Title: The Silent Bullet
Author: Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin)
Language: English
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THE SILENT BULLET

By Arthur B. Reeve


CONTENTS

     CRAIG KENNEDY’S THEORIES

     I     The Silent Bullet
     II    The Scientific Cracksman
     III   The Bacteriological Detective
     IV    The Deadly Tube
     V     The Seismograph Adventure
     VI    The Diamond Maker
     VII   The Azure Ring
     VIII  “Spontaneous Combustion”
      IX    The Terror In The Air
     X     The Black Hand
     XI    The Artificial Paradise
     XII   The Steel Door



CRAIG KENNEDY’S THEORIES

“It has always seemed strange to me that no one has ever endowed a
professorship in criminal science in any of our large universities.”

Craig Kennedy laid down his evening paper and filled his pipe with my
tobacco. In college we had roomed together, had shared everything, even
poverty, and now that Craig was a professor of chemistry and I was on
the staff of the Star, we had continued the arrangement. Prosperity
found us in a rather neat bachelor apartment on the Heights, not far
from the University.

“Why should there be a chair in criminal science?” I remarked
argumentatively, settling back in my chair. “I’ve done my turn at police
headquarters reporting, and I can tell you, Craig, it’s no place for a
college professor. Crime is just crime. And as for dealing with it,
the good detective is born and bred to it. College professors for the
sociology of the thing, yes; for the detection of it, give me a Byrnes.”

“On the contrary,” replied Kennedy, his clean-cut features betraying an
earnestness which I knew indicated that he was leading up to something
important, “there is a distinct place for science in the detection of
crime. On the Continent they are far in advance of us in that respect.
We are mere children beside a dozen crime-specialists in Paris, whom I
could name.”

“Yes, but where does the college professor come in?” I asked, rather
doubtfully.

“You must remember, Walter,” he pursued, warming up to his subject,
“that it’s only within the last ten years or so that we have had the
really practical college professor who could do it. The silk-stockinged
variety is out of date now. To-day it is the college professor who is
the third arbitrator in labour disputes, who reforms our currency, who
heads our tariff commissions, and conserves our farms and forests. We
have professors of everything--why not professors of crime?”

Still, as I shook my head dubiously, he hurried on to clinch his point.
“Colleges have gone a long way from the old ideal of pure culture. They
have got down to solving the hard facts of life--pretty nearly all,
except one. They still treat crime in the old way, study its statistics
and pore over its causes and the theories of how it can be prevented.
But as for running the criminal himself down, scientifically,
relentlessly--bah! we haven’t made an inch of progress since the hammer
and tongs method of your Byrnes.”

“Doubtless you will write a thesis on this most interesting subject,” I
suggested, “and let it go at that.”

“No, I am serious,” he replied, determined for some reason or other to
make a convert of me. “I mean exactly what I say. I am going to apply
science to the detection of crime, the same sort of methods by which you
trace out the presence of a chemical, or run an unknown germ to earth.
And before I have gone far, I am going to enlist Walter Jameson as an
aide. I think I shall need you in my business.”

“How do I come in?”

“Well, for one thing, you will get a scoop, a beat,--whatever you call
it in that newspaper jargon of yours.”

I smiled in a skeptical way, such as newspapermen are wont to affect
toward a thing until it is done--after which we make a wild scramble to
exploit it.

Nothing more on the subject passed between us for several days.



I. The Silent Bullet

“Detectives in fiction nearly always make a great mistake,” said Kennedy
one evening after our first conversation on crime and science. “They
almost invariably antagonize the regular detective force. Now in real
life that’s impossible--it’s fatal.”

“Yes,” I agreed, looking up from reading an account of the failure of a
large Wall Street brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the peculiar
suicide of Kerr Parker. “Yes, it’s impossible, just as it is impossible
for the regular detectives to antagonize the newspapers. Scotland Yard
found that out in the Crippen case.”

“My idea of the thing, Jameson,” continued Kennedy, “is that the
professor of criminal science ought to work with, not against, the
regular detectives. They’re all right. They’re indispensable, of course.
Half the secret of success nowadays is organisation. The professor of
criminal science should be merely what the professor in a technical
school often is--a sort of consulting engineer. For instance, I believe
that organisation plus science would go far toward clearing up that Wall
Street case I see you are reading.”

I expressed some doubt as to whether the regular police were enlightened
enough to take that view of it.

“Some of them are,” he replied. “Yesterday the chief of police in a
Western city sent a man East to see me about the Price murder: you know
the case?”

Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town had been murdered on the
road to the golf club, no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had proved
fruitless, and the list of suspects was itself so long and so impossible
as to seem most discouraging.

“He sent me a piece of a torn handkerchief with a deep blood-stain on
it,” pursued Kennedy. “He said it clearly didn’t belong to the murdered
man, that it indicated that the murderer had himself been wounded in the
tussle, but as yet it had proved utterly valueless as a clue. Would I
see what I could make of it?

“After his man had told me the story I had a feeling that the murder was
committed by either a Sicilian labourer on the links or a negro waiter
at the club. Well, to make a short story shorter, I decided to test the
blood-stain. Probably you didn’t know it, but the Carnegie Institution
has just published a minute, careful, and dry study of the blood of
human beings and of animals.

“In fact, they have been able to reclassify the whole animal kingdom
on this basis, and have made some most surprising additions to our
knowledge of evolution. Now I don’t propose to bore you with the details
of the tests, but one of the things they showed was that the blood of a
certain branch of the human race gives a reaction much like the blood of
a certain group of monkeys, the chimpanzees, while the blood of another
branch gives a reaction like that of the gorilla. Of course there’s lots
more to it, but this is all that need concern us now.

“I tried the tests. The blood on the handkerchief conformed strictly
to the latter test. Now the gorilla was, of course, out of the
question--this was no Rue Morgue murder. Therefore it was the negro
waiter.”

“But,” I interrupted, “the negro offered a perfect alibi at the start,
and--”

“No buts, Walter. Here’s a telegram I received at dinner:
‘Congratulations. Confronted Jackson your evidence as wired.
Confessed.’”

“Well, Craig, I take off my hat to you,” I exclaimed. “Next you’ll be
solving this Kerr Parker case for sure.”

“I would take a hand in it if they’d let me,” said he simply.

That night, without saying anything, I sauntered down to the imposing
new police building amid the squalor of Center Street. They were very
busy at headquarters, but, having once had that assignment for the Star,
I had no trouble in getting in. Inspector Barney O’Connor of the Central
Office carefully shifted a cigar from corner to corner of his mouth as I
poured forth my suggestion to him.

“Well, Jameson,” he said at length, “do you think this professor fellow
is the goods?”

I didn’t mince matters in my opinion of Kennedy. I told him of the Price
case and showed him a copy of the telegram. That settled it.

“Can you bring him down here to-night?” he asked quickly.

I reached for the telephone, found Craig in his laboratory finally, and
in less than an hour he was in the office.

“This is a most bating case, Professor Kennedy, this case of Kerr
Parker,” said the inspector, launching at once into his subject. “Here
is a broker heavily interested in Mexican rubber. It looks like a good
thing--plantations right in the same territory as those of the Rubber
Trust. Now in addition to that he is branching out into coastwise
steamship lines; another man associated with him is heavily engaged in
a railway scheme from the United States down into Mexico. Altogether the
steamships and railroads are tapping rubber, oil, copper, and I don’t
know what other regions. Here in New York they have been pyramiding
stocks, borrowing money from two trust companies which they control.
It’s a lovely scheme--you’ve read about it, I suppose. Also you’ve read
that it comes into competition with a certain group of capitalists whom
we will call ‘the System.’

“Well, this depression in the market comes along. At once rumours are
spread about the weakness of the trust companies; runs start on both of
them. The System,--you know them--make a great show of supporting the
market. Yet the runs continue. God knows whether they will spread or the
trust companies stand up under it to-morrow after what happened to-day.
It was a good thing the market was closed when it happened.

“Kerr Parker was surrounded by a group of people who were in his schemes
with him. They are holding a council of war in the directors’ room.
Suddenly Parker rises, staggers toward the window, falls, and is dead
before a doctor can get to him. Every effort is made to keep the thing
quiet. It is given out that he committed suicide. The papers don’t seem
to accept the suicide theory, however. Neither do we. The coroner, who
is working with us, has kept his mouth shut so far, and will say nothing
till the inquest. For, Professor Kennedy, my first man on the spot found
that--Kerr Parker--was--murdered.

“Now here comes the amazing part of the story. The doors to the offices
on both sides were open at the time. There were lots of people in each
office. There was the usual click of typewriters, and the buzz of the
ticker, and the hum of conversation. We have any number of witnesses of
the whole affair, but as far as any of them knows no shot was fired, no
smoke was seen, no noise was heard, nor was any weapon found. Yet here
on my desk is a thirty-two-calibre bullet. The coroner’s physician
probed it out of Parker’s neck this afternoon and turned it over to us.”

Kennedy reached for the bullet, and turned it thoughtfully in his
fingers for a moment. One side of it had apparently struck a bone in the
neck of the murdered man, and was flattened. The other side was still
perfectly smooth. With his inevitable magnifying-glass he scrutinised
the bullet on every side. I watched his face anxiously, and I could see
that he was very intent and very excited.

“Extraordinary, most extraordinary,” he said to himself as he turned it
over and over. “Where did you say this bullet struck?”

“In the fleshy part of the neck, quite a little back of and below his
ear and just above his collar. There wasn’t much bleeding. I think it
must have struck the base of his brain.”

“It didn’t strike his collar or hair?”

“No,” replied the inspector.

“Inspector, I think we shall be able to put our hands on the murderer--I
think we can get a conviction, sir, on the evidence that I shall get
from this bullet in my laboratory.”

“That’s pretty much like a story-book,” drawled the inspector
incredulously, shaking his head.

“Perhaps,” smiled Kennedy. “But there will still be plenty of work for
the police to do, too. I’ve only got a clue to the murderer. It will
take the whole organisation to follow it up, believe me. Now, Inspector,
can you spare the time to go down to Parker’s office and take me over
the ground? No doubt we can develop something else there.”

“Sure,” answered O’Connor, and within five minutes we were hurrying down
town in one of the department automobiles.

We found the office under guard of one of the Central Office men, while
in the outside office Parker’s confidential clerk and a few assistants
were still at work in a subdued and awed manner. Men were working in
many other Wall Street offices that night during the panic, but in none
was there more reason for it than here. Later I learned that it was the
quiet tenacity of this confidential clerk that saved even as much of
Parker’s estate as was saved for his widow--little enough it was, too.
What he saved for the clients of the firm no one will ever know.
Somehow or other I liked John Downey, the clerk, from the moment I
was introduced to him. He seemed to me, at least, to be the typical
confidential clerk who would carry a secret worth millions and keep it.

The officer in charge touched his hat to the inspector, and Downey
hastened to put himself at our service. It was plain that the murder had
completely mystified him, and that he was as anxious as we were to get
at the bottom of it.

“Mr. Downey,” began Kennedy, “I understand you were present when this
sad event took place.”

“Yes, sir, sitting right here at the directors’ table,” he replied,
taking a chair, “like this.”

“Now can you recollect just how Mr. Parker acted when he was shot? Could
you-er--could you take his place and show us just how it happened?”

“Yes, sir,” said Downey. “He was sitting here at the head of the table.
Mr. Bruce, who is the ‘CO.’ of the firm, had been sitting here at his
right; I was at the left. The inspector has a list of all the others
present. That door to the right was open, and Mrs. Parker and some other
ladies were in the room--”

“Mrs. Parker?” broke in Kennedy.

“Yes: Like a good many brokerage firms we have a ladies’ room. Many
ladies are among our clients. We make a point of catering to them. At
that time I recollect the door was open--all the doors were open. It
was not a secret meeting. Mr. Bruce had just gone into the ladies’
department; I think to ask some of them to stand by the firm--he was
an artist at smoothing over the fears of customers, particularly women.
Just before he went in I had seen the ladies go in a group toward the
far end of the room--to look down at the line of depositors on the
street, which reached around the corner from one of the trust companies,
I thought. I was making a note of an order to send into the outside
office there on the left, and had just pushed this button here under the
table to call a boy to carry it. Mr. Parker had just received a letter
by special delivery, and seemed considerably puzzled over it. No, I
don’t know what it was about. Of a sudden I saw him start in his chair,
rise up unsteadily, clap his hand on the back of his head, stagger
across the floor--like this--and fall here.”

“Then what happened?”

