CHAPTER IX
THE ATTIC OF MYSTERY
Robert Dunn was by no means sure that he was not going to his death as he went out of Ella's room on his way to the attics above, for he had perceived a certain doubt and suspicion in Deede Dawson's manner, and he thought it very likely that a fatal intention lay behind.
But he obeyed with a brisk promptitude of manner, like one who saw a prospect of escape opening before him, and as he went he saw that Ella had relapsed into her former indifference and was once more giving all her attention to bathing her wrists with eau-de-Cologne; and he saw, too, that Deede Dawson, following close behind, kept always his revolver ready.
“Perhaps he only wants to get me out of her way before he shoots,” he reflected. “Perhaps there is room in that packing-case for two. It will be strange to die. Shall I try to rush him? But he would shoot at once, and I shouldn't have a chance. One thing, if anything happens to me, no one will ever know what's become of poor Charley.”
And this seemed to him a great pity, so that he began to form confused and foolish plans for securing that his friend's fate should become known.
With a sudden start, for he had not known he was there, he found himself standing on the threshold of that attic of death. It was quite dark up here, and from behind Deede Dawson's voice told him impatiently to enter.
He obeyed, wondering if ever again he would cross that threshold alive, and Deede Dawson followed him into the dark attic so that Dunn was appalled by the man's rashness, for how could he tell that his victim would not take this opportunity to rise up from the place where he had been thrust and take his revenge?
“What an idea,” he thought to himself. “I must be going dotty, it's the strain of expecting a bullet in my back all the time, I suppose. I was never like this before.”
Deede Dawson struck a match and put it to a gas-jet that lighted up the whole room. Between him and Dunn lay the packing-case, and Dunn was surprised to see that it was still there and that nothing had changed or moved; and then again he said to himself that this was a foolish thought only worthy of some excitable, hysterical girl.
“It's being too much for me,” he thought resignedly. “I've heard of people being driven mad by horror. I suppose that's what's happening to me.”
“You look—queer,” Deede Dawson's voice interrupted the confused medley of his thoughts. “Why do you look like that—Charley Wright?”
Dunn looked moodily across the case in which the body of the murdered man was hidden to where the murderer stood.
After a pause, and speaking with an effort, he said:
“You'd look queer if some one with a pistol was watching you all the time the way you watch me.”
“You do what I tell you and you'll be all right,” Deede Dawson answered. “You see that packing-case?”
Dunn nodded.
“It's big enough,” he said.
“Would you like to know?” asked Deede Dawson slowly with his slow, perpetual smile. “Would you like to know what's in it—Charley Wright?”
And again Dunn was certain that a faint suspicion hung about those last two words, and that his life and death hung very evenly in the balance.
“Silver, you said,” he muttered. “Didn't you?”
“Ah, yes—yes—to be sure,” answered Deede Dawson. “Yes, so I did. Silver. I want the lid nailed down. There's a hammer and nails there. Get to work and look sharp.”
Dunn stepped forward and began to set about a task that was so terrible and strange, and that yet he had, at peril of his life—at peril of more than that, indeed—to treat as of small importance.
Standing a little distance from the lighted gas-jet, Deede Dawson watched him narrowly, and as Dunn worked he was very sure that to betray the least sign of his knowledge would be to bring instantly a bullet crashing through his brain.
It seemed curious to him that he had so carefully replaced everything after making his discovery, and that without any forethought or special intention he had put back everything so exactly as he had found it when the slightest neglect or failure in that respect would most certainly have cost him his life.
And he felt that as yet he could not afford to die.
One by one he drove in the nails, and as he worked at his gruesome task he heard the faintest rustle on the landing without—the faintest sound of a soft breath cautiously drawn in, of a light foot very carefully set down.
Deede Dawson plainly heard nothing; indeed, no ear less acute and less well-trained than Dunn's could have caught sounds that were so slight and low, but he, listening between each stroke of his hammer, was sure that it was Ella who had followed them, and that she crouched upon the landing without, watching and listening.
Did that mean, he wondered, that she, too, knew? Or was it merely natural curiosity; hostile in part, perhaps, since evidently the relations between her and her stepfather were not too friendly—a desire to know what task there could be in the attics so late at night for which Deede Dawson had such need of his captive's help?
Or was it by any chance because she wished to know how things went with him, and what was to be his fate?
In any case, Dunn was sure that Ella had followed then, and was on the landing without.
He drove home the last nail and stood up. “That's done,” he said.
“And well done,” said Deede Dawson. “Well done—Charley Wright.”
He spoke the name softly and lingeringly, and then all at once he began to laugh, a low and somewhat dreadful laughter that had in it no mirth at all, and that sounded horrible and strange in the chill emptiness of the attic.
Leaning one hand on the packing-case that served as the coffin of his dead friend, Dunn swore a silent oath to exact full retribution, and henceforth to put that purpose on a level with the mission on which originally he had come.
