Chapter 6 of The Bat. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Alan Winterout. The Bat by Mary Robert Reinhart. Chapter 6, Detective Anderson takes charge. What's that? Somebody smashed a window pane and threw in a stone. Wait a minute, I'll... The doctor, all alert at once, ran into the alcove and jerked at the terrace door. It's bolted at the top, too, called Miss Cornelia. He nodded, without wasting words on her reply, unbolted the door and dashed out into the darkness of the terrace. Miss Cornelia saw him run past the French windows and disappear into blackness. Meanwhile, Dale, her listlessness vanished before the shock of the strange occurrence, had gone to the broken window and picked up the stone. It was wrapped in paper. There seemed to be writing on the paper. She closed the terrace door and brought the stone to her end. Miss Cornelia unwrapped the paper and smoothed out the sheet. Two lines of coarse, round handwriting sprawled across it. Take warning. Leave this house at once. It is threatened with disaster, which will involve you if you remain. There was no signature. Who do you think wrote it, asked Dale breathlessly? Miss Cornelia straightened up like a ramrod, indomitable. A fool, that's who. If anything was calculated to make me stay here forever, this sort of thing would do it. She twitched the sheet of paper angrily. But something may happen, darling. I hope so. That's the reason I... She stopped. The doorbell was ringing again, thrilling, insistent. Her knee started at the sound. Oh, don't let anybody in, she besought Miss Cornelia as Billy came in from the hall with his usual air of walking on velvet. Key. Front door, please. Bell ring, he explained tersely, taking the key from the table. Miss Cornelia issued instructions. See that the chain is on the door, Billy. Don't open it all the way and get the visitor's name before you let him in. She lowered her voice. If he says he is Mr. Anderson, let him in and take him to the library. Billy nodded and disappeared. Dale turned to her aunt, the color out of her cheeks. Anderson? Who is Mr... Miss Cornelia did not answer. She thought for a moment. Then she put her hand on Dale's shoulder in a gesture of protective affection. Dale, dear, you know how I love having you here, but it might be better if you went back to the city. Tonight, darling? Dale managed to want and smile, but Miss Cornelia seemed serious. There's something behind all this disturbance, something I don't understand, but I mean to. She glanced about to see if the doctor was returning. She lowered her voice. She drew Dale closer to her. The man in the library is a detective from police headquarters, she said. She had expected Dale to show surprise, excitement, but the white mask of horror which the girl turned toward her appalled her. The young body trembled under her hand for a moment like a leaf in the storm. Not the police, breathed Dale in tones of utter consternation. Miss Cornelia could not understand why the news had stirred her niece so deeply. But there was no time to puzzle it out. She heard crunching steps on the terrace. The doctor was returning. She whispered, it isn't necessary to tell the doctor. I think he's a sort of perambulating bedside gossip, and once it's known the police are here, will never catch the criminals. When the doctor entered from the terrace, brushing drops of rain from his no longer immaculate evening clothes, Dale was back on her favorite satis, and Miss Cornelia was pouring over the mysterious missive that had been wrapped about the stone. He got away in the shrubbery, said the doctor disgustedly, taking out a handkerchief to fleck the spots of mud from his shoes. Miss Cornelia gave him the letter of warning. Read this, she said. The doctor adjusted a pair of posne, read the two crude sentences over once, twice. Then he looked shrewdly at Miss Cornelia. Were the others like this, he queried. She nodded, practically. He hesitated for a moment like a man with an unpleasant social duty to face. Miss Van Gorder, may I speak frankly? Generally speaking, I detest frankness, said that lady grimly. But go on. The doctor tapped the letter. His face was wholly serious. I think you ought to leave this house, he said bluntly. Because of that letter? Huh. His very seriousness, perversely enough, made her suddenly wish to treat the whole matter as lightly as possible. The doctor repressed the obvious annoyance of a man who sees a warning given in all sobriety unexpectedly taken as a quip. There is some deviltry afoot, he persisted. You are not safe here, Miss Van Gorder. But if he was persistent in his attitude, so was she in hers. I've been safe in all kinds of houses for sixty odd years, she said lightly. It's time I had a bit of a change. Besides, she gestured towards her defenses. This house is as nearly impregnable as I can make it. The window locks are sound enough, the doors are locked, and the keys are there. She pointed to the keys lying on the table. As for the terrace door you just used, she went on. I had Billy put an extra bolt on it today. By the way, did you bolt that door again? She moved toward the alcove. Yes I did, said the doctor quickly, still seeming unconvinced with the wisdom of her attitude. Miss Van Gorder, I confess I'm very anxious for you. This letter is ominous. Have you any enemies? Don't insult me. Of course I have. Enemies are an indication of character. The doctor's smile held both masculine pity and equally masculine exasperation. He went on more gently. Why not accept my hospitality in the village tonight? He proposed reasonably. It's a little house, but I'll make you comfortable. Or he threw out his hands in the gesture of one who reasons with a willful child. If you won't come to me, let me stay here. Miss Cornelia hesitated for an instant. The proposition seemed logical enough. More than that, sensible, safe, and yet some indefinable feeling, hardly strong enough to be called a premonition, kept her from accepting it. Besides, she knew what the doctor did not, that help was waiting across the hall in the library. Thank you, no doctor, she said briskly, before she had time to change her mind. I'm not easily frightened, and tomorrow I intend to equip this house with burglar alarms on doors and windows, she went on defiantly. The incident, as far as she was concerned, was closed. She moved on into the alcove. The doctor stared at her, shaking his head. She tried the terrace door. There I knew it, she said triumphantly. Doctor, you didn't fasten that bolt. The doctor seemed a little taken aback. Oh, I'm sorry, he said. You only pushed it part of the way, she explained. She completed the task, and stepped back into the living room. The only thing that worries me now is that broken French window, she said thoughtfully. No one can reach a hand through it and open the latch. She came down toward the settee where Dale was sitting. Please doctor. Oh, what are you going to do, said the doctor, coming out of a brown study. I'm going to barricade that window, said Miss Cornelia firmly, already struggling to lift one end of the settee. But now Dale came to her rescue. Oh darling, you'll hurt yourself, let me. And between them, the doctor and Dale moved the heavy settee along until it stood in front of the window in question. The doctor stood up when the dusty task was finished, wiping his hands. It would take a furniture mover to get in there now, he said eerily. Miss Cornelia smiled. Well doctor, I'll say goodnight now and thank you very much, she said, extending her hand to the doctor, who bowed over it silently. Don't keep this young lady up too late, she looks tired. She flashed a look at Dale, who stood staring out at the night. I'll only smoke a cigarette, promised the doctor. Once more, his voice had a note of plea in it. You won't change your mind, he asked anew. Miss Dan Gorder's smile was obdurate. I have a great deal of mine, she said, it takes a long time to change it. Then having exercised her feminine privilege of the last word, she sailed out of the room, still smiling, and closed the door behind her. The doctor seemed a little nettle by her abrupt departure. It may be mine, he said, turning back toward Dale, but forgive me if I say, I think it seems more like foolhardy stubbornness. Dale turned away from the window. Then you think there is really danger? The doctor's eyes were grave. Well, those letters, he dropped the letter on the table. They mean something. Here you are, isolated the village two miles away and enough shrubbery around the place to hide a dozen assassins. If his manner had been in the slightest degree melodramatic, Dale would have found the ominous sentences more easy to discount. But this calm, intense statement of fact was a chill touch at her heart. And yet, but what enemies can Aunt Cornelia have? She asked helplessly. Any man will tell you what I do, said the doctor with increasing seriousness. He took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the case to emphasize his words. This is no place for two women practically alone. Dale moved away from him restlessly, two warmer hands at the fire. The doctor gave a quick glance around the room. Then unseen by her, he stepped noiselessly over to the table, took the matchbox there off its holder and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed a curiously useless and meaningless gesture, but his next words evinced that the action had been deliberate. I don't seem to be able to find any matches, he said with assumed carelessness, fiddling with the matchbox holder. Dale turned away from the fire. Oh, aren't there any? I'll get you some, she said with automatic politeness and started to search for them. The doctor watched her go, saw the door closed behind her, instantly his face set into tense and wary lines. He glanced about, then ran lightly into the alcove and noiselessly unfasten the bolt on the terrace door, which he had pretended to fasten after his search of the shrubbery. When Dale returned with the matches, he was back where he had been when she had left him, glancing at a magazine on the table. He thanked her urbanely as she offered him the box. So sorry to trouble you, but tobacco is the one drug every doctor forbids his patients and prescribes for himself. Dale smiled at the little joke. He lit his cigarette and drew in the fragrant smoke with a parent gusto, but a moment later he had crushed out the glowing end in an ashtray. By the way, has Miss Van Gorder a revolver? He queried casually, glancing at his wristwatch. Yes, she fired it off this afternoon to see if it would work. Dale smiled at the memory. The doctor too seemed amused. If she tries to shoot anything, for goodness sake stand behind her, he advised. He glanced at the wristwatch again. Well, I must be going. If anything happens, said Dale slowly, I shall telephone you at once. Her words seemed to disturb the doctor slightly, but only for a second. He grew even more urbane. I'll be home shortly after midnight, he said. I'm stopping at the Johnsons on my way, one of their children is ill or supposed to be. He took a step toward the door, then he turned toward Dale again. Take a parting word of advice, he said. The thing to do with the midnight prowler is, let him alone.  