“Why, I rushed to pick him up. Everything was confusion. I recall
someone behind me saying, ‘Here, boy, take all these papers off
the table and carry them into my office before they get lost in the
excitement.’ I think it was Bruce’s voice. The next moment I heard
someone say, ‘Stand back, Mrs. Parker has fainted.’ But I didn’t pay
much attention, for I was calling to someone not to get a doctor over
the telephone, but to go down to the fifth floor where one has an
office. I made Mr. Parker as comfortable as I could. There wasn’t much
I could do. He seemed to want to say something to me, but he couldn’t
talk. He was paralysed, at least his throat was. But I did manage to
make out finally what sounded to me like, ‘Tell her I don’t believe the
scandal, I don’t believe it.’ But before he could say whom to tell he
had again become unconscious, and by the time the doctor arrived he was
dead. I guess you know everything else as well as I do.”

“You didn’t hear the shot fired from any particular direction?” asked
Kennedy.

“No, sir.”

“Well, where do you think it came from?”

“That’s what puzzles me, sir. The only thing I can figure out is that it
was fired from the outside office--perhaps by some customer who had lost
money and sought revenge. But no one out there heard it either, any more
than they did in the directors’ room or the ladies’ department.”

“About that message,” asked Kennedy, ignoring what to me seemed to
be the most important feature of the case, the mystery of the silent
bullet. “Didn’t you see it after all was over?”

“No, sir; in fact I had forgotten about it till this moment when you
asked me to reconstruct the circumstances exactly. No, sir, I don’t
know a thing about it. I can’t say it impressed itself on my mind at the
time, either.”

“What did Mrs. Parker do when she came to?”

“Oh, she cried as I have never seen a woman cry before. He was dead by
that time, of course.”

“Bruce and I saw her down in the elevator to her car. In fact, the
doctor, who had arrived; said that the sooner she was taken home the
better she would be. She was quite hysterical.”

“Did she say anything that you remember?”

Downey hesitated.

“Out with it Downey,” said the inspector. “What did she say as she was
going down in the elevator?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell us. I’ll arrest you if you don’t.”

“Nothing about the murder, on my honour,” protested Downey.

Kennedy leaned over suddenly and shot a remark at him, “Then it was
about the note.”

Downey was surprised, but not quickly enough. Still he seemed to be
considering something, and in a moment he said:

“I don’t know what it was about, but I feel it is my duty, after all, to
tell you. I heard her say, ‘I wonder if he knew.’”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

“What happened after you came back?”

“We entered the ladies’ department. No one was there. A woman’s
automobile-coat was thrown over a chair in a heap. Mr. Bruce picked it
up. ‘It’s Mrs. Parker’s,’ he said. He wrapped it up hastily, and rang
for a messenger.”

“Where did he send it?”

“To Mrs. Parker, I suppose. I didn’t hear the address.”

We next went over the whole suite of offices, conducted by Mr. Downey. I
noted how carefully Kennedy looked into the directors’ room through the
open door from the ladies’ department. He stood at such an angle that
had he been the assassin he could scarcely have been seen except by
those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker at the directors’ table. The
street windows were directly in front of him, and back of him was the
chair on which the motorcoat had been found.

In Parker’s own office we spent some time, as well as in Bruce’s.
Kennedy made a search for the note, but finding nothing in either
office, turned out the contents of Bruce’s scrap-basket. There didn’t
seem to be anything in it to interest him, however, even after he had
pieced several torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, and
he was about to turn the papers back again, when he noticed something
sticking to the side of the basket. It looked like a mass of wet paper,
and that was precisely what it was.

“That’s queer,” said Kennedy, picking it loose. Then he wrapped it up
carefully and put it in his pocket. “Inspector, can you lend me one of
your men for a couple of days?” he asked, as we were preparing to leave.
“I shall want to send him out of town to-night, and shall probably need
his services when he gets back.”

“Very well. Riley will be just the fellow. We’ll go back to
headquarters, and I’ll put him under your orders.”

It was not until late in the following day that I saw Kennedy again.
It had been a busy day at the Star. We had gone to work that morning
expecting to see the very financial heavens fall. But just about five
minutes to ten, before the Stock Exchange opened, the news came in
over the wire from our financial man on Broad Street: “‘The System’ has
forced James Bruce, partner of Kerr Parker, the dead banker; to sell
his railroad, steamship, and rubber holdings to it. On this condition it
promises unlimited support to the market.”

“Forced!” muttered the managing editor, as he waited on the office phone
to get the composing-room, so as to hurry up the few lines in red ink on
the first page and beat our rivals on the streets with the first extras.
“Why, he’s been working to bring that about for the past two weeks. What
that System doesn’t control isn’t worth having--it edits the news before
our men get it, and as for grist for the divorce courts, and tragedies,
well--Hello, Jenkins, yes, a special extra. Change the big heads--copy
is on the way up--rush it.”

“So you think this Parker case is a mess?” I asked.

“I know it. That’s a pretty swift bunch of females that have
been speculating at Kerr Parker & Co.’s. I understand there’s one
Titian-haired young lady--who, by the way, has at least one husband who
hasn’t yet been divorced--who is a sort of ringleader, though she rarely
goes personally to her brokers’ offices. She’s one of those uptown
plungers, and the story is that she has a whole string of scalps of
alleged Sunday-school superintendents at her belt. She can make Bruce
do pretty nearly anything, they say. He’s the latest conquest. I got the
story on pretty good authority, but until I verified the names, dates,
and places, of course I wouldn’t dare print a line of it. The story
goes that her husband is a hanger-on of the System, and that she’s been
working in their interest, too. That was why he was so complacent over
the whole affair. They put her up to capturing Bruce, and after she had
acquired an influence over him they worked it so that she made him make
love to Mrs. Parker. It’s a long story, but that isn’t all of it. The
point was, you see, that by this devious route they hoped to worm out of
Mrs. Parker some inside information about Parker’s rubber schemes, which
he hadn’t divulged even to his partners in business. It was a deep and
carefully planned plot, and some of the conspirators were pretty deeply
in the mire, I guess. I wish I’d had all the facts about who this
red-haired female Machiavelli was--what a piece of muckraking it would
have made! Oh, here comes the rest of the news story over the wire. By
Jove, it is said on good authority that Bruce will be taken in as one of
the board of directors. What do you think of that?”

So that was how the wind lay--Bruce making love to Mrs. Parker and she
presumably betraying her husband’s secrets. I thought I saw it all:
the note from somebody exposing the scheme, Parker’s incredulity, Bruce
sitting by him and catching sight of the note, his hurrying out into the
ladies’ department, and then the shot. But who fired it? After all, I
had only picked up another clue.

Kennedy was not at the apartment at dinner, and an inquiry at the
laboratory was fruitless also. So I sat down to fidget for a while.
Pretty soon the buzzer on the door sounded, and I opened it to find a
messenger-boy with a large brown paper parcel.

“Is Mr. Bruce here?” he asked.

“Why, no, he doesn’t--” then I checked myself and added “He will be here
presently. You can leave the bundle.”

“Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for. His valet told me to tell
him that they had a hard time to find it, but he guesses it’s all right.
The charges are forty cents. Sign here.”

I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the boy departed. What it
all meant I could not guess.

Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Kennedy came in.

“Is your name Bruce?” I asked.

“Why?” he replied eagerly. “Has anything come?”

I pointed to the package. Kennedy made a dive for it and unwrapped it.
It was a woman’s pongee automobile-coat. He held it up to the light. The
pocket on the right-hand side was scorched and burned, and a hole was
torn clean through it. I gasped when the full significance of it dawned
on me.

“How did you get it?” I exclaimed at last in surprise.

“That’s where organisation comes in,” said Kennedy. “The police at
my request went over every messenger call from Parker’s office that
afternoon, and traced every one of them up. At last they found one that
led to Bruce’s apartment. None of them led to Mrs. Parker’s home.
The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily accounted for. I
reasoned that this was the one that involved the disappearance of the
automobile-coat. It was a chance worth taking, so I got Downey to call
up Bruce’s valet. The valet of course recognised Downey’s voice and
suspected nothing. Downey assumed to know all about the coat in the
package received yesterday. He asked to have it sent up here. I see the
scheme worked.”

“But, Kennedy, do you think she--” I stopped, speechless, looking at the
scorched coat.

“Nothing to say--yet,” he replied laconically. “But if you could tell me
anything about that note Parker received I’d thank you.”

I related what our managing editor had said that morning. Kennedy only
raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

“I had guessed something of that sort,” he said merely. “I’m glad to
find it confirmed even by hearsay evidence. This red-haired young lady
interests me. Not a very definite description, but better than nothing
at all. I wonder who she is. Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll down
the White Way before I go to my laboratory? I’d like a breath of air to
relax my mind.”

We had got no further than the first theatre when Kennedy slapped me on
the back. “By George, Jameson, she’s an actress, of course.”

“Who is? What’s the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?”

“The red-haired person--she must be an actress. Don’t you remember the
auburn-haired leading lady in the ‘Follies’--the girl who sings that
song about ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’? Her stage name, you know, is
Phoebe La Neige. Well, if it’s she who is concerned in this case I don’t
think she’ll be playing to-night. Let’s inquire at the box-office.”

She wasn’t playing, but just what it had to do with anything in
particular I couldn’t see, and I said as much.

“Why, Walter, you’d never do as a detective. You lack intuition.
Sometimes I think I haven’t quite enough of it, either. Why didn’t I
think of that sooner? Don’t you know she is the wife of Adolphus Hesse,
the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had only
to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me in an
instant. Isn’t it a good hypothesis that she is the red-haired woman
in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so heavily
involved? I’ll have to add her to my list of suspects.”

“Why, you don’t think she did the shooting?” I asked, half hoping, I
must admit, for an assenting nod from him.

“Well,” he answered dryly, “one shouldn’t let any preconceived
hypothesis stand between him and the truth. I’ve made a guess at the
whole thing already. It may or it may not be right. Anyhow she will fit
into it. And if it’s not right, I’ve got to be prepared to make a new
guess, that’s all.”

When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector’s man Riley
was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.

“What luck?” asked Kennedy.

“I’ve got a list of purchasers of that kind of revolver,” he said.
“We have been to every sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which
bought them from the factory, and I could lay my hands on pretty nearly
every one of those weapons in twenty-four hours--provided, of course,
they haven’t been secreted or destroyed.”

“Pretty nearly all isn’t good enough,” said Kennedy. “It will have to be
all, unless--”

“That name is in the list,” whispered Riley hoarsely.

“Oh, then it’s all right,” answered Kennedy, brightening up. “Riley, I
will say that you’re a wonder at using the organisation in ferreting
out such things. There’s just one more thing I want you to do. I want
a sample of the notepaper in the private desks of every one of these
people.” He handed the policeman a list of his 9 “suspects,” as he
called them. It included nearly every one mentioned in the case.

Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That’s
a hard one, Mr. Kennedy, sir. You see, it means getting into so many
different houses and apartments. Now you don’t want to do it by means of
a warrant, do you, sir? Of course not. Well, then, how can we get in?”

“You’re a pretty good-looking chap yourself, Riley,” said Kennedy. “I
should think you could jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you can
get the fellow on the beat to do it--if he isn’t already to be found in
the kitchen. Why, I see a dozen ways of getting the notepaper.”

“Oh, it’s me that’s the lady-killer, sir,” grinned Riley. “I’m a regular
Blarney stone when I’m out on a job of that sort. Sure, I’ll have some
of them for you in the morning.”

“Bring me what you get, the first thing in the morning, even if
you’ve landed only a few samples,” said Kennedy, as Riley departed,
straightening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve.

“And now, Walter, you too must excuse me to-night,” said Craig. “I’ve
got a lot to do, and sha’n’t be up to our apartment till very late--or
early. But I feel sure I’ve got a strangle-hold on this mystery. If I
get those papers from Riley in good time to-morrow I shall invite you
and several others to a grand demonstration here to-morrow night. Don’t
forget. Keep the whole evening free. It will be a big story.”

Kennedy’s laboratory was brightly lighted when I arrived early the next
evening. One by one his “guests” dropped in. It was evident that they
had little liking for the visit, but the coroner had sent out the
“invitations,” and they had nothing to do but accept. Each one was
politely welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, much as he would
have done with a group of students. The inspector and the coroner sat
back a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce, myself, and Miss
La Neige sat in that order in the very narrow and uncomfortable little
armchairs used by the students during lectures.

