I was myself again in a second, and by the light from
the hall I led the way back to the tragedy I had stumbled
on. Bronson still sat at the table, his elbows
propped on it, his cigarette still lighted, burning
a hole in the cloth. Partly under the table lay
Mrs. Conway face down. The dog stood over her
and wagged his tail.
McKnight pointed silently to a large copper ashtray,
filled with ashes and charred bits of paper.
“The notes, probably,” he said ruefully.
“He got them after all, and burned them before
her. It was more than she could stand.
Stabbed him first and then herself.”
Hotchkiss got up and took off his hat. “They
are dead,” he announced solemnly, and took his
note-book out of his hatband.
McKnight and I did the only thing we could think of—drove
Hotchkiss and the dog out of the room, and closed and
locked the door. “It’s a matter
for the police,” McKnight asserted. “I
suppose you’ve got an officer tied to you somewhere,
Lawrence? You usually have.”
We left Hotchkiss in charge and went down-stairs.
It was McKnight who first saw Johnson, leaning against
a park railing across the street, and called him over.
We told him in a few words what we had found, and
he grinned at me cheerfully.
“After while, in a few weeks or months, Mr.
Blakeley,” he said, “when you get tired
of monkeying around with the blood-stain and finger-print
specialist up-stairs, you come to me. I’ve
had that fellow you want under surveillance for ten
days!”
FINER DETAILS
At ten minutes before two the following day, Monday,
I arrived at my office. I had spent the morning
putting my affairs in shape, and in a trip to the
stable. The afternoon would see me either a
free man or a prisoner for an indefinite length of
time, and, in spite of Johnson’s promise to
produce Sullivan, I was more prepared for the latter
than the former.
Blobs was watching for me outside the door, and it
was clear that he was in a state of excitement bordering
on delirium. He did nothing, however, save to
tip me a wink that meant “As man to man, I’m
for you.” I was too much engrossed either
to reprove him or return the courtesy, but I heard
him follow me down the hall to the small room where
we keep outgrown lawbooks, typewriter supplies and,
incidentally, our wraps. I was wondering vaguely
if I would ever hang my hat on its nail again, when
the door closed behind me. It shut firmly, without
any particular amount of sound, and I was left in
the dark. I groped my way to it, irritably, to
find it locked on the outside. I shook it frantically,
and was rewarded by a sibilant whisper through the
keyhole.
“Keep quiet,” Blobs was saying huskily.
“You’re in deadly peril. The police
are waiting in your office, three of ’em.
I’m goin’ to lock the whole bunch in
and throw the key out of the window.”
