SEALED LIPS
A SUDDEN chill swept over Don Hasbrouck as he reached forward to place his hand upon the bell. He hesitated. He looked upward to the black windows and strange turrets of the old stone house. The cold, driving rain pelted into his face. The night — or the dismal, sinister mansion itself — brought instinctive fear deep into the man on the steps.
Hasbrouck straightened his shoulders. He couldn’t tell, for the life of him, why he hesitated, or from whence came that eerie feeling.
He was at the end of a trail, ready to enter a place that he knew well. There was no one in the gloomy house who could harm him. Reason told him that. But instinct, some age-old secret dread, fought against reason.
A shrill night wind whistled through the narrow uptown street, as if to shriek a warning. And, suddenly, Hasbrouck, in the midst of Manhattan, felt isolated and insecure.
Hasbrouck’s finger crept forward. Deliberately, he pressed the bell. The wind had died down. Now, from the depths of the house, he heard a single, muffled note, like that of a ghostly gong struck in somber silence.
The sound quickened Hasbrouck’s qualms. As he waited, he felt a sudden desire to turn and dash down the stone steps behind him. The darkness of the night seemed safer than the gloom that lay ahead.
He waited. The door creaked slowly open. With a quick effort, Hasbrouck stepped into the dimly lit vestibule.
Before him, a quiet, pale-faced young man — a servant, to judge from his black garb — moved noiselessly aside to let him enter.
“Good evening, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the young man, in a monotone. “Mr. Glendenning is expecting you. He has stayed up to see you. I shall tell him that you are here.”
Standing in the gloomy hallway, Hasbrouck watched the young man ascend the stairs. The regularity of the man’s step made him appear like a mechanical figure.
Now, within the portals of the old house, Hasbrouck strove to fight off that fearful impression which had gripped him so surprisingly. But it remained.
Hasbrouck turned quickly, in response to an unknown impulse. He stared at the dark velvet curtains that hung in front of the entrance to a side room. He reached forward and pressed his hand against one curtain. The heavy cloth wavered beneath his touch.
What lay in the darkness beyond?
A shudder shook Hasbrouck’s shoulders. His hand dropped quickly to his side. From the direction of the stairway came the sound of footsteps. The young man was returning. Hasbrouck assumed an attitude of composure.
“Come right up, Mr. Hasbrouck,” said the calm voice.
Hasbrouck felt less uneasy as he ascended the stairs and reached the second-story hall. A door was open at the front of the building. Passing the young man, Hasbrouck entered the front room alone.
An old man reclined in an easy-chair, propped up by pillows. He was attired in a dressing gown. His thin, gray hair heightened his aged appearance. A crop of white stubble covered his face. This was the recluse, Clinton Glendenning. His face was lined with marks of gloom and discontent.
The sight of this individual was momentarily reassuring to Don Hasbrouck. Clinton Glendenning was a man whom one might pity, but certainly not fear.
Hasbrouck, tall and hawklike, loomed like a human scarecrow in the center of the room. He felt a certain superiority over his host, as he went to the chair toward which old Glendenning motioned.
“Come in, Larkin!” rasped Glendenning.
The quiet-faced man at the door obeyed. He closed the door behind him, and stood within, in the attitude of a servant awaiting his master’s next order.
AN oddly assorted trio! Larkin was the only one who presented a neat appearance. He was virtually self-effacing as he stood beside the door. His pale face formed a marked contrast to the dark, well-pressed suit he wore.
“Well?” questioned old Glendenning shrilly. “What do you want, Hasbrouck? Why have you come here?”
“The usual matter, Mr. Glendenning,” replied Hasbrouck, in a deliberate tone. “I am still searching for Robert Buchanan.”
“Why annoy me, then?” responded the old man testily. “I have told you several times that I have no idea where he may be.”
“I thought perhaps that you might have received some news. It has been two weeks since I last called to see you.”
Glendenning’s eyes flashed suddenly. The steely glint surprised Hasbrouck. His gaze dropped to the arms of Glendenning’s chair, and he observed the old man’s clawlike hands as they gripped the arms.
There was strength in Glendenning’s thin, curved fingers — remarkable strength. It was something that Hasbrouck had not noticed before.
He began to feel uneasy again. Sensing hostility on the part of his unwilling host, Hasbrouck sought to give an explanation of his visit. He glanced toward Larkin, at the door. The pale-faced man had not changed his position.
“I do not wish to annoy you, Mr. Glendenning,” said Hasbrouck. “At the same time, you must understand that it is my business to trace young Buchanan.
“So far, I have uncovered only one important fact. Robert Buchanan was engaged to your niece, Margaret Glendenning. The girl favored an early marriage. You opposed it. The last night that Buchanan was seen was the night he came here to discuss the marriage with you—”
“Why go into that?” demanded the old man angrily. “We talked about that the last time you were here. That’s true, isn’t it, Larkin?”
The quiet-faced man nodded.
“Why annoy me, then?” repeated Glendenning, turning to Don Hasbrouck. “Larkin is my secretary. He attends to such minor matters as this. Should we hear anything from Robert Buchanan” — there was biting sarcasm in the old man’s tone — “Larkin will inform you. I have your card, here.”