At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took his position behind the
long, flat-topped table which he used for his demonstrations before his
classes. “I realise, ladies and gentlemen,” he began formally, “that I
am about to do a very unusual thing; but, as you all know, the police
and the coroner have been completely baffled by this terrible mystery
and have requested me to attempt to clear up at least certain points in
it. I will begin what I have to say by remarking that the tracing out
of a crime like this differs in nothing, except as regards the
subject-matter, from the search for a scientific truth. The forcing of
man’s secrets is like the forcing of nature’s secrets. Both are pieces
of detective work. The methods employed in the detection of crime
are, or rather should be, like the methods employed in the process of
discovering scientific truth. In a crime of this sort, two kinds of
evidence need to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must first be
marshalled, and then a motive must be found. I have been gathering
facts. But to omit motives and rest contented with mere facts would be
inconclusive. It would never convince anybody or convict anybody. In
other words, circumstantial evidence must first lead to a suspect, and
then this suspect must prove equal to accounting for the facts. It is my
hope that each of you may contribute something that will be of service
in arriving at the truth of this unfortunate incident.”

The tension was not relieved even when Kennedy stopped speaking and
began to fuss with a little upright target which he set up at one end
of his table. We seemed to be seated over a powder magazine which
threatened to explode at any moment. I, at least, felt the tension so
greatly that it was only after he had started speaking again, that I
noticed that the target was composed of a thick layer of some putty-like
material.

Holding a thirty-two-calibre pistol in his right hand and aiming it at
the target, Kennedy picked up a large piece of coarse homespun from the
table and held it loosely over the muzzle of the gun. Then he fired. The
bullet tore through the cloth, sped through the air, and buried itself
in the target. With a knife he pried it out.

“I doubt if even the inspector himself could have told us that when an
ordinary leaden bullet is shot through a woven fabric the weave of that
fabric is in the majority of cases impressed on the bullet, sometimes
clearly, sometimes faintly.”

Here Kennedy took up a piece of fine batiste and fired another bullet
through it.

“Every leaden bullet, as I have said, which has struck such a fabric
bears an impression of the threads which is recognisable even when
the bullet has penetrated deeply into the body. It is only obliterated
partially or entirely when the bullet has been flattened by striking a
bone or other hard object. Even then, as in this case, if only a part
of the bullet is flattened the remainder may still show the marks of the
fabric. A heavy warp, say of cotton velvet or, as I have here,
homespun, will be imprinted well on the bullet, but even a fine batiste,
containing one hundred threads to the inch, will show marks. Even layers
of goods such as a coat, shirt, and undershirt may each leave their
marks, but that does not concern us in this case. Now I have here a
piece of pongee silk, cut from a woman’s automobile-coat. I discharge
the bullet through it--so. I compare the bullet now with the others and
with the one probed from the neck of Mr. Parker. I find that the marks
on that fatal bullet correspond precisely with those on the bullet fired
through the pongee coat.”

Startling as was this revelation, Kennedy paused only an instant before
the next.

“Now I have another demonstration. A certain note figures in this case.
Mr. Parker was reading it, or perhaps re-reading it, at the time he was
shot. I have not been able to obtain that note--at least not in a form
such as I could use in discovering what were its contents. But in a
certain wastebasket I found a mass of wet and pulp-like paper. It had
been cut up, macerated, perhaps chewed; perhaps it had been also soaked
with water. There was a washbasin with running water in this room. The
ink had run, and of course was illegible. The thing was so unusual that
I at once assumed that this was the remains of the note in question.
Under ordinary circumstances it would be utterly valueless as a clue
to anything. But to-day science is not ready to let anything pass as
valueless.

“I found on microscopic examination that it was an uncommon linen bond
paper, and I have taken a large number of microphotographs of the
fibres in it. They are all similar. I have here also about a hundred
microphotographs of the fibres in other kinds of paper, many of them
bonds. These I have accumulated from time to time in my study of the
subject. None of them, as you can see, shows fibres resembling this one
in question, so we may conclude that it is of uncommon quality. Through
an agent of the police I have secured samples of the notepaper of every
one who could be concerned, as far as I could see, with this case. Here
are the photographs of the fibres of these various notepapers, and among
them all is just one that corresponds to the fibres in the wet mass of
paper I discovered in the scrap-basket. Now lest anyone should question
the accuracy of this method I might cite a case where a man had been
arrested in Germany charged with stealing a government bond. He was not
searched till later. There was no evidence save that after the arrest a
large number of spitballs were found around the courtyard under his cell
window. This method of comparing the fibres with those of the regular
government paper was used, and by it the man was convicted of stealing
the bond. I think it is almost unnecessary to add that in the present
case we know precisely who--”

At this point the tension was so great that it snapped. Miss La Neige,
who was sitting beside me, had been leaning forward involuntarily.
Almost as if the words were wrung from her she whispered hoarsely: “They
put me up to doing it; I didn’t want to. But the affair had gone too
far. I couldn’t see him lost before my very eyes. I didn’t want her to
get him. The quickest way out was to tell the whole story to Mr. Parker
and stop it. It was the only way I could think of to stop this thing
between another man’s wife and the man I loved better than my own
husband. God knows, Professor Kennedy, that was all--”

“Calm yourself, madame,” interrupted Kennedy soothingly. “Calm yourself.
What’s done is done. The truth must come out. Be calm. Now,” he
continued, after the first storm of remorse had spent itself and we were
all outwardly composed again, “we have said nothing whatever of the most
mysterious feature of the case, the firing of the shot. The murderer
could have thrust the weapon into the pocket or the folds of this
coat”--here he drew forth the automobile coat and held it aloft,
displaying the bullet hole--“and he or she (I will not say which) could
have discharged the pistol unseen. By removing and secreting the weapon
afterward one very important piece of evidence would be suppressed.
This person could have used such a cartridge as I have here, made with
smokeless powder, and the coat would have concealed the flash of the
shot very effectively. There would have been no smoke. But neither this
coat nor even a heavy blanket would have deadened the report of the
shot.

“What are we to think of that? Only one thing. I have often wondered
why the thing wasn’t done before. In fact I have been waiting for it to
occur. There is an invention that makes it almost possible to strike
a man down with impunity in broad daylight in any place where there is
sufficient noise to cover up a click, a slight ‘Pouf!’ and the whir of
the bullet in the air.

“I refer to this little device of a Hartford inventor. I place it
over the muzzle of the thirty-two-calibre revolver I have so far been
using--so. Now, Mr. Jameson, if you will sit at that typewriter over
there and write--anything so long as you keep the keys clicking. The
inspector will start that imitation stock-ticker in the corner. Now we
are ready. I cover the pistol with a cloth. I defy anyone in this room
to tell me the exact moment when I discharged the pistol. I could have
shot any of you, and an outsider not in the secret would never have
thought that I was the culprit. To a certain extent I have reproduced
the conditions under which this shooting occurred.

“At once on being sure of this feature of the case I despatched a man to
Hartford to see this inventor. The man obtained from him a complete list
of all the dealers in New York to whom such devices had been sold. The
man also traced every sale of those dealers. He did not actually obtain
the weapon, but if he is working on schedule-time according to agreement
he is at this moment armed with a search-warrant and is ransacking
every possible place where the person suspected of this crime could have
concealed his weapon. For, one of the persons intimately connected with
this case purchased not long ago a silencer for a thirty-two-calibre
revolver, and I presume that that person carried the gun and the
silencer at the time of the murder of Kerr Parker.”

Kennedy concluded in triumph, his voice high pitched, his eyes flashing.
Yet to all outward appearance not a heart-beat was quickened. Someone
in that room had an amazing store of self-possession. The fear flitted
across my mind that even at the last Kennedy was baffled.

“I had anticipated some such anti-climax,” he continued after a moment.
“I am prepared for it.”

He touched a bell, and the door to the next room opened. One of
Kennedy’s graduate students stepped in.

“You have the records, Whiting” he asked.

“Yes, Professor.”

“I may say,” said Kennedy, “that each of your chairs is wired under the
arm in such a way as to betray on an appropriate indicator in the next
room every sudden and undue emotion. Though it may be concealed from
the eye, even of one like me who stands facing you, such emotion is
nevertheless expressed by physical pressure on the arms of the chair. It
is a test that is used frequently with students to demonstrate various
points of psychology. You needn’t raise your arms from the chairs,
ladies and gentlemen. The tests are all over now. What did they show,
Whiting?”

The student read what he had been noting in the next room. At the
production of the coat during the demonstration of the markings of
the bullet, Mrs. Parker had betrayed great emotion, Mr. Bruce had done
likewise, and nothing more than ordinary emotion had been noted for the
rest of us. Miss La Neige’s automatic record during the tracing out of
the sending of the note to Parker had been especially unfavourable to
her; Mr. Bruce showed almost as much excitement; Mrs. Parker very
little and Downey very little. It was all set forth in curves drawn by
self-recording pens on regular ruled paper. The student had merely noted
what took place in the lecture-room as corresponding to these curves.

“At the mention of the noiseless gun,” said Kennedy, bending over the
record, while the student pointed it out to him and we leaned forward to
catch his words, “I find that the curves of Miss La Neige, Mrs. Parker,
and Mr. Downey are only so far from normal as would be natural. All of
them were witnessing a thing for the first time with only curiosity and
no fear. The curve made by Mr. Bruce shows great agitation and--”

I heard a metallic click at my side and turned hastily. It was Inspector
Barney O’Connor, who had stepped out of the shadow with a pair of
hand-cuffs.

“James Bruce, you are under arrest,” he said.

There flashed on my mind, and I think on the minds of some of the
others, a picture of another electrically wired chair.



II. The Scientific Cracksman

“I’m willing to wager you a box of cigars that you don’t know the most
fascinating story in your own paper to-night,” remarked Kennedy, as I
came in one evening with the four or five newspapers I was in the habit
of reading to see whether they had beaten the Star in getting any news
of importance.

“I’ll bet I do,” I said, “or I was one of about a dozen who worked it
up. It’s the Shaw murder trial. There isn’t another that’s even a bad
second.”

“I am afraid the cigars will be on you, Walter. Crowded over on the
second page by a lot of stale sensation that everyone has read for the
fiftieth time, now, you will find what promises to be a real sensation,
a curious half-column account of the sudden death of John G. Fletcher.”

I laughed. “Craig,” I said, “when you put up a simple death from
apoplexy against a murder trial, and such a murder trial; well, you
disappoint me--that’s all.”

“Is it a simple case of apoplexy?” he asked, pacing up and down the
room, while I wondered why he should grow excited over what seemed a
very ordinary news item, after all. Then he picked up the paper and read
the account slowly aloud.


   JOHN G. FLETCHER, STEEL MAGNATE, DIES SUDDENLY

   SAFE OPEN BUT LARGE SUM OF CASH UNTOUCHED

John Graham Fletcher, the aged philanthropist and steelmaker, was found
dead in his library this morning at his home at Fletcherwood, Great
Neck, Long Island. Strangely, the safe in the library in which he kept
his papers and a large sum of cash was found opened, but as far as could
be learned nothing is missing.

It had always been Mr. Fletcher’s custom to rise at seven o’clock. This
morning his housekeeper became alarmed when he had not appeared by nine
o’clock. Listening at the door, she heard no sound. It was not locked,
and on entering she found the former steel-magnate lying lifeless on
the floor between his bedroom and the library adjoining. His personal
physician, Dr. W. C. Bryant, was immediately notified.

Close examination of the body revealed that his face was slightly
discoloured, and the cause of death was given by the physician as
apoplexy. He had evidently been dead about eight or nine hours when
discovered.

Mr. Fletcher is survived by a nephew, John G. Fletcher, II., who is the
Blake professor of bacteriology at the University, and by a grandniece,
Miss Helen Bond. Professor Fletcher was informed of the sad occurrence
shortly after leaving a class this morning and hurried out to
Fletcherwood. He would make no statement other than that he was
inexpressibly shocked. Miss Bond, who has for several years resided with
relatives, Mr. and Mrs. Francis Greene of Little Neck, is prostrated by
the shock.

“Walter,” added Kennedy, as he laid down the paper and, without any more
sparring, came directly to the point, “there was something missing from
that safe.”

I had no need to express the interest I now really felt, and Kennedy
hastened to take advantage of it.

“Just before you came in,” he continued, “Jack Fletcher called me up
from Great Neck. You probably don’t know it, but it has been privately
reported in the inner circle of the University that old Fletcher was
to leave the bulk of his fortune to found a great school of preventive
medicine, and that the only proviso was that his nephew should be dean
of the school. The professor told me over the wire that the will was
missing from the safe, and that it was the only thing missing. From his
excitement I judge that there is more to the story than he cared to
tell over the ‘phone. He said his car was on the way to the city, and he
asked if I wouldn’t come and help him--he wouldn’t say how. Now, I know
him pretty well, and I’m going to ask you to come along, Walter, for
the express purpose of keeping this thing out of the newspapers
understand?--until we get to the bottom of it.”

