Free The Last Drive by Rex Stout

listening intently for a full minute, then all at once raised his hand and rapped softly on the panel.
    The room was pitch dark. Rankin stood motionless just inside the door, without having closed it, straining his ear. When the utter silence had convinced him that the room was unoccupied he moved to the electric switch and turned on the light. One quick glance at the bed showed him that it had not been slept in, and with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes he turned the light off again and left the room.
    He stood hesitating for a moment at the top of the stairs, then turned down the hall to the door of his own room, and entered. The first thing he did after turning on the electricity was to take off his coat and shirt and have a look at the injured shoulder. An examination convinced him that it was nothing worse than a painful bruise. His movements were slow and mechanical, like a man lost in thought; and at length, with his hand stilt moving slowly back and forth over the bruised shoulder, he stood and stared fixedly at nothing with wrinkled brow.
    Finally he pulled himself up. “Yes,” he muttered to himself, “but how the devil did he do it?”
    Then, instead of undressing for bed—though it was nearly three in the morning and he had had no sleep—he turned with sudden decision and put his shirt back on, and his coat. A snap of the switch, and the room was in darkness. Placing a chair just inside the threshold (he had left the door open), he sat down to wait.
    At the end of a minute or two he fancied he heard a sound in the hall, but peering cautiously out toward the dim night light at the other end, saw nothing. He settled back in his chair. It was upholstered in leather and very comfortable; after all the exertion and excitement of the preceding four hours his muscles found it restful and soothing. He twisted around to an easier position and stretched his feet out till they rested on the jamb of the threshold. He yawned. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsided a little and became a dull ache, throbbing rhythmically and not all unpleasantly. There seemed to be something restful even in that throbbing. He allowed his head to fall back against the soft leather and stay there. A dozen times he closed his eyes and opened them again . . . and closed them . . .
    The next thing he knew he heard himself snoring.
    He came to with a jerk and a snort, and got to his feet, telling himself that he had dozed off a second and that he mustn’t do it again. Perhaps he’d better look at his watch . . . it was twenty minutes to four! He had slept nearly an hour.
    Cursing himself inwardly, he pushed the chair out of the way and entered the hall. Not a sound was to be heard—but yes, a faint, almost indistinguishable murmur of voices came from somewhere at the front of the house. Rankin stepped softly down the hall to the stairs; the murmur became louder, though still faint, drifting up the corridor leading to the right wing. Down it he went, less cautiously now, until he reached an open door through which a dim light shone from the interior. It was the same room in which he had found Fred Adams, early the previous evening, kneeling beside the body of his dead uncle and guardian. Rankin entered. By the light of the candles at the other end he saw the silent figure shrouded in white stretched out on the bed; and nearby, seated in easy chairs drawn side by side, and conversing in low tones, were Dr. Wortley and Fraser Mawson.
    They looked up and nodded as the detective entered.
    â€œUp so early?” the little doctor wanted to know with an air of relief at sight of him. To those who watch with the dead anything is a relief.
    Rankin nodded and sat down.
    â€œCouldn’t sleep. Soon be morning now.” He turned to Mawson. “You been up long?” His tone was that of one who makes conversation.
    The lawyer had taken out his eyeglasses and was rubbing them with the corner of a