Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 (15 page)

 
          
“WHAT
does this mean?” Phogor demanded, in the voice of a thunder spirit. He carried
a pistol with which he threatened Stover.

           
Reynardine sat up. Gasping and
choking, she managed to speak. “This man was hiding here, knowing that I would
come, so that he could attack me.

 
          
“Knowing
you would come?” echoed Stover sharply. “How would I know that? It was you who
attacked me— firing with your pistol.”

 
          
“You
said that the will would be hidden here,” she charged. “My stepfather knew that
I would head for this place. Undoubtedly you knew the same. And it was you who
attacked. I fired in self-defense.”

 
          
That
last was quite true. Stover felt abashed and angry with himself. Yet he did not
bring himself to apologize.

           
“I did not know it was you. I
thought it was a man,” he explained.

           
“Daughter, did he hurt you?” Phogor
asked. “Because if he did—”

 
          
“Careful,”
broke in Reynardine, who was suddenly the calmest of the three. “His body would
be a bad piece of evidence against you. Otherwise, it would give me great
pleasure to see you shoot him.”

 
          
Stover
was examining his sprained hand which ached after the scuffle. He hoped
devoutly that he had done his last fighting for the night, at least.

 
          
“Let
me explain one simple item of the business,” he attempted. “I know little or
nothing about the will. When you mentioned it at your own place, I asked if it
might be here. I didn’t say it was here. Indeed, I had no way of telling.
Perhaps we’ve both jumped at conclusions, Miss Reynardine.”

 
          
“You
are clever at explanations, Stover,” Phogor bellowed at him. His great
frog-mouth was hard-set and cruel, and he glared yellowly out of his blob eyes.
“I intend to escort you to the headquarters of Congreve. He will thank me for
this evidence against you.”

 
          
“But,”
returned Stover hastily, “
he
won’t fail to ask what
you were doing here.”

 
          
Reynardine
looked at her stepfather. “This man is a savage and perhaps a criminal, but he
speaks the truth,” she said. “It had better not be known that you and I came
here tonight.”

 
          
Phogor
shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of that. To Stover he said: “This means
that I won’t injure or detain you unless you do something to force action. But
you have struck and injured my daughter. That won’t pass without some
retaliation on my part later. Now I give you leave to go.”

 
          
“I
don’t need leave from you to go,” retorted Stover, and strode away toward the
balcony.

 
          
Feet
hurried after him. It was Reynardine.

 
          
“Mr.
Stover,” she breathed, “I’ve been catching back my wind and collecting my wits
all these past few moments. And, though it was I who got the slamming and
choking, I feel less upset about it than my stepfather. For one
thing,”
and she was able to smile quite graciously, “I
shouldn’t have suggested that you were a criminal^ I don’t really think you’re
guilty.”

 
          
“I
know I’m not guilty,” he returned, “but with everything so complicated and
mysterious, how can anyone else be sure about me—except the actual murderer of
your fiance?”

 
         
PHOGOR approached,
furious again. “You dare to insinuate that my daughter is guilty?”

           
“Mr. Stover is insinuating nothing,”
Reynardine calmed the Venusian. “He came here to search for evidence, just as
we did. And he is more unselfish. We want the will; he only wants a clue to the
murder.”

 
          
“I’m
being selfish, too,” Stover assured her, for something bade him be loath at
accepting favors from her. “I jammed myself into a situation where I must solve
this case or be the next victim, or maybe the victim after the next. Well, Miss
Reynardine, you’re being very kind. But what does this all mean?
Why this sudden new attitude on your part?”

 
          
“I
don’t know,” she said. “I think I trust you because you’re the best-built tall
man I ever saw, and with the bluest eyes. Yes,” she continued, touching her
throat, “and with the strongest hands. I’m able to testify that you fight both
hard and fair.” Phogor snorted like a horse in a rainstorm. “This, daughter, is
ridiculous. You know nothing about this man Stover.”

 
          
“Only
the things I have just said,” she replied to her father, but with her brilliant
eyes still on Stover. “I intend to learn more about him.”

 
          
Stover’s
reaction to this almost aggressive demonstration of approval was one of baffled
suspicion. He doubted if he was of such character and attraction as to sweep
this proud and artificial beauty so completely off her feet. Looking at her, he
knew that she could be a dangerous person if she cared to use her charm. Like a
saving vision came the thought of Bee MacGowan, still in prison that he might have
a chance to clear himself and her, too.

 
          
“You
leave me embarrassed, Miss Reynardine,” he said.
“So much so
that I’ll have to say good-night and depart.”

 
          
“Wait,”
she said. “Why don’t we come with you to your place and talk this thing out?”

 
          
“Talk
it out?” he repeated. “Well, come on. I’ll signal for a taxi.”

 
          
Buckalew
was waiting in the parlor as Stover let his self-invited guests in. One of
Buckalew’s hands held a fluttering gray cloth, the mantle that had cloaked the
figure Stover had met on the girders. With an exclamation, Stover snatched it
and looked at it.