A few minutes later the telephone rang and the hall-boy announced that
the car was waiting. We hurried down to it; the chauffeur lounged down
carelessly into his seat and we were off across the city and river and
out on the road to Great Neck with amazing speed.

Already I began to feel something of Kennedy’s zest for the adventure.
I found myself half a dozen times on the point of hazarding a suspicion,
only to relapse again into silence at the inscrutable look on Kennedy’s
face. What was the mystery that awaited us in the great lonely house on
Long Island?

We found Fletcherwood a splendid estate directly on the bay, with a long
driveway leading up to the door. Professor Fletcher met us at the porte
cochere, and I was glad to note that, far from taking me as an intruder,
he seemed rather relieved that someone who understood the ways of the
newspapers could stand between him and any reporters who might possibly
drop in.

He ushered us directly into the library and closed the door. It seemed
as if he could scarcely wait to tell his story.

“Kennedy,” he began, almost trembling with excitement, “look at that
safe door.”

We looked. It had been drilled through in such a way as to break the
combination. It was a heavy door, closely fitting, and it was the best
kind of small safe that the state of the art had produced. Yet clearly
it had been tampered with, and successfully. Who was this scientific
cracksman who had apparently accomplished the impossible? It was no
ordinary hand and brain which had executed this “job.”

Fletcher swung the door wide, and pointed to a little compartment
inside, whose steel door had been jimmied open. Then out of it he
carefully lifted a steel box and deposited it on the library table.

“I suppose everybody has been handling that box?” asked Craig quickly.

A smile flitted across Fletcher’s features. “I thought of that,
Kennedy,” he said. “I remembered what you once told me about
finger-prints. Only myself has touched it, and I was careful to take
hold of it only on the sides. The will was placed in this box, and the
key to the box was usually in the lock. Well, the will is gone. That’s
all; nothing else was touched. But for the life of me I can’t find a
mark on the box, not a finger-mark. Now on a hot and humid summer night
like last night I should say it was pretty likely that anyone touching
this metal box would have left finger-marks. Shouldn’t you think so,
Kennedy?”

Kennedy nodded and continued to examine the place where the compartment
had been jimmied. A low whistle aroused us: coming over to the table,
Craig tore a white sheet of paper off a pad lying there and deposited a
couple of small particles on it.

“I found them sticking on the jagged edges of the steel where it had
been forced,” he said. Then he whipped out a pocket magnifying-glass.
“Not from a rubber glove,” he commented half to himself. “By Jove,
one side of them shows lines that look as if they were the lines on a
person’s fingers, and the other side is perfectly smooth. There’s not a
chance of using them as a clue, except--well, I didn’t know criminals in
America knew that stunt.”

“What stunt?”

“Why, you know how keen the new detectives are on the finger-print
system? Well, the first thing some of the up-to-date criminals in Europe
did was to wear rubber gloves so that they would leave no prints. But
you can’t work very well with rubber gloves. Last fall in Paris I heard
of a fellow who had given the police a lot of trouble. He never left a
mark, or at least it was no good if he did. He painted his hands lightly
with a liquid rubber which he had invented himself. It did all that
rubber gloves would do and yet left him the free use of his fingers with
practically the same keenness of touch. Fletcher, whatever is at the
bottom of this affair, I feel sure right now that you have to deal with
no ordinary criminal.”

“Do you suppose there are any relatives besides those we know of?” I
asked Kennedy when Fletcher had left to summon the servants.

“No,” he replied, “I think not. Fletcher and Helen Bond, his second
cousin, to whom he is engaged, are the only two.”

Kennedy continued to study the library. He walked in and out of the
doors and examined the windows and viewed the safe from all angles.

“The old gentleman’s bedroom is here,” he said, indicating a door. “Now
a good smart noise or perhaps even a light shining through the transom
from the library might arouse him. Suppose he woke up suddenly and
entered by this door. He would see the thief at work on the safe.
Yes, that part of reconstructing the story is simple. But who was the
intruder?”

Just then Fletcher returned with the servants. The questioning was long
and tedious, and developed nothing except that the butler admitted that
he was uncertain whether the windows in the library were locked. The
gardener was very obtuse, but finally contributed one possibly important
fact. He had noted in the morning that the back gate, leading into a
disused road closer to the bay than the main highway in front of the
house, was open. It was rarely used, and was kept closed only by an
ordinary hook. Whoever had opened it had evidently forgotten to hook it.
He had thought it strange that it was unhooked, and in closing it he had
noticed in the mud of the roadway marks that seemed to indicate that an
automobile had stood there.

After the servants had gone, Fletcher asked us to excuse him for a
while, as he wished to run over to the Greenes’, who lived across the
bay. Miss Bond was completely prostrated by the death of her uncle, he
said, and was in an extremely nervous condition. Meanwhile if we found
any need of a machine we might use his uncle’s, or in fact anything
around the place.

“Walter,” said Craig, when Fletcher had gone, “I want to run back to
town to-night, and I have something I’d like to have you do, too.”

We were soon speeding back along the splendid road to Long Island City,
while he laid out our programme.

“You go down to the Star office,” he said, “and look through all the
clippings on the whole Fletcher family. Get a complete story of the life
of Helen Bond, too--what she has done in society, with whom she has been
seen mostly, whether she has made any trips abroad, and whether she
has ever been engaged--you know, anything likely to be significant. I’m
going up to the apartment to get my camera and then to the laboratory to
get some rather bulky paraphernalia I want to take out to Fletcherwood.
Meet me at the Columbus Circle station at, say half-past-ten.”

So we separated. My search revealed the fact that Miss Bond had always
been intimate with the ultra-fashionable set, had spent last summer
in Europe, a good part of the time in Switzerland and Paris with the
Greenes. As far as I could find out she had never been reported engaged,
but plenty of fortunes as well as foreign titles had been flitting about
the ward of the steel-magnate.

Craig and I met at the appointed time. He had a lot of paraphernalia
with him, and it did not add to our comfort as we sped back, but it
wasn’t much over half an hour before we again found ourselves nearing
Great Neck.

Instead of going directly back to Fletcherwood, however, Craig had told
the chauffeur to stop at the plant of the local electric light and power
company, where he asked if he might see the record of the amount of
current used the night before.

The curve sprawled across the ruled surface of the sheet by the
automatic registering-needle was irregular, showing the ups and downs of
the current, rising sharply from sundown and gradually declining after
nine o’clock, as the lights went out. Somewhere between eleven and
twelve o’clock, however, the irregular fall of the curve was broken by a
quite noticeable upward twist.

Craig asked the men if that usually happened. They were quite sure that
the curve as a rule went gradually down until twelve o’clock, when the
power was shut off. But they did not see anything remarkable in it. “Oh,
I suppose some of the big houses had guests,” volunteered the foreman,
“and just to show off the place perhaps they turned on all the lights.
I don’t know, sir, what it was, but it couldn’t have been a heavy drain,
or we would have noticed it at the time, and the lights would all have
been dim.”

“Well,” said Craig, “just watch and see if it occurs again to-night
about the same time.”

“All right, sir.”

“And when you close down the plant for the night, will you bring the
record card up to Fletcherwood?” asked Craig, slipping a bill into the
pocket of the foreman’s shirt.

“I will, and thank you, sir.”

It was nearly half-past eleven when Craig had got his apparatus set up
in the library at Fletcherwood. Then he unscrewed all the bulbs from the
chandelier in the library and attached in their places connections with
the usual green silk-covered flexible wire rope. These were then joined
up to a little instrument which to me looked like a drill. Next he
muffed the drill with a wad of felt and applied it to the safe door.

I could hear the dull tat-tat of the drill. Going into the bedroom and
closing the door, I found that it was still audible to me, but an old
man, inclined to deafness and asleep, would scarcely have been awakened
by it. In about ten minutes Craig displayed a neat little hole in the
safe door opposite the one made by the cracksman in the combination.

“I’m glad you’re honest,” I said, “or else we might be afraid of
you--perhaps even make you prove an alibi for last night’s job!”

He ignored my bantering and said in a tone such as he might have
used before a class of students in the gentle art of scientific
safe-cracking: “Now if the power company’s curve is just the same
to-night as last night, that will show how the thing was done. I wanted
to be sure of it, so I thought I’d try this apparatus which I smuggled
in from Paris last year. I believe the old man happened to be wakeful
and heard it.”

Then he pried off the door of the interior compartment which had been
jimmied open. “Perhaps we may learn something by looking at this
door and studying the marks left by the jimmy, by means of this new
instrument of mine,” he said.

On the library table he fastened an arrangement with two upright posts
supporting a dial which he called a “dynamometer.” The uprights were
braced in the back, and the whole thing reminded me of a miniature
guillotine.

“This is my mechanical detective,” said Craig proudly. “It was devised
by Bertillon himself, and he personally gave me permission to copy his
own machine. You see, it is devised to measure pressure. Now let’s take
an ordinary jimmy and see just how much pressure it takes to duplicate
those marks on this door.”

Craig laid the piece of steel on the dynamometer in the position it had
occupied in the safe, and braced it tightly. Then he took a jimmy and
pressed on it with all his strength. The steel door was connected with
the indicator, and the needle spun around until it indicated a pressure
such as only a strong man could have exerted. Comparing the marks made
in the steel in the experiment and by the safe-cracker, it was evident
that no such pressure had been necessary. Apparently the lock on the
door was only a trifling affair, and the steel itself was not very,
tough. The safe-makers had relied on the first line of defence to repel
attack.

Craig tried again and again, each time using less force. At last he got
a mark just about similar to the original marks on the steel.

“Well, well, what do you think of that?” he exclaimed reflectively. “A
child could have done that part of the job.”

Just then the lights went off for the night. Craig lighted the oil-lamp,
and sat in silence until the electric light plant foreman appeared with;
the card-record, which showed a curve practically identical with that of
the night before.

A few moments later Professor Fletcher’s machine came up the driveway,
and he joined us with a worried and preoccupied look on his face that
he could not conceal. “She’s terribly broken up by the suddenness of it
all,” he murmured as he sank into an armchair. “The shock has been too
much for her. In fact, I hadn’t the heart to tell her anything about
the robbery, poor girl.” Then in a moment he asked, “Any more clues yet,
Kennedy?”

“Well, nothing of first importance. I have only been trying to
reconstruct the story of the robbery so that I can reason out a motive
and a few details; then when the real clues come along we won’t have
so much ground to cover. The cracksman was certainly clever. He used an
electric drill to break the combination and ran it by the electric light
current.”

“Whew!” exclaimed the professor, “is that so? He must have been above
the average. That’s interesting.”

“By the way, Fletcher,” said Kennedy, “I wish you would introduce me to
your fiancee to-morrow. I would like to know her.”

“Gladly,” Fletcher replied, “only you must be careful what you talk
about. Remember, the death of uncle has been quite a shock to her--he
was her only relative besides myself.”

“I will,” promised Kennedy, “and by the way, she may think it strange
that I’m out here at a time like this. Perhaps you had better tell
her I’m a nerve specialist or something of that sort--anything not to
connect me with the robbery, which you say you haven’t told her about.”

The next morning found Kennedy out bright and early, for he had not had
a very good chance to do anything during the night except reconstruct
the details. He was now down by the back gate with his camera, where I
found him turning it end-down and photographing the road. Together we
made a thorough search of the woods and the road about the gate, but
could discover absolutely nothing.

After breakfast I improvised a dark room and developed the films, while
Craig went down the back lane along the shore “looking for clues,” as he
said briefly. Toward noon he returned, and I could see that he was in
a brown study. So I said nothing, but handed him the photographs of
the road. He took them and laid them down in a long line on the library
floor. They seemed to consist of little ridges of dirt on either side
of a series of regular round spots, some of the spots very clear and
distinct on the sides, others quite obscure in the centre. Now and then
where you would expect to see one of the spots, just for the symmetry of
the thing, it was missing. As I looked at the line of photographs on the
floor I saw that they were a photograph of the track made by the tire of
an automobile, and I suddenly recalled what the gardener had said.

Next Craig produced the results of his morning’s work, which consisted
of several dozen sheets of white paper, carefully separated into three
bundles. These he also laid down in long lines on the floor, each
package in a separate line. Then I began to realise what he was doing,
and became fascinated in watching him on his hands and knees eagerly
scanning the papers and comparing them with the photographs. At last
he gathered up two of the sets of papers very decisively and threw them
away. Then he shifted the third set a bit, and laid it closely parallel
to the photographs.

“Look at these, Walter,” he said. “Now take this deep and sharp
indentation. Well, there’s a corresponding one in the photograph. So you
can pick them out one for another. Now here’s one missing altogether on
the paper. So it is in the photograph.”