He said to Dale to see how she took the advice, his hand on the knob of the door. Thank you, said Dale seriously. Good night, doctor. Billy will let you out. He has the key. By Jove, laughed the doctor.  The place is like a fortress. Well, good night, Miss Dale. Good night. The door closed behind him. Dale was left alone. Suddenly her composure left her. The fixed smile died.  But it was like a curtain that had lifted for a moment on some secret tragedy and then fallen again. When Billy returned with the front door key, she was as impassive as he was. Has the new gardener come yet? He here, said Billy stolidly, named Brooke. She was entirely herself once more when Billy, departing, held the door open wide to admit Miss Cornelia Van Gorder and a tall, strong featured man quietly dressed with reticent piercing eyes, the detective. Dale's first conscious emotion was one of complete surprise.  Why, this man's a gentleman, she thought. At least he looks like one and yet, you can tell from his face he'd have as little mercy as a steel trap for anyone he had to catch. She shuddered uncontrollably. Dale, dear, said Miss Cornelia with triumph in her voice. This is Mr. Anderson. The newcomer bowed politely, glancing at her casually and then looking away. Miss Cornelia, however, was obviously in fine feather and relishing to the utmost the presence of a real detective in the house. This is the room I spoke of, she said briskly. All the disturbances have taken place around that terrace door. The detective took three swift steps into the alcove, glanced about it searchingly. He indicated the stairs. That is not the main staircase? No, the main staircase is out there. Miss Cornelia waved her hand in the direction of the hall. The detective came out of the alcove and paused by the French windows. I think there must be a conspiracy between the Architects Association and the House Breakers Union these days. He said grimly, look at all that glass. All a burglar needs is a piece of putty and a diamond cutter to break in. But the curious thing is, continued Miss Cornelia, got into the house, evidently had a key to that door. Again she indicated the terrace door, but Anderson did not seem to be listening to her. Hello, what's this? He said sharply. His eyes lighting on the broken glass below the shattered French window. He picked up a piece of glass and examined it. Dale cleared her throat. It was broken from the outside a few minutes ago, she said. The outside? He said he had pulled aside a blind and was staring out into the darkness. Yes, and then that letter was thrown in. She pointed to the threatening missive on the center table. Anderson picked it up, glanced through it, laid it down. All his movements were quick and sure, each executed with the minimum expense of effort. Hmm, he said in a calm voice that held a glint of humor. Curious, the anonymous letter complex. Apparently someone considers you an undesirable tenant. Miss Cornelia took up the tale. There are some things I haven't told you yet, she said. This house belonged to the late courtly Fleming. He glanced at her sharply. The union bank? Yes, I rented it for the summer and moved in last Monday. We have not had a really quiet night since I came. The very first night I saw a man with an electric flashlight making his way through the shrubbery. You poor deer, from Dale sympathetically, and you were here alone? Well, I had Lizzie and said Miss Cornelia with enormous importance, opening the drawer of the center table. I had my revolver. I know so little about these things, Mr. Anderson, that if I didn't hit a burglar, I knew I'd hit somebody or something. She gazed with innocent awe directly down the muzzle of her beloved weapon, then waved it with an airy gesture beneath the detective's nose. Anderson gave an involuntary start, then his eyes lit up with grim mirth. Would you mind putting that away, he said, swavly? I like to get in the papers as much as anybody, but I don't want to have them say, omit flowers. Miss Cornelia gave him a glare of offended pride, but he endured it with such quiet equanimity that she merely replaced her revolver in the drawer and waited for him to open the next topic of conversation. He finished his preliminary survey of the room and returned to her. Now you say you don't think anybody has got upstairs, he queried? Miss Cornelia regarded the alcove stairs. I think not.  He's in them again tonight. She nodded toward the evening paper. The detective smiled faintly. Yes, he's contrived to surround himself with such an air of mystery that it verges on the supernatural, or seems that way to newspaper men. I confess, admitted Miss Cornelia, I've thought of him in this connection. She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the suggestion, but the latter merely smiled again, this time more broadly. That's going rather a long way for a theory, he said, and the bat is not in the habit of giving warnings. Nevertheless, she insisted, somebody has been trying to get into this house night after night. Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind. Any liquor stored here, he asked? Miss Cornelia nodded. Yes? What? Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. Eleven bottles of homemade elderberry wine. You're safe, the detective smiled ruefully. He picked up the evening paper, glanced at it, shook his head. I forget the bat in all this. You can always tell when the bat has had anything to do with the crime. When he's through, he signs his name to it. Miss Cornelia sat bolt upright. His name? I thought nobody knew his name. The detective made a little gesture of apology. That was a figure of speech. The newspapers named him the bat, because he moves with incredible rapidity, always at night, and by signing his name, I mean he leaves the symbol of his identity, the bat, which can see in the dark. I wish I could, said Miss Cornelia, striving to seem unimpressed. These country lights are always going out. Anderson's face grew stern. Sometimes he draws the outline of a bat at the scene of the crime. Once in some way, he got hold of a real bat and nailed it to the wall. Dale, listening, could not repress a shudder at the gruesome picture, and Miss Cornelia's hands gave an involuntary twitch as her knitting needles clacked together. Anderson seemed by no means unconscious of the effect he had created. How many people in this house, Miss Van Gorder? My niece and myself, Miss Cornelia indicated Dale, who had picked up her wrap and was starting to leave the room. Lizzie Allen, who has been my personal maid ever since I was a child, the Japanese butler and the gardener. The cook and the housemaid left this morning, frightened away. She smiled as she finished her description. Dale reached the door and passed slowly out into the hall. The detective gave her a single sharp glance as she made her exit. He seemed to think over the factors Miss Cornelia had mentioned. Well, he said after a slight pause, you can have a good night's sleep tonight. I'll stay right here in the dark and watch. Would you like some coffee to keep you awake? Anderson nodded. Thank you. His voice sank lower. Do the servants know who I am? Only Lizzie, my maid. His eyes fixed hers. I wouldn't tell anyone I'm remaining up all night, he said. A formless fear rose in Miss Cornelia's mind. You don't suspect my household, she said in a low voice. He spoke with emphasis, all the more pronounced because of the quietude of his tone. I'm not taking any chances, he said determinedly. End of Chapter 6 Recording by Alan Winteroud BoomCoach.blogspot.com Chapter 7 of The Bat This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winteroud The Bat by Mary Robert Reinhart Chapter 7 Cross Questions and Crooked Answers All unconscious of the slur just cast upon her 40 years of single-minded devotion to the Van Border family. Lizzie chose that particular moment to open the door and make a little bob at her mistress and the detective. The gentleman's room is ready, she said meekly. In her mind, she was already beseeching her patron saint that she would not have to show the gentleman to his room. Her ideas of detectives were entirely drawn from sensational magazines and her private opinion was that Anderson might have anything in his pocket from a set of terrifying false whiskers to a bomb. Miss Cornelia, obedient to the detective's instructions, promptly told the whitest of fibs for Lizzie's benefit. The maid will show you to your room now and you can make yourself comfortable for the night.  My toilet is made for an occasion like this when I've got my gun loaded, answered Anderson carelessly. The allusion to the gun made Lizzie start nervously, unhappily for her, for it drew his attention to her and he now transfixed her with a stare. Is this the maid you're referring to? He inquired. Miss Cornelia assented. He drew nearer to the unhappy Lizzie. What's your name? He asked, turning to her. Elizabeth Allen stammered Lizzie, feeling like a small and distrustful sparrow in the toils of an officious python. Anderson seemed to run through a mental rose gallery of other criminals named Elizabeth Allen that he had known. How old are you? he proceeded. Lizzie looked at her mistress despairingly. Have I got to answer that? she wailed. Miss Cornelia nodded inexorably. Lizzie braced herself. Thirty-two, she said, with an arched toss of her head. The detective looked surprised and slightly amused. She's fifty if she's a day, said Miss Cornelia treacherously, in spite of a look from Lizzie that would have melted a stone. The trace of a smile appeared and vanished on the detective's face. Now Lizzie, do you ever walk in your sleep? I do not, said Lizzie indignantly. Don't care for the country, I suppose. I do not, or detectives. Anderson deigned to be facetious. I do not. There could be no doubt as to the sincerity of Lizzie's answer. All right, Lizzie, be calm. I can stand it, said the detective with treacherous suavity. But he favored her with a long and careful scrutiny before he moved to the table and picked up the note that had been thrown through the window. Quietly, he extended it beneath Lizzie's nose. Ever see this before, he said crisply, watching her face? Lizzie read the note with bulging eyes, her face horror-stricken. When she had finished, she made a gesture of wild disclaimer that nearly removed a portion of Anderson's left