The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 5 - August 1920), page 17
part #5 of The Black Mask Magazine Series
Lannen laughed uneasily. "I shouldn't care to remain in here long with that odor. It's heady, to say the least."
Willoughby poured some liquid from another bottle into a small glass and handed it to him; then he took a draught of it himself. "Drink this. It will overcome the effects of the other."
Suddenly he became tense. The glitter in his eyes became more pronounced.
He seemed to be listening to something. The warm salt air blowing through the window brought a hint of the distant sea — and something else.
"What is it?" Lannen gasped.
The quivering of Willoughby's wide nostrils, the sudden snapping of the glass's stem intrigued him.
"Listen!"
A long sort of growl — then a long drawn howl from a dog some place not far off was all Lannen heard. There was another howl, then silence. The color came back to the physician's face. He smiled apologetically.
Lannen stared at him in bewilderment.
"What is it?" he asked again.
"I–I thought I heard her come down the stairs. I was listening to hear if he met her!" The man's tongue seemed to be thick. He spoke with difficulty.
"Buck up, old man, buck up!" Lannen gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder, but at the same time he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder out of the window toward the gardens beyond.
Again the long rumbling howl of the dog penetrated the night air. The older man suddenly lurched forward into a chair and began to sob in a broken hearted way. At that moment Lannen fancied he saw a face at the open window, but before he could ascertain whether it was his imagination or not, it had vanished; but to him it seemed he had seen a young pale face with smouldering dark eyes and close cropped hair.
"Whew!" he exclaimed. "What's wrong with me?"
II
The sudden clamor of a clock striking three startled him out of a sound sleep. At least he thought it was the striking of the hour which did it. But as he raised himself on one elbow in the darkness, the doubled beat of his heart, the damp chill of his flesh, told him it was something else which had awakened him. Stealthy footsteps outside his room; the cautious opening and closing of a door down the hall, the, rustle of garments as of someone moving in the corridor were registered with dark significance on his brain.
"Poor old Andrew," he muttered.
He sank back to his pillow. But he could not sleep; though his pulse became normal. He found himself striving to make out the objects in his room. One by one, out of the hazy grey of the blackness they became outlined and visible to his straining eyes. In an irritating fashion the drawn blind flapped forward and back with the wind which had arisen since nightfall. Unable at last to stand the sound of the flapping, he rose and went to the window to raise it.
The moon was high, unobscured by any clouds, and shone down with a dazzling white brilliance which made the grounds and surrounding territory almost as light as day. The long row of glass topped greenhouses gleamed as through covered with snow. Off in the distance, far behind the high stone wall which enclosed Dr. Willoughby's Long Island estate, shone the water, near at hand; the wind whistled in a sing-song manner through the trees.
From the darkening shelter of the stone wall emerged two figures.
The watching man knew instantly who they were; even before the moon outlined the slender figure of Willoughby's wife, and the broader silhouette of the gardener, Altering.
A feeling of nausea swept over him. He turned away from the window. Crossing to his bed he switched on a light just over it, determined to while away the time until daylight with a current magazine. But the face of the woman outside in the garden seemed to mock him from the printed page. Her dark, shadow-laden eyes seemed to plead with him between the lines of printing, as though she begged him not to judge her too harshly.
The magazine slipped from his hand. He closed his eyes and lay inert.
A moment later the cry of some one in mortal agony penetrated the night air. Then a woman shrieked in terror.
For a moment Lannen lay panic striken; then, springing out of bed, he snatched up a dressing gown and rushed into the hall.
He came face to face with Willoughby.
His host was pallid. Willoughby's hands trembled as he held a tattered silk gown about his emaciated figure. A moment later another door down the hall was thrown open, and the corpulent kimono-clad housekeeper burst into their presence.
"You heard it?" Willoughby cried in a harsh whisper, clutching Lannen's arm.
His eyes were glassy, the lids swollen as though from heavy sleep and being suddenly awakened. His chin shook.
