Shadow in the House — A Reader’s Guide

she had taken rather than given.

[1] “The Last Trap,” Dodd, Mead & Co., New York City, N. Y.

Recalling his latest words, she banished her doubts. Of course, he loved her! It was the game that he missed! Paul Bernard, a name familiar and respected in official circles on two continents, had retired. Was ever a famous man content with love alone?

Nor did she blame him--much.

The reunion with Elsa and Landis had been a success. But she smothered a sigh as she gave the signal to rise.

“Come along, Elsa! These two head-hunters want to talk shop. We’ll leave them to steep themselves in crime!”

With a backward glance at her husband she slipped her arm about the girl and led her out of the room.

Bernard and Landis entered the drawing-room and settled themselves in the midst of that surprising conglomeration of savage weapons and hunting trophies with which their hostess had decorated the place. To them appeared Mrs. Bernard’s soft-footed houseboy, Tsu. He set tiny cups of coffee and tall, icy glasses at their elbows and as silently withdrew.

“Pretty decent of you to come back and hobnob with a murderer,” observed Bernard at length.

Landis cocked an ironic eye at him, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t rub it in, sir!”

“Why, you pinned the thing on me and I admitted it! If Charles Carson hadn’t murdered Foot, where would I be today?”

“Where you are, d--n it!”

Landis had flushed a little. “When I offered not to denounce you that day I felt very skilful and very magnanimous. Since then I’ve felt less so, on each count. There wasn’t a link missing in the chain that led to you. You confessed readily--too blamed readily. A man of your character and achievements simply couldn’t commit a cold-blooded murder and try to hide it. I don’t know your motive. But if you know who _did_ murder Carson, for the love of Mike, tell me!”

“What steps will you take?” smiled Bernard. “You’re in harness yet, remember, while I’m out to graze.”

“If _you_ haven’t taken any, I won’t!”

Thereupon, preceded by a brief, slightly apologetic explanation of his own reason for confessing, Bernard named the real murderer of Henry Carson.

Landis was too surprised to offer any immediate comment. Moreover, he was busy with a swift readjustment of the evidence in the light of what he had heard.

At length he laughed. “So simple we never thought of it! Well, I’m glad you didn’t guess either, until you were told. It was a pretty white thing you did.”

Bernard frowned and fumbled with his pipe.

“That heart attack you had on the stairs!” cried Landis suddenly. “It was fake after all!”

“If there’s anything wrong with me,” growled Bernard, “it isn’t my heart!”

There the Carson case reached a final summation.

Now Landis, who had grown very fond of his gruff colleague, had been watching him during dinner. He had found the old detective just a little subdued. Maybe domesticated was the word. Nor had he altogether missed a softening doubt--a trace of worry--in Mrs. Bernard.

With an eye on the face of his host he probed a little, after a fashion of his own.

“Well, marriage is a great institution, sir! And yet, though I’m almost ashamed to admit it, I shan’t be sorry to get back to work!”

Someone with a turn for imagery once compared the look of Bernard to that of a weatherworn and rocky cliff with the sun on it. At this moment a shadow darkened that roughhewn profile as though a cloud were passing overhead. “We’re both lucky--” Bernard declared with slow precision, “luckier and happier than we deserve, young fellow!”

“We certainly are, sir! But then, a man needs his work to round out the picture!”

Bernard frowned and stirred restlessly. He turned his head and caught his guest’s eyes on him. Landis was smiling a little. Bernard thumped back into his chair until it creaked beneath his weight.

“Why, you--you d--d, young billygoat!” he snorted. “Pumping me, were you! That’s what a man gets for crawling on the shelf--rusty wits!”

“I’ll probably need you!” Landis explained blandly. “To me, sir, you’re like a fine, staunch craft in harbor, with the winds of the open sea whispering through the rigging. Says I to myself: if I can just whistle loud enough through that rigging, why maybe he’ll put to sea again! Only don’t tell Mrs. Tall--Mrs. Bernard. Fact is, the real top-notchers are badly needed these days!”

“And you’re the boy to supply the wind,” Bernard growled. “Now it’s flattery, eh?”