ear. Mercy on us, she moaned, mentally invoking not only her patron saint but all the rosary of heaven to protect herself and her mistress. But the detective still kept his eye on her. Didn't write it yourself, did you? He queried curtly, I did not, said Lizzie angrily. I did not. And you're sure you don't walk in your sleep? The bear idea strained Lizzie's nerves to the breaking point. When I go to bed in this house, I wouldn't put my feet out for a million dollars, she said with heartfelt candor. Even Anderson was compelled to grin at this. Then I won't ask you to, he said, relaxing considerably. That's more money than I'm worth, Lizzie. Well, I'll say it is, quote Lizzie, now thoroughly aroused and flounced out of the room in high-dudgeon, her pompadour bristling before he had time to interrogate her further. He replaced the note on the table and turned back to Miss Cornelia. He had found any clue to the mystery in Lizzie's demeanor. She could not read it in his manner. Now, what about the butler, he said? Nothing about him, except that he was courtly Fleming's servant. Anderson paused. Do you consider that significant? A shadow appeared behind him deep in the alcove, a vague listening figure, Dale on tiptoe, conspiratorial, taking pains not to draw the attention of the others to her presence. But both Miss Cornelia and Anderson were too engrossed in their conversation to notice her. Miss Cornelia hesitated. Isn't it possible there is a connection between the colossal theft at the Union Bank and these disturbances, she said? Anderson seemed to think over the question. What do you mean, he asked, as Dale slowly moved into the room from the alcove, silently closing the alcove doors behind her and still unobserved. Suppose, said Miss Cornelia slowly, that courtly Fleming took that money from his own bank and concealed it in this house. The eavesdropper grew rigid. That's the theory you gave headquarters, isn't it? Said Anderson. But I'll tell you how headquarters figures it out. In the first place, the cashier is missing. In the second place, if courtly Fleming did it not as far as Colorado, he had it with him when he died. And the facts apparently don't bear that out. In the third place, suppose he had hidden the money in or around this house, why did he rent it to you? But he didn't, said Miss Cornelia obstinately. I leased this house from his nephew, his heir. The detective smiled tolerantly. Well, I wouldn't struggle like that for a theory, he said, the professional note coming back into his voice. The cashier is missing, that's the answer. Miss Cornelia resented his offhand demotion of the mental card castle she had erected with such pride. I have read a great deal on the detection of crime, she said hotly, and, well, we all have our little hobbies, he said tolerantly.  The fact is that the criminal takes care of the big and important factors, it's only the little ones he may overlook. Go back to your friend the bat, it's because of his skill and the little things that he's still at large. Then you don't think there's a chance that the money from the union bank is in this house, persisted Miss Cornelia? I think it very unlikely. Miss Cornelia put her knitting away and rose. She still clung tenaciously to her own theories, but her belief in them had been badly shaken. If you'll come with me, I'll show you to your room, she said a little stiffly. The detective stepped back to let her pass. Sorry to spoil your little theory, he said, and followed her to the door. If either had noticed the unobtrusive listener to their conversation, neither made a sign. The moment the door closed on them, Dale sprang into action. She seemed a different girl from the one who had left the room so inconspicuously such a short time before. There were two bright spots of color in her cheeks and she was obviously laboring under great excitement. She went quickly to the alcove doors. They opened softly, disclosing the young man who had said that he was Brooks, the new gardener, and yet not the same man. For his assumed air of servitude had dropped from him like a cloak, revealing him as a young fellow at least of the same general social class as Dale's, if not a fellow inhabitant of the select circle where Van Gorder's revolved around Van Gorder's, and a man's great-grandfather was more important than the man himself. Dale cautioned him with a warning finger as she advanced into the room. Shh, shh, she whispered. Be careful, that man's a detective. Brooks gave a hundred glance at the door into the hall. Then they've traced me here, he said in a dejected voice. I don't think so. He made a gesture of helplessness. I couldn't get back into my rooms, he said in a whisper. If they've searched them, he paused. As they're sure to, they'll find your letters to me. He paused again. Your aunt doesn't suspect anything. No, I told her I'd engaged a gardener, and that's all there was about it. He came nearer to her. Dale, he murmured in a tense voice, you know I didn't take that money, he said with boyish simplicity. All the loyalty of first love was in her answer. Of course, I believe in you absolutely, she said. He caught her in his arms and kissed her, gratefully, passionately. Then the galling memory of the predicament in which he stood, already on his trail, came back to him. He released her gently, still holding one of her hands. But, but the police here, he stammered turning away. What does that mean? Dale swiftly informed him of the situation. Aunt Cornelia says people have been trying to break into this house for days at night. Brooks ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of bewilderment. Then he seemed to catch at a hope. What sort of people, he queried sharply. Dale was puzzled, she doesn't know. The excitement in her lover's manner came to a head. That proves exactly what I've contended right along, he said, thudding one fist softly into the palm of the other. Through some underneath channel, old Fleming has been selling those securities for months, turning them into cash. And somebody knows about it and knows that that money is hidden here. See, your Aunt Cornelia has crabbed the game by coming here. Why didn't you tell the police that? Now they think, because you ran away, ran away, the only chance I had was a few hours to myself to try to prove what actually happened. Why don't you tell the detective what you think? Said Dale at her wit's ends. That courtly Fleming took the money and that it is still here. Her lover's face grew somber. He'd take me into custody at once and I'd have no chance to search. He was searching now, his eyes roved about the living room, walls, ceiling, hopefully, desperately looking for a clue, the tiniest clue to support his theory. Why are you so sure it is here? queried Dale. Brooks explained. You must remember that Fleming was no ordinary defaulter and he had no intention of being exiled to a foreign country. He wanted to come back here and take his place in the community while I was in the pen. But even then, he interrupted her. Listen, dear, he crossed to the billiard room door, closed it firmly, returned. The architect that built this house was an old friend of mine, he said in hushed accents. We were together in France and you know the way fellows get to talking when they're far away and cut off. He paused, seeing the cruel gleam of the flamethrowers, two figures huddled in a foxhole, wiling away the terrible hours of waiting by muttered talk. Just an hour or two before a shell got this friend of mine, he resumed, he told me he had built a hidden room in this house. Where? gasped Dale. Brooks shook his head, I don't know. We never got to finish that conversation, but I remember what he said. He said, you watch old Fleming. If I get mine over here, it won't break his heart. He didn't want any living being to know about that room. Now Dale was as excited as he. Then you think the money is in this hidden room? I do, said Brooks decidedly. I don't think Fleming took it away with him. He was too shrewd for that. No, he meant to come back all right. The minute he got word, the bank had been looted and he fixed things so I'd be railroaded to prison. You wouldn't understand, but it was pretty neat. And then the fool nephew rents this house the minute he's dead and whoever knows about the money, Jack, why isn't it the nephew who is trying to break in? He wouldn't have to break in. He could make an excuse and come in anytime. He clenched his hands despairingly. If I could only get hold of a blueprint of this place. Dale's face fell. It was sickening to be so close to the secret and yet not find it. Oh Jack, I'm so confused and worried she confessed with a little sob. Brooks put his hands on her shoulders in an effort to cheer her spirits. Now listen dear, he said firmly. This isn't as hard as it sounds. I've got a clear night to work in and as true as I'm standing here, that money's in this house. Listen honey, it's like this. He pantomimed the old nursery rhyme of the house that Jack built. Here's the house that Courtly Fleming built. Here somewhere is the hidden room in the house that Courtly Fleming built. And here somewhere pray heaven is the money in the hidden room in the house that Courtly Fleming built. When you're low in your mind just say that over. She managed a faint smile. I've forgotten it already, she said drooping. He still strove for an offhand gaiety that he did not feel. Why look here? And she followed the play of his hands obediently, like a tired child. It's a sort of game, dearest. Money money, who's got the money? You know. For the dozenth time he stared at the unrevealing walls of the room. For that matter, he added, the hidden room may be behind these very walls. He looked about for a tool, a poker, anything that would sound the walls and test them for hollow spaces. Ah, he had it. That driver in the bag of golf clubs over in the corner. He took the driver and stood wondering where he had best begin. That blank wall above the fireplace looked as promising as any. He tapped it gently with the golf club, afraid to make too much noise and yet anxious to test the wall as thoroughly as possible. A dull, heavier reverberation answered his stroke. Nothing hollow there, apparently. As he tried another spot, again thunder beat the long roll on its iron drum outside in the night. The lights blinked, wavered, recovered. The lights are going out again, said Dale Dully. Her excitement sunk into supified calm. Let them go. The less light, the better for me. The only thing to do is to go over this house room by room. He pointed to the billiard room door. What's in there? The billiard room. She was thinking hard. Jack, perhaps courtly Fleming's nephew, would know where the blueprints are. He looked dubious. It's a chance, but not a very good one, he said. Well, he