Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

Starke spoke sharply to Crest.

“Drive him out!”

Crest was a little bewildered. He didn’t know much about horses.

“Come on outer there,” he instructed Tommy, presently.

The horse stood perfectly still. Crest swore, got in the stall beside the horse, pushed on him.

“Get the hell outer—”

But he didn’t finish. Tommy swept his rear sideways, and Crest was crushed against the side of the stall. Then Tommy swung back into place again, and remained motionless.

Crest got up, painfully, sidled cautiously out of the stall.

“Why not just plug him?” he whined to Starke.

Instead, Starke turned to Stone.

“Drive him out!”

Stone hesitated. He, too, was unfamiliar with horses.

“You’ll have to let me do it,” put in Holly, with a chuckle.

Starke had evidently preferred to have his own men turn the horse out, in view of the possibility of a trick if Holly did it. However, what Holly might accomplish thereby was not apparent. Too, Starke was in a hurry.

“All right,” he agreed.

They all stood back against the wall, to allow the horse room enough to swing out of the stall and down the passage. Holly was between Crest and Stone. The light from the lantern, held by Starke, played most on Holly, Clearly outlined his hands held in front of him, his wrists still securely bound.

“Tommy,” called Holly, gently.

The horse at once swung about, faced his master. His glowing eyes were fixed upon Holly.

“Tommy, take a canter,” said Holly.

The horse obeyed the simple command at once. With not an instant’s hesitation, he turned his nose toward the south door, thumped rhythmically down the passage, out of the door into the darkness beyond, picked up speed rapidly.

For just one brief moment there was silence. A silence that was cut like a knife by the sound of Starke’s metallic voice.

“The gun!” he said to Holly. “Where is it?”

“Why, it’s right here,” Holly said promptly.

“Here?”

“Yes. Here in the stable.”

“Show it to me!”

Holly sighed.

“How impetuous you are!” he objected mildly. “Now, I—”

“Show me the gun!” raged Starke. “I could find it, in time, without your help. But you promised—”

“Very well,” said Holly.

He stepped across the passage toward the stall, the others watching him warily. As he reached it he turned and faced them.

“You see,” he explained, “I wanted to be sure that the gun was safe. There was no place of concealment in the house that Watson didn’t know about. I had begun to suspect him, so I—”

“Never mind that,” cut in Starke, exasperated. “Get me the gun!”

But Holly went on doggedly.

“And I knew that it would be safe here in Tommy’s stall. In the first place, any one looking for it would not be likely to look here. And in the second place, Tommy would not allow—”

Holly broke off abruptly as Starke, with Crest and Stone, stepped away from the wall into the middle of the passage, threateningly.

Without a word, Holly turned about again and went to the far corner of the straw-covered stall. He knelt in the straw. His wrists were so tightly bound that the blood had almost ceased to flow in his hands. But his fingers, although numb, were free, and with them he raked about in the straw.

Starke put the lantern down in the passage. He, too, drew an automatic. He, Crest and Stone, all waited with weapons drawn.

“I give you ten seconds!” he called briskly to Holly.

“Ten seconds,” Holly called back, “is nothing to me. I’m only showing you the gun because I promised—”

From somewhere outside came the clatter of horse’s hoofs. Tommy had cantered away out of the south door. These were coming toward the north door.

“This dump gives me the willies,” muttered Stone.

“Look out!” yelled Crest, suddenly.

But there was no time to look out.

Through the north door, at a furious speed came Tommy. He swept along the passage like a great, black steaming ghost, wreaking havoc all the way. Along the passage and out of the south door again.

Crest, squealing and cursing in anguish, was trampled under foot. Stone was flung with terrific force against the wall, and lay where he fell, still and silent. Starke was the only one of the three to remain a menace; pushed against the wall, he was kneeling on one knee, a little short of breath, but otherwise unharmed.

The lantern had been bowled over. Even the shadowy outlines of the stalls were blackened out in the darkness.

Holly was crouching in the stall. Starke was across the passage, not a dozen feet away. For a little while, neither moved, neither made a sound.

But it was Starke’s move, since he knew best his antagonist’s position. His automatic spattered out three sharp flashes.

But he was blazing at the wrong corner.

Holly, waiting for this, answered instantly. One shot.

“Ah!”

And that was all. Starke’s form pitched across the passage.