CHAPTER XVIII
UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS
Basil Santoine was oversensitive to sound, as are most of the blind; inthe world of darkness in which he lived, sounds were by far the mostsignificant--and almost the only--means he had of telling what went onaround him; he passed his life in listening for or determining thenature of sounds. So the struggle which ended in Eaton's crash to thefloor would have waked him without the pistol-shot immediatelyfollowing. That roused him wide-awake immediately and brought himsitting up in bed, forgetful of his own condition.
Santoine at once recognized the sound as a shot; but in the instant ofwaking, he had not been able to place it more definitely than to knowthat it was close. His hand went at once to the bellboard, and he rangat the same time for the nurse outside his door and for the steward.But for a few moments after that first shot, nothing followed; therewas silence. Santoine was not one of those who doubt their hearing;that was the sense in which the circumstances of his life made himimplicitly trust; he had heard a shot near by; the fact that nothingmore followed did not make him doubt it; it made him think to explainit.
It was plain that no one else in the house had been stirred by it; forhis windows were open and other windows in bedrooms in the main part ofthe house were open; no one had raised any cry of alarm. So the shotwas where he alone had heard it; that meant indoors, in the room below.
Santoine pressed the bells quickly again and sat up straighter and morestrained; no one breaking into the house for plate or jewelry wouldenter through that room; he would have to break through double doors toreach any other part of the house; Santoine did not consider thepossibility of robbery of that sort long enough to have been said toconsider it at all; what he felt was that the threat which had beenhanging vaguely over himself ever since Warden's murder was beingfulfilled. But it was not Santoine himself that was being attacked; itwas something Santoine possessed. There was only one sort of valuablearticle for which one might enter that room below. And those articles--
The blind man clenched his jaw and pressed the bells to call all themen-servants in the house and Avery also. But still he got no response.
A shot in the room below meant, of course, that in addition to theintruder there must be a defender; the defender might have been the onewho fired or the one who was killed. For it seemed likely, in thecomplete silence now, that whoever had fired had disposed of hisadversary and was undisturbed. At that moment the second shot--thefirst fired at Eaton--rang out below; Eaton's return fire followednearly simultaneously, and then the shot of the third man. Theseexplosions and the next three the blind man in bed above was able todistinguish; there were three men, at least, in the room below firingat each other; then, as the automatic revolvers roared on, he no longercould separate attack and reply; there might be three men, there mightbe half a dozen; the fusillade of the automatics overlapped; it wasincessant. Then all at once the firing stopped; there was no sound ormovement of any sort; everything seemed absolutely still below.
The blind man pressed and pressed the buttons on his bellboard. Anyfurther alarm, after the firing below, seemed superfluous. But hiswing of the house had been built for him proof against sound in themain portion of the building; the house, therefore, was deadened tonoise within the wing. Santoine, accustomed to considering the mannerin which sounds came to himself, knew how these sounds would come toothers. Coming from the open windows of the wing and entering the openwindows of the other parts of the house, they would not appear to thehousehold to come from within the house at all; they would appear tocome from some part of the grounds or from the beach.
Yet some one or more than one from his house must be below or have beenthere. Santoine pressed all the bells again and then got up. He hadheard absolutely no sound outside, as must be made by any one escapingfrom the room below; but the battle seemed over. One side must havedestroyed the other. From the character of the fighting, it was mostprobable that some one had secretly entered the room--Santoine thoughtof that one definitely now as the man he was entertaining as Eaton; aservant, or some one else from the house, had surprised him in the roomand was shot; other servants, roused by the alarm, rushed in and wereshot. Santoine counted that, if his servants had survived, one of themmust be coming to tell him what had happened. But there was no noisenow nor any movement at all below. His side had been beaten, or bothsides had ceased to exist. Those alternatives alone occurred to theblind man; the number of shots fired within the confines of the roombelow precluded any other explanation. He did not imagine the factthat the battle had been fought in the dark; himself perpetually in thedark, he thought of others always in the light.
