Bertha’s search of the place was necessarily impeded because of her desire to feel her way cautiously, to avoid running into some thread which, all but invisible in the dim light, would release a deadly bullet.
It was easy now to visualize what had happened the night before; Bollman, hurrying into the house, trying to get that music box and get out before anyone caught him — the lunge against the string that led to the trap gun. Bertha, too, felt impelled by that same haste, that fear of discovery, yet she dared not surrender to it.
The house was plainly but comfortably furnished. Evidently Kosling tried to keep five or six comfortable chairs for his cronies when they came to visit. These chairs, all cushioned and comfortable, were arranged in a half-circle around the living room. Against the wall under a window was a book-case whose glass-enclosed shelves held no books, a table which was absolutely devoid of a magazine. On a stand over near the window — Bertha’s eyes fixed on that stand. She advanced toward it. Her eager hands pounced upon the music box. When she had first seen it, when the blind man had exhibited it to her on the street, her inspection had been only casual. Now she studied it with a concentration that was all but microscopic.
The light of her flash showed Bertha that it was made of smoothly polished hardwood. On the outside was an oil painting of a pastoral scene. On the opposite side was a pox-trait of a beautiful young woman, somewhat ample as far as curves were judged by present-day standards, but quite definitely the belle of a bygone era.
At one time the paint had been varnished over, but now there were places where paint and varnish had worn thin. However, the grain of the wood showed through a beautiful satin-like finish, and the excellent preservation of the box indicated that here was something that had been long treasured as a family heirloom, something which had had the best of care. Little wonder that it had become one of the prized possessions of the affluent blind beggar.
Bertha explored the outside of it carefully, holding her spotlight within a couple of inches of the surface. There was not so much as a mark or a label on it. Disappointed, Bertha raised the cover. Almost instantly the music box picked up the strains of Bluebells of Scotland and filled the room with its tinkling sweetness.
Just inside the cover Bertha found what she wanted. A small oval label had been pasted on the top. It said, “Britten G. Stellman, Rare Antiques.”
Bertha replaced the music box. The closing cover shut oil the strains of music. She turned, started for the door, then came back to wipe her fingerprints from the music box.
Her spotlight turned toward the door. Vague, dancing blotches of darkness drifted along the wall, looking as though dark figures were bunched there waiting to pounce on her. Bertha realized that it was the bat flying in frenzied circles around the room, casting shadows when it crossed the beam of her spotlight. Evidently the bat was hungry for human companionship, but sensed that Bertha was not the blind man.
Bertha tried to entice the bat outside so that she could close the door, but the bat apparently preferred to stay inside.