Glendenning reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a card, which he held so Hasbrouck could see it. On the card was inscribed:
DON HASBROUCK Hasbrouck Detective Agency
Hasbrouck watched while old Glendenning fumbled with the card. A sinister expression played upon the gray-haired man’s lips. Seeing it, Hasbrouck felt a return of that dread which had almost overpowered him before.
What were the thoughts in the old man’s mind? What did he know that he had not told? Hasbrouck was determined to learn. Trying to catch Glendenning unaware, he sprang a sudden question.
“Did you ever hear of a man named Jerry Middleton?”
Glendenning looked up.
“No,” he replied. “I do not recall any person by that name.”
“A friend of Buchanan’s?” prompted Hasbrouck.
“I never heard of him.”
“The reason I asked,” explained Hasbrouck, “is because Buchanan and Middleton were close friends. Before Buchanan came to this house — on that last night — he spent a few hours with Middleton.”
“I suppose Middleton is missing, also,” said Glendenning, dryly.
“He is,” admitted Hasbrouck, “but there is no mystery about that. He is always a difficult man to find. Middleton is a young man, of considerable wealth. He goes in for the unusual. Always seeks new thrills. He becomes bored in New York, and travels about the country.
“The last I knew about him, was the same night that Buchanan vanished. Middleton left for Florida that very night.”
“Perhaps Buchanan went with him.”
There was a subtle tone in the old man’s remark.
“Perhaps,” agreed Hasbrouck. “But there is no proof of it; and Buchanan does not have Middleton’s habit of dropping out of sight. However” — he paused, then decided to continue — “that matter will be settled tonight.
“Middleton is coming to New York. He has an appointment with a friend. I expect to meet him at the friend’s home and learn what he knows.”
THERE was a ringing challenge in Hasbrouck’s voice. It seemed as though the detective was offering a last chance to Glendenning, giving the old man an opportunity to reveal whatever he might know.
There was no response from Glendenning. He merely stared. Hasbrouck shot a glance toward Larkin. The secretary’s face was immobile.
“This interview,” said Hasbrouck, “may be our last meeting, Mr. Glendenning.”
“It will be our last,” replied the old man coldly.
Hasbrouck did not like the tone. His gaze wandered slowly about the room. He took in its simple furnishings. He meditated for a moment, and the howling of the wind disturbed his thoughts. It reminded him of the menace he had felt when he stood outside the house.
“Our last interview,” he said quietly. “Very well, Mr. Glendenning. That brings me squarely to the point at issue. It concerns your niece — Miss Margaret Glendenning.”
“Well?” asked the old man querulously.
“She was engaged to Robert Buchanan,” said Hasbrouck. “Therefore, she might furnish a clew. I should like to speak with her.”
“There is no reason for that,” declared Glendenning emphatically.
“I disagree with you!” retorted Hasbrouck.
The old man glowered. He looked fiercely toward the detective; then turned suddenly to Larkin.
“Call Miss Margaret,” he ordered. “Tell her I would like to speak to her. We shall end this matter now!”
Hasbrouck smiled as the secretary left. He had won his point. On his previous visits, Glendenning had refused to let him meet the girl. Now the wish had been granted.
Neither man spoke during the interim of waiting. The silence troubled Hasbrouck. Why had Clinton Glendenning suddenly capitulated?
It was obvious that the old man did not wish to give out any information upon the subject of Robert Buchanan. Margaret Glendenning was the important key. From her, Hasbrouck might expect statements which her uncle would not make.
But another thought disturbed the detective’s mind. Had Margaret Glendenning been schooled for this pending interview? If so, her remarks would be of little value. Suppose she did talk — what then? It would antagonize the old man toward Hasbrouck.
The detective pondered as he considered such a situation. Were his fears forebodings? Would Clinton Glendenning use some method to thwart him, if he learned facts that the old man did not want him to know?
The arrival of Margaret Glendenning put an end to these thoughts. The girl entered the room, accompanied by Larkin.
She was remarkably beautiful, but the black lounging pajamas that she wore gave an added pallor to her white features. The girl stared directly at the visitor, and Hasbrouck noticed a sad look in her brown eyes.
“What do you wish to know?” the girl inquired, without waiting for the formality of an introduction.
Hasbrouck had risen from his chair. He sat down as Margaret Glendenning took a seat opposite him. He responded immediately to her question.
“I should like to know anything that you know concerning Robert Buchanan,” said the detective. “Anything that might help me in my efforts to locate him.”
“I do not know where he is.”
The girl’s voice was level — each word uttered in a hushed, solemn tone.
“You have not heard from him since the last night he was here?” Hasbrouck questioned further.
“Not a word,” answered the girl, with a far-away look.
“He said nothing that might give you an idea where he has gone?”
“Nothing at all,” declared Margaret solemnly. “He” — a slight expression of fearfulness appeared in her eyes, as she looked toward her uncle — “he said nothing of his plans.”
“And you were engaged to him?” asked Hasbrouck quietly.