The blind man stood barefooted on the floor, his hands clasping in oneof the bitterest moments of his rebellion against, and defiance of, hishelplessness of blindness. Below him--as he believed--his servants hadbeen sacrificing life for him; there in that room he held in trust thatwhich affected the security, the faith, the honor of others; hisguarding that trust involved his honor no less. And particularly, now,he knew he was bound, at whatever cost, to act; for he did not doubtnow but that his half-prisoned guest, whom Santoine had notsufficiently guarded, was at the bottom of the attack. The blind manbelieved, therefore, that it was because of his own retention here ofEaton that the attack had been made, his servants had been killed, theprivate secrets of his associates were in danger. Santoine crossed tothe door of the hall and opened it and called. No one answeredimmediately; he started to call again; then he checked himself and shutthe door, and opened that to the top of the stairs descending to hisstudy below.
The smoke and fumes of the firing rushed into his face; it half chokedhim; but it decided him. He was going to go down. Undoubtedly therewas danger below; but that was why he did not call again at the otherdoor for some one else to run a risk for him. Basil Santoine, alwaysheld back and always watched and obliged to submit to guard even ofwomen in petty matters because of his blindness, held one thing dearerfar than life--and that thing was the trust which other men reposed inhim. Since it was that trust which was threatened, the impulse now, inthat danger, to act for himself and not be protected and pushed back byany one who merely could see, controlled him.
He put his hand on the rail and started to descend the stairs. He wasalmost steady in step and he had firm grasp on the rail; he noticedthat now to wonder at it. When he had aroused at the sound of firing,his blindness, as always when something was happening about him, wasobtruded upon him. He felt helpless because he was blind, not becausehe had been injured. He had forgotten entirely that for almost twoweeks he had not stirred from bed; he had risen and stood and walked,without staggering, to the door and to the top of the stairs before,now, he remembered. So what he already had done showed him that he hadmerely again to put his injury from his mind and he could go on. Hewent down the stairs almost steadily.
There was still no sound or any evidence of any one below. The gasesof the firing were clearing away; the blind man could feel the slightbreeze which came in through the windows of his bedroom and went withhim down the stairs; and now, as he reached the lower steps, there wasno other sound in the room but the tread of the blind man's bare feeton the stairs. This sound was slight, but enough to attract attentionin the silence there. Santoine halted on the next to the laststep--the blind count stairs, and he had gone down twenty-one--andrealized fully his futility; but now he would not retreat or merelycall for help.
"Who is here?" he asked distinctly. "Is any one here? Who is here?"
No one answered. And now Santoine knew by the sense which let him feelwhether it was night or day, that the room was really dark--dark forothers as well as for himself; the lights were not burning. So anexaltation, a sense of physical capability, came to Santoine; in thedark he was as fit, as capable as any other man--not more capable, for,though he was familiar with the room, the furniture had been moved inthe struggle; he had heard the overturning of the chairs.
Santoine s
tepped down on the floor, and in his uncertainty as to theposition of the furniture, felt along the wall. There were bookcasesthere, but he felt and passed along them swiftly, until he came to thecase which concealed the safe at the left side of the doors. The bookswere gone from that case; his bare toes struck against them where theyhad been thrown down on the floor. The blind man, his pulse beatingtumultuously, put his hand through the case and felt the panel behind.That was slid back exposing the safe; and the door of the safe stoodopen. Santoine's hands felt within the safe swiftly. The safe wasempty.
He recoiled from it, choking back an ejaculation. The entry to thisroom had been made for the purpose which he supposed; and the thievesmust have succeeded in their errand. The blind man, in his uselessnessfor pursuit, could delay calling others to act for him no longer. Hestarted toward the bell, when some scrape on the floor--not of the sortto be accounted for by an object moved by the wind--sounded behind him.Santoine swung toward the sound and stood listening again; and then,groping with his hands stretched out before him, he left the wall andstepped toward the center of the room. He took two steps--three,four--with no result; then his foot trod into some fluid, thick andsticky and not cold.
