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Mansion of Mystery

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<h2 id="id02428" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXX</h2> <h5 id="id02429">RAISING THE CURTAIN</h5> As soon as his interview with Tom Ostrello was at an end, Adam Adams asked the young man to leave him. "I am going to follow up this clew," he said. "And the quicker the better." He looked over a valise he carried and selected a number of things he wanted. Midnight found him at the depot, boarding a train for Fairfield. At the latter place he changed and took another train for Bryport. Arriving at that city, he located at a hotel, and went to bed. He was up at sunrise and procured an early breakfast. Then he returned to his room and spent a full hour in donning another outfit and in powdering his face, and adjusting a wig and a reddish moustache. The same car that had taken him to the vicinity of John Watkins' residence before, took him there again. As he approached the house he saw the secret service man coming forth. "Excuse me, Mr. Watkins, but I must see you," said he, in a low and suggestive tone. "To see me?" questioned the man. "What about?" "Well, I must see you alone. The sky may be rather red, you know." At the last words the secret service man started slightly. "That's true, and I don't like a red sky," he answered. "Come into the house. You just caught me in time." He led the way inside and up to his den, closing and locking the door after him. "Now, then, what do you want to see me about?" he demanded sharply. "Don't you recognize me?" "I must say I do not, although your face seems familiar." "I am Number Four." There was a pause, and Adam Adams studied the face before him closely. "Well?" came from the secret service man coldly. "There has been trouble, Mr. Watkins. Matlock Styles sent me to you." "The dickens you say. What right has he—" "He had to do it. Things are getting warm." "He should have come himself." "He couldn't do it. The detectives are shadowing every movement he makes. He didn't even dare to drop you a letter." "What's the cause of the trouble?" "Those queers in the safe." "Then the authorities got them?" "Yes, and they've sent down some New York detectives, who are watching everybody." "Bah! Styles must be getting nervous." "He told me to tell you something more. They found something else. It's about the poison powder that was used. You made some kind of a mistake—" John Watkins leaped to his feet and turned pale. "I made a mistake?" he cried. "How? For Heaven's sake, man, tell me all!" He went to a cupboard, got out some brandy and drank a stiff portion. "That is what Styles wants to find out. He thinks you put out some clews that point to him. He says if you did he will blow you sky-high. He wants the truth from you, and he wants it right away." "Clews? Against him? He is crazy. I never put out a single clew against him. Why should I? Wasn't it arranged that we should fix it against the girl, and didn't I even go to the trouble to spy on Langmore and get the combination of the safe—although it didn't do any good. And then after the job was done, didn't I—" The secret service man came to an abrupt stop, as if fearing he had said too much. "Look here, did he tell you all this, or is this some game?" "Hey!" exclaimed Adam Adams, pretending to be amazed. "Did he tell me. See here, I don't care if you are the boss, I am not going to run the risk of being sent up for twenty years for you. I came to help Styles out, that's all. I had the devil's own job getting out of Sidham without being followed. To-morrow I am going to take my money and move West. You won't trust a fellow, and yet you expect—" "Never mind, Pink, don't get on your ear so quick—" "Ain't I got a right to get on my ear? You go and poison two people and then—" "Who said I did the poisoning?" John Watkins was plainly agitated. "Didn't Styles tell all of us? He wasn't going to have those clews pointing to him. He says you bungled." "He is a calf!" roared John Watkins. "Where is the nerve he used to have? So he told all of you that I did the job, eh? Well, I'll square things with him for that." "He wouldn't care if you hadn't made some sort of a botch—" "I? A botch? Say, don't you believe what he tells you, because it isn't true!" "Well, he says—" "I don't care what he says. I didn't do the job, and I am not going to let him shift the responsibility on my shoulders. He's a fool. Don't everybody think the girl is guilty, and if they clear her isn't there another string to the bow?" "You mean Tom Ostrello?" "That's it. So he told you about that, too," came from the secret service man bitterly. "Well, he isn't the man I thought he was. I suppose he has gone and blabbed right and left." "Only