The Bat Part 20

For a moment d.i.c.k Fleming stared at her as if he could not believe his ears. Then, slowly, his expression changed. Beneath the well-fed, debonair mask of the clubman about town, other lines appeared--lines of avarice and calculation--wolf-marks, betokening the craft and petty ruthlessness of the small soul within the gentlemanly sh.e.l.l. His eyes took on a s.h.i.+fty, uncertain stare--they no longer looked at Dale--their gaze seemed turned inward, beholding a visioned treasure, a glittering pile of gold. And yet, the change in his look was not so p.r.o.nounced as to give Dale pause--she felt a vague uneasiness steal over her, true--but it would have taken a shrewd and long-experienced woman of the world to read the secret behind Fleming's eyes at first glance--and Dale, for all her courage and common sense, was a young and headstrong girl.

She watched him, puzzled, wondering why he made no comment on her last statement.

"Do you know where there are any blue-prints of the house?" she asked at last.

An odd light glittered in Fleming's eyes for a moment. Then it vanished--he held himself in check--the casual idler again.

"Blue-prints?" He seemed to think it over. "Why--there may be some.

Have you looked in the old secretary in the library? My uncle used to keep all sorts of papers there," he said with apparent helpfulness.

"Why, don't you remember--you locked it when we took the house."

"So I did." Fleming took out his key ring, selected a key. "Suppose you go and look," he said. "Don't you think I'd better stay here?"

"Oh, yes--" said Dale, blinded to everything else by the rising hope in her heart. "Oh, I can hardly thank you enough!" and before he could even reply, she had taken the key and was hurrying toward the hall door.

He watched her leave the room, a bleak smile on his face. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, his languor dropped from him. He became a hound--a ferret--questing for its prey. He ran lightly over to the bookcase by the hall door--a moment's inspection--he shook his head. Perhaps the other bookcase near the French windows--no--it wasn't there. Ah, the bookcase over the fireplace! He remembered now!

He made for it, hastily swept the books from the top shelf, reached groping fingers into the s.p.a.ce behind the second row of books. There!

A dusty roll of three blue-prints! He unrolled them hurriedly and tried to make out the white tracings by the light of the fire--no--better take them over to the candle on the table.

He peered at them hungrily in the little spot of light thrown by the candle. The first one--no--nor the second--but the third--the bottom one--good heavens! He took in the significance of the blurred white lines with greedy eyes, his lips opening in a silent exclamation of triumph. Then he pondered for an instant, the blue-print itself--was an awkward size--bulky--good, he had it! He carefully tore a small portion from the third blue-print and was about to stuff it in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket when Dale, returning, caught him before he had time to conceal his find. She took in the situation at once.

"Oh, you found it!" she said in tones of rejoicing, giving him back the key to the secretary. Then, as he still made no move to transfer the sc.r.a.p of blue paper to her, "Please let me have it, Mr. Fleming. I know that's it."

d.i.c.k Fleming's lips set in a thin line. "Just a moment," he said, putting the table between them with a swift movement. Once more he stole a glance at the sc.r.a.p of paper in his hand by the flickering light of the candle. Then he faced Dale boldly.

"Do you suppose, if that money is actually here, that I can simply turn this over to you and let you give it to Bailey?" he said. "Every man has his price. How do I know that Bailey's isn't a million dollars?"

Dale felt as if he had dashed cold water in her face. "What do you mean to do with it then?" she said.

Fleming turned the blue-print over in his hand.

"I don't know," he said. "What is it you want me to do?"

But by now Dale's vague distrust in him had grown very definite.

"Aren't you going to give it to me?"

He put her off. "I'll have to think about that." He looked at the blue-print again. "So the missing cas.h.i.+er is in this house posing as a gardener?" he said with a sneer in his tones.

Dale's temper was rising.

"If you won't give it to me--there's a detective in this house," she said, with a stamp of her foot. She made a movement as if to call Anderson--then, remembering Jack, turned back to Fleming.

"Give it to the detective and let him search," she pleaded.

"A detective?" said Fleming startled. "What's a detective doing here?"

"People have been trying to break in."

"What people?"

"I don't know."

Fleming stared out beyond Dale, into the night.

"Then it is here," he muttered to himself.

Behind his back--was it a gust of air that moved them?--the double doors of the alcove swung open just a crack. Was a listener crouched behind those doors--or was it only a trick of carpentry--a gesture of chance?

The mask of the clubman dropped from Fleming completely. His lips drew back from his teeth in the snarl of a predatory animal that clings to its prey at the cost of life or death.

Before Dale could stop him, he picked up the discarded blue-prints and threw them on the fire, retaining only the precious sc.r.a.p in his hand.

The roll blackened and burst into flame. He watched it, smiling.

"I'm not going to give this to any detective," he said quietly, tapping the piece of paper in his hand.

Dale's heart pounded sickeningly but she kept her courage up.

"What do you mean?" she said fiercely. "What are you going to do?"

He faced her across the fireplace, his airy manner coming back to him just enough to add an additional touch of the sinister to the cold self-revelation of his words.

"Let us suppose a few things, Miss Ogden," he said. "Suppose my price is a million dollars. Suppose I need money very badly and my uncle has left me a house containing that amount in cash. Suppose I choose to consider that that money is mine--then it wouldn't be hard to suppose, would it, that I'd make a pretty sincere attempt to get away with it?"

Dale summoned all her fort.i.tude.

"If you go out of this room with that paper I'll scream for help!" she said defiantly.

Fleming made a little mock-bow of courtesy. He smiled.

"To carry on our little game of supposing," he said easily, "suppose there is a detective in this house--and that, if I were cornered, I should tell him where to lay his hands on Jack Bailey. Do you suppose you would scream?"

Dale's hands dropped, powerless, at her sides. If only she hadn't told him--too late!--she was helpless. She could not call the detective without ruining Jack--and yet, if Fleming escaped with the money--how could Jack ever prove his innocence?

Fleming watched her for an instant, smiling. Then, seeing she made no move, he darted hastily toward the double doors of the alcove, flung them open, seemed about to dash up the alcove stairs. The sight of him escaping with the only existing clue to the hidden room galvanized Dale into action. She followed him, hurriedly s.n.a.t.c.hing up Miss Cornelia's revolver from the table as she did so, in a last gesture of desperation.

"No! No! Give it to me! Give it to me!" and she sprang after him, clutching the revolver. He waited for her on the bottom step of the stairs, the slight smile still on his face.

Panting breaths in the darkness of the alcove--a short, furious scuffle--he had wrested the revolver away from her, but in doing so had unguarded the precious blue-print--she s.n.a.t.c.hed at it desperately, tearing most of it away, leaving only a corner in his hand. He swore--tried to get it back--she jerked away.

Then suddenly a bright shaft of light split the darkness of the alcove stairs like a sword, a spot of brilliance centered on Fleming's face like the glare of a flashlight focused from above by an invisible hand.

For an instant it revealed him--his features distorted with fury--about to rush down the stairs again and attack the trembling girl at their foot.

A single shot rang out. For a second, the fury on Fleming's face seemed to change to a strange look of bewilderment and surprise.

Then the shaft of light was extinguished as suddenly as the snuffing of a candle, and he crumpled forward to the foot of the stairs--struck--lay on his face in the darkness, just inside the double doors.