The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4720]
A simultaneous gasp went up from Dale and Miss Cornelia.
It was Anderson, the detective! And he was--the Bat!
"It's Mr. Anderson!" stuttered Dale, aghast at the discovery.
The Unknown gloated over his captive.
"I'm Anderson," he said. "This man has been impersonating me. You're a good actor, Bat, for a fellow that's such a bad actor!" he taunted. "How did you get the dope on this case? Did you tap the wires to headquarters?"
The Bat allowed himself a little sardonic smile.
"I'll tell you that when I--" he began, then, suddenly, made his last bid for freedom. With one swift, desperate movement, in spite of his handcuffs, he jerked the real Anderson's revolver from him by the barrel, then wheeling with lightning rapidity on Bailey, brought the butt of Anderson's revolver down on his wrist. Bailey's revolver fell to the floor with a clatter. The Bat swung toward the door. Again the tables were turned!
"Hands up, everybody!" he ordered, menacing the group with the stolen pistol. "Hands up--you!" as Miss Cornelia kept her hands at her sides.
It was the greatest moment of Miss Cornelia's life. She smiled sweetly and came toward the Bat as if the pistol aimed at her heart were as innocuous as a toothbrush.
"Why?" she queried mildly. "I took the bullets out of that revolver two hours ago."
The Bat flung the revolver toward her with a curse. The real Anderson instantly snatched up the gun that Bailey had dropped and covered the Bat.
"Don't move!" he warned, "or I'll fill you full of lead!" He smiled out of the corner of his mouth at Miss Cornelia who was primly picking up the revolver that the Bat had flung at her--her own revolver.
"You see--you never know what a woman will do," he continued.
Miss Cornelia smiled. She broke open the revolver, five loaded shells fell from it to the floor. The Bat stared at her--then stared incredulously at the bullets.
"You see," she said, "I, too, have a little imagination!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
QUITE A COLLECTION
An hour or so later in a living-room whose terrors had departed, Miss Cornelia, her niece, and Jack Bailey were gathered before a roaring fire. The local police had come and gone; the bodies of Courtleigh Fleming and his nephew had been removed to the mortuary; Beresford had returned to his home, though under summons as a material witness; the Bat, under heavy guard, had gone off under charge of the detective. As for Doctor Wells, he too was under arrest, and a broken man, though, considering the fact that Courtleigh Fleming had been throughout the prime mover in the conspiracy, he might escape with a comparatively light sentence. In a little while the newspapermen of all the great journals would be at the door--but for a moment the sorely tried group at Cedarcrest enjoyed a temporary respite and they made the best of it while they could.
The fire burned brightly and the lovers, hand in hand, sat before it. But Miss Cornelia, birdlike and brisk, sat upright on a chair near by and relived the greatest triumph of her life while she knitted with automatic precision.
"Knit two, purl two," she would say, and then would wander once more back to the subject in hand. Out behind the flower garden the ruins of the garage and her beloved car were still smoldering; a cool night wind came through the broken windowpane where not so long before the bloody hand of the injured detective had intruded itself. On the door to the hall, still fastened as the Bat had left it, was the pathetic little creature with which the Bat had signed a job--for once, before he had completed it.
But calmly and dispassionately Miss Cornelia worked out the crossword puzzle of the evening and announced her results.
"It is all clear," she said. "Of course the Doctor had the blue-print. And the Bat tried to get it from him. Then when the Doctor had stunned him and locked him in the billiard room, the Bat still had the key and unlocked