He walked out on the porch, around the corner, and down to the end. In the daylight it was impossible to see through the screen of the porch, and the screen of the hall window into the poker room. The screen on the porch was set in a wooden frame and fastened in place with four large screws which showed no signs of having recently been disturbed.
He sat down on the settee-swing and lit a cigarette, staring resentfully at the end of the porch. Some time between eleven and two Saturday night, someone in the Sunset Bridge Club had killed Edward Fowler—and Stan Rice believed that the killer had stood on the porch and thrown the knife into Fowler’s back—through the window at the end of the hall. Stan’s aching head was positive proof of the accuracy of some unidentified person’s aim.
The belief had come from so nebulous a thing as the lack of a few dead houseflies in the bottom of the full length screen at the end of the hall. On Sunday morning, Stan had opened every window screen in the club—and found flies trapped in them all—save one. He was certain that screen had been opened shortly before Fowler’s death.
Perhaps the screen at the end of the porch had been removed entirely Saturday night? He shook his head angrily at the thought. Mosquitoes and flies would have swarmed into the lighted club. Fowler’s murderer was not quite so obvious. If the screen had been removed at all, it had been replaced instantly—a formidable task judging by its size.
Stan left the porch, dismissing it with an irritated snap of the fingers. In the ceiling of the hall at the top of the stairs a trap led into the attic of the house. He looked into the two closets in search of a ladder, and finding none, utilized a couple of tables from the card room, balancing them precariously one on top of the other. They served his purpose, and with a slight display of gymnastics he hauled himself up through the opening.
The attic was unfloored, but a cat-walk of boards nailed to the beams, led from the trapdoor to each of four dormer windows. Bending over to avoid the slanting roof, Stan made his way to the window overlooking the roof of the second floor porch. The attic was dusty, close and stifling, and showed no indication that it had been visited since the day the house was finished. At the window, he looked back. His footprints showed clearly in the dust of the cat-walk. He mopped his dripping forehead and opened the window.
The porch roof, of red tile like the balance of the house, was not more than two feet under the dormer window. Stan stepped out carefully, for the roof sloped slightly to provide drainage, and the tile made a hazardous footing. Still holding to the window frame he made a tentative step, and decided it was too dangerous. A slip would start him down and nothing could stop him.
Heedless of his clothes, he lay down full length and began to inch his way toward the roof-edge at the end of the porch. It was hard, uncomfortable work, for the tiles were rough and blistering hot. By the time he was able to look over at the top of the porch screen, slightly below him, rivulets of perspiration were smarting in his eyes.
He lay still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the outside of the top rail of the screen. About a foot from the end were two small spots, almost invisible. Riskily, he extended one long arm and scraped at one of the spots with a fingernail. The nail came away, green and gummy, and Stan grunted in satisfaction.
He worked his way slowly back from the edge, and began feeling each tile near the edge of the roof. Near the middle he found the loose one he was seeking and lifted it out. Underneath was wood, and in the wood was an empty screw hole.
Getting back was not so easy. It was necessary to test each tile until he found a firm one, then push. The edges of the tiles kept catching in his clothing, offering a graterlike resistance to his progress. He was a wild disheveled figure when he finally reached the window and found it closed and locked on the inside.
He dropped flat, pressing closely against the side of the house, nerving himself to start the roll which would carry him to the ground forty feet below. He had been lucky on the Four Leaf Clover—but playing the fool twice in forty-eight hours might not work out. The one thing he knew he could not do and live was stay on the roof where he was—he had a slim chance of surviving the drop to the ground with nothing worse than a broken leg.
He had already started to relax and roll when the sharp crack of a high-powered .22 went skipping from tree to tree in the grove back of the house. A mushroom bullet droned close to his bandaged head and chipped stucco from the wall. Involuntarily he clutched at the tiles and checked his fall, probably saving his life.
From the ground floor, at the end of the house, a shattering blast from a big calibre revolver, put to shame the spit of the deadly .22. Stan grinned in relief. The bulky form of Detective Hogue of the Homicide Squad was charging into the grove, firing on his way.
Somehow, Stan got to the window, kicked it in, and opened the lock. He found Juan unconscious from a blackjack’s blow, in the kitchen on the second floor. The door of the big electric icebox was wide open.
Even while Hogue was explaining how LeRoy had instructed him to keep an eye on Miles Standish Rice, and how the man had escaped through the grove—Miles