led the way into the billiard room and began to rap at random upon its walls, while Dale listened intently for any echo that might betray the presence of a hidden chamber or sliding panel. Then it happened that Lizzie received the first real thrill of what was to prove to her and to others a sensational and hideous night. For coming into the living room to lay a cloth for Mr. Anderson's night suppers, not only did the lights blink threateningly and a thunder roll, but a series of spirit raps was certainly to be heard coming from the region of the billiard room. Oh my god, she wailed. In the next instant the lights went out, leaving her in inky darkness. With a loud shriek, she bolted out of the room. Thunder, lightning, dashing of rain on the streaming glass of the windows, the storm hallowed its hounds. Dale huddled close to her lover as they groped their way back to the living room cautiously, doing their best to keep from stumbling against some heavy piece of furniture whose fall would arouse the house. There's a candle on the table, Jack, if I could find the table. Her outstretched hands touched a familiar object. Yes, here it is. She fumbled for a moment. Have you any matches? Yes. He struck one, another, lit the candle, set it down on the table. In the weak glow of the little taper whose tiny flame illuminated but a portion of the living room, his face looked tense and strained. It's pretty nearly hopeless, he said, if all the walls are paneled like that. As if in mockery of his words and his quest, a muffled knocking that seemed to come from the ceiling of the very room he stood in answered his despair. What's that? Gasped Dale. They listened. The knocking was repeated. Knock, knock, knock, knock. Someone else is looking for the hidden room, Muddered Brooks, gazing up at the ceiling intently as if he could tear from it the secret of this new mystery by sheer strength of will. End of Chapter 7. Recording by Alan Winteroud, boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 8 of The Bat This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winteroud. The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhardt. Chapter 8, The Gleaning Eye. It's upstairs. Dale took a step toward the alcove stairs. Brooks halted her. Who's in this house besides ourselves, he queried. Only the detective and Cornelia, Lizzie and Billy. Billy's the Jap? Yes. Brooks paused at instant. Does he belong to your aunt? No. He was courtly Fleming's butler. Knock, knock, knock, knock. The dull methodical wrapping on the ceiling of the living room began again. Courtly Fleming's butler, eh? Muddered Brooks. He put down his candle and stole noiselessly into the alcove. It may be the Jap, he whispered. Knock, knock, knock, knock. This time the mysterious wrapping seemed to come from the upper hall. If it's the Jap, I'll get him. Brooks' voice was tense with resolution. He hesitated, made for the hall door. Tiptoed out into the darkness around the main staircase, leaving Dale alone in the living room beset by shadowy terrors. Utter silence succeeded his noiseless departure. Even the storm lulled for a moment. Dale stood thinking, wondering, searching desperately for some way to help her lover. At last a resolution formed in her mind. She went to the city telephone. Hello? She said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure she was not overhood. One, two, four, please. Yes, that's right. Hello? Is that the country club? Is Mr. Richard Fleming there? Yes, I'll hold the wire. She looked about nervously. Had something moved in that corner of blackness where her candle did not pierce? No, how silly of her. Buzz buzz on the telephone. She picked up the receiver again. Hello? Is this Mr. Fleming? This is Ms. Ogden, Dale Ogden. I know it must seem odd my calling you this late, but I wonder if you could come over here for a few minutes. Yes, tonight. Her voice grew stronger. I wouldn't trouble you, but it's awfully important. Hold the wire a moment. She put down the phone and made another swift survey of the room. Listened furtively at the door, all clear. She returned to the phone. Hello? Mr. Fleming? I'll wait outside the house on the drive. It's a confidential matter. Thank you very much. She hung up the phone, relieved. Not an instant too soon, for as she crossed toward the fireplace to add a new log to the dying glow of the fire, the hall door opened and Anderson the detective came softly in with an unlighted candle in his hand. Her composure almost deserted her. How much had he heard? What deduction would he draw if he had heard? An assignation perhaps? Well, she could stand that. She could stand anything to secure the next few hours of liberty for Jack. For that length of time, she and the law were at war. She and this man were at war. But his first words relieved her fears. Spooky sort of place in the dark, isn't it? He said casually. Yes, rather. If he would only go away before Brooks came back or Richard Fleming arrived, but he seemed in a distressingly chatty frame of mind. Left me upstairs without a match, continued Anderson. I found my way down by walking part of the way and falling the rest. Don't suppose I'll ever find the room I left my toothbrush in. He laughed, lighting the candle in his hand from the candle on the table.  Said Dale nervously, hoping he would take the hint. But he seemed entirely oblivious of such minor considerations as sleep. He took out a cigar. Oh, I may doze a bit, he said. He eyed her with a certain approval. She was a darned pretty girl and she looked intelligent. I suppose you have a theory of your own about these intrusions you've been having here or apparently having. I knew nothing about them until tonight. Still, he persisted conversationally, you know about them now. But when she remained silent, is Miss Van Gorder usually of a nervous temperament? Imagine she sees things and all that? I don't think so. Dale's voice was strained. Where was Brooks? What had happened to him? Anderson pulled on his cigar, pondering. Know the flimmings, he asked. I've met Richard Fleming once or twice. Something in her tone caused him to glance at her. Nice fellow. I don't know him at all well. Know the cashier of the Union Bank? He shot at her suddenly. No! She strove desperately to make the denial convincing, but she could not hide the little tremor in her voice. The detective mused. Fellow of good family, I understand. He said, eyeing her. Very popular. That's what's behind most of these bank embezzlement. Men getting into society and spending more than they make. Dale hailed the tinkle of the city telephone with an inward sigh of relief. The detective moved to answer the house phone on the wall by the alcove, mistaking the direction of the ring. Dale corrected him quickly. No, the other one. That's the house phone. Anderson looked the apparatus over. No connection with the outside, eh? No, said Dale absentmindedly, just from room to room in the house. He accepted her explanation and answered the other telephone. Hello? Hello? What the? He moved the receiver hook up and down without result and gave it up. This line sounds dead, he said. It was alright a few minutes ago, said Dale without thinking. You were using it a few minutes ago? She hesitated. What used to deny what she had already admitted for all practical purposes? Yes. The city telephone rang again. The detective pounced upon it. Hello? Yes? Yes? This is Anderson. Go ahead. He paused while the tiny voice in the receiver buzzed for some seconds. Then he interrupted it impatiently. You're sure of that, are you? I see. Alright. Bye. He hung up the receiver and turned swiftly on Dale. Did I understand you to say that you were not acquainted with the cashier of the Union Bank? He said to her with a new note in his voice. Dale stared ahead of her blankly. It had come. She did not reply. Anderson went on ruthlessly. That was headquarters, Miss Ogden. They have found some letters in Bailey's room, which seemed to indicate that you were not telling the entire truth just now. He paused, waiting for her answer. What letters? She said wearily. From you to Jack Bailey, showing that you had recently become engaged to him. Dale decided to make a clean breast of it, or as clean a one as she dared. Very well, she said in an even voice. That's true. Why didn't you say so before? There was menace beneath his suavity. She thought swiftly. A parent frankness seemed to be the only resource left her. She gave him a candid smile. It's been a secret. I haven't even told my aunt yet. Now she let indignation color her tones.  Do you think he would wreck his future like that? Some people wouldn't call it wrecking a future to lay away a million dollars, said Anderson ominously. He came closer to Dale, fixing her with his eyes. Do you know where Bailey is now? He spoke slowly and menacingly. She did not flinch. No. The detective paused. Miss Ogden, he said, still with that hidden threat in his voice. In the last minute or so, the Union Bank case and certain things in this house have begun to tie up pretty close together. Bailey disappeared this morning. Have you heard from him a sense? Her eyes met his without weakening. Her voice was cool and composed. No. The detective did not comment on her answer. She could not tell from his face whether he thought she had told the truth or lied. He turned away from her brusquely. I'll ask you to bring Miss Van Gore over here, he said in his professional voice. Why do you want her? Dale blazed at him rebelliously. He was quiet. Because this case is taking on a new phase. You don't think I know anything about that money? She said a little wildly, hoping that a display of sham anger might throw him off the trail he seemed to be following. He seemed to accept her words cynically at their face value. No, he said, but you know somebody who does. Dale hesitated, sought for a biting retort, found none. It did not matter, any respite, no matter how momentary, from these probing questions would be her a leaf. She silently took one of the lighted candles and left the living room to search for her aunt. Left alone, the detective reflected for a moment. Then picking up the one lighted candle that remained commenced a systematic examination of the living room. His methods were thorough, but if when he came to the end of his quest he had made any new discoveries, the reticent composure of his face did not betray the fact. When he had finished, he turned patiently toward the billiard room. The little flame of his candle was swallowed up in its dark recesses. He closed the door of the living room behind him. The storm was dying away now, but a few flashes of lightning still flickered, lighting up the darkness of the deserted living room now and then with a harsh, brief glare. A lightning flash, a shadow cast abruptly on the