Each dragging step sent a spasm of nervous torture through his frame, but he gritted his teeth and held himself erect as he passed beneath the light, even giving a jaunty swing to the cane which seemed to gain weight with every moment that went. Twenty yards further he turned to cut across the driveway to the sidewalk, and as he did so a sound came from behind him that stilled the blood in his veins. It was merely the hoot of the fog horn on the river, but it came to him like the long-drawn wail of a soul in pain.
A sense of utter desolation swept over him with its echo, but he rallied it with a savage defiance. In spite of everything, in spite of fate itself, had he not won? The money was his, money for a life-time of travel and ease and forgetfulness! No one could trace him, not a clue had been overlooked. What if commonplace Jack Horton with his petty affairs and affections and ambitions had been snuffed out? He had taken one chance too many, that was all, and the Mid-Eastern could well afford their loss, while to Storm the contents of that bag meant reason, life itself!
Still that odd sense of loneliness oppressed him, and in spite of his eagerness to examine and gloat over his treasure, as he neared the apartment house his steps lagged. He realized all at once that he missed Horton’s presence, his easy, self-centered chatter. How confidently the fellow had boasted of his ‘girl’ and his prospects, talked of the future as a condition already brought to pass; and then at one blow, one single muscular effort of another, he had been sent into eternity!
What an easy thing it was to take a life and to evade the consequences, if only one used a modicum of courage and caution! Murder was nothing more, after all, than the twang of a pea shooter at a bird, the tap of a butcher’s hammer! A stealthy glow of elation stole over Storm’s spirit, stilling the qualms which had beset him, and a heady exhilaration coursed through his veins like wine. The future was his; he was invincible!
The elevator man still slumbered in the same position as when Storm had left the house, and he let himself into his own apartment with infinite caution, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He longed to drag the bag from its hiding place and thrust his hands into its contents in a very orgy of triumphant possession, but he reminded himself sternly that an imperative task still lay before him. Homachi must find no traces of a visitor when he came in the morning. Then, too, there were other possible evidences to consider . . .
Storm switched on the lights and examined his hands and clothing with minute care. The latter bore no stains which he could discover, but upon his fingers were brownish smears which made his gorge rise, and about the thumb-nail of his left hand—the hand which had come in contact with Horton’s fallen head—a thread of dull crimson had settled.
He turned to the bathroom in revolted haste when a fresh thought made him pause and grope for the pocket of his overcoat. The cap! Had the glancing but deadly blow which knocked it off to catch it by a miracle upon the vine spattered it with Horton’s blood? He drew it forth and smoothed it into a semblance of shape with shaking hands. It was damp and crumpled, but no spot marred its surface or lining; the blow had been too swift and sure!
Tossing it upon the rack, Storm made for the bathroom, where he scrubbed his hands until the flesh smarted before turning his attention to the cane itself. When he had dropped it upon the path in order to raise the body it must have fallen into a puddle left by the storm, for it bore no marks save the discoloration of dampness; yet to make sure he carried it into the kitchen and held its heavy head beneath the strong bow of water from the faucet in the sink, then polished it with a rough towel until it shone. How it reminded him of that other rounded knob of wood with the sinister smudge of blood upon it and the single golden hair . . .
What a timorous, morbid weakling he had been that night! Afraid of his own shadow, of every move and breath! Nothing could touch him now, nothing could harm him; no one could ever know!
He replaced the cane in the umbrella-stand and was turning again toward the kitchen when his eyes fell upon the center table in the living-room. There beneath the lamp lay the bronze ash tray ringed with cigar butts and filled with ashes. Again the thought came to him of that other tray with similar contents which he had scattered to the winds. Why not these also? Ashes to ashes.