"My Gawd! My Gawd!" wailed the woman, trying to pull the kimono about her ample bosom — "What was it, Doctor? Did you hear it?"
"A woman screamed," Lannen said grimly. "The cry came from some place near the greenhouses. Someone must be injured."
"I heard a man too," this from the butler who had joined them. Even partially clad he retained some of the dignity of his position.
"Oh, what d'ye 'spose has happened? Doctor dear, what d'ye think it is?" the housekeeper caught her master's arm, and clung desperately to him.
He did not seem conscious of her presence.
He was looking into the lighted corridor below, at his wife; as she stumbled blindly through the outer door into the illuminated passageway.
She was sobbing convulsively. She started to climb the stairs slowly, dragging herself upward with an effort. Her shimmery evening gown was torn and draggled about her, her face was grey, a death color; and her eyes terror stricken.
At the head of the stairs she collapsed in a heap. When Willoughby started to lift her, she gave a shuddering cry, and warded off his touch. Her husband gave a sucking breath. He looked at Lannen.
"Mrs. Willoughby!" cried the latter dropping on his knees beside her. Subconsciously he wondered what had become of the man who had been with her, if it were he who had given that cry of terrible torture. "Mrs. Willoughby, what is it? What has happened?"
For a moment her white lips quivered. "I–I — there's a dead man out there by the greenhouses, I — stumbled over him! I touched his cold face. I—!"
"A dead man!"
"Yes—!" she suddenly straightened and stared with a fixity into her husband's face.
A strange expression came over her own; then she allowed Lannen to assist her to rise, and in a quiet manner, though with obvious effort she requested the butler to bring her some wine.
"A dead man!"
"Come," said Lannen abruptly — his legal training coming to the foreground, — "She may be mistaken, the man may still be alive."
"He was cold," she answered.
The little procession filed out toward the greenhouses, a motley, weird looking crowd in bath robes, smoking jackets and kimonos. Louise Willoughby walked with Lannen and her husband. Her hand lightly rested on Lannen's all the way. He felt the nervous tremors that shook her as they neared the spot where she had discovered the dead man.
"There are lights in the greenhouse," Willoughby said abruptly. "I'll turn them on."
He left them for a moment, then the glass enclosure became illuminated.
An exclamation of horror burst from the group. Mrs. Willoughby clung to Lannen's arm in a feverish manner.
Huddled up, chest and chin meeting, lay the body of a man, unquestionably dead. He was roughly dressed, his shoes in tatters, his bare feet showing through the gaping soles; while several days' growth of beard added to the gruesomeness of his appearance. Long yellow teeth were bared in a distortion of agony; bleary eyes stared upward. There was no sign of a wound, no indications of foul play; but the man had unquestionably died suddenly and in great torture. Evidently it had been his death cry they had heard.
Willoughby knelt beside him; then after a second's examination rose abruptly. "Dead. Heart failure, I think, but it will be best to notify the police."
"Know him?" Lannen asked.
"No. He looks like a hobo."
"Are you going to leave him?" cried his wife hysterically. "It seems so awful to leave a dead man out here on the ground alone! It's so heartless!"
"He can't be moved until the police arrive," Lannen answered. "Willoughby, take your wife inside. I'll stay here until they come and see that nothing happens."
Louise Willoughby suddenly gave a cry of terror. "The police! Must you call the police? He's a tramp — he died of heart failure! Don't call the police! It will create a scandal! I couldn't stand that — please — please do something else!"
"My dear, my dear!" remonstrated her husband quietly, "this is very unfortunate. I'm sorry the poor devil chose to die here. But it may not be heart failure you know; he may have been murdered!"
"Murdered," she sobbed the word, as though it burst from her against her will.
Willoughby ignored her exclamation.
He continued suavely as though he enjoyed her hysterical anguish:
"If the man has been murdered and we placed an obstacle in the way of his murderer being apprehended, we would be putting ourselves liable for more than a scandal."