Santoine stooped and put a finger-tip into the fluid and brought itnear his nose. It was what he supposed it must be--blood. He raisedhis foot and with his great toe traced the course of the blood; it ledto one side, and then the blind man's toe touched some hard, metalobject which was warm. He stooped and picked it up and felt over itwith his fingers. It was an electric torch with the light turned on.Santoine stood holding it with the warm end--the lighted end--turnedaway from him; he swiftly switched it off; what put Santoine at adisadvantage with other men was light. But since there had been thislight, there might be others; there had been at least three men,perhaps, therefore, three lights. Santoine's senses could not perceivelight so dim and soft; he stood trying fruitlessly to determine whetherthere were other lights.
He could hear now some one breathing--more than one person. From thehouse, still shut off by its double, sound-proof doors, he could hearnothing; but some one outside the house was hurrying up to the openwindow at the south end of the room.
That one came to, or just inside the window, parting the curtains. Hewas breathing hard from exertion or from excitement.
"Who is it?" Santoine challenged clearly.
"Basil!" Blatchford's voice exclaimed his recognition in amazement."Basil; that is you! What are you doing down here?" Blatchfordstarted forward.
"Wait!" Santoine ordered sharply. "Don't come any further; standthere!"
Blatchford protested but obeyed. "What is it? What are you doing downhere, Basil? What is the matter here? What has happened?"
"What brought you here?" Santoine demanded instead of reply. "You wererunning outside; why? What was out there? What did you see?"
"See? I didn't see anything--except the window here open when I cameup. But I heard shots, Basil. I thought they were toward the road. Iwent out there; but I found nothing. I was coming back when I saw thewindow open. I'm sure I heard shots."
"They were here," Santoine said. "But you can see; and you just heardthe shots. You didn't see anything!" the blind man accused. "Youdidn't see any one going away from here!"
"Basil, what has happened here?"
Santoine felt again the stickiness at his feet. "Three or four personsfought in this room, Wallace. Some--or one was hurt. There's blood onthe floor. There are two here I can hear breathing; I suppose they'rehurt. Probably the rest are gone. The room's all dark, isn't it?That is you moving about now, Wallace?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for the light."
"Don't."
"Why, Basil?"
"Get help first. I think those who aren't hurt are gone. They must begone. But--get help first, Wallace."
"And leave you here?" Blatchford rejoined. He had not halted again;the blind man heard his cousin still moving along the wall. Theelectric switch clicked, and Santoine knew that the room was floodedwith light. Santoine straightened, strained, turning his head a littleto better listen. With the flashing on of the light, he had heard thesharp, involuntary start of Blatchford as he saw the room; and, besidesthat, Santoine heard movement now elsewhere in the room. Then theblind man heard his friend's cry. "Good God!"
It was not, Santoine instantly sensed, from mere surprise or fright atfinding some intruder in the room; that must have been expected. Thiswas from something more astounding, from something incredible.
"What is it?" Santoine cried.
"Good God! Basil!"
"Who is it, Wallace?" the blind man knew now that his friend'sincoherence came from recognition of some one, not alone from somesight of horror. "Who is it, Wallace?" he repeated, curbing himself.
"Basil! It is---it must be--I know him! It is--"
A shot roared in front of Santoine. The blind man, starting back atthe shock of it, drew in the powder-gas with his breath; but the bulletwas not for him. Instead, he heard his friend scream and choke andhalf call, half cough.
"Wallace!" Santoine cried out; but his voice was lost in the roar ofanother shot. This was not fired by the same one who had just fired;at least, it was not from the same part of the room; and instantly,from another side, a third shot came. Then, in the midst of rush andconfusion, another shot roared; the light was out again; then all wasgone; the noise was outside; the room was still except for a cough andchoke as Blatchford--somewhere on the floor in front of the blindman--tried again to speak.
Basil Santoine, groping with his hands, found him. The blind man kneltand with his fingers went over his cousin's face; he found the wound onthe neck where Blatchford's life was running away. He was stillconscious. Santoine knew that he was trying his best to speak, to sayjust one word--a name--to tell whom he had seen and who had shot him;but he could not.
Santoine put his hand over a hand of his cousin. "That's all right,Wally; that's all right," he assured him. And now he knew thatBlatchford's consciousness was going forever. Santoine knew what mustbe most on his friend's mind at that last moment as it had been most onhis mind during more than thirty years. "And about my blindness,Wallace, that was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'd neverhave done what I have if I hadn't been blind."
