Fantasy fiction; Journalists -- Fiction; Paranormal fiction
Naylor, who had been reading the copy page by page as it came from the
wire, and who, naturally, was taking a mere cold-blooded view of the
case than Simpkins, telegraphed back:
"What share did Brander have in actual murder? You don't bring that out
in story."
"Couldn't get it out of her," Simpkins sent back, truthfully enough.
"Find out," was the answer. "Get back to hall quick. Brander may have
looked in to help Mrs. A. with her night work while you were gone. Will
hold enough men for an extra."
Simpkins called a cab and started for police headquarters at breakneck
speed, but on the way he stopped at Brander's rooms; for a miserable
suspicion was growing in his brain. "If that really was Isis," he was
thinking, "it's funny she didn't nail me before I got to the door, even
with the start I had."
On his representation that he had called on a matter of life and death,
the janitor admitted him to Brander's rooms. They were empty, and the
bed had not been slept in.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX
It was just after three o'clock when Simpkins, an officer on either
side, entered the Oriental Building again, and hurried up the stairs to
the Society's office.
There they were halted, for Simpkins had left his key sticking in
the spring lock inside and slammed the door behind him, a piece of
carelessness over which the officers were greatly exercised; for he had
not confided to them that he had started off in a hurry. In the end,
they sent the door crashing in with their shoulders and preceded
Simpkins--and he was scrupulously polite about this--into the
ante-chamber.
There an incandescent lamp over the youth's desk gave them light and
Simpkins momentary relief. The men used hard language when they found
the second door in the same condition as the first, but Simpkins took
their rating meekly. They tried their shoulders again, but the oak was
stout and long withstood their assaults. When at last it yielded it gave
way suddenly, and they all tumbled pell-mell into the hall. Simpkins
jumped up with incredible agility, and was back in the lighted
ante-chamber before the others had struggled to their feet. Suddenly
they stopped swearing. They looked around them. Then they, too, stepped
back into the ante-chamber.
"Ain't there any way of lighting this place?" asked one of them rather
sullenly.
"Nothing but three incandescents over the desks," answered Simpkins.
"Use your lantern then, Tom; come on now, young feller, and show us
where this woman is," he said roughly, and he pushed Simpkins through
the door.
As the officers followed him, he fell back between them and linked
his arms through theirs. And silently they advanced on the altar, a
grotesque and rather unsteady trio, the bull's eyes on either side
flashing ahead into the darkness.
"The lamp's still burning," whispered Simpkins. They were far enough
into the hall now to see the glow from it in the corner. "Flash your
lights around those pillars, boys. There, over there!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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