here! It’s only in books people carry revolvers around as a matter of course.”
Dr. Armstrong shook his head perplexedly.
They leaned over and watched Lombard’s progress. His search was thorough and they could see at once that it was futile. Presently he came up over the edge of the cliff. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Well,” he said. “We’re up against it. It’s the house or nowhere.”
VI
The house was easily searched. They went through the few out-buildings first and then turned their attention to the building itself. Mrs. Rogers’ yard measure discovered in the kitchen dresser assisted them. But there were no hidden spaces left unaccounted for. Everything was plain and straightforward, a modern structure devoid of concealments. They went through the ground floor first. As they mounted to the bedroom floor, they saw through the landing window Rogers carrying out a tray of cocktails to the terrace.
Philip Lombard said lightly:
“Wonderful animal, the good servant. Carries on with an impassive countenance.”
Armstrong said appreciatively:
“Rogers is a first-class butler, I’ll say that for him!”
Blore said:
“His wife was a pretty good cook, too. That dinner—last night—”
They turned in to the first bedroom.
Five minutes later they faced each other on the landing. No one hiding—no possible hiding place.
Blore said:
“There’s a little stair here.”
Dr. Armstrong said:
“It leads up to the servants’ room.”
Blore said:
“There must be a place under the roof—for cisterns, water tank, etc. It’s the best chance—and the only one!”
And it was then, as they stood there, that they heard the sound from above. A soft furtive footfall overhead.
They all heard it. Armstrong grasped Blore’s arm. Lombard held up an admonitory finger.
“Quiet—listen.”
It came again—someone moving softly, furtively, overhead.
Armstrong whispered:
“He’s actually in the bedroom itself. The room where Mrs. Rogers’ body is.”
Blore whispered back:
“Of course! Best hidingplace he could have chosen! Nobody likely to go there. Now then—quiet as you can.”
They crept stealthily upstairs.
On the little landing outside the door of the bedroom they paused again. Yes, someone was in the room. There was a faint creak from within.
Blore whispered:
“Now.”
He flung open the door and rushed in, the other two close behind him.
Then all three stopped dead.
Rogers was in the room, his hands full of garments.
VII
Blore recovered himself first. He said:
“Sorry—er—Rogers. Heard someone moving about in here, and thought—well—”
He stopped.
Rogers said:
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I was just moving my things. I take it there will be no objection if I take one of the vacant guest chambers on the floor below? The smallest room.”
It was to Armstrong that he spoke and Armstrong replied:
“Of course. Of course. Get on with it.”
He avoided looking at the sheeted figure lying on the bed.
Rogers said:
“Thank you, sir.”
He went out of the room with his arm full of belongings and went down the stairs to the floor below.
Armstrong moved over to the bed and, lifting the sheet, looked down on the peaceful face of the dead woman. There was no fear there now. Just emptiness.
Armstrong said:
“Wish I’d got my stuff here. I’d like to know what drug it was.”
Then he turned to the other two.
“Let’s get finished. I feel it in my bones we’re not going to find anything.”
Blore was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole.
He said:
“That chap moves damned quietly. A minute or two ago we saw him in the garden. None of us heard him come upstairs.”
Lombard said:
“I suppose that’s why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up here.”
Blore disappeared into a cavernous darkness. Lombard pulled a torch from his pocket and followed.
Five minutes later three men stood on an upper landing and looked at each other. They
Dr. Armstrong shook his head perplexedly.
They leaned over and watched Lombard’s progress. His search was thorough and they could see at once that it was futile. Presently he came up over the edge of the cliff. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Well,” he said. “We’re up against it. It’s the house or nowhere.”
VI
The house was easily searched. They went through the few out-buildings first and then turned their attention to the building itself. Mrs. Rogers’ yard measure discovered in the kitchen dresser assisted them. But there were no hidden spaces left unaccounted for. Everything was plain and straightforward, a modern structure devoid of concealments. They went through the ground floor first. As they mounted to the bedroom floor, they saw through the landing window Rogers carrying out a tray of cocktails to the terrace.
Philip Lombard said lightly:
“Wonderful animal, the good servant. Carries on with an impassive countenance.”
Armstrong said appreciatively:
“Rogers is a first-class butler, I’ll say that for him!”
Blore said:
“His wife was a pretty good cook, too. That dinner—last night—”
They turned in to the first bedroom.
Five minutes later they faced each other on the landing. No one hiding—no possible hiding place.
Blore said:
“There’s a little stair here.”
Dr. Armstrong said:
“It leads up to the servants’ room.”
Blore said:
“There must be a place under the roof—for cisterns, water tank, etc. It’s the best chance—and the only one!”
And it was then, as they stood there, that they heard the sound from above. A soft furtive footfall overhead.
They all heard it. Armstrong grasped Blore’s arm. Lombard held up an admonitory finger.
“Quiet—listen.”
It came again—someone moving softly, furtively, overhead.
Armstrong whispered:
“He’s actually in the bedroom itself. The room where Mrs. Rogers’ body is.”
Blore whispered back:
“Of course! Best hidingplace he could have chosen! Nobody likely to go there. Now then—quiet as you can.”
They crept stealthily upstairs.
On the little landing outside the door of the bedroom they paused again. Yes, someone was in the room. There was a faint creak from within.
Blore whispered:
“Now.”
He flung open the door and rushed in, the other two close behind him.
Then all three stopped dead.
Rogers was in the room, his hands full of garments.
VII
Blore recovered himself first. He said:
“Sorry—er—Rogers. Heard someone moving about in here, and thought—well—”
He stopped.
Rogers said:
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I was just moving my things. I take it there will be no objection if I take one of the vacant guest chambers on the floor below? The smallest room.”
It was to Armstrong that he spoke and Armstrong replied:
“Of course. Of course. Get on with it.”
He avoided looking at the sheeted figure lying on the bed.
Rogers said:
“Thank you, sir.”
He went out of the room with his arm full of belongings and went down the stairs to the floor below.
Armstrong moved over to the bed and, lifting the sheet, looked down on the peaceful face of the dead woman. There was no fear there now. Just emptiness.
Armstrong said:
“Wish I’d got my stuff here. I’d like to know what drug it was.”
Then he turned to the other two.
“Let’s get finished. I feel it in my bones we’re not going to find anything.”
Blore was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole.
He said:
“That chap moves damned quietly. A minute or two ago we saw him in the garden. None of us heard him come upstairs.”
Lombard said:
“I suppose that’s why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up here.”
Blore disappeared into a cavernous darkness. Lombard pulled a torch from his pocket and followed.
Five minutes later three men stood on an upper landing and looked at each other. They
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