Blatchford's fingers closed tightly on Santoine's; they did not relaxbut now remained closed, though without strength. The blind man bowedand then lifted his head. His friend was dead, and others were rushinginto the room--the butler, one of the chauffeurs, Avery, moremenservants; the light was on again, and amid the tumult and alarms ofthe discoveries shown by the light, some rushed to the windows to thesouth in pursuit of those who had escaped from the room. Avery and oneor two others rushed up to Santoine; now the blind man heard, abovetheir cries and alarms, the voice of his daughter. She was beside him,where he knelt next the body of Blatchford, and she put back others whocrowded about.
"Father! What has happened? Why are you here? Oh, Father, CousinWallace!"
"He is dead," Santoine said. "They shot him!"
"Father; how was it? You--"
"There are none of them in the room?" he asked her in reply.
"None of them?"
Her failure to understand answered him. If any of the men who foughtthere had not got away, she would have understood. "They were not alltogether," he said. "They were three, at least. One was not with theothers. They fired at each other, I believe, after one shot him."Santoine's hand was still in Blatchford's. "I heard them below." Hetold shortly how he had gone down, how Blatchford had entered and beenshot.
The blind man, still kneeling, heard the ordering and organizing ofothers for the pursuit; now women servants from the other part of thehouse were taking charge of affairs in the room. He heard Averyquestioning them; none of the servants had had part in the fight in theroom; there had been no signal heard, Santoine was told, upon any of
the bells which he had tried to ring from his room. Eaton was the onlyperson from the house who was missing. Harriet had gone for a moment;the blind man called her back and demanded that she stay beside him; hehad not yet moved from Blatchford's body. His daughter returned; herhand on his shoulder was trembling and cold--he could feel it coldthrough the linen of his pajama jacket.
"Father, you must go back to bed!" she commanded uselessly. He wouldnot stir yet. A servant, at her call, brought a robe which she putover him, and she drew slippers on his feet.
"They came, at least some of them came,"--Santoine had risen, fightingdown his grief over his cousin's death; he stood holding the robe abouthim--"for what was in your safe, Harriet."
"I know; I saw it open."
"What is gone?" Santoine demanded.
He heard her picking up the contents of the safe from the floor andcarrying them to the table and examining them; he was conscious that,having done this, she stood staring about the room as though to seewhether anything had escaped her search.
"What is gone?" Santoine repeated.
"Why--nearly all the formal papers seem to be gone; lists andagreements relating to a dozen different things."
"None of the correspondence?"
"No; that all seems to be here."
Santoine was breathing quickly; the trust for which he had been readyto die--for which Blatchford had died--seemed safe; but recognition ofthis only emphasized and deepened his perplexity as to what the meaninghad been of the struggle which an instant before had been going onaround him.
"We don't know whether he got it, then, or not!" It was Avery's voicewhich broke in upon him; Santoine merely listened.
"He? Who?" He heard his daughter's challenge.
"Why, Eaton. It is plain enough what happened here, isn't it?" Averyanswered. "He came here to this room for what he was after--for whathe has been after from the first--whatever that may have been! He cameprepared to force the safe and get it! But he was surprised--"
"By whom?" the blind man asked.
"By whomever it is that has been following him. I don't attempt toexplain who they were, Mr. Santoine; for I don't know. But--whoeverthey were--in doing this, he laid himself open to attack by them. Theywere watching--saw him enter here. They attacked him here. Wallaceswitched on the light and recognized him; so he shot Wallace and ranwith whatever he could grab up of the contents of the safe, hoping thatby luck he'd get what he was after."
"It isn't so--it isn't so!" Harriet denied.
Her father checked her; he stood an instant thoughtful. "Who isdirecting the pursuit, Donald?" he asked.
Avery went out at once. The window to the south, which stood open, wasclosed. The blind man turned to his daughter.
"Now, Harriet," he commanded. He put a hand out and touched Harriet'sclothing; he found she had on a heavy robe. She understood that herfather would not move till she had seen the room for him. She gazedabout again, therefore, and told him what she saw.
