Huddled on the floor of the closet was the body of a man. So crudely had he been crammed into this hiding-place that he lay twisted and bent. And as if to add to the horror of the moment one arm, released from its confinement, now slipped and slid out into the floor of the room.
Miss Cornelia's voice sounded strange to her own ears when finally she spoke.
"But who is it?"
"It is--or was--Courtleigh Fleming," said Bailey dully.
"But how can it be? Mr. Fleming died two weeks ago. I--"
"He died in this house sometime tonight. The body is still warm."
"But who killed him? The Bat?"
"Isn't it likely that the Doctor did it? The man who has been his accomplice all along? Who probably bought a cadaver out West and buried it with honors here not long ago?"
He spoke without bitterness. Whatever resentment he might have felt died in that awful presence.
"He got into the house early tonight," he said, "probably with the Doctor's connivance. That wrist watch there is probably the luminous eye Lizzie thought she saw."
But Miss Cornelia's face was still thoughtful, and he went on: "Isn't it clear, Miss Van Gorder?" he queried, with a smile. "The Doctor and old Mr. Fleming formed a conspiracy--both needed money--lots of it. Fleming was to rob the bank and hide the money here. Wells's part was to issue a false death certificate in the West, and bury a substitute body, secured God knows how. It was easy; it kept the name of the president of the Union Bank free from suspicion--and it put the blame on me."
He paused, thinking it out.
"Only they slipped up in one place. Dick Fleming leased the house to you and they couldn't get it back."
"Then you are sure," said Miss Cornelia quickly, "that tonight Courtleigh Fleming broke in, with the Doctor's assistance--and that he killed Dick, his own nephew, from the staircase?"
"Aren't you?" asked Bailey surprised. The more he thought of it the less clearly could he visualize it any other way.
Miss Cornelia shook her head decidedly.
"No."
Bailey thought her merely obstinate--unwilling to give up, for pride's sake, her own pet theory of the activities of the Bat.
"Wells tried to get out of the house tonight with that blue-print. Why? Because he knew the moment we got it, we'd come up here--and Fleming was here."
"Perfectly true," nodded Miss Cornelia. "And then?"
"Old Fleming killed Dick and Wells killed Fleming," said Bailey succinctly. "You can't get away from it!"
But Miss Cornelia still shook her head. The explanation was too mechanical. It laid too little emphasis on the characters of those most concerned.