She suddenly swayed. Willoughby placed his hand on her shoulder; but she turned on him in almost insane fury.
"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't you dare to touch me!"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, turning quietly to his friend. "You take her inside, Lannen, she's wrought up, no wonder, poor child. I'll remain here. Call headquarters please."
III
When they reached the house, the woman dropped wearily into a great chair. The intense pain in her face, the tremulous quiver of her mouth, caused a wave of pity to sweep over Lannen.
"Are — are you going to call the police?" she whispered.
"I must."
Her white hands gripped tighter. In spite of the things he had seen. Lannen again had a doubt as to her perfidy. Strangely enough, he now felt no sympathy for her husband.
He lifted the receiver from the hook. As he did so, she touched him.
"Mr. Lannen?"
"Yes."
"Are you my friend?"
"Yes — why — yes, of course, Mrs. Willoughby."
"I mean really, truly — my friend — or his?"
"Andrew's?"
"Yes."
"I trust I am a friend to you both," he evaded.
She shook her head impatiently.
"You can't be that. Can't you see he hates me, and I–I loathe him — I despise him — oh my God! How I hate him — and yet—!"
"Mrs. Willoughby!"
"Oh, I know I horrify you!" She laughed and began to pace the length of the room — "if only I had someone I could turn too, someone to aid me! Someone in all the world I could trust! You seem to be a good man — if only I dared! — " she paused abruptly, then in a sudden change — "Do you think I'm a bad woman — do you think I am what he thinks?"
"Why, my dear lady, I—"
"I see. He has lied to you too-poisoned you against me — as he has others — and—" she covered her face with her hands.
"I — really I—" for once he could not find words. "Mrs. Willoughby — I saw you tonight."
"You saw me — and—" her eyes opened wide.
"And him!"
As she said nothing, he turned from her and called up the police headquarters, making his request for their presence in a quiet, professional manner.
When he hung up the receiver he turned to her.
"Mrs. Willoughby, you found the body. Who was with you at the time?"
She did not reply; after waiting a moment for her to speak, he continued:
"You realize that the police will ask questions of you, when they arrive. As a lawyer and your friend, I am advising you to tell me everything before they come. I may make things easier for you."
"Easier for me?" she repeated dully. "I've done nothing. Nothing wrong."
"I think it is murder," Lannen said slowly.
She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
"Yes, it is murder. I know that," she whispered.
"How do you know?" he said sharply.
She shivered.
"I–I—" She gave a little hysterical laugh. "Just as a woman intuitively knows many things. Something here — tells me it is."
"Did you know the man?"
"No! No! Of course not. I never saw him before. Didn't you hear what Andrew said, he is a tramp — a hobo — probably — probably—" her voice trailed off, and her dark eyes widened.
"Probably what—?" Lannen leaned forward, and laid his hand on hers. Her skin was damp and ice cold.
"Probably he — he stopped in the grounds to sleep or for a drink of water and — Mr. Lannen, I can't talk, I'm — I'm — you'll excuse me — I must go upstairs, I—" she rose unsteadily, and for a moment seemed about to faint. "You can call me when the — they arrive, perhaps I'll feel better then."
He assisted her to the stairs, watched her slowly mount them; then turned back into the room more puzzled than before.
As he sank into a deep cushioned chair, before the window, heavy satin draperies behind him were pushed aside. A young man wearing mud stained overalls and a dark blue shirt stepped into the room. He held one finger up to caution Lannen to silence, then motioned him to draw the blinds so that their figures could not be seen by the men outside who waited by the greenhouses.
"Well?" said Lannen.
The other slumped into a chair opposite to him. He suddenly seemed overcome and unable to speak. Lannen noted the way his hands trembled, his nostrils quivered. After a moment's silence, the lawyer asked:
"You're Allering, the gardener, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir." He leaned forward, almost touching Lannen. His eyes glowed in his eagerness. "You've sent for the police?"
