hall. There, he stopped short and dived behind the curtained entrance of a living room. He was just in time.
The front door was opening. Hothan heard it close; then came faltering footsteps. It was Tristram, old Parchell’s servant, returning.
Hothan clung behind the curtains, tense. Then he heard a sharp cry from the hallway.
Faltering footsteps quickened. They became a running sound upon the stairway. Tristram had spied the glow. He was dashing to his master’s room.
Hothan slid from behind the curtains; he gained the front door and closed it after him.
Viewed from the street, a ghoulish glare showed lurid flickers upon the shade of an upstairs window.
Hildrew Parchell’s bed was fast becoming a funeral pyre, which Tristram was fighting to put out.
Skulking along the street itself, hastening away from the flame-threatened building, was a stooped figure that no one was present to observe. Homer Hothan, murderer, was fleeing with his half-gained spoils.
CHAPTER II. THE LAW DECIDES
A SWARTHY, stocky man was standing in Hildrew Parchell’s flame-scorched bedroom. One hour had elapsed since Homer Hothan’s secret flight. The man who now stood in charge of the premises was Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector from headquarters.
Cardona was viewing a half-burned mattress. The bedclothes had been almost completely destroyed; the high top of the bed was charred by flame. Beyond, Joe saw the scorched table, overturned on the floor.
Near it lay the body of Hildrew Parchell, attired in a nightgown.
The old man’s white hair had been singed by the flames; otherwise, the body was untouched. The reason was apparent in the presence of a fire extinguisher that lay on the floor by the foot of the bed.
Cardona turned about to face a pitiful, gray-haired servant who was seated, sad-faced, in a chair.
“You say the bed was all ablaze when you came in?” inquired Cardona. “That Parchell’s body was on the floor?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tristram, soberly. “And the table—”
“What about the table?” quizzed Cardona, sharply.
“It was overturned, sir,” replied Tristram, promptly. “My master must have struck against it when he fell.”
“Where did you get the fire extinguisher?”
“From the hall closet, sir, where Mr. Parchell always kept it.”
Cardona eyed the servant. Then he asked another question.
“How long were you out of the house?” asked the detective. “Just why did you leave the front door unlocked?”
Before Tristram could reply, there was an interruption. A tall, white-haired man spoke from the doorway.
Long-faced and irritable, this individual peered at Cardona through a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles.
“Let me speak, inspector,” insisted the tall man, in abrupt fashion. “I have told you already that I am Weldon Wingate, Mr. Parchell’s attorney.”
“You told me that,” agreed Cardona. “But it has nothing to do with my quizzing of this man.”
“It has,” objected Wingate. “As Mr. Parchell’s attorney, I feel that it is my province to represent this man whom you are questioning. Tristram was Hildrew Parchell’s faithful servant. Every shred of evidence in this room points to the fact that he endeavored to save his master’s life. I object to your conducting a cross-examination at this time.”
“There’s one question that has to be answered,” asserted Cardona. “I want to know why Tristram left that front door open. He says he went to call up Selwood Royce. We can check on that later. But the front door—”
“Was left open so that I could come in,” inserted Wingate.
Cardona looked puzzled.
“I had an appointment with Mr. Parchell,” explained Wingate. “There is no telephone in the house. Naturally, when Mr. Parchell sent Tristram out to call up Royce he would have told the servant to leave the door unlocked for my convenience.”
CARDONA appeared mollified. This was a point that he had not gained during his preliminary survey of Hildrew Parchell’s death. While the detective stood deliberating, another man spoke.
This individual was middle-aged, keen-faced, and of a somewhat professional appearance. He had been introduced to Cardona as Doctor Raymond Deseurre.
“I was Hildrew Parchell’s physician,” testified Deseurre, in a harsh, but steady voice. “His condition was serious; one in which a severe shock could easily have caused heart failure. To me, this case is obvious.”