Almost like a schoolboy in his glee, he was comparing the little round
circles made by the metal insertions in an “anti-skid” automobile tire.
Time and again I had seen imprints like that left in the dust and grease
of an asphalted street or the mud of a road. It had never occurred to me
that they might be used in any way. Yet here Craig was, calmly tracing
out the similarity before my very eyes, identifying the marks made in
the photograph with the prints left on the bits of paper.

As I followed him, I had a most curious feeling of admiration for his
genius. “Craig,” I cried, “that’s the thumb-print of an automobile.”

“There speaks the yellow journalist,” he answered merrily. “‘Thumb Print
System Applied to Motor Cars’--I can see the Sunday feature story
you have in your mind with that headline already. Yes, Walter, that’s
precisely what this is. The Berlin police have used it a number of times
with the most startling results.”

“But, Craig,” I exclaimed suddenly, “the paper prints, where did you get
them? What machine is it?”

“It’s one not very far from here,” he answered sententiously, and I saw
he would say nothing more that might fix a false suspicion on anyone.
Still, my curiosity was so great that if there had been an opportunity I
certainly should have tried out his plan on all the cars in the Fletcher
garage.

Kennedy would say nothing more, and we ate our luncheon in silence.
Fletcher, who had decided to lunch with the Greenes, called Kennedy up
on the telephone to tell him it would be all right for him to call on
Miss Bond later in the afternoon.

“And I may bring over the apparatus I once described to you to determine
just what her nervous condition is?” he asked. Apparently the answer was
yes, for Kennedy hung up the receiver with a satisfied, “Good-bye.”

“Walter, I want you to come along with me this afternoon as my
assistant. Remember I’m now Dr. Kennedy, the nerve specialist, and you
are Dr. Jameson, my colleague, and we are to be in consultation on a
most important case.”

“Do you think that’s fair?” I asked hotly, “to take that girl off her
guard, to insinuate yourself into her confidence as a medical adviser,
and worm out of her some kind of fact incriminating someone? I suppose
that’s your plan, and I don’t like the ethics, or rather the lack of
ethics, of the thing.”

“Now think a minute, Walter. Perhaps I am wrong; I don’t know. Certainly
I feel that the end will justify the means. I have an idea that I
can get from Miss Bond the only clue that I need, one that will lead
straight to the criminal. Who knows? I have a suspicion that the thing
I’m going to do is the highest form of your so-called ethics. If what
Fletcher tells us is true that girl is going insane over this thing.
Why should she be so shocked over the death of an uncle she did not
live with? I tell you she knows something about this case that it is
necessary for us to know, too. If she doesn’t tell someone, it will eat
her mind out. I’ll add a dinner to the box of cigars we have already bet
on this case that what I’m going to do is for the best--for her best.”

Again I yielded, for I was coming to have more and more faith in the old
Kennedy I had seen made over into a first-class detective, and together
we started for the Greenes’, Craig carrying something in one of those
long black handbags which physicians use.

Fletcher met us on the driveway. He seemed to be very much affected,
for his face was drawn, and he shifted from one position to another
nervously, from which we inferred that Miss Bond was feeling worse. It
was late afternoon, almost verging on twilight, as he led us through
the reception-hall and thence onto a long porch overlooking the bay and
redolent with honeysuckle.

Miss Bond was half reclining in a wicker chair us we entered. She
started to rise to greet us, but Fletcher gently restrained her, saying,
as he introduced us, that he guessed the doctors would pardon any
informality from an invalid.

Fletcher was a pretty fine fellow, and I had come to like him; but I
soon found myself wondering what he had ever done to deserve winning
such a girl as Helen Bond. She was what I should describe as the ideal
type of “new” woman,--tall and athletic, yet without any affectation
of mannishness. The very first thought that struck me was the
incongruousness of a girl of her type suffering from an attack of
“nerves,” and I felt sure it must be as Craig had said, that she was
concealing a secret that was having a terrible effect on her. A casual
glance might not have betrayed the true state of her feelings, for her
dark hair and large brown eyes and the tan of many suns on her face and
arms betokened anything but the neurasthenic. One felt instinctively
that she was, with all her athletic grace, primarily a womanly woman.

The sun sinking toward the hills across the bay softened the brown of
her skin and, as I observed by watching her closely, served partially
to conceal the nervousness which was wholly unnatural in a girl of such
poise. When she smiled there was a false note in it; it was forced and
it was sufficiently evident to me that she was going through a mental
hell of conflicting emotions that would have killed a woman of less
self-control.

I felt that I would like to be in Fletcher’s shoes--doubly so when, at
Kennedy’s request, he withdrew, leaving me to witness the torture of a
woman of such fine sensibilities, already hunted remorselessly by her
own thoughts.

Still, I will give Kennedy credit for a tactfulness that I didn’t know
the old fellow possessed. He carried through the preliminary questions
very well for a pseudo-doctor, appealing to me as his assistant on
inconsequential things that enabled me to “save my face” perfectly. When
he came to the critical moment of opening the black bag, he made a very
appropriate and easy remark about not having brought any sharp shiny
instruments or nasty black drugs.

“All I wish to do, Miss Bond, is to make a few, simple little tests of
your nervous condition. One of them we specialists call reaction time,
and another is a test of heart action. Neither is of any seriousness at
all, so I beg of you not to become excited, for the chief value consists
in having the patient perfectly quiet and normal. After they are over
I think I’ll know whether to prescribe absolute rest or a visit to
Newport.”

She smiled languidly, as he adjusted a long, tightly fitting rubber
glove on her shapely forearm and then encased it in a larger, absolutely
inflexible covering of leather. Between the rubber glove and the leather
covering was a liquid communicating by a glass tube with a sort of
dial. Craig had often explained to me how the pressure of the blood was
registered most minutely on the dial, showing the varied emotions as
keenly as if you had taken a peep into the very mind of the subject.
I think the experimental psychologists called the thing a
“plethysmograph.”

Then he had an apparatus which measured association time. The essential
part of this instrument was the operation of a very delicate stop-watch,
and this duty was given to me. It was nothing more nor less than
measuring the time that elapsed between his questions to her and her
answers, while he recorded the actual questions and answers and noted
the results which I worked out. Neither of us was unfamiliar with the
process, for when we were in college these instruments were just coming
into use in America. Kennedy had never let his particular branch of
science narrow him, but had made a practice of keeping abreast of all
the important discoveries and methods in other fields. Besides, I
had read articles about the chronoscope, the plethysmograph, the
sphygmograph, and others of the new psychological instruments. Craig
carried it off, however, as if he did that sort of thing as an every-day
employment.

“Now, Miss Bond,” he said, and his voice was so reassuring and
persuasive that I could see she was not made even a shade more nervous
by our simple preparations, “the game--it is just like a children’s
parlour game--is just this: I will say a word--take ‘dog,’ for instance.
You are to answer back immediately the first word that comes into your
mind suggested by it--say ‘cat.’ I will say ‘chain,’ for example, and
probably you will answer ‘collar,’ and so on. Do you catch my meaning?
It may seem ridiculous, no doubt, but before we are through I feel sure
you’ll see how valuable such a test is, particularly in a simple case of
nervousness such as yours.”

I don’t think she found any sinister interpretation in his words, but I
did, and if ever I wanted to protest it was then, but my voice seemed to
stick in my throat.

He was beginning. It was clearly up to me to give in and not interfere.
As closely as I was able I kept my eyes riveted on the watch and other
apparatus, while my ears and heart followed with mingled emotions the
low, musical voice of the girl.

I will not give all the test, for there was much of it, particularly at
the start, that was in reality valueless, since it was merely leading up
to the “surprise tests.” From the colourless questions Kennedy suddenly
changed. It was done in an instant, when Miss Bond had been completely
disarmed and put off her guard.

“Night,” said Kennedy. “Day,” came back the reply from Miss Bond.

“Automobile.” “Horse.”

“Bay.” “Beach.”

“Road.” “Forest.”

“Gate.” “Fence.”

“Path.” “Shrubs.”

“Porch.” “House.”

Did I detect or imagine a faint hesitation?

“Window.” “Curtain.”

Yes, it was plain that time. But the words followed one another in quick
succession. There was no rest. She had no chance to collect herself. I
noted the marked difference in the reaction time and, in my sympathy,
damned this cold; scientific third degree.

“Paris.” “France.”

“Quartier Latin.” “Students.”

“Apaches.” Craig gave it its Gallicised pronunciation, “Apash.”
 “Really, Dr. Kennedy,” she said, “there is nothing I can associate
with them--well, yes, les vaches, I believe. You had better count that
question out. I’ve wasted a good many seconds.”

“Very well, let us try again,” he replied with a forced unconcern,
though the answer seemed to interest him, for “les vaches” meant “the
cows,” otherwise known as the police.

No lawyer could have revelled in an opportunity for putting leading
questions more ruthlessly than did Kennedy. He snapped out his words
sharply and unexpectedly.

“Chandelier.” “Light.”

“Electric light,” he emphasised. “Broadway,” she answered, endeavouring
to force a new association of ideas to replace one which she strove to
conceal.

“Safe.” “Vaults.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the
indicator showed a tremendously increased heart action. As for the
reaction time, I noted that it was growing longer and more significant.
Remorselessly he pressed his words home. Mentally I cursed him.

“Rubber.” “Tire.”

“Steel.” “Pittsburg,” she cried at random.

“Strong-box,” No answer.

“Lock.” Again no answer. He hurried his words. I was leaning forward,
tense with excitement and sympathy.

“Key.” Silence and a fluttering of the blood pressure indicator.

“Will.”

As the last word was uttered her air of frightened defiance was swept
away. With a cry of anguish, she swayed to her feet. “No, no, doctor,
you must not, you must not,” she cried with outstretched arms. “Why do
you pick out those words of all others? Can it be--” If I had not caught
her I believe she would have fainted.

The indicator showed a heart alternately throbbing with feverish
excitement and almost stopping with fear. What would Kennedy do next, I
wondered, determined to shut him off as soon as I possibly could. From
the moment I had seen her I had been under her spell. Mine should have
been Fletcher’s place, I knew, though I cannot but say that I felt a
certain grim pleasure in supporting even momentarily such a woman in her
time of need.

“Can it be that you have guessed what no one in the world, no, not even
dear old Jack, dreams Oh, I shall go mad, mad, mad!”

Kennedy was on his feet in an instant, advancing toward her. The look in
his eyes was answer enough for her. She knew that he knew, and she paled
and shuddered, shrinking away from him.

“Miss Bond,” he said in a voice that forced attention--it was low and
vibrating with feeling--“Miss Bond, have you ever told a lie to shield a
friend?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes meeting his.

“So can I,” came back the same tense voice, “when I know the truth about
that friend.”

Then for the first time tears came in a storm. Her breath was quick and
feverish. “No one will ever believe, no one will understand. They will
say that I killed him, that I murdered him.”

Through it all I stood almost speechless, puzzled. What did it all mean?

“No,” said Kennedy, “no, for they will never know of it.”

“Never know?”

“Never--if in the end justice is done. Have you the will? Or did you
destroy it?”

It was a bold stroke.

“Yes. No. Here it is. How could I destroy it, even though it was burning
out my very soul?”

She literally tore the paper from the bosom of her dress and cast it
from her in horror and terror.

Kennedy picked it up, opened it, and glanced hurriedly through it. “Miss
Bond,” he said, “Jack shall never know a word of this. I shall tell him
that the will has been found unexpectedly in John Fletcher’s desk among
some other papers. Walter, swear on your honour as a gentleman that this
will was found in old Fletcher’s desk.”

“Dr. Kennedy, how can I ever thank you?” she exclaimed, sinking wearily
down into a chair and pressing her hands to her throbbing forehead.

“By telling me just how you came by this will, so that when you and
Fletcher are married I may be as good a friend, without suspicion, to
you as I am to him. I think a full confession would do you good, Miss
Bond. Would you prefer to have Dr. Jameson not hear it?”

“No, he may stay.”

“This much I know, Miss Bond. Last summer in Paris with the Greenes you
must have chanced to hear, of Pillard, the Apache, one of the most noted
cracksmen the world has ever produced. You sought him out. He taught
you how to paint your fingers with a rubber composition, how to use an
electric drill, how to use the old-fashioned jimmy. You went down to
Fletcherwood by the back road about a quarter after eleven the night of
the robbery in the Greenes’ little electric runabout. You entered the
library by an unlocked window, you coupled your drill to the electric
light connections of the chandelier. You had to work quickly, for the
power would go off at midnight, yet you could not do the job later, when
they were sleeping more soundly, for the very same reason.”

It was uncanny as Kennedy rushed along in his reconstruction of the
scene, almost unbelievable. The girl watched him, fascinated.