shade of one of the French windows to disappear as abruptly as the flash was blotted out. The shadow of a man, a prowler, feeling his way through the lightning-slash darkness to the terrace door. The detective? Brooks? The bath? The lightning flash was too brief for any observer to have recognized a stealing shape if any observer had been there. But the lack of an observer was promptly remedied. Just as the shadowy shape reached the terrace door and its shadow fingers closed over the knob, Lizzie entered the deserted living room on stumbling feet. She was carrying a tray of dishes and food, some cold meat on a platter, a cup and saucer, a roll, a butter pat, and she walked slowly with terror only one leap behind her and blank darkness ahead. She had only reached the table and was preparing to deposit her tray and beat a shameful retreat when a sound behind her made her turn. The key in the door from the terrace to the alcove had clicked. Paralyzed with fright, she stared and waited, and the next moment a formless thing, a blacker shadow in a world of shadows, passed swiftly in and up the small staircase. But not only a shadow, to Lizzie's terrified eyes it bore an eye, a single gleaming eye, just above the level of the stair rail, and this eye was turned on her. It was too much. She dropped the tray on the table with a crash and gave vent to a piercing shriek that would have shamed the siren of a fire engine. Miss Cornelia and Anderson, rushing in from the hall in the billiard room respectively, each with a lighted candle, found her gasping and clutching at the table for support. For the love of heaven, what's wrong? cried Miss Cornelia irritably. The coffee pot she was carrying, in her other hand, spilled a portion of its boiling contents on Lizzie's shoe and Lizzie screamed anew and began to dance up and down on the uninjured foot. Oh, my foot! My foot! She squealed hysterically. My foot! Miss Cornelia tried to shake her back to her senses. My patience! Did you yell like that because you stubbed your toe? You scalded it! cried Lizzie wildly. It went up the staircase. Your toe went up the staircase? No, no. An eye. An eye as big as a saucer. It ran right up that staircase. She indicated the alcove with a trembling forefinger. Miss Cornelia put her coffee pot and her candle down on the table and opened her mouth to express her frank opinion of her factorial sanity. But here the detective took charge. Now, see here, he said with some sternness to the quaking Lizzie, stop this racket and tell me what you saw. A ghost! persisted Lizzie, still hopping around on one leg. It came right through that door and ran up the stairs. Oh! And she seemed prepared to scream again as Dale, white-faced, came in from the hall, followed by Billy and Brooks, the latter holding still another candle. Who screamed? said Dale tensely. I did, Lizzie wailed. I saw a ghost. She turned to Miss Cornelia. I begged you not to come here, she vociferated. I begged you on my bend and knees. There's a graveyard not a quarter of a mile away. Yes, and one more scare like that, Lizzie Allen, and you'll have me lying in it, said her mistress unsympathetically. She moved up to examine the scene of Lizzie's ghostly misadventure, while Anderson began to interrogate its heroine. Now, Lizzie, he said, forcing himself to her vanity, what did you really see? I told you what I saw. His manner grew somewhat threatening. You're not trying to frighten Miss Van Gorder into leaving this house and going back to the city. Well, if I am, said Lizzie with a grim, unconscious humor, then I'm giving myself an awful good scare, too, ain't I? The two glared at each other as Miss Cornelia returned from her survey of the alcove. Somebody who had a key could have got in here, Mr. Anderson, she said annoyedly. That terrace door has been unbolted from the inside. Lizzie groaned. I told you so, she wailed. I knew something was going to happen tonight. I hear wrappings all over the house today, and the Ouija board spelled bat. The detective recovered his poise. I think I see the answer to your puzzle, Miss Van Gorder. He said with a scornful glance at Lizzie. A hysterical and not very reliable woman, anxious to go back to the city, and terrified over and over by the shutting off of the electric lights. If looks could slay, this characterization of Lizzie would have laid him dead at her feet at that instant. Miss Van Gorder considered his theory. I wonder, she said. The detective rubbed his hands together more cheerfully. A good night's sleep and, he began, but the irrepressible Lizzie interrupted him. My God, we're not going to bed, are we? She said, with her eyes as big as saucers. He gave her a kindly pat on the shoulder, which she obviously resented. You'll feel better in the morning, he said. Lock your door and say your prayers, and leave the rest to me. Lizzie muttered something inaudible and rebellious. But now Miss Cornelia added her protestations to his. That's very good advice, she said decisively. You take her, Dale. Reluctantly, with a dragging of feet and scared glances cast back over her shoulder, Lizzie allowed herself to be drawn toward the door and the main staircase by Dale. But she did not depart without one Parthian shot. I'm not going to bed, she wailed as Dale's strong young arm helped her out into the hall. Do you think I want to wake up in the morning with my throat cut? Then the creaking of the stairs and Dale's soothing voice reassuring her as she painfully clambered toward the third floor announced that Lizzie, for some time at least, had been removed as an active factor for the puzzling equation of cedar crest. Anderson confronted Miss Cornelia with certain relief. There are certain things I want to discuss with you, Miss Van Gorder, he said, but they can wait until tomorrow morning. Miss Cornelia glanced about the room. His manner was reassuring. Do you think all this pure imagination, she said? Don't you? She hesitated. I'm not sure. He laughed. I'll tell you what I'll do. You go upstairs and go to bed comfortably. I'll make a careful search of the house before I settle down. And if I find anything at all suspicious, I'll promise to let you know. She agreed to that, and after sending the jab out for more coffee, prepared to go upstairs. Never had the thought of her own comfortable bed appealed to her so much, but in spite of her weariness, she could not quite resign herself to take Lizzie's story as lightly as the detective seemed to. If what Lizzie says is true, she said, taking her candle. The upper floors of the house are even less safe than this one. I imagine Lizzie's account just now is about as reliable as her previous one as to her age, Anderson assured her. I'm certain you need not worry.  I'm sure you need it. On which ambiguous remark, Miss Van Gorder took her leave, rather grimly smiling. It was after she had gone that Anderson's glance fell on Brooks, standing warily in the doorway. What are you, the gardener? But Brooks was prepared for him. Ordinarily I'd drive a car, he said. Just now I'm working on the place here. Anderson was observing him closely, with the eyes of a man ransacking his memory for a name, a picture. I've seen you somewhere, he went on slowly, and I'll place you before long. There was a little threat in his shrewd scrutiny. He took a step towards Brooks. Not in the portrait gallery at headquarters, are you? Not yet. Brooks' voice was resentful. Then he remembered his pose, and his bat-crew supple, his whole attitude that of the respectful servant. Well, we slip up now and then, said the detective slowly. Then apparently he gave up his search for the name, the pictured face. But his manner was still suspicious. All right, Brooks, he said tersely. If you're needed in the night, you'll be called. Brooks bowed. Very well, sir. He closed the door softly behind him, glad to have escaped as well as he had. But that he had not entirely lulled the detective's watchfulness to rest, was evident as soon as he had gone. Anderson waited a few seconds, then moved noiselessly over to the hall door. Listened, opened it suddenly, closed it again. Then he proceeded to examine the alcove, the stairs where the gleaming eye had wavered like a corpse candle before Lizzie's affrighted vision. He tested the terrace door and bolted it. How much truth had there been in her story? He could not decide, but he drew out his revolver nevertheless, and gave it a quick inspection to see if it was in working order. A smile crept over his face. The smile of a man who has dangerous work to do and does not shirk from the prospect. He put the revolver back in his pocket, and taking the one lighted candle remaining, went out by the hall door as the storm burst forth in fresh fury, and the window panes of the living room rattled before a new reverberation of thunder. For a moment in the living room, except for the thunder, all was silence. Then the creak of surreptitious footsteps broke the stillness, light footsteps descending the alcove stairs where the gleaming eye had passed. It was Dale slipping out of the house to keep her appointment with Richard Fleming. She carried a raincoat over her arm and a pair of rubbers in one hand. Her other hand held a candle. By the terrace door she paused, unbolted it, glanced out at the streaming night with a shiver. Then she came into the living room and sat down to put on her rubbers. Hardly had she begun to do so when she started up again. A muffled knocking sounded at the terrace door. It was ominous and determined, and in a panic of terror she rose to her feet. If it was the law come after Jack, what should she do? Or again, suppose it was the unknown who had threatened them with death. Not coherent thoughts of these, but chaotic, bringing panic with them. Almost unconscious of what she was doing, she reached into the drawer beside her, secured the revolver there, and leveled it at the door. End of Chapter 8. Recording by Alan Winterout BoomCoach.blogspot.com Chapter 9 of The Bat This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winterout The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhart Chapter 9. A Shot in the Dark A key clicked in the terrace door. A voice swore muffledly at the rain. Dale lowered her revolver slowly. It was Richard Fleming coming to meet her here instead of down by the drive. She had telephoned him on an impulse, but now as she looked at him in the light of her single candle, she wondered if this rather dissipated, rather foppish young man about town in his early thirties could possibly understand and appreciate the motives that had driven her to seek his aid. Still, it was for Jack. She clenched her teeth and resolved to go through with the plan mapped out in her mind. It might be a desperate expedient, but she had nowhere else to turn. Fleming shut the terrace door behind him and moved down from the alcove, trying to shake the rain from his coat. Did I frighten you? Oh, Mr. Fleming, yes. Dale laid her answer revolver down on the table. Fleming perceived her nervousness and made a gesture of apology. I'm sorry, he said. I rapped, but nobody seemed to hear me, so I used my key. You're wet through. I'm sorry. Said Dale with mechanical politeness. He smiled. Oh, no.  