still, with the breeze stirring outside, some of the fine specks floated up the chimney, so they hadn’t been there too long.
“Say from five to twelve hours ago,” she breathed. “But I don’t get it. Did the maid kill the valet, take the stuff from the safe, and come here to hide it?”
Nellie wanted a box in which to put those ashes, very gently, so that they could be studied in the Bleek Street laboratory. She went toward the stairs. In the attic there might be old boxes. A shoe box for instance.
She went up the stairs, moving silently through habit, not through caution. The danger sense had died down, and now she was annoyed at herself for radioing Smitty. There was nothing here she couldn’t take care of all by herself.
She had almost reached the second floor, and in the darkness something brushed softly against her cheek. She checked a cry, and hopped back down a step, hugging the wall. It felt as if a hand had just touched her cheek; as if fingers had lightly stroked it.
But that was crazy. Any reaching hands in this place would go for her throat, not her cheek.
She stood there in the blackness of the stairway for a full minute, then reached slowly upward. Her fingers touched other fingers. It had been a hand!
She wanted to scream, because some things are far worse than direct danger. But she didn’t scream. She forced her fingers past the hand—which was ice-cold—and felt to a wrist.
It was a woman’s wrist. A girl’s wrist. And there was no pulse there. She was dead!
With her breath catching in her throat, Nellie forced herself up to the top step and around the rail. She snapped on the small flash which, with the belt radio, was part of the equipment of each member of Justice, Inc.
The white ray fell on an equally white, cold face. A rather pretty face, even in death, in spite of the terrible discoloration of the throat beneath. It fell on cloudy dark hair in a long bob; on a mannish hat of brown felt lying crumpled to one side of the face.
It was Brown’s maid. She would never return, nor would she ever tell police what she might know. She lay there on the dirty floor, with her arm happening to have fallen between bannister uprights so that the stark hand hung over the stairs.
Nellie looked around to see if her purse were near, then snapped off her flashlight with a quick little hiss of breath and retreated down the dark hall.
There had been a sound from the rear. The sound of a door softly opening and closing.
Someone else had stolen in. And it couldn’t possibly be Smitty; it would be many more minutes before he could get there.
Nellie debated on attempted retreat out a window over the porch roof, then shook her sleek blond head. She’d stick around. There was no way for the gang to know anyone was inside. And she might overhear something.
“—ought to’ve waited a little longer before we came back to this joint,” a man’s sullen voice sounded downstairs as the kitchen door swung open. Nellie heard footsteps in the dining room.
“We had to come the minute it got dark,” snapped some other man. “Had to clean the joint out the minute we could.”
The steps were in the hall, and Nellie started edging toward the corridor window, immediately behind her. Having her back to it, she didn’t see that it was slowly being raised, and that outside it, on the porch roof, was a black blob of a figure.
Nellie stopped retreating. The men downstairs were going into the parlor. The ashes! They’d thought of those, and were going to take them away, along with the cold, stark thing lying with its dead arm hanging over the stairs.
Nellie decided it was time to leave. She’d slide out the window and wait across the street in shadow till Smitty and Cole Wilson arrived. Then the three of them could come back and capture—
“Mmmmp—” Nellie got out. It was meant to be a scream, but just in time a hand clamped over her mouth from behind! Another arm went around her like iron cable,
“Say from five to twelve hours ago,” she breathed. “But I don’t get it. Did the maid kill the valet, take the stuff from the safe, and come here to hide it?”
Nellie wanted a box in which to put those ashes, very gently, so that they could be studied in the Bleek Street laboratory. She went toward the stairs. In the attic there might be old boxes. A shoe box for instance.
She went up the stairs, moving silently through habit, not through caution. The danger sense had died down, and now she was annoyed at herself for radioing Smitty. There was nothing here she couldn’t take care of all by herself.
She had almost reached the second floor, and in the darkness something brushed softly against her cheek. She checked a cry, and hopped back down a step, hugging the wall. It felt as if a hand had just touched her cheek; as if fingers had lightly stroked it.
But that was crazy. Any reaching hands in this place would go for her throat, not her cheek.
She stood there in the blackness of the stairway for a full minute, then reached slowly upward. Her fingers touched other fingers. It had been a hand!
She wanted to scream, because some things are far worse than direct danger. But she didn’t scream. She forced her fingers past the hand—which was ice-cold—and felt to a wrist.
It was a woman’s wrist. A girl’s wrist. And there was no pulse there. She was dead!
With her breath catching in her throat, Nellie forced herself up to the top step and around the rail. She snapped on the small flash which, with the belt radio, was part of the equipment of each member of Justice, Inc.
The white ray fell on an equally white, cold face. A rather pretty face, even in death, in spite of the terrible discoloration of the throat beneath. It fell on cloudy dark hair in a long bob; on a mannish hat of brown felt lying crumpled to one side of the face.
It was Brown’s maid. She would never return, nor would she ever tell police what she might know. She lay there on the dirty floor, with her arm happening to have fallen between bannister uprights so that the stark hand hung over the stairs.
Nellie looked around to see if her purse were near, then snapped off her flashlight with a quick little hiss of breath and retreated down the dark hall.
There had been a sound from the rear. The sound of a door softly opening and closing.
Someone else had stolen in. And it couldn’t possibly be Smitty; it would be many more minutes before he could get there.
Nellie debated on attempted retreat out a window over the porch roof, then shook her sleek blond head. She’d stick around. There was no way for the gang to know anyone was inside. And she might overhear something.
“—ought to’ve waited a little longer before we came back to this joint,” a man’s sullen voice sounded downstairs as the kitchen door swung open. Nellie heard footsteps in the dining room.
“We had to come the minute it got dark,” snapped some other man. “Had to clean the joint out the minute we could.”
The steps were in the hall, and Nellie started edging toward the corridor window, immediately behind her. Having her back to it, she didn’t see that it was slowly being raised, and that outside it, on the porch roof, was a black blob of a figure.
Nellie stopped retreating. The men downstairs were going into the parlor. The ashes! They’d thought of those, and were going to take them away, along with the cold, stark thing lying with its dead arm hanging over the stairs.
Nellie decided it was time to leave. She’d slide out the window and wait across the street in shadow till Smitty and Cole Wilson arrived. Then the three of them could come back and capture—
“Mmmmp—” Nellie got out. It was meant to be a scream, but just in time a hand clamped over her mouth from behind! Another arm went around her like iron cable,
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