“Yes,” answered Margaret, “but that is ended now.”
“Why?”
“My uncle disapproved. He said that in his opinion I was too young to marry. I am not yet twenty-one. But” — her eyes turned again toward Glendenning — “he did not interfere. After Robert went away, without a word, I decided that Uncle Clinton must be right. That is all.”
“Do you know Jerry Middleton?” inquired Hasbrouck.
“No,” replied the girl. “I have heard Robert speak of him. They were friends. But I did not know Mr. Middleton.”
WHILE Don Hasbrouck was considering another question, Margaret Glendenning arose abruptly and walked from the room. The sudden action perplexed the detective. Hasbrouck turned to speak to Glendenning.
“Regarding Middleton,” he said, “I might mention that the man is wealthy, and a very good friend of Buchanan’s. When I tell Middleton, this evening, that his friend has disappeared, he will leave nothing to chance in conducting a thorough search.
“I have been employed by Buchanan’s relations. I am working on this case alone. I have assembled some data, and all my previous findings have been recorded. I shall include my interviews with you and Miss Glendenning in the report that I expect to make.”
“I hope that your notes may prove illuminating,” said the old man. “I also trust that you will find your interview with Middleton a productive one. But in view of the man’s tendency to go and come as he pleases, you should not count too much upon finding him tonight!”
With this statement, Glendenning used a tone of finality. He raised himself from his chair, moved abruptly to a corner of the room, and passed through a door that evidently led to his bedroom. Hasbrouck was alone with Larkin.
The peculiar emphasis of Glendenning’s parting words brought a new feeling of insecurity to the detective. He stared at the chair that the old man had vacated.
Why had Glendenning left so abruptly?
Hasbrouck glanced at Larkin. He wanted to quiz the secretary, but he feared that the old man might be listening.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Don Hasbrouck arose from his chair and walked toward the door. Larkin went before him. In the hallway, the detective felt more uneasy.
He had interviewed Clinton Glendenning in the past, and each time this man Larkin had been a silent witness. What did the fellow know about the secret? Could he explain the reluctance that both Glendenning and his niece had shown?
Hasbrouck knew that he would have to search for information elsewhere. He had mentioned the name of Jerry Middleton, hoping that it might bring results. And it had failed.
But Jerry Middleton himself would not fail when the detective met him tonight. Hasbrouck knew where Middleton would be. He intended to go directly to that place.
In the dim light of the lower hall, Hasbrouck found himself once more fighting the sense of impending danger — of some unknown peril that lurked in that house. Foolish, he knew, for in a moment he would be out.
Larkin, here, was certainly no menace. Neither was Clinton Glendenning, for that matter.
He stifled a contemptuous laugh. How ridiculous! Here, in a house inhabited only by an old man, a pasty-faced weakling, and a girl, Don Hasbrouck was worried! He looked at Larkin as he donned his coat. The secretary bowed a silent good night.
Hasbrouck, standing by the velvet curtain, watched the young man go upstairs. He was left alone, to leave the house at his leisure. It was another sign of the abruptness that all the occupants of this residence displayed.
He sensed that Larkin wanted to avoid any chance for an interview. Hasbrouck shrugged. He could not blame the secretary. The fellow had to do old Glendenning’s bidding. He could take no chances with his job.
AS Larkin’s footsteps echoed at the top of the stairway, Hasbrouck pulled a card from his pocket and glanced at a written address which told his next destination; the place where he would find Jerry Middleton.
He put the card back in his pocket, and once more glanced up the stairs. His hat was in his right hand; the fingers of his left sought the knob of the vestibule door. His back grazed the nearer of the two velvet curtains.
Something brushed over Don Hasbrouck’s shoulder. It felt like a wirelike cord, moving swiftly sidewise. The invisible object had fallen over his head. It was moving slowly upward, toward his collar.
It might have been the imperceptible touch of this cord; it might have been a sudden thought that had flashed through Hasbrouck’s brain — at any rate, the detective shuddered.
He held his breath and stood still as he sensed a motion behind him. Then he slowly drew his left hand from the doorknob and pressed it against the curtain.
His fingers encountered a solid object through the velvet! Hasbrouck started to move forward. He stopped abruptly.
A wild look came upon his face. His eyes bulged, and his hands shot toward his throat. The tiny cord was there, tightening into the flesh! The detective’s clawing fingers could not loosen its terrifying pressure!
A gurgle sounded in the doomed man’s throat. His gangling form toppled backward and slumped against the curtain. Hasbrouck went down slowly, his fall governed by that cord which bound his neck. The cruel thread was biting — strangling — killing!
Invisible hands came from the curtain. Hasbrouck’s inert form was drawn into darkness. A short, sizzling sound came from behind the velvet curtain. Then all was silent in the hall.
Ten minutes later, Larkin came downstairs and locked the front door. The secretary turned and went upstairs, passing the spot where Don Hasbrouck last had stood. There was nothing to indicate that the detective had not left the house.
Detective Hasbrouck’s forebodings had been realized. Here, in this great, sinister, silent house, he had met his fate. His lips were sealed by death!