"Yes." Lannen reached for a cigar and lighted it before he answered the boy. In that brief moment's survey of the gardener, he felt an instinctive liking for him.
"It might be murder, you know," he added.
"It was murder, Mr. Lannen. That poor fellow out there died the death that was intended for me!"
"What do you mean by that?" Lannen dropped his cigar and quickly rescued it from the carpet.
"I'm not going to hide anything sir, only — only I–I can't face the police — not yet — I've — I can't tell you! But can't you tell them what I say and keep me out of their way? Isn't it possible?" his white face worked convulsively.
He spoke as though compelled to do so against his will.
"I don't understand you," said the other man coldly, "You say someone desired your death, yet you don't want to inform the police yourself. Don't you realize that you will have to testify? You were with Mrs. Willoughby when she stumbled over the body."
"Yes, sir."
"I'm a lawyer, Allering, perhaps you didn't know that."
"Yes — yes I knew it; that's why I'm asking you to help me. To help Louise — I—" Lannen winced as he used the Christian name of his friend's wife, but the gardener did not see the movement.
"You didn't kill the man, did you?" snapped Lannen suddenly.
"No! No! Good God, no!"
"Well, then will you be kind enough to explain just what is it all about?"
"He hates me—" Allering continued.
"Who?"
"Andrew — Andrew Willoughby. He hates me as much as he fears me—"
Lannen started angrily to his feet "Willoughby is my friend!"
The younger man laughed stridently. "Friend! He's no man's friend! There's only one thing in the world of any value to him, that's science! Didn't you see how he took the death of that poor dog out there? I was behind a clump of shrub. I heard and saw him. He gloated over his body! He was glad! Glad that a man had died and proven another one of his damnable poisons efficacious!"
"By God! — are you insinuating that — that Andrew Willoughby killed the man out there?"
"I am!"
"A man he had never seen, a stray tramp—"
"It was intended for me—" Allering returned wearily — "he failed in his purpose so far as I was concerned, but he made a sure test and it proved successful."
"You're making an astounding statement, young man," said Lannen straining to keep his voice calm and uninterested — "You, are accusing a man of murder; your employer, the husband of the woman with whom—"
Allering sprang to his feet. The veins stood out in great welts on his high, thin forehead. His nostrils quivered. When he again sank into his chair he was panting from the struggle.
"Mr. Lannen," he said abruptly, "I–I met Louise, Mrs. Willoughby, outside in the grounds — why I did so is our affair — but she is a good woman, — you must know she is! Her husband is more than a scoundrel; he is the vilest, lowest—" Lannen's gesture interrupted him, he continued in a quieter tone—
"We met by an arbor near the greenhouses. It is very dark there, and in spite of its being moonlight we weren't seen; but we saw the figure of a man as he came out of the house. It was Andrew Willoughby. At first we thought he had seen Louise leave and was following us; but he passed the arbor and went on toward the greenhouses."
"In the moonlight, which made everything perfectly visible in the open, I could see he was carrying something. A little case, his medicine case, he uses when visiting a patient. I was afraid he could hear Louise's breathing, he passed so close to us; but he was too intent on his wicked thoughts to notice anything else. At the greenhouses he hesitated, and looked stealthily around; then he laughed. That laugh made Louise grip my arm. I put my hand over her mouth for fear she would cry out."
"There is a hydrant beside one of the houses. I use it every morning to attach the hose. To my knowledge no one else ever touches it. No one has occasion too. Willoughby was aware of this. It is an old fashioned arrangement and I have protested against it, but the thing has remained as it is. Several times I have been drenched by the nozzle slipping. As we watched, Willoughby went to this hydrant. He carefully unfastened the hose; then he opened the little case he carried. He took out something which was evidently a piece of cloth and wiped all the damp off the rusty metal. Then he put the cloth back into the case. Next he took a small vial out of it, and with great caution poured it all over the metal. Then as quietly as he had come, he whirled around and went back to the house."
