Arthur B. Reeve Crime & Mystery Boxed Set. Arthur B. Reeve

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СКАЧАТЬ in a voice that was soft and musical and under perfect control. "The doctor would know that better. No, he was not neurotic, I think."

      "Did you ever see Mr. Phelps take any drugs—not habitually, but just before this sleep came on?"

      Kennedy was seeking his information in a manner and tone that would cause as little offence as possible. "Oh, no," she hastened. "No, never—absolutely."

      "You called in Dr. Forden the last night?"

      "Yes, he had been Montague's physician many years ago, you know."

      "I see," remarked Kennedy, who was thrusting about aimlessly to get her off her guard. "By the way, you know there is a great deal of gossip about the almost perfect state of preservation of the body, Mrs. Phelps. I see it was not embalmed."

      She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.

      "Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me? Can't you see Doctor Forden?"

      In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow. She seemed preoccupied. I could not escape the feeling that she was putting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discovery of the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the real facts concealed. Was she shielding some one? It flashed over me that perhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buried the money at the appointed place. There seemed to be little use in pursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to her relief.

      We found Doctor Forden, who lived on the same street as the Phelpses several squares away, most fortunately at home. Forden was an extremely interesting man, as is, indeed, the rule with physicians, I could not but fancy, however, that his hearty assurance that he would be glad to talk freely on the case was somewhat forced.

      "You were sent for by Mrs. Phelps, that last night, I believe, while Phelps was still alive?" asked Kennedy.

      "Yes. During the day it had been impossible to arouse him, and that night, when Mrs. Phelps and the nurse found him sinking even deeper into the comatose state, I was summoned again. He was beyond hope then. I did everything I could, but he died a few moments after I arrived."

      "Did you try artificial respiration?" asked Kennedy.

      "N-no," replied Forden. "I telephoned here for my respirator, but by the time it arrived at the house it was too late. Nothing had been omitted while he was still struggling with the spark of life. When that went out what was the use?"

      "You were his personal physician?"

      "Yes."

      "Had you ever noticed that he took any drug?"

      Doctor Forden shot a quick glance at Kennedy, "Of course not. He was not a drug fiend."

      "I didn't mean that he was addicted to any drug. But had he taken anything lately, either of his own volition or with the advice or knowledge of any one else?"

      "Of course not."

      "There's another strange thing I wish to ask your opinion about," pursued Kennedy, not to be rebuffed. "I have seen his body. It is in an excellent state of preservation, almost lifelike. And yet I understand, or at least it seems, that it was not embalmed."

      "You'll have to ask the undertaker about that," answered the doctor brusquely.

      It was evident that he was getting more and more constrained in his answers. Kennedy did not seem to mind it, but to me it seemed that he must be hiding something. Was there some secret which medical ethics kept locked in his breast? Kennedy had risen and excused himself.

      The interviews had not resulted in much, I felt, yet Kennedy did not seem to care. Back in the city again, he buried himself in his laboratory for the rest of the day, most of the time in his dark room, where he was developing photographic plates or films, I did not know which.

      During the afternoon Andrews dropped in for a few moments to report that he had nothing to add to what had already developed. He was not much impressed by the interviews.

      "There's just one thing I want to speak about, though," he said at length, unburdening his mind. "That tomb and the swamp, too, ought to be watched. Last night showed me that there seems to be a regular nocturnal visitor and that we cannot depend on that town night watchman to scare him off. Yet if we watch up there, he will be warned and will lie low. How can we watch both places at once and yet remain hidden?"

      Kennedy nodded approval of the suggestion. "I'll fix that," he replied, anxious to return to his photographic labours. "Meet me, both of you, on the road from the station at Woodbine, just as it is getting dusk." Without another word he disappeared into the dark room.

      We met him that night as he had requested. He had come up to Woodbine in the baggage-car of the train with a powerful dog, for all the world like a huge, grey wolf.

      "Down, Schaef," he ordered, as the dog began to show an uncanny interest in me. "Let me introduce my new dog-detective," he chuckled. "She has a wonderful record as a police-dog."

      We were making our way now through the thickening shadows of the town to the outskirts. "She's a German sheep-dog, a Schäferhund," he explained. "For my part, it is the English bloodhound in the open country and the sheep-dog in the city and the suburbs."

      Schaef seemed to have many of the characteristics of the wild, prehistoric animal, among them the full, upright ears of the wild dog which are such a great help to it. She was a fine, alert, upstanding dog, hardy, fierce, and literally untiring, of a tawny light brown like a lioness, about the same size and somewhat of the type of the smooth-coated collie, broad of chest and with a full brush of tail.

      Untamed though she seemed, she was perfectly under Kennedy's control, and rendered him absolute and unreasoning obedience.

      At the cemetery we established a strict watch about the Phelps mausoleum and the swamp which lay across the road, not a difficult thing to do as far as concealment went, owing to the foliage. Still, for the same reason, it was hard to cover the whole ground. In the shadow of a thicket we waited. Now and then we could hear Schaef scouting about in the underbrush, crouching and hiding, watching and guarding.

      As the hours of waiting in the heavily laden night air wore on, I wondered whether our vigil in this weird place would be rewarded. The soughing of the night wind in the evergreens, mournful at best, was doubly so now. Hour after hour we waited patiently.

      At last there was a slight noise from the direction opposite the mausoleum and toward the swamp next to the cemetery.

      Kennedy reached out and drew us back into the shadow deeper. "Some one is prowling about, approaching the mausoleum on that side, I think," he whispered.

      Instantly there recurred to me the thought I had had earlier in the day that perhaps, after all, the five thousand dollars of hush money, for whatever purpose it might be extorted, had been buried in the swamp by Mrs. Phelps in her anxiety. Had that been what she was concealing? Perhaps the blackmailer had come to reconnoitre, and, if the money was there, to take it away.

      Schaef, who had been near us, was sniffing eagerly. From our hiding-place we could just see her. She had heard the sounds, too, even before we had, and for an instant stood with every muscle tense.

      Then, like an arrow, she darted into the underbrush. An instant later, the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Schaef СКАЧАТЬ