“John Fletcher was wakeful that night. Somehow or other he heard you
at work. He entered the library and, by the light streaming from his
bedroom, he saw who it was. In anger he must have addressed you, and his
passion got the better of his age--he fell suddenly on the floor with a
stroke of apoplexy. As you bent over him he died. But why did you ever
attempt so foolish an undertaking? Didn’t you know that other people
knew of the will and its terms, that you were sure to be traced out
in the end, if not by friends, by foes? How did you suppose you could
profit by destroying the will, of which others knew the provisions?”

Any other woman than Helen Bond would have been hysterical long before
Kennedy had finished pressing home remorselessly one fact after another
of her story. But, with her, the relief now after the tension of many
hours of concealment seemed to nerve her to go to the end and tell the
truth.

What was it? Had she some secret lover for whom she had dared all to
secure the family fortune? Or was she shielding someone dearer to her
than her own reputation? Why had Kennedy made Fletcher withdraw?

Her eyes dropped and her breast rose and fell with suppressed emotion.
Yet I was hardly prepared for her reply when at last she slowly raised
her head and looked us calmly in the face.

“I did it because I loved Jack.”

Neither of us spoke. I, at least, had fallen completely under the spell
of this masterful woman. Right or wrong, I could not restrain a feeling
of admiration and amazement.

“Yes,” she said as her voice thrilled with emotion, “strange as it may
sound to you, it was not love of self that made me do it. I was, I am
madly in love with Jack. No other man has ever inspired such respect and
love as he has. His work in the university I have fairly gloated over.
And yet--and yet, Dr. Kennedy, can you not see that I am different from
Jack? What would I do with the income of the wife of even the dean of
the new school? The annuity provided for me in that will is paltry. I
need millions. From the tiniest baby I have been reared that way. I have
always expected this fortune. I have been given everything I wanted.
But it is different when one is married--you must have your own money. I
need a fortune, for then I could have the town house, the country house,
the yacht, the motors, the clothes, the servants that I need--they are
as much a part of my life as your profession is of yours. I must have
them.

“And now it was all to slip from my hands. True, it was to go in such a
way by this last will as to make Jack happy in his new school. I could
have let that go, if that was all. There are other fortunes that have
been laid at my feet. But I wanted Jack, and I knew Jack wanted me. Dear
boy, he never could realise how utterly unhappy intellectual poverty
would have made me and how my unhappiness would have reacted on him in
the end. In reality this great and beneficent philanthropy was finally
to blight both our love and our lives.

“What was I to do? Stand by and see my life and my love ruined or refuse
Jack for the fortune of a man I did not love? Helen Bond is not that
kind of a woman, I said to myself. I consulted the greatest lawyer I
knew. I put a hypothetical case to him, and asked his opinion in such a
way as to make him believe he was advising me how to make an unbreakable
will. He told me of provisions and clauses to avoid, particularly in
making benefactions. That was what I wanted to know. I would put one of
those clauses in my uncle’s will. I practised uncle’s writing till I
was as good a forger of that clause as anyone could have become. I had
picked out the very words in his own handwriting to practise from.

“Then I went to Paris and, as you have guessed, learned how to get
things out of a safe like that of uncle’s. Before God, all I planned
to do was to get that will, change it, replace it, and trust that uncle
would never notice the change. Then when he was gone, I would have
contested the will. I would have got my full share either by court
proceedings or by settlement out of court. You see, I had planned it all
out. The school would have been founded--I, we would have founded it.
What difference, I said, did thirty millions or fifty millions make to
an impersonal school, a school not yet even in existence? The twenty
million dollars or so difference, or even half of it, meant life and
love to me.

“I had planned to steal the cash in the safe, anything to divert
attention from the will and make it look like a plain robbery. I would
have done the altering of the will that night and have returned it to
the safe before morning. But it was not to be. I had almost opened the
safe when my uncle entered the room. His anger completely unnerved me,
and from the moment I saw him on the floor to this I haven’t had a sane
thought. I forgot to take the cash, I forgot everything but that will.
My only thought was that I must get it and destroy it. I doubt if I
could have altered it with my nerves so upset. There, now you have my
whole story. I am at your mercy.”

“No,” said Kennedy, “believe me, there is a mental statute of
limitations that as far as Jameson and myself are concerned has already
erased this affair. Walter, will you find Fletcher?”

I found the professor pacing up and down the gravel walk impatiently.

“Fletcher,” said Kennedy, “a night’s rest is all Miss Bond really needs.
It is simply a case of overwrought nerves, and it will pass off of
itself. Still, I would advise a change of scene as soon as possible.
Good afternoon, Miss Bond, and my best wishes for your health.”

“Good afternoon, Dr. Kennedy. Good afternoon, Dr. Jameson.”

I for one was glad to make my escape.

A half-hour later, Kennedy, with well-simulated excitement, was racing
me in the car up to the Greenes’ again. We literally burst unannounced
into the tete-a-tete on the porch.

“Fletcher, Fletcher,” cried Kennedy, “look what Walter and I have just
discovered in a tin strong-box poked off in the back of your uncle’s
desk!”

Fletcher seized the will and by the dim light that shone through from
the hall read it hastily. “Thank God,” he cried; “the school is provided
for as I thought.”

“Isn’t it glorious!” murmured Helen.

True to my instinct I muttered, “Another good newspaper yarn killed.”



III. The Bacteriological Detective

Kennedy was deeply immersed in writing a lecture on the chemical
compositions of various bacterial toxins and antitoxins, a thing which
was as unfamiliar to me as Kamchatka, but as familiar to Kennedy as
Broadway and Forty-second Street.

“Really,” he remarked, laying down his fountain-pen and lighting his
cigar for the hundredth time, “the more one thinks of how the modern
criminal misses his opportunities the more astonishing it seems. Why do
they stick to pistols, chloroform, and prussic acid when there is such a
splendid assortment of refined methods they might employ?”

“Give it up, old man,” I replied helplessly, “unless it is because they
haven’t any imagination. I hope they don’t use them. What would become
of my business if they did? How would you ever get a really dramatic
news feature for the Star out of such a thing? ‘Dotted line marks route
taken by fatal germ; cross indicates spot where antitoxin attacked
it’--ha! ha! not much for the yellow journals in that, Craig.”

“To my mind, Walter, it would be the height of the dramatic--far more
dramatic than sending a bullet into a man. Any fool can shoot a pistol
or cut a throat, but it takes brains to be up-to-date.”

“It may be so;” I admitted, and went on reading, while Kennedy scratched
away diligently on his lecture. I mention this conversation both because
it bears on my story, by a rather peculiar coincidence, and because it
showed me a new side of Kennedy’s amazing researches. He was as
much interested in bacteria as in chemistry, and the story is one of
bacteria.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when the buzzer on our hall
door sounded. Imagine my surprise on opening the door to discover the
slight figure of what appeared to be a most fascinating young lady who
was heavily veiled. She was in a state almost bordering on hysteria, as
even I, in spite of my usual obtuseness, noticed.

“Is Professor Kennedy in?” she inquired anxiously.

“Yes, ma’am;” I replied, opening the door into our study.

She advanced toward him, repeating her inquiry.

“I am Professor Kennedy. Pray be seated,” he said.

The presence of a lady in our apartment was such a novelty that really
I forgot to disappear, but busied myself straightening the furniture and
opening a window to allow the odour of stale tobacco to escape.

“My name is Eveline Bisbee,” she began. “I have heard, Professor
Kennedy, that you are an adept at getting at the bottom of difficult
mysteries.”

“You flatter me;” he said in acknowledgment. “Who was so foolish as to
tell you that?”

“A friend who has heard of the Kerr Parker case,” she replied.

“I beg your pardon,” I interrupted, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I think
I’ll go out. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Please, Mr. Jameson--it is Mr. Jameson, is it not?”

I bowed in surprise.

“If it is possible I wish you would stay and hear my story. I am told
that you and Professor Kennedy always work together.”

It was my turn to be embarrassed by the compliment.

“Mrs. Fletcher, of Great Neck,” she explained, “has told me. I believe
Professor Kennedy performed a great service for the Fletchers, though I
do not know what it was. At any rate, I have come to you with my case,
in which I have small hope of obtaining assistance unless you can help
me. If Professor Kennedy cannot solve it, well, I’m afraid nobody can.”
 She paused a moment, then added, “No doubt you have read of the death of
my guardian the other day.”

Of course we had. Who did not know that “Jim” Bisbee, the southern
California oil-magnate, had died suddenly of typhoid fever at the
private hospital of Dr. Bell, where he had been taken from his
magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive? Kennedy and I had discussed
it at the time. We had commented on the artificiality of the twentieth
century. No longer did people have homes; they had apartments, I had
said. They didn’t fall ill in the good old-fashioned way any more,
either in fact, they even hired special rooms to die in. They hired
halls for funeral services. It was a wonder that they didn’t hire
graves. It was all part of our twentieth century break-up of tradition.
Indeed we did know about the death of Jim Bisbee. But there was nothing
mysterious about it. It was just typical in all its surroundings of the
first decade of the twentieth century in a great, artificial city--a
lonely death of a great man surrounded by all that money could buy.

We had read of his ward, too, the beautiful Miss Eveline Bisbee, a
distant relation. As under the heat of the room and her excitement, she
raised her veil, we were very much interested in her. At least, I am
sure that even Kennedy had by this time completely forgotten the lecture
on toxins.

“There is something about my guardian’s death,” she began in a low and
tremulous voice, “that I am sure will bear investigating. It may be only
a woman’s foolish fears, but--I haven’t told this to a soul till now,
except Mrs. Fletcher. My guardian had, as you perhaps know, spent his
summer at his country place at Bisbee Hall, New Jersey, from which he
returned rather suddenly about a week ago. Our friends thought it merely
a strange whim that he should return to the city before the summer was
fairly over, but it was not. The day before he returned, his gardener
fell sick of typhoid. That decided Mr. Bisbee to return to the city on
the following day. Imagine his consternation to find his valet stricken
the very next morning. Of course they motored to New York immediately,
then he wired to me at Newport, and together we opened his apartment at
the Louis Quinze.

“But that was not to be the end of it. One after another, the servants
at Bisbee Hall were taken with the disease until five of them were down.
Then came the last blow--Mr. Bisbee fell a victim in New York. So far
I have been spared. But who knows how much longer it will last? I have
been so frightened that I haven’t eaten a meal in the apartment since I
came back. When I am hungry I simply steal out to a hotel--a different
one every time. I never drink any water except that which I have
surreptitiously boiled in my own room over a gas-stove. Disinfectants
and germicides have been used by the gallon, and still I don’t feel
safe. Even the health authorities don’t remove my fears. With my
guardian’s death I had begun to feel that possibly it was over. But no.
This morning another servant who came up from the hall last week was
taken sick, and the doctor pronounces that typhoid, too. Will I be the
next? Is it just a foolish fear? Why does it pursue us to New York? Why
didn’t it stop at Bisbee Hall?”

I don’t think I ever saw a living creature more overcome by horror, by
an invisible, deadly fear. That was why it was doubly horrible in a girl
so attractive as Eveline Bisbee. As I listened I felt how terrible it
must be to be pursued by such a fear. What must it be to be dogged by
a disease as relentlessly as the typhoid had dogged her? If it had been
some great, but visible, tangible peril how gladly I could have faced it
merely for the smile of a woman like this. But it was a peril that
only knowledge and patience could meet. Instinctively I turned toward
Kennedy, my own mind being an absolute blank.

“Is there anyone you suspect of being the cause of such an epidemic?” he
asked. “I may as well tell you right now that I have already formed
two theories--one perfectly natural, the other diabolical. Tell me
everything.”

“Well, I had expected to receive a fortune of one million dollars, free
and clear, by his will and this morning I am informed by his lawyer,
James Denny, that a new will had been made. It is still one million. But
the remainder, instead of going to a number of charities in which he was
known to be interested, goes to form a trust fund for the Bisbee School
of Mechanical Arts, of which Mr. Denny is the sole trustee. Of course,
I do not know much about my guardian’s interests while he was alive, but
it strikes me as strange that he should have changed so radically, and,
besides, the new will is so worded that if I die without children
my million also goes to this school--location unnamed. I can’t help
wondering about it all.”

“Why should you wonder--at least what other reasons have you for
wondering?”

“Oh, I can’t express them. Maybe after all it’s only a woman’s silly
intuition. But often I have thought in the past few days about this
illness of my guardian. It was so queer. He was always so careful. And
you know the rich don’t often have typhoid.”

“You have no reason to suppose that it was not typhoid fever of which he
died?”