Reggie Beresford brought me over in his car, he said. He's waiting down the drive. Dale decided not to waste words in the usual common places of social greeting. Mr. Fleming, I'm in dreadful trouble.  He made a polite movement. Oh, I say, that's too bad. She plunged on. The Union Bank closed today. He laughed lightly. Yes, I know it. I didn't have anything in it or any other bank for that matter, he admitted ruefully. But I hate to see the old thing go to smash. Dale wondered which angle was best from which to present her appeal. Well, even if you haven't lost anything in this bank failure, a lot of your friends have, surely, she went on. I'll say so, said Fleming, debonarily. Beresford is sitting down the road and is packered now writhing with pain. Dale hesitated. Fleming's lightness seemed so incorrigible that, for a moment, she was on the verge of giving her project up entirely. Then, waster or not, he's the only man who can help us.  Fleming chuckled, missing the poor with a wave of his hand. Oh well, the poor are always in trouble, he said with airy heartlessness. They specialize in suffering. He extracted a monogrammed cigarette from a thin gold case. But look here, he went on, moving closer to Dale. You didn't sin for me to discuss this hypothetical poor depositor, did you? Mind if I smoke? No. He lit his cigarette and puffed at it with enjoyment because, summoning up her courage. Finally, the words came in a rush. Mr. Fleming, I'm going to say something rather brutal. Please don't mind, I'm merely desperate. You see, I happen to be engaged to the cashier, Jack Bailey. Fleming whistled. I see, and he's beat it. Dale blazed with indignation. He has not. I'm going to tell you something. He's here now in this house. She continued fireily, all her defenses thrown aside. My aunt thinks he's a new gardener. He is here, Mr. Fleming, because he knows he didn't take the money, and the only person who could have done it was your uncle. Dick Fleming dropped his cigarette in a convenient ashtray and crushed it out there absently, not seeming to notice whether it scorched his fingers or not. He rose and took a turn about the room. Then he came back to Dale. That's a pretty strong indictment to bring against a dead man, he said slowly, seriously. It's true. Dale insisted stubbornly, giving him glance for glance. Fleming nodded. All right. He smiled. A smile that Dale didn't like. Suppose it's true. Where do I come in? He said. You don't think I know where the money is? No, admitted Dale. But I think you might help to find it. She went swiftly over to the hall door and listened tensely for an instant. Then she came back to Fleming. If anybody comes in, you just come to get something of yours, she said in a low voice. He nodded understandably. She dropped her voice still lower. Do you know anything about a hidden room in this house? She asked. Dick Fleming stared at her for a moment. Then he burst into laughter. A hidden room? A hidden room, that's rich. He said, still laughing. Never heard of it. Now let me get this straight. The idea is a hidden room and the money is in it. Is that it? Dale nodded a yes. The architect who built this house told Jack Bailey that he had built a hidden room in it, she persisted. For a moment, Dick Fleming stared at her as if he could not believe his ears. His vision changed. Beneath the well-fed debonair mask of the club men about town, other lines appeared. Lines of avarice and calculation, wolf marks, betokening the crafty and petty ruthlessness of the small soul within the gentlemanly shell. His eyes took on a shifty, uncertain stare. They no longer looked at Dale. Their gaze seemed turned inward, beholding a vision treasure, a glittering pile of gold. And yet, the change in his look was not so pronounced as to give Dale pause. She felt a vague uneasiness steal over her true, but it would have taken a shrewd and long-experienced woman of the world to read this secret behind Fleming's eyes at first glance. And Dale, for all her courage and common sense, was a young and headstrong girl. She watched him puzzled, wondering why he made no comment to know where there are any blueprints of the house, she asked at last. An odd light glittered in Fleming's eyes for a moment. Then it vanished. He held himself in check. The casual idler again. Blueprints? He seemed to think it over. Why, there may be some. Have you looked in the old secretary in the library? My uncle used to keep all sorts of papers there, he said with apparent helpfulness. Why, don't you remember? You locked it when we took the house. So I did. Fleming took out his key ring, selected a key. Suppose you go and look, he said. Don't you think I'd better stay here? Oh, yes, said Dale, blinded to everything else by the rising hope in her heart. Oh, I can hardly thank you enough. And before he could even reply, she had taken the key and was hurrying towards the hall door. He watched her leave the room, a bleak smile on his face. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, his langer dropped from him. He became a hound, a ferret, questing for its prey. He ran lightly over to the bookcase by the hall door.  Perhaps the other bookcase near the French windows. No, it wasn't there. Ah, the bookcase over the fireplace. He remembered now. He made for it. Hastily swept the bookcase from the top shelf, reached groping fingers into the space behind the second row of books. There, a dusty roll of three blueprints. He unrolled them hurriedly and tried to make out the white tracings by the light of the fire. No, better take them over to the candle on the table. He peered at them hungrily in a little spot of light thrown by the candle. The first one, no, nor the second, but the third, the bottom one. Good heavens! He took in the significance of the blurred white lines with greedy eyes. His lips opening in a silent exclamation of triumph. Then he pondered for an instant. The blueprint itself was an awkward size, bulky, good, he had it. He carefully tore a small portion from the third blueprint and was about to stuff it in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. He then caught him before he had time to conceal his find. She took in the situation at once. Oh, you found it! She said in tones of rejoicing, giving him back the key to the secretary. Then, as he still made no move to transfer the scrap of blue paper to her, please let me have it, Mr. Fleming. I know that's it. Dick Fleming's lips set in a thin line. Just a moment, he said, and then with a swift movement. Once more, he stole a glance of the scrap of paper in his hand by the flickering light of the candle. Then he faced Dale boldly. Do you suppose if that money is actually here, that I can simply turn this over to you and let you give it to Bailey, he said? Every man has its price. How do I know that Bailey's isn't a million dollars? Dale felt as if he had dashed cold water in her face. Do with it then, she said. Fleming turned the blueprint over in his hand. I don't know, he said. What is it you want me to do? But by now, Dale's vague distrust in him had grown very definite. Aren't you going to give it to me? He brushed her off. I'll have to think about that. He looked at the blueprint again. So the missing cashier is in this house posing as a gardener, he said with a sneer on his bones. Dale's temper was rising. If you won't give it to me, there's a detective in this house, she said with a stamp of her foot. She made a movement as if to call Anderson. Then remembering Jack, turned back to Fleming. Give it to the detective and let him search, she pleaded. A detective, said Fleming startled. What's a detective doing here? People have been trying to break in. What people? They don't know. Fleming stared out beyond Dale into the night. Did it is here, he muttered to himself? Behind his back was it a gust of air that moved him? The double doors of the alcove swung open just to crack. Was a listener crouched behind those doors? Or was it only a trick of carpentry, a gesture of chance? The mask of the clubman dropped from Fleming completely. He threw back from his teeth in the snarl of a predatory animal that claims to its prey at the cost of life or death. Before Dale could stop him, he picked up the discarded blueprints and threw them on the fire, pertaining only the precious scrap in his hand. The roll blackened and burst into flame. He watched it smiling. I'm not going to give this to any detective, he said quietly, tapping the piece of paper in his hand. Dale's heart pounded sickeningly, but she kept her courage up. What do you mean? She said fiercely. What are you going to do? He faced her across the fireplace. His airy manner coming back to him just enough to add an additional touch of the sinister to the cold self-revelation of his words. Let us suppose a few things, Miss Ogden, he said. Suppose my price is a million dollars. Suppose I need money very badly and my uncle has left me a house containing that amount in cash. Suppose I choose to consider that that money is mine. Then it wouldn't be hard to suppose, would it, that I'd make a pretty sincere attempt to get away with it? Dale summoned up all her fortitude. If you go out of this room with that paper, I'll scream for help, she said defiantly. Fleming made a little mock bow of courtesy. He smiled. To carry on our little game of supposing, he said easily. Suppose there is a detective in this house and that, if I were cornered, I should tell them where to lay his hands on Jack Bailey. Do you suppose you would scream? Dale's hands dropped powerless at her sides. If only she hadn't told him too late, she was helpless. She could not call the detective without ruining Jack. And yet, if Fleming escaped with the money, how could Jack ever prove his innocence? Fleming watched her for an instant, smiling. Then, seeing she made no move, he darted hastily toward the double doors of the alcove. Flung them open, seemed about to dash up the alcove's stairs. The sight of him escaping with the only existing clue to the hidden room galvanized Dale into action. She followed him, hurriedly snatching up Miss Cornelia's revolver from the table that she did so in a last gesture of desperation. No, no! Give it to me! Give it to me! And she sprang after him, clutching her revolver. He waited for her on the bottom step of the stairs. The slight smile still on his face. Panting breaths in the darkness of the alcove, a short, furious scuffle, he had rested the revolver away from her, but in doing so, had unguarded the precious blueprint.  