to the band. We knew something was on the carpet and we cornered him and then he had to speak. Why, one of the New York detectives found our place under the old mill, and we had to do him, to keep the thing a secret." "You got him out of the way?" "Yes." "Did Styles do that job?" "No. We had to draw lots. I ain't saying who drew the red ball." "Maybe you drew it yourself." "Maybe I did and maybe I didn't. What I want to know is: What are we to do? The crowd don't like Styles much, and I can tell you confidentially, that for two pins we would throw him over—that is, if you will stand by us." "You want to elect a new leader?" "Yes. But with the understanding that the crowd is to be let in on the ground floor after this. No more working in the dark. Even yet we don't know why those murders were committed, and yet it looks as if all of us might suffer, unless you pull us through O.K." "Didn't Styles tell you why?" "No, although he hinted at something." "Well, I'll tell you, Pink, and you can tell the rest. Barry Langmore had some dealings with Styles about patents and mortgages. One day Styles drank a little too much, and went to Langmore to pay a bill. He had two packages of money with him, each for several thousand dollars. One package was good money and the other was our own brand. Styles also had some loose bills with him. He paid part of a mortgage and also something on an invention. When he went away, he saw that he had made a mistake and given Langmore the counterfeit bills. He went back the next day, but Langmore had gone away, on a short vacation. When he came back Styles went to him and they had a pretty stormy scene. Langmore had tried to pass a bill, and learned it was a counterfeit. Styles pretended that he didn't know the money was bad, but Langmore wouldn't believe him. Some of the money had gone to Mrs. Langmore, too. Styles begged to get the money back and offered Langmore his rights in an invention if only Langmore would keep quiet. Langmore said he would think it over, but I am inclined to think he communicated with the police instead, although I have no proof. Anyway, we made up our minds that Langmore knew too much, and so did his wife. Then—well, they were found dead, that's all." "And you say you didn't commit the deed?" "I did not." "Then Styles must have done the job, since there was no one else." "Didn't he tell you that he can prove an alibi! That he was over to Stony Hill at the time the deed was done?" "Yes, but if that is true, then you are guilty. You got that poison from Henry Bloom, and he told Tom Ostrello that he let you have it. There is where you blundered. Ostrello and others are on your track. You can't escape unless you can prove an alibi, too." Again John Watkins shrank back as if struck a blow. "Who—who told this—who says—" he began hoarsely. "Matlock Styles." "Then he can go to perdition! I'll not stand up for him a minute longer. Yes, I got the poison, but I gave it to him. I can prove it by the old woman who works for him, if I have to wring her neck to make her speak. She heard me tell him how to use it. He trusts her, because he has her where the hair is short. She killed a child years ago, when she ran a baby farm. And then about that alibi—" The secret service man laughed bitterly. "So that's his game, if it comes to a showing of hands? Well, I can put a spoke in his wheel. He was at Stony Hill, was he? Well, so was I. I can prove that, too." There was a pause, during which the secret service man took another drink of liquor. He was plainly very nervous. With great deliberation, Adam Adams drew from one pocket a pistol, and from another a pair of handcuffs. "The scene is ended, Mr. Watkins," he said coolly. "I want you to slip on those and come with me." And he threw the handcuffs on the table, and leveled the pistol at the fellow's head. The man staggered and threw up his hands, half expecting a shot. He suddenly began to tremble, as if with the ague. "What do you mean? Wh—who are you?" he faltered. "I am Adam Adams. I believe we have met before." "Adams!" The secret service man sank back in an armchair. "And you—you are here to arrest me?" "Exactly. As I said before, the whole game is up. Inside of half an hour you will be safe in prison, and then we shall round up such other members of the gang as are still at large. Unless you want to make a confession, you will have to stand trial for the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Langmore." "Never! I'll—I'll tell all I know, first!" The man's lips were white and his eyes full of commingled rage and fear. "You will make a clean and clear statement?" "Yes." "Clearing up the murder mystery?" "Yes." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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