She hesitated. “No,” she replied, “but if you had known Mr. Bisbee
you would think it strange, too. He had a horror of infectious and
contagious diseases. His apartment and his country home were models. No
sanitarium could have been more punctilious. He lived what one of his
friends called an antiseptic life. Maybe I am foolish, but it keeps
getting closer and closer to me now, and--well, I wish you’d look into
the case. Please set my mind at rest and assure me that nothing is
wrong, that it is all natural.”

“I will help you, Miss Bisbee. To-morrow night I want to take a trip
quietly to Bisbee Hall. You will see that it is all right, that I have
the proper letters so I can investigate thoroughly.”

I shall never forget the mute and eloquent thanks with which she said
good night after Kennedy’s promise.

Kennedy sat with his eyes shaded under his hand for fully an hour after
she had left. Then he suddenly jumped up. “Walter,” he said, “let us go
over to Dr. Bell’s. I know the head nurse there. We may possibly learn
something.”

As we sat in the waiting-room with its thick Oriental rugs and handsome
mahogany furniture, I found myself going back to our conversation of
the early evening. “By Jove, Kennedy, you were right,” I exclaimed. “If
there is anything in this germ-plot idea of hers it is indeed the height
of the dramatic--it is diabolical. No ordinary mortal would ever be
capable of it.”

Just then the head nurse came in, a large woman breathing of
germlessness and cheerfulness in her spotless uniform. We were shown
every courtesy. There was, in fact, nothing to conceal. The visit set
at rest my last suspicion that perhaps Jim Bisbee had been poisoned by a
drug. The charts of his temperature and the sincerity of the nurse were
absolutely convincing. It had really been typhoid, and there was nothing
to be gained by pursuing that inquiry further.

Back at the apartment, Craig began packing his suitcase with the few
things he would need for a journey. “I’m going out to Bisbee Hall
to-morrow for a few days, Walter, and if you could find it convenient to
come along I should like to have your assistance.”

“To tell you the truth, Craig, I am afraid to go,” I said.

“You needn’t be. I’m going down to the army post on Governor’s Island
first to be vaccinated against typhoid. Then I am going to wait a few
hours till it takes effect before going. It’s the only place in the city
where one can be inoculated against it, so far as I know. While three
inoculations are really best, I understand that one is sufficient for
ordinary protection, and that is all we shall need, if any.”

“You’re sure of it?”

“Almost positive.”

“Very well, Craig. I’ll go.”

Down at the army post the next morning we had no difficulty in being
inoculated against the disease. The work of immunising our army was
going on at that time, and several thousands of soldiers in various
parts of the country had already been vaccinated, with the best of
results. “Do many civilians come over to be vaccinated?” asked Craig of
Major Carroll, the surgeon in charge.

“Not many, for very few have heard of it,” he replied.

“I suppose you keep a record of them.”

“Only their names--we can’t follow them up outside the army, to see how
it works. Still, when they come to us as you and Mr. Jameson have done
we are perfectly willing to vaccinate them. The Army Medical Corps takes
the position that if it is good for the army it is good for civil life,
and as long as only a few civilians apply we are perfectly willing to do
it for a fee covering the cost.”

“And would you let me see the list?”

“Certainly. You may look it over in a moment.”

Kennedy glanced hurriedly through the short list of names, pulled out
his notebook, made an entry, and handed the list back. “Thank you,
Major.”

Bisbee Hall was a splendid place set in the heart of a great park whose
area was measured by square miles rather than by acres. But Craig did
not propose to stay there, for he arranged for accommodations in a
near-by town, where we were to take our meals also. It was late when we
arrived, and we spent a restless night, for the inoculation “took.” It
wasn’t any worse than a light attack of the grippe, and in the morning
we were both all right again, after the passing of what is called the
“negative phase.” I, for one, felt much safer.

The town was very much excited over the epidemic at the hall, and if I
had been wondering why Craig wanted me along my wonder was soon set at
rest. He had me scouring the town and country looking up every case or
rumour of typhoid for miles around. I made the local weekly paper my
headquarters, and the editor was very obliging. He let me read all his
news letters from his local correspondent at every crossroads. I waded
through accounts of new calves and colts, new fences and barns, who
“Sundayed” with his brother, etc., and soon had a list of all the
cases in that part of the country. It was not a long one, but it
was scattered. After I had traced them out, following Kennedy’s
instructions, they showed nothing, except that they were unrelated to
the epidemic at the hall.

Meanwhile, Kennedy was very busy there. He had a microscope and slides
and test-tubes and chemicals for testing things, and I don’t know what
all, for there was not time to initiate me into all the mysteries. He
tested the water from the various driven wells and in the water-tank,
and the milk from the cows;--he tried to find out what food had come
in from outside, though there was practically none, for the hall was
self-supporting. There was no stone he left unturned.

When I rejoined him that night he was clearly perplexed. I don’t think
my report decreased his perplexity, either.

“There is only one thing left as far as I have been able to discover
after one day’s work,” he said, after we had gone over our activities
for the day. “Jim Bisbee never drank the water from his own wells. He
always drank a bottled water shipped down from a camp of his in New York
State, where he had a remarkable mountain spring. I tested a number of
the full bottles at the hall, but they were perfectly pure. There wasn’t
a trace of the bacillus typhosus in any of them. Then it occurred to me
that, after all, that was not the thing to do. I should test the empty
ones. But there weren’t any empty ones. They told me they had all been
taken down to the freight station yesterday to be shipped back to the
camp. I hope they haven’t gone yet. Let’s drive around and see if they
are there.”

The freight-master was just leaving, but when he learned we were from
the hall he consented to let us examine the bottles. They were corked
and in wooden cases, which protected them perfectly. By the light of the
station lamps and the aid of a pocket-lens, Kennedy examined them on the
outside and satisfied himself that after being replaced in the wooden
cases the bottles themselves had not been handled.

“Will you let me borrow some of these bottles to-night” he asked
the agent. “I’ll give you my word that they will be returned safely
to-morrow. If necessary, I’ll get an order for them.”

The station-agent reluctantly yielded; especially as a small green
banknote figured in the transaction. Craig and I tenderly lifted the big
bottles in their cases into our trap and drove back to our rooms in the
hotel. It quite excited the hangers-on to see us drive up with a lot of
empty five-gallon bottles and carry them up-stairs, but I had long ago
given up having any fear of public opinion in carrying out anything
Craig wanted.

In our room we worked far into the night. Craig carefully swabbed out
the bottom and sides of each bottle by inserting a little piece of
cotton on the end of a long wire. Then he squeezed the water out of the
cotton swab on small glass slides coated with agar-agar, or Japanese
seaweed, a medium in which germ-cultures multiply rapidly. He put the
slides away in a little oven with an alcohol-lamp which he had brought
along, leaving them to remain overnight at blood heat.

I had noticed all this time that he was very particular not to touch any
of the bottles on the outside. As for me, I wouldn’t have touched them
for the world. In fact, I was getting so I hesitated to touch anything.
I was almost afraid to breathe, though I knew there was no harm in that.
However, it was not danger of infection in touching the bottles that
made Craig so careful. He had noted, in the dim light of the station
lamps, what seemed to be finger-marks on the bottles, and they had
interested him, in fact, had decided him on a further investigation of
the bottles.

“I am now going to bring out these very faint finger-prints on the
bottles,” remarked Craig, proceeding with his examination in the better
light of our room. “Here is some powder known to chemists as ‘grey
powder’--mercury and chalk. I sprinkle it over the faint markings, so,
and then I brush it off with a camel’s-hair brush lightly. That brings
out the imprint much more clearly, as you can see. For instance, if
you place your dry thumb on a piece of white paper you leave no visible
impression. If grey powder is sprinkled over the spot and then brushed
off a distinct impression is seen. If the impression of the fingers is
left on something soft, like wax, it is often best to use printers’ ink
to bring out the ridges and patterns of the finger-marks. And so on
for various materials. Quite a science has been built up around
finger-prints.

“I wish I had that enlarging camera which I have in my laboratory.
However, my ordinary camera will do, for all I want is to preserve a
record of these marks, and I can enlarge the photographs later. In the
morning I will photograph these marks and you can do the developing of
the films. To-night we’ll improvise the bathroom as a dark-room and get
everything ready so that we can start in bright and early.”

We were, indeed, up early. One never has difficulty in getting up early
in the country: it is so noisy, at least to a city-bred man. City noise
at five A.M. is sepulchral silence compared with bucolic activity at
that hour.

There were a dozen negatives which I set about developing after Craig
had used up all our films. Meanwhile, he busied himself adjusting
his microscope and test-tubes and getting the agar slides ready for
examination.

Shirt-sleeves rolled up, I was deeply immersed in my work when I heard a
shout in the next room, and the bathroom door flew open.

“Confound you, Kennedy, do you want to ruin these films!” I cried.

He shut the door with a bang. “Hurrah, Walter!” he exclaimed. “I think I
have it, at last. I have just found some most promising colonies of the
bacilli on one of my slides.”

I almost dropped the pan of acid I was holding, in my excitement.
“Well,” I said, concealing my own surprise, “I’ve found out something,
too. Every one of these finger-prints so far is from the same pair of
hands.”

We scarcely ate any breakfast, and were soon on our way up to the hall.
Craig had provided himself at the local stationer’s with an inking-pad,
such as is used for rubber stamps. At the hall he proceeded to get the
impressions of the fingers and thumbs of all the servants.

It was quite a long and difficult piece of work to compare the
finger-prints we had taken with those photographed, in spite of the fact
that writers descant on the ease with which criminals are traced by this
system devised by the famous Galton. However, we at last finished the
job between us; or rather Craig finished it, with an occasional remark
from me. His dexterity amazed me; it was more than mere book knowledge.

For a moment we sat regarding each other hopelessly. None of the
finger-prints taken at the hall tallied with the photographed prints.
Then Craig rang for the housekeeper, a faithful old soul whom even the
typhoid scare could not budge from her post.

“Are you sure I have seen all the servants who were at the hall while
Mr. Bisbee was here” asked Craig.

“Why, no, sir--you didn’t ask that. You asked to see all who are here
now. There is only one who has left, the cook, Bridget Fallon. She left
a couple of days ago--said she was going back to New York to get another
job. Glad enough I was to get rid of her, too, for she was drunk most of
the time after the typhoid appeared.”

“Well, Walter, I guess we shall have to go back to New York again,
then,” exclaimed Kennedy. “Oh, I beg pardon, Mrs. Rawson, for
interrupting. Thank you ever so much. Where did Bridget come from?”

“She came well recommended, sir. Here is the letter in my writing-desk.
She had been employed by the Caswell-Joneses at Shelter Island before
she came here.”

“I may keep this letter” asked Craig, scanning it quickly.

“Yes.”

“By the way, where were the bottles of spring water kept”

“In the kitchen.”

“Did Bridget take charge of them?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Bisbee have any guests during the last week that he was here?”

“Only Mr. Denny one night.”

“H’m!” exclaimed Craig. “Well, it will not be so hard for us to unravel
this matter, after all, when we get back to the city. We must make that
noon train, Walter. There is nothing more for us to do here.”

Emerging from the “Tube” at Ninth Street, Craig hustled me into a
taxicab, and in almost no time we were at police headquarters.

Fortunately, Inspector Barney O’Connor was in and in an amiable mood,
too, for Kennedy had been careful that the Central Office received a
large share of credit for the Kerr Parker case. Craig sketched hastily
the details of this new case. O’Connor’s face was a study. His honest
blue Irish eyes fairly bulged in wonder, and when Craig concluded with
a request for help I think O’Connor would have given him anything in the
office, just to figure in the case.

“First, I want one of your men to go to the surrogate’s office and
get the original of the will. I shall return it within a couple of
hours--all I want to do is to make a photographic copy. Then another
man must find this lawyer, James Denny, and in some way get his
finger-prints--you must arrange that yourself. And send another fellow
up to the employment offices on Fourth Avenue and have him locate this
cook, Bridget Fallon. I want her finger-prints, too. Perhaps she had
better be detained, for I don’t want her to get away. Oh, and say,
O’Connor, do you want to finish this case up like the crack of a whip
to-night?”

“I’m game, sir. What of it?”

“Let me see. It is now four o’clock. If you can get hold of all
these people in time I think I shall be ready for the final scene
to-night--say, at nine. You know how to arrange it. Have them all
present at my laboratory at nine, and I promise we shall have a story
that will get into the morning papers with leaded type on the front
page.”