 
          
“Where
did this come from?” he demanded.

 
          
“I
found it hidden in a corner of the balcony,” replied Buckalew. “Probably the
one who wore it dropped it there and hopped aboard one of the fleet planes that
came around to investigate. I also found the wiring that was used to magnetize
the walls. But who are these people?”

 
          
“You
know them.
Miss Reynardine Phogor and her stepfather.
They seem to feel that a round-robin discussion will clarify some points of the
Malbrook case.”

 
          
“Perhaps
they’re right,” said Buckalew. “Will you all sit down?”

 
          
REYNARDINE
drew herself up in queenly fashion. “I won’t sit down,” she said. “Mr. Stover,
I persuaded you to bring me here because I think you got something tonight that
I mean to have—the transcription that embodies the will of Mace Malbrook.”

 
          
He
looked into her searching eyes. “What makes you think that?”

 
          
“Because,
just before our little struggle, my torch showed me a wall- cupboard that had
been rayed open.
Nothing in it.
Well,” she held out her
hand, “give it to me. Father, if we have to be violent here it will be easier
explained than at poor Mace’s old lodgings.”

 
          
“That
is quite right, daughter,” agreed Phogor as he drew his pistol. “I think you
were clever to switch the scene of action here. Now, if you please, Mr.
Stover.”

 
          
“Hold
on!” cried Stover hotly, his
 
temper rising. “I’m handing nothing over
to you.”

 
          
“That,”
said Reyardine
Phogor,
“is an admission that you have
something.” She turned to her stepfather. “If he won’t hand it over, take it
from him.”

 
          
Buckalew
turned swiftly to a side- table and snatched open a drawer. But before he could
dart his hand into that drawer, Phogor fired a pellet that knocked the
side-table flying across the room. Out of the drawer fell a small handsome
electro-
automatic.

 
          
“No
weapons, Mr. Buckalew,” cautioned the Venusian deeply. “You had better stay out
of this altogether.” To Stover he said: “I give you one more chance, Mr.
Stover, to give me whatever you found at Malbrook’s.”

 
          
“Stover
will do nothing of the kind,” spoke the stern voice of Congreve.

 
          
The
police head had come in, all uninvited and unnoticed, and had heard most of
what had led up to the tense situation. He, too, held a drawn pistol. He
extended his free hand.

 
          
“I
take it you’ve finally got evidence,” he told Stover. “Well, hand it over. This
isn’t an amateur with a society gun, young fellow. It’s a police officer.
Quick!”

 
          
Stover
sighed in resignation and drew forth the papers he had found. Congreve accepted
them with a nod, moved back and looked through them quickly.

 
          
“Better
than I thought,” he commented. “Here’s the definite proof.”

 
          
Stover
took a step toward him. Congreve tried to put away the slip of paper, but
Stover spied some words on it.

 
          
Mr.
Malbrook:

 
          
I
did what you said to do about Dr. Stover. Now I want pay, or you’ll be ju6t as
dead. ...

 
          
“Who
wrote that?” demanded Stover, walking right up to the muzzle of Congreve’s
weapon.

 
          
“As
if you didn’t know,” Congreve grinned harshly. “It’s signed. And the man who
signed it is dead tonight.”

 
          
“I
didn’t have time to look at everything in that sheaf of notes,” Stover assured
him. “If it was written by—”

           
“You know whom it was written by.
They just fished him out of the water.” The grin vanished. “What was left of
him and Brome Fielding's flying
car.
”

 
         
SHARP!
It had been Captain Sharp, then, who had brought his grandfather to death—and
at the orders of Mace Malbrook. Congreve saw knowledge dawn in Stover’s face,
and chuckled. The police head plainly enjoyed a dramatic situation.

 
          
“You
want to make a statement and save everybody trouble?” he said. ‘‘Let me help
you. Sharp was hired to kill your grandfather. You met him at the Zaarr. You
quarreled. Later—” “You’re crazy!” exploded Stover. “I'd have gladly killed
both Malbrook and Sharp if I’d known they were guilty of murdering my
grandfather. He was an asset to the universe, while they were liabilities. But
I didn’t know, and someone else killed them.” Reynardine Phogor spoke up
hurriedly.

 
          
“I
can vouch for Mr. Stover. He has been with me almost all evening since leaving
the Zaarr.”

 
          
Phogor
and Buckalew stared at the girl. Stover laughed.

 
          
“Well
tried, Miss Reyardine,” he jibed. “You want Congreve to leave me here with you,
so that you can find out what else I know about this case, at pistol-point,
eh?” He addressed the officer again.
“If you please,
Congreve.”

 
          
He
was about to offer Congreve all the bits of evidence he had collected—
surmises, secrets, brief glimpses, the bit of elascoid fabric, everything. But
Congreve was so intent on something he had to say that he took no notice.

 
          
“Since
Stover won’t make an admission, it remains to convict him. He is right in
making a last-ditch stand of this. Someone may bob up yet as the guilty one.
But I want all concerned to come along with me.”