He swore, tried to get it back. She jerked away. Then suddenly, a bright shaft of life split the darkness of the alcove's stairs like a sword. A spot of brilliance centered on Fleming's face, like the glare of a flashlight focused from above by an invisible hand. For an instant it revealed him. His feature is distorted with fury, about to rush down the stairs again with a pack the trembling girl at their foot. A single shot rang out. For a second, the fury on Fleming's face seemed to change to a strange look of bewilderment and surprise. Then a shaft of light was extinguished as suddenly as a snuffing of a candle, and he crumbled forward to the foot of the stairs, struck, lay on his face in the darkness just inside the double doors. Dale gave a little whimpering cry of horror. No, no, no. She whispered from a dry throat, automatically stuffing her portion of the precious scrap of blueprint into the bosom of her dress. She stood frozen, not daring to move, not daring even to reach down with her hand and touch the body of Fleming to see if he was dead or alive. A murmur of excited voices sounded from the hall. The door flew open, feet stumbled through the darkness. The noise came from this room. That was Anderson's voice. Holy Virgin! That must be Lizzy. Even as Dale turned to face the assembled household, the house lights extinguished since the storm came on in full brilliance, revealing her to them, standing beside Fleming's body, with Miss Cornelius revolver between them. She shuddered, seeing Fleming's arm flung out awkwardly by his side. No living man could lie in such a posture. I didn't do it! I didn't do it! she stammered after a tense silence that followed the sudden re-illumining of the lights. Her eyes wandered from figure to figure idly, noting unimportant details.  Brooks and Anderson were likewise completely dressed. But Miss Cornelius had evidently begun to retire for the night when she had heard the shot. Her transformation was a skew and she wore a dressing gown. As for Lizzie, that worthy shivered in a gaudy wrapper adorned with incredible orange flowers, with her hair done up in curlers. Dale saw it all and was never after to forget one single detail of it. The detective was beside her now, examining Fleming's body with a professional thoroughness. At last he rose. He was dead, he said quietly. A shiver ran through the watching group. Dale felt a stifling hand constrict about her heart. There was a pause. Anderson picked up the revolver beside Fleming's body and examined it swiftly, careful not to confuse his own fingerprints with any that might already be on the polished steel. Then he looked at Dale. Who is he? he said bluntly. Dale fought hysteria for some seconds before she could speak. Richard Fleming. Somebody shot him. She managed to whisper at last. Anderson took a step toward her. What do you mean by somebody, he said? The world to Dale turned into a crowd of threatening, accusing eyes.  You can't. I don't know, she said wildly. Somebody on the staircase. Did you see anybody? Anderson's voice was as passionless and cold as a bar of steel. No. But there was a light from somewhere like a pocket flash. She could not go on. She saw Fleming's face before her, furious at first, then changing to that strange look of bewildered surprise.  Lizzie made a welcome interruption. I told you I saw a man go up that staircase. She wailed, jabbing her forefinger in the direction of the alcove stairs. Miss Cornelia now recovered from the first shock of the discovery, supported her gallantly. That's the only explanation, Mr. Anderson, she said decidedly. The detective looked at the stairs, at the terrace door. His eyes made a circuit of the room and came back to Fleming's body. I've been all over the house, he said. There's nobody there. A pause followed. Dale found herself helplessly looking toward her lover for comfort, comfort he could not give without revealing his own secret. Earily, through the tense silence, a sudden tinkling sounded. The sharp, persistent ringing of a telephone bell. Miss Cornelia rose to answer it automatically. The house phoned, she said. Then she stopped. But we're all here. They looked at each other aghast. It was true, and yet somehow, somewhere, one of the other phones on the circuit was calling the living room. Miss Cornelia summoned every ounce of inherited Van Gorder pride she possessed and went to the phone. She took off the receiver. The ringing stopped. Hello, hello, she said while the other stood rigid listening then she gasped an expression of wondering horror came over her face. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Alan Winterout boomcoach.blogspot.com Chapter 10 of The Bat This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Alan Winterout The Bat by Mary Roberts Reinhart Chapter 10 The Phone Call From Nowhere Somebody's groaning gas, Miss Cornelia. It's horrible. The detective stepped up and took the receiver from her. He listened anxiously for a moment. I don't hear anything, he said. I heard it. I couldn't imagine such a dreadful sound. I tell you, somebody in this house is in terrible distress. Where does this phone connect? Miss Cornelia made a hopeless little gesture. Practically every room in this house. The detective put the receiver to his ear again. Just what did you hear? He said stolidly. Miss Cornelia's voice shook. Dreadful groans and what seemed to be an inarticulate effort to speak. Lizzie drew her gaudy rapper closer about her shuddering form. I'd go somewhere. She wailed in the voice of a lost soul if I only had somewhere to go. Miss Cornelia quelled her with a glare and turned back to the detective. Won't you send these men to investigate? Or go yourself, she said. Indicating Brooks and Billy. The detective thought swiftly. My place is here, he said. You two men. Brooks and Billy moved forward to take his orders. Take another look through the house. Don't leave the building. I'll want you pretty soon. Brooks or Jack Bailey as we may as well call him through the remainder of this narrative started to obey. Then his eye fell on Miss Cornelia's revolver which Anderson had taken from beside Fleming's body and still held clasped in his hand. If you'll give me that revolver he began in an offhand tone hoping Anderson would not see through his little ruse. Once wiped clean of fingerprints the revolver would not be such telling evidence against Dale Ogden. But Anderson was not to be caught napping. That revolver will stay where it is, he said with a grim smile. Jack Bailey knew better than to try and argue the point. He followed Billy reluctantly out of the door giving Dale a surreptitious glance of encouragement and faith and he did so. The Japanese and he mounted to the second floor as stealthily as possible prying into dark corners and searching unused rooms for any clue that might betray the source of the startling phone call from nowhere. But Bailey's heart was not in the search. His mind kept going back to the figure of Dale, nervous, shaken, undergoing the terrors of the third degree at Anderson's hands. He didn't have a shot flimming, of course. And yet, unless he and Billy found something to substantiate her story of how the killing had happened it was her own unsupported word against a damning mass of circumstantial evidence. He plunged with renewed vigor into his quest. Back in the living room as he had feared Anderson was subjecting Dale to a merciless interrogation. Now I want the real story. He began with to calculate a brutality. You lied before. That's no tone to use. You'll only terrify her, as cried Miss Cornelia indignantly. The detective paid no attention. His face had hardened. He seemed every inch through a morseless sleuth hound of the law. He turned on Miss Cornelia for a moment. Where were you when this happened? He said. Upstairs in my room Miss Cornelia's tones were icy. In my room, badgering Lee to Lizzie In my room, said the latter pertly, brushing Miss Cornelia's hair. Anderson broke open the revolver and gave a swift glance at the bullet chambers. One shot has been fired from this revolver. Miss Cornelia sprang to her niece's defense. I fired at myself this afternoon, she said. The detective regarded her with grudging admiration.  He put the revolver down on the table. Miss Cornelia followed up her advantage. I demand that you get the coroner here, she said. Doctor Wells as a coroner, offered Lizzie eagerly. Anderson brushed their suggestions aside. I'm going to ask you some questions, he said menacingly to Dale. But Miss Cornelia stuck to her guns. She could be bullied into any sort of confession, true or false if she could help it. And from the way the girl's eyes returned with fascinated horror to the ghastly heap on the floor that had been Fleming, she knew that Dale was on the edge of violent hysteria. Do you mind covering that body first? She asked crisply. The detective eyed her for a moment in a rather ugly fashion. Then grunted ungraciously and taking Fleming's raincoat over her, threw it over the body. Dale's eyes telegraphed her aunt a silent message of gratitude. Now, shall I telephone for the coroner? Persisted Miss Cornelia.  I'll do it, he said with a snort, going over to the city telephone. Watch the number. He's not in his office. Miss Cornelia took the telephone from Anderson's hands. I'll get to Johnson's, Mr. Anderson, she said firmly. The detective seemed about to rebuke her. Then his matter recovered some of its former suavity. He relinquished the telephone and turned back toward his prey. Now, what was Fleming doing here? He asked Dale in a gentler voice. Should she tell him the truth? No. Jack Bailey's safety was too inextricably bound up with the whole sinister business. She must lie and lie again while there was any chance of a lie being believed. I don't know, she said weekly, trying to avoid the detective's eyes. Anderson took thought. Well, I'll ask that question another way, he said. How did he get into the house? Dale brightened. No need for a lie here. He had a key. Key to what door? That door over there. Dale indicated the terrace door of the alcove. The detective was about to ask another question, then he paused. Ms. Cornelia was talking on the phone. Hello? Is that Mr. Johnson's residence? Is Dr. Wells there? No? Her expression was puzzled. Oh, alright, thank you, good night. I'm not sure if she's listening, but thinking as well. Dale saw his sharp glance travel over to the fireplace, rest for a moment with an air of discovery on the fragments of the role of blueprints that remained unburned among ashes. Returned.  