“Now, Walter,” he added, as we hurried down to the taxicab again, “I
want you to drop off at the Department of Health with this card to the
commissioner. I believe you know Dr. Leslie. Well, ask him if he
knows anything about this Bridget Fallon. I will go on up-town to the
laboratory and get my apparatus ready. You needn’t come up till nine,
old fellow, for I shall be busy till then, but be sure when you come
that you bring the record of this Fallon woman if you have to beg,
borrow, or steal it.”

I didn’t understand it, but I took the card and obeyed implicitly. It is
needless to say that I was keyed up to the greatest pitch of excitement
during my interview with the health commissioner, when I finally got in
to see him. I hadn’t talked to him long before a great light struck me,
and I began to see what Craig was driving at. The commissioner saw it
first.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Jameson.” he said, after I had told him as much
of my story as I could, “will you call up Professor Kennedy and tell him
I’d like very much to be present to-night myself?”

“Certainly I will,” I replied, glad to get my errand done in first-class
fashion in that way.

Things must have been running smoothly, for while I was sitting in our
apartment after dinner, impatiently waiting for half-past eight,
when the commissioner had promised to call for me and go up to the
laboratory, the telephone rang. It was Craig.

“Walter, might I ask a favour of you?” he said. “When the commissioner
comes ask him to stop at the Louis Quinze and bring Miss Bisbee up, too.
Tell her it is important. No more now. Things are going ahead fine.”

Promptly at nine we were assembled, a curious crowd. The health
commissioner and the inspector, being members of the same political
party, greeted each other by their first names. Miss Bisbee was nervous,
Bridget was abusive, Denny was sullen. As for Kennedy, he was, as usual,
as cool as a lump of ice. And I--well, I just sat on my feelings to keep
myself quiet.

At one end of the room Craig had placed a large white sheet such as he
used in his stereopticon lectures, while at the top of the tier of seats
that made a sort of little amphitheatre out of his lecture-room his
stereopticon sputtered.

“Moving pictures to-night, eh?” said Inspector O’Connor.

“Not exactly,” said Craig, “though--yes, they will be moving in another
sense. Now, if we are all ready, I’ll switch off the electric lights.”

The calcium sputtered some more, and a square of light was thrown on the
sheet.

Kennedy snapped a little announcer such as lecturers use. “Let me invite
your attention to these enlargements of finger-prints,” he began, as
a huge thumb appeared on the screen. “Here we have a series of
finger-prints which I will show one after another slowly. They are all
of the fingers of the same person, and they were found on some empty
bottles of spring water used at Bisbee Hall during the two weeks
previous to the departure of Mr. Bisbee for New York.

“Here are, in succession, the finger-prints of the various servants
employed about the house--and of a guest,” added Craig, with a slight
change of tone. “They differ markedly from the finger-prints on the
glass,” he continued, as one after another appeared, “all except this
last one. That is identical. It is, Inspector, what we call a composite
type of finger-print--in this case a combination of what is called the
‘loop’ and ‘whorl’ types.”

No sound broke the stillness save the sputtering of the oxygen on the
calcium of the stereopticon.

“The owner of the fingers from which these prints were made is in this
room. It was from typhoid germs on these fingers that the fever was
introduced into the drinking water at Bisbee Hall.”

Kennedy paused to emphasise the statement, then continued. “I am now
going to ask Dr. Leslie to give us a little talk on a recent discovery
in the field of typhoid fever--you understand, Commissioner, what I
mean, I believe?”

“Perfectly. Shall I mention names?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well,” began Dr. Leslie, clearing his throat, “within the past year or
two we have made a most weird and startling discovery in typhoid fever.
We have found what we now call ‘typhoid carriers’--persons who do not
have the disease themselves, perhaps never have had it, but who are
literally living test-tubes of the typhoid bacillus. It is positively
uncanny. Everywhere they go they scatter the disease. Down at the
department we have the records of a number of such instances, and our
men in the research laboratories have come to the conclusion that, far
from being of rare occurrence, these cases are comparatively common. I
have in mind one particular case of a servant girl, who, during the past
five or six years, has been employed in several families.

“In every family typhoid fever has later broken out. Experts have traced
out at least thirty, cases and several deaths due to this one person.
In another case we found an epidemic up in Harlem to be due to a typhoid
carrier on a remote farm in Connecticut. This carrier, innocently
enough, it is true, contaminated the milk-supply coming from that farm.
The result was over fifty cases of typhoid here in this city.

“However, to return to the case of the servant I have mentioned. Last
spring we had her under surveillance, but as there was no law by which
we could restrain her permanently she is still at large. I think one
of the Sunday papers at the time had an account of her--they called
her ‘Typhoid Bridget,’ and in red ink she was drawn across the page in
gruesome fashion, frying the skulls of her victims in a frying-pan over
a roaring fire. That particular typhoid carrier, I understand--”

“Excuse me, Commissioner, if I interrupt, but I think we have carried
this part of the programme far enough to be absolutely convincing,” said
Craig. “Thank you very much for the clear way in which you have put it.”

Craig snapped the announcer, and a letter appeared on the screen. He
said nothing, but let us read it through.

To whom it may concern:

This is to certify that Bridget Fallon has been employed in my family at
Shelter Island for the past season and that I have found her a reliable
servant and an excellent cook.

          A. ST. JOHN CASWELL-JONES.

“Before God, Mr. Kennedy, I’m innocent,” screeched Bridget. “Don’t have
me arrested. I’m innocent. I’m innocent.”

Craig gently, but firmly, forced her back into her chair.

Again the announcer snapped. This time the last page of Mr. Bisbee’s
will appeared on the sheet, ending with his signature and the witnesses.

“I’m now going to show these two specimens of handwriting very greatly
enlarged,” he said, as the stereopticon plates were shifted again.

“An author of many scientific works, Dr. Lindsay Johnson, of London,
has recently elaborated a new theory with regard to individuality in
handwriting. He maintains that in certain diseases a person’s pulse
beats are individual, and that no one suffering from any such disease
can control, even for a brief space of time, the frequency or peculiar
irregularities of his heart’s action, as shown by a chart recording his
pulsation. Such a chart is obtained for medical purposes by means of a
sphygmograph, an instrument fitted to the patient’s forearm and supplied
with a needle, which can be so arranged as to record automatically on
a prepared sheet of paper the peculiar force and frequency of the
pulsation. Or the pulsation may be simply observed in the rise and fall
of a liquid in a tube. Dr. Johnson holds the opinion that a pen in
the hand of a writer serves, in a modified degree, the same end as the
needle in the first-named form of the sphygmograph and that in such
a person’s handwriting one can see by projecting the letters, greatly
magnified, on a screen, the scarcely perceptible turns and quivers
made in the lines by the spontaneous action of that person’s peculiar
pulsation.

“To prove this, the doctor carried out an experiment at Charing Cross
Hospital. At his request a number of patients suffering from heart and
kidney diseases wrote the Lord’s Prayer in their ordinary handwriting.
The different manuscripts were then taken and examined microscopically.
By throwing them, highly magnified, on a screen, the jerks or
involuntary motions due to the patient’s peculiar pulsations were
distinctly visible. The handwriting of persons in normal health, says
Dr. Johnson, does not always show their pulse beats. What one can say,
however, is that when a document, purporting to be written by a certain
person, contains traces of pulse beats and the normal handwriting of
that person does not show them, then clearly that document is a forgery.

“Now, in these two specimens of handwriting which we have enlarged it is
plain that the writers of both of them suffered from a certain peculiar
disease of the heart. Moreover, I am prepared to show that the pulse
beats exhibited in the case of certain pen-strokes in one of these
documents are exhibited in similar strokes in the other. Furthermore, I
have ascertained from his family physician, whose affidavit I have here,
that Mr. Bisbee did not suffer from this or any other form of heart
disease. Mr. Caswell-Jones, in addition to wiring me that he refused to
write Bridget Fallon a recommendation after the typhoid broke out in his
country house, also says he does not suffer from heart disease in any
form. From the tremulous character of the letters and figures in both
these documents, which when magnified is the more easily detected, I
therefore conclude that both are forgeries, and I am ready to go farther
and say that they are forgeries from the same hand.

“It usually takes a couple of weeks after infection for typhoid to
develop, a time sufficient in itself to remove suspicion from acts which
might otherwise be scrutinised very carefully if happening immediately
before the disease developed. I may add, also, that it is well known
that stout people do very poorly when they contract typhoid, especially
if they are old. Mr. Bisbee was both stout and old. To contract typhoid
was for him a virtual death-warrant. Knowing all these facts, a certain
person purposely sought out a crafty means of introducing typhoid fever
into Mr. Bisbee’s family. That person, furthermore, was inoculated
against typhoid three times during the month before the disease was
devilishly and surreptitiously introduced into Bisbee Hall, in order to
protect himself or herself should it become necessary for that person to
visit Bisbee Hall. That person, I believe, is the one who suffered from
an aneurism of the heart, the writer, or rather the forger, of the two
documents I have shown, by one of which he or she was to profit greatly
by the death of Mr. Bisbee and the founding of an alleged school in a
distant part of the country--a subterfuge, if you recall, used in at
least one famous case for which the convicted perpetrator is now under a
life sentence in Sing Sing.

“I will ask Dr. Leslie to take this stethoscope and examine the hearts
of everyone in the room and tell me whether there is anyone here
suffering from an aneurism.”

The calcium light ceased to sputter. One person after another was
examined by the health commissioner. Was it merely my imagination, or
did I really hear a heart beating with wild leaps as if it would burst
the bonds of its prison and make its escape if possible? Perhaps it
was only the engine of the commissioner’s machine out on the campus
driveway. I don’t know. At any rate, he went silently from one to the
other, betraying not even by his actions what he discovered with the
stethoscope. The suspense was terrible. I felt Miss Bisbee’s hand
involuntarily grasp my arm convulsively. Without disturbing the silence,
I reached a glass of water standing near me on Craig’s lecture-table and
handed it to her.

The commissioner was bending over the lawyer, trying to adjust the
stethoscope better to his ears. The lawyer’s head was resting heavily
on his hand, and he was heaped up in an awkward position in the cramped
lecture-room seat. It seemed an age as Dr. Leslie tried to adjust the
stethoscope. Even Craig felt the excitement. While the commissioner
hesitated, Kennedy reached over and impatiently switched on the electric
light in full force.

As the light flooded the room, blinding us for the instant, the large
form of Dr. Leslie stood between us and the lawyer.

“What does the stethoscope tell you, Doctor?” asked Craig, leaning
forward expectantly. He was as unprepared for the answer as any of us.

“It tells me that a higher court than those of New York has passed
judgment on this astounding criminal. The aneurism has burst.”

I felt a soft weight fall on my shoulder. The Morning Star did not have
the story, after all. I missed the greatest “scoop” of my life seeing
Eveline Bisbee safely to her home after she had recovered from the shock
of Denny’s exposure and punishment.



IV. The Deadly Tube

“For Heaven’s sake, Gregory, what is the matter?” asked Craig Kennedy
as a tall, nervous man stalked into our apartment one evening. “Jameson,
shake hands with Dr. Gregory. What’s the matter, Doctor? Surely your
X-ray work hasn’t knocked you out like this?”

The doctor shook hands with me mechanically. His hand was icy. “The blow
has fallen,” he exclaimed, as he sank limply into a chair and tossed an
evening paper over to Kennedy.

In red ink on the first page, in the little square headed “Latest News,”
 Kennedy read the caption, “Society Woman Crippled for Life by X-Ray
Treatment.”

“A terrible tragedy was revealed in the suit begun today,” continued the
article, “by Mrs. Huntington Close against Dr. James Gregory, an X-ray
specialist with offices at Madison Avenue, to recover damages for
injuries which Mrs. Close alleges she received while under his care.
Several months ago she began a course of X-ray treatment to remove a
birthmark on her neck. In her complaint Mrs. Close alleges that Dr.
Gregory has carelessly caused X-ray dermatitis, a skin disease of
cancerous nature, and that she has also been rendered a nervous wreck
through the effects of the rays. Simultaneously with filing the suit she
left home and entered a private hospital. Mrs. Close is one of the most
popular hostesses in the smart set, and her loss will be keenly felt.”

“What am I to do, Kennedy?” asked the doctor imploringly. “You remember
I told you the other day about this case--that there was something queer
about it, that after a few treatments I was afraid to carry on any more
and refused to do so? She really has dermatitis and nervous prostration,
exactly as she alleges in her complaint. But, before Heaven, Kennedy,
I can’t see how she could possibly have been so affected by the few
treatments I gave her. And to-night, just as I was leaving the office,
I received a telephone call from her husband’s attorney, Lawrence, very
kindly informing me that the case would be pushed to the limit. I tell
you, it looks black for me.”

“What can they do?”

“Do? Do you suppose any jury is going to take enough expert testