Gloomy hallways. Silent rooms with covered furniture that gave the semblance of ghostly figures. Hothan hastened nervously. He found a stairway and descended. He located the outer door of the wing.
A big key in the lock grated as Hothan turned it. Rusty bolts above gritted as the sallow man drew them back. The knob squeaked as Hothan turned it; then the door groaned on its hinges as Hothan swung it inward.
DRIVING rain splashed Hothan’s face. The man had extinguished his flashlight; he was peering into total darkness. Cautiously, he blinked the light three times.
He waited. He heard movement from the rain-soaked lawn.
“Flick!” whispered Hothan, hoarsely. A low growl from close by. Hothan stepped back as a man shouldered his way in through the door. Others followed. The door went shut. It was Flick Sherrad and his recruited mob.
The leader told the men to wait. With Hothan, he moved toward the stairs.
“Here’s the lay,” informed Hothan, “This wing’s the best bet for a starter. There couldn’t be a better night to go through it. Everybody’s sticking indoors.”
“Any dope on a skull?” inquired Flick.
“No,” replied Hothan. “But maybe you’ll run across something. I’m telling you, this part of the house is where the chief says it ought to be. The only way to get in here was through the art gallery.
“I’ve got to go back up there. So I can bolt the door on the other side and do a sneak out of the house. I’ll come back in by the door you fellows entered. Then I can help you with the search.”
“Which way’s the art gallery? — just so I’ll know.”
“Come along. I’ll show you.”
Hothan was glad to have Flick accompany him up to the second floor of the wing. Gloomy rooms with their white-garbed furnishings; the spooky patter of the rain — these had combined to bring back the sallow killer’s nervousness.
They reached the open door to the art gallery. Hothan blinked his light to show Flick. Then he whispered:
“I’m closing it, but I’m not bolting it until I’m sure the coast is clear. Start searching downstairs while you’re waiting for me.”
Hothan slid through the door and closed it behind him. He used his flashlight through the gallery. Then he pressed a light switch. Pocketing the flashlight, Hothan stole out into the passage.
The little entry was illuminated, but the thirty-foot corridor was away from the light of the gallery. That was to Hothan’s liking.
Reaching the stairway, Hothan descended cautiously. He opened the lower door and peered out. He stole through darkness and peered from the turn in the hall. He heard footsteps. Some of the servants.
Quickly, Hothan darted back. He went through the doorway to the stairs; he pulled the door shut behind him and went breathlessly upward. He paused at the top.
Hothan wanted to be sure that no one had heard him. He waited; then turned toward the thirty-foot length of the passage, intending to go further down. Hothan was tense; his alertness was partly responsible for the sudden discovery that he made.
Looking down the long passage, Hothan stopped short and emitted a gasp. For a moment, he trembled; then a nervous laugh came from his lips. He stood rooted to the spot, repressing the joyous mirth that shook his frame.
HOTHAN had left the closet door ajar. There it was, set out at an angle of forty-five degrees, nearly thirty feet ahead. Because of its chance angle, the mirror in the door gave a reflection of the short entry passage that led into the art gallery.
Hothan had left the lights on in the gallery. That fact, coupled with the angle of the mirror, gave him a view of some forty feet. The passage was thirty; to it, like a continuation of the corridor, was the reflection of the entry in the mirror. Beyond that, also shown in the silvered glass, was the center of the art gallery.
The sallow man was viewing the Moorish picture — “The Last Tryst” — that visitors saw when they first arrived in the gallery. But Hothan was not seeing a picture of gallant and lady. Those figures could not be distinguished at this range.
Most conspicuous was the outline of the window itself. It formed a widening oval, like a mammoth head.
The figures in the painting were dark, like eyes. Grillwork of the window looked like teeth.
From this distance, the painting represented a giant skull.[2] By luck, Hothan had found the necessary range. He had discovered the place that he had been ordered to locate. The hiding spot of Hildrew Parchell’s treasure!
Behind the painting! The skull that showed so huge on canvas! There was the goal that Hothan’s chief had sought!
The sallow man’s breath came in excited gasps as he started forth along the darkened passage.
CHAPTER XX. THE KILLER TRAPPED
“BUT I am positive this time, sir—”
“Very well, Talbot, I shall hear you out.”
Selwood Royce was standing in the living room, his hands behind him, his face patient. His guests were looking on, while Talbot, more anxious than before, was endeavoring to convince his master that all was by no means well.
“We made a thorough search downstairs, sir,” explained Talbot. “The other servants and myself. Yet all the while I kept worrying about the hallway to the gallery stairs. I stationed myself in the door of the dining room, Mr. Royce.”
“Well — and then?”
“I distinctly heard the sound of an opening door. I went into the hall and heard the same door close. I was tempted to investigate, sir; but I decided to speak to other servants first. They had gone toward the kitchen. I followed. Then I heard something in the dining room.”
“In the dining room? You said a moment ago that it was in the hall.”
“The sound was not in the dining room itself, sir. It came from above. An eager sort of sound, sir, like some one dashing forward, hurriedly, but on tiptoe.”
Talbot gave an imitation of the idea. He made a ludicrous sight, for he was of portly build. Royce laughed. The others did the same. Talbot looked abashed.
“Really, sir,” he pleaded. “I am serious!”
“I understand, Talbot,” said Royce. “You think the footsteps must have come from the passage upstairs?”
“Positively, sir! The long passage to the art gallery.”
“Very well. Go out in the kitchen, Talbot, and remain there. We shall investigate.”
“But if you want me, sir—”
“You heard my order. Go!”
Talbot departed. Wingate uttered a snort.
“The fellow is persistent,” declared the lawyer. “You did well, Royce, to send him where he belongs. He must have stretched his imagination further than before. Rainfall sounds to him like footsteps.”
“I don’t think so.” Royce spoke seriously as he unlocked a cabinet in the corner of the room. “Talbot knows this old house too well. Something is amiss; but I thought it better not to take him with us this time.”
“You are going up to the gallery?”
“Yes. And I want volunteers to join me.”
ROYCE was bringing an assortment of revolvers from the cabinet. He was examining certain weapons to see if they were loaded. Clyde Burke stepped forward.
“I’ll take one,” said the reporter.
“Help yourself,” offered Royce. “The a choice is yours.”
Clyde picked out a promising .38. Roger Parchell stepped up looked at a .45, then rejected it for a weapon that matched Clyde’s. Wingate remained scoffing; then, as if to jolly the crowd, the lawyer came to the cabinet and selected a .32.
Royce took a German Luger that was evidently his pet pistol. He replaced the other weapons in the cabinet and locked the door. Motioning, he led his companions out into the hallway. They passed the side door to the veranda; they made the turn and came to the door to the gallery stairs.
2
Note: The cover of this magazine bears an exact reproduction of the skull painting in Selwood Royce’s art gallery. An exact duplicate, even to the original colors, the cover design shows precisely how the optical illusion was created. Study the cover at a range of less than six inches and the detail of the scene will predominate. Hold it at arms length and features of the third skull will become conspicuous. Because of its large size, the original painting required an unusually long range to make head-like qualities apparent to the average observer.