"There was some sort of a struggle near my safe," she said."Chairs--everything there is knocked about."
"Yes."
"There is also blood there--a big spot of it on the floor."
"I found that," said Santoine.
"There is blood behind the table near the middle of the room."
"Ah! A man fired from near there, too!"
"There are cartridges on the floor--"
"Cartridges?"
"Cartridge shells, I mean, empty, near both those spots of blood.There are cartridge shells near the fireplace; but no blood there."
"Yes; the bullets?"
"There are marks everywhere--above the mantel, all about."
"Yes."
"There is a bar of iron with a bent end near the table--between it andthe window; there are two flashlights, both extinguished."
"How was the safe opened?"
"The combination has been cut completely away; there is an--aninstrument connected with the electric-light fixture which seems tohave done the cutting. There is a hand-drill, too--I think it is ahand-drill. The inner door has been drilled through, and the catchesdrawn back."
"Who is this?"
The valet, who had been sent to Eaton's room, had returned with hisreport. "Mr. Eaton went from his room fully dressed, sir," he said toSantoine, "except for his shoes. I found all his shoes in his room."
During the report, the blind man felt his daughter's grasp on his armbecome tense and relax and tighten again. Then, as though she realizedshe was adding to his comprehension of what she had already betrayed,she suddenly took her hand from her father's arm. Santoine turned hisface toward his daughter. Another twinge racked the tumult of hisemotions. He groped and groped again, trying to catch his daughter'shand; but she avoided him. She directed servants to lift Blatchford'sbody and told them where to bear it. After that, Santoine resisted nolonger. He let the servants, at his daughter's direction, help him tohis room. His daughter went with him and saw that he was safe in bed;she stood beside him while the nurse washed the blood-splotches fromhis hands and feet. When the nurse had finished, he still felt hisdaughter's presence; she drew nearer to him.
"Father?" she questioned.
"Yes."
"You don't agree with Donald, do you?--that Mr. Eaton went to the studyto--to get something, and that whoever has been following him found himthere and--and interrupted him and he killed Cousin Wallace?"
Santoine was silent an instant. "That seems the correct explanation,Harriet," he evaded. "It does not fully explain; but it seems correctas far as it goes. If Donald asks you what my opinion is, tell him itis that."
He felt his daughter shrink away from him.
The blind man made no move to draw her back to him; he lay perfectlystill; his head rested flat upon the pillows; his hands were claspedtightly together above the coverlet. He had accused himself, in theroom below, because, by the manner he had chosen to treat Eaton, he hadslain the man he loved best and had forced a friendship with Eaton onhis daughter which, he saw, had gone further than mere friendship; ithad gone, he knew now, even to the irretrievable between man andwoman--had brought her, that is, to the state where, no matter whatEaton was or did, she must suffer with him! But Santoine was notaccusing himself now; he was feeling only the fulfillment of thatthreat against those who had trusted him with their secrets, which hehad felt vaguely after the murder of Gabriel Warden and, more plainlywith the events of each succeeding day, ever since. For that threat,just now, had culminated in his presence in purposeful, violent action;but Santoine in his blindness had been unable--and was stillunable---to tell what that action meant.
Of the three men who had fought in his presence in the room below--onebefore the safe, one at the fireplace, one behind the table--which hadbeen Eaton? What had he been doing there? Who were the others? Whathad any of them--or all of them--wanted? For Santoine, the answer tothese questions transcended now every personal interest. So, in hisuncertainty, Santoine had drawn into himself--withdrawn confidence inhis thoughts from all around, from Donald Avery, even from hisdaughter--until the answer should be found. His blind eyes were turnedtoward the ceiling, and his long, well-shaped fingers trembled with theintensity of his thought. But he realized, even in his absorption,that his daughter had drawn away from him. So, presently, he stirred.
"Harriet," he said.
It was the nurse who answered him. "Miss Santoine has gone downstairs.What is it you want of her, Mr. Santoine?"
The blind man hesitated, and checked the impulse he had had."Nothing," he replied.