Aloud, and in a grumbling tone he said:—
“What's the matter with my name? It's a name like any other. What's wrong with it?”
“What should there be?” flashed Deede Dawson in reply.
“I don't know,” Dunn answered. “You keep repeating it so, that's all.”
“It's a very good name,” Deede Dawson said. “An excellent name. But it's not suitable. Not here.” He began to laugh again and then stopped abruptly.
“Do you know, I think you had better choose another?” he said.
“It's all one to me,” declared Dunn. “If Charley Wright don't suit, how will Robert Dunn do? I knew a man of that name once.”
“It's a better name than Charley Wright,” said Deede Dawson. “We'll call you Robert Dunn—Charley Wright. Do you know why I can't have you call yourself Charley Wight?”
Dunn shook his head.
“Because I don't like it,” said Deede Dawson. “Why, that's a name that would drive me mad,” he muttered, half to himself.
Dunn did not speak, but he thought this was a strange thing for the other to say and showed that even he, cold and remorseless and without any natural feeling, as he had seemed to be, yet had about him still some touch of humanity.
And as he mused on this, which seemed to him so strange, though really it was not strange at all, his attentive ears caught the sound of a soft step without, beginning to descend the stairs.
Had that name, then, been more than she also could bear?
If so, she must know.
“I don't see why, I don't see what's wrong with it,” he said aloud. “But Robert Dunn will suit me just as well.”
“All a matter of taste,” said Deede Dawson, his manner more composed and natural again.
“It's a funny thing now—suppose my name was Charley Wright, then there would be two Charley Wrights in this attic, eh? A coincidence, that would be?”
“I suppose so,” answered Dunn. “I knew another man named Charley Wright once.”
“Did you? Where's he?”
“Oh, he's dead,” answered Dunn.
Deede Dawson could not repress the start he gave and for a moment Dunn thought that his suspicions were really roused. He came a little nearer, his pistol still ready in his hand.
“Dead, is he?” he said. “That's a pity. He's not here, then; but it would be funny wouldn't it, if there were two Charley Wrights in one room?”
“I don't know what you mean,” Dunn answered. “I think there are lots of funnier things than that would be.”
“That's where you're wrong,” retorted Deede Dawson, and he laughed again, shrilly and dreadfully, a laughter that had in it anything but mirth.
“Can you carry that packing-case downstairs if I help you get it on your shoulder?” he asked abruptly.
“It's heavy, but I might,” Dunn answered.
He supposed that now it was about to be hidden somewhere and he felt that he must know where, since that knowledge would mean everything and enable him to set the authorities to work at once immediately he could communicate with them.
The weight of the thing taxed even his great strength to the utmost, but he managed it somehow, and bending beneath his burden, he descended the stairs to the hall and then, following the orders Deede Dawson gave him from behind, out into the open air.
He was nearly exhausted when at last his task-master told him he could put it down as he stood still for a minute or two to recover his breath and strength.
The night was not very dark, for a young moon was shining in a clear sky, and it appeared to Dunn, as he felt his strength returning, that now at last he might find an opportunity of making an attack upon his captor with some chance of success.
Hitherto, in the house, in the bright glare of the gas lights, he had known that the first suspicious movement he made would have ensured his being instantly and remorselessly shot down, his mission unfulfilled.
But here in the open air, in the night that the moon illumined but faintly, it was different, and as he watched for his opportunity he felt that sooner or later it was sure to come.
But Deede Dawson was alert and wary, his pistol never left his hand, he kept so well on his guard he gave Dunn no opening to take him unawares, and Dunn did not wish to run too desperate a chance, since he was sure that sooner or later one giving fair chance of success would present itself.
“Do you want it carried any further?” he asked. “It's very heavy.”
“I suppose you mean you're wondering what's in it?” said Deede Dawson sharply.
“It's nothing to me what's in it—silver or anything else,” retorted Dunn. “Do you want me to carry it further, that's all I asked?”
“No,” answered Deede Dawson. “No, I don't. Do you know, if you knew what was really in it, you'd be surprised?”
“Very likely,” answered Dunn. “Why not?”
“Yes, you would be surprised,” Deede Dawson repeated, and suddenly shouted into the darkness: “Are you ready? Are you ready there?”
Dunn was very startled, for somehow, he had supposed all along that Deede Dawson was quite alone.
There was no answer to his call, but after a minute or two there was the sound of a motor-car engine starting and then a big car came gliding forward and stopped in front of them, driven by a form so muffled in coats and coverings as to be indistinguishable in that faint light.
“Put the case inside,” Deede Dawson said. “I'll help you.”
With some trouble they succeeded in getting the case in and Deede Dawson covered it carefully with a big rug.
When he had done so he stepped back.
“Ready, Ella?” he said.
“Yes,” answered the girl's soft and low voice that already Dunn could have sworn to amidst a thousand others.