The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4576]
"What an idea," he thought to himself. "I must be going dotty, it's the strain of expecting a bullet in my back all the time, I suppose. I was never like this before."
Deede Dawson struck a match and put it to a gas-jet that lighted up the whole room. Between him and Dunn lay the packing-case, and Dunn was surprised to see that it was still there and that nothing had changed or moved; and then again he said to himself that this was a foolish thought only worthy of some excitable, hysterical girl.
"It's being too much for me," he thought resignedly. "I've heard of people being driven mad by horror. I suppose that's what's happening to me."
"You look--queer," Deede Dawson's voice interrupted the confused medley of his thoughts. "Why do you look like that--Charley Wright?"
Dunn looked moodily across the case in which the body of the murdered man was hidden to where the murderer stood.
After a pause, and speaking with an effort, he said:
"You'd look queer if some one with a pistol was watching you all the time the way you watch me."
"You do what I tell you and you'll be all right," Deede Dawson answered. "You see that packing-case?"
Dunn nodded.
"It's big enough," he said.
"Would you like to know?" asked Deede Dawson slowly with his slow, perpetual smile. "Would you like to know what's in it--Charley Wright?"
And again Dunn was certain that a faint suspicion hung about those last two words, and that his life and death hung very evenly in the balance.
"Silver, you said," he muttered. "Didn't you?"
"Ah, yes--yes--to be sure," answered Deede Dawson. "Yes, so I did. Silver. I want the lid nailed down. There's a hammer and nails there. Get to work and look sharp."
Dunn stepped forward and began to set about a task that was so terrible and strange, and that yet he had, at peril of his life--at peril of more than that, indeed--to treat as of small importance.
Standing a little distance from the lighted gas-jet, Deede Dawson watched him narrowly, and as Dunn worked he was very sure that to betray the least sign of his knowledge would be to bring instantly a bullet crashing through his brain.
It seemed curious to him that he had so carefully replaced everything after making his discovery, and that without any forethought or special intention he had put back everything so exactly as he had found it when the slightest neglect or failure in that respect would most certainly have cost him his life.
And he felt that as yet he could not afford to die.
One by one he drove in the nails, and as he worked at his gruesome task he heard the faintest rustle on the landing without--the faintest sound of a soft breath cautiously drawn in, of a light foot very carefully set down.
Deede Dawson plainly heard nothing; indeed, no ear less acute and less well-trained than Dunn's could have caught sounds that were so slight and low, but he, listening between each stroke of his hammer, was sure that it was Ella who had followed them, and that she crouched upon the landing without, watching and listening.
Did that mean, he wondered, that she, too, knew? Or was it merely natural curiosity; hostile in part, perhaps, since evidently the relations between her and her stepfather were not too friendly--a desire to know what task there could be in the attics so late at night for which Deede Dawson had such need of his captive's help?
Or was it by any chance because she wished to know how things went with him, and what was to be his fate?
In any case, Dunn was sure that Ella had followed then, and was on the landing without.
He drove home the last nail and stood up. "That's done," he said.
"And well done," said Deede Dawson. "Well done--Charley Wright."
He spoke the name softly and lingeringly, and then all at once he began to laugh, a low and somewhat dreadful laughter that had in it no mirth at all, and that sounded horrible and strange in the chill emptiness of the