He was hammering at her with questions again. When I heard him outside on the terrace, said Dale promptly and truthfully, I was frightened. Lizzie tiptoed over to Ms. Cornelia. You wanted a detective, she said in an ironic whisper, I hope you're happy now you've got one. Ms. Cornelia gave her a look that sent her scuttling back to her former post by the door. But nevertheless, internally, she felt thoroughly in accord with Lizzie. Again, Anderson's questions pounded at the rigid Dale, striving to pierce her armor of mingled truth and falsehood. When Fleming came in, what did he say to you? Just, something about the weather, said Dale weakly. The whole scene was still too horribly vivid before her eyes for her to furnish a more convincing alibi. You didn't have any quarrel with him? Dale hesitated. No. He just came in that door, said something about the weather, and was shot from that staircase. Is that it? Said the detective in tones of utter uncredulity. Dale hesitated again. Thus boldly put, her story seemed too flimsy for words. She could not even blame Anderson for disbelieving it. And yet, what other story could she tell that would not bring ruin on Jack? Her face whitened. She put her hand on the back of the chair for support. Yes, that's it. She said it last, and swayed where she stood. Again, Miss Cornelia tried to come to the rescue. Are all these questions necessary? She queried sharply. You can't for a moment believe that Miss Ogden shot that man. But by now, though she did not show it, she too began to realize the strength of the appalling net of circumstances that drew with each minute around the unhappy girl. Dale gratefully seized the momentary respite and sank into a chair. The detective looked at her. I think she knows more than she's telling. She's concealing something, he said with deadly intentness. The nephew of the president of the Union Bank shot in his own house the day the bank has failed. That's queer enough. Now he turned back to Miss Cornelia. But when the only person present to her is the girl who's engaged in the guilty cashier, he continued, watching Miss Cornelia's face as the full force of his words sank into her mind. I want to know more about it. He stopped. His right hand moved idly over the edge of the table, halted beside an ashtray, closed upon something. Miss Cornelia rose. Is that true, Dale? She said sorrowfully. She nodded. Yes. She could not trust herself to explain at greater length. Then Miss Cornelia made one of the most magnificent gestures of her life. Well, even if it is, what has that got to do with it? She said, turning upon Anderson fiercely, all her protective instinct for those whom she loved aroused. Anderson seemed somewhat impressed by the fierceness of her query. When he went on, there was harshness in his manner. I'm not accusing this girl, he said more gently, but behind every crime there is a motive. When we found the motive for this crime, we'll have found the criminal. Unobserved, Dale's hand instinctively went to her bosom. There it lay, the motive, the precious fragment of blueprint which she had torn from Fleming's grasp, but an instant before he was shot down. Once Anderson found it in her possession, the case was closed. The evidence against her overwhelming. She could not destroy it. It was the only clue to the hidden room and the truth that might clear Jack Bailey, but somehow she must hide it, get it out of her hands before Anderson's third degree methods broke her down, or he insisted on a search of her person. Her eyes rode wildly about the room looking for a hiding place. The reign of Anderson's questions began anew. What papers did Fleming burn in that grate? He asked abruptly, turning back to Dale. Papers? She faltered. Papers, the ashes are still there. Miss Cornelia made an unavailing interruption. Miss Ogden has said he didn't come into this room. The detective smiled. I hold in my hand proof that he was in this room for some time. He said coldly, displaying the half-burned cigarette he had taken from the ashtray a moment before. His cigarette with his monogram on it. He put the fragment of tobacco and paper carefully away in an envelope and marched over to the fireplace. There he rummaged among the ashes for a moment, like a dog uncovering a bone. He returned to the center of the room with a fragment of blackened blue paper fluttering between his fingers. A fragment of what is technically known as a blueprint, he announced. What were you and Richard Fleming doing with a blueprint? His eyes bored into Dale's.  Now think it over, he warned. The truth will come out sooner or later. Better be frank now. If he only knew how I wanted to be, he wouldn't be so cruel, thought Dale wearily. But I can't. I can't. Then her heart gave a throb of relief. Jack had come back into the room. Jack and Billy. Jack would protect her. But even as she thought of this, her heart sank again. Protect her indeed, poor Jack. He would find it hard enough to protect himself if once this terrible man with a cold smile and steely eyes started questioning him. She looked up anxiously. Bailey made the report breathlessly. Nothing in the house, sir. Billy's impassive lips confirmed him. We go all over house, nobody. Nobody? Nobody in the house? And yet, the mysterious ringing of the phone. The groans Miss Cornelia had heard. Were old wives tales and witches fables true after all? Did a power, merciless, evil exist outside the barriers of the flesh? Blasting that trembling flesh with a cold breath from beyond the portals of the grave? There seemed to be no other explanation. You men stay here, said the detective. I want to ask you some questions. He doggedly returned to his third degreeing of Dale. Now what about this blueprint? He queried sharply. Dale stiffened in her chair. Her lies had failed. Now she would tell a portion of the truth as much of it as she could without menacing Jack. I'll tell you what happened, she began. I sent for Richard Fleming. And when he came, I asked him if he knew where there were any blueprints of the house. The detective pounced eagerly upon her admission. Why did you want blueprints, he thundered. Because Dale took a long breath. I believe old Mr. Fleming took the money himself from the Union Bank and hid it here. Where did you get that idea? Dale's jaw set. I won't tell you. What had the blueprints to do with it? She could think of no plausible explanation but the true one. Because I'd heard there was a hidden room in this house. The detective leaned forward intently. Did you locate that room? Dale hesitated. No. Then why did you burn the blueprints? Dale's nerve was crumbling, breaking under the repeated monotonous impact of his questions. He burned them. She cried wildly. I don't know why. The detective paused an instant then returned to a previous query. Then you didn't locate this hidden room? Dale's lips formed a pale no. Did he went on Anderson inexorably? Dale stared at him dully. The breaking point had come. Another question. Another. And she would no longer be able to control herself. She would sob out the truth hysterically. That Brooks the gardener was Jack Bailey, the missing cashier. That the scrap of blueprint hidden in the bosom of her dress might unravel the secret of the hidden room. That but just as she felt herself sucked of strength beginning to slide toward a black tingling pit of merciful oblivion Miss Cornelia provided a diversion. What's that? She said in a startled voice. The detective turned away from his query for an instant. What's what? I heard something. Avert Miss Cornelia staring toward the French windows. All eyes followed the direction of her stare. There was an instant of silence. Then suddenly traveling swiftly from right to left across the shades of the French windows. There appeared a glowing circle of brilliant white light. Inside the circle was a black distorted shadow.  It was there. Then a second later it was gone. Oh my god! Well Lizzie from her corner, it's the bat. That's his sign. Jack Bailey made a dash for the terrace door. But Miss Cornelia halted him preemptorily. Wait Brooks! She turned to the detective. Mr. Anderson, you are familiar with the sign of the bat. Did it look like that? The detective seemed both puzzled and disturbed. Well it looked like the shadow of a bat. I'll say that for it. He said finally. On the heels of his words the front doorbell began to ring. All turned in the direction of the hall. I'll answer that. Said Jack Bailey eagerly. Miss Cornelia gave him the key to the front door. Don't admit anyone to you know who it is. She said. Bailey nodded and disappeared into the hall. The others waited tensely. Miss Cornelia's hand crept toward the revolver lying on the table where Anderson had put it down. There was the click of an opening door. The noise of a little scuffle. Then men's voices raised in an angry dispute. What do I know about a flashlight? Cried an irritated voice. I haven't got a pocket flash.  Bailey's voice answered the other voice. Grim threatening. The scuffle resumed. Then Dr. Wells burst suddenly into the room. Closely followed by Bailey. The doctor's tie was a skew. He looked ruffled and enraged. Bailey followed him vigilantly. Seeming not quite sure whether to allow him to enter or not. My dear Miss Van Gorder began the doctor in tones of high dudgeon. Won't you instruct your servants that even if I do make a late call I'm not to be received with violence? I asked you if you had a pocket flash about you. Answered Bailey indignantly. If you call a question like that violence he seemed about to restrain the doctor by physical force. Miss Cornelia quelled the teapot tempest. It's alright Brooke, she said taking the front door key from his hand and putting it back on the table. She turned to Dr. Wells. You see Dr. Wells, she explained. Just a moment before you rang the doorbell a circle of white light was thrown on those window shades. The doctor laughed with a certain relief. Why, that was probably a searchlight from my car, he said. I noticed as I drove up that it fell directly on that window. His explanation seemed to satisfy all present but Lizzie. She regarded him with a deep suspicion. He may be a lawyer, a merchant, a doctor. She chanted ominously to herself. Miss Cornelia too was not entirely at ease. In the center of this ring of light she proceeded, her eyes on the doctor's calm countenance was an almost perfect silhouette of a bat. A bat? The doctor seemed all at sea. Oh, I see the symbol of the criminal of that name. He laughed again. I think I can explain what you saw.  Just to satisfy you, I'll go out and take a look. He turned to do so, then caught sight of the raincoat covered huddle on the floor. Why, he said in a voice that mingled astonishment with horror. He paused. His glance slowly traversed the circle of silent faces. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Alan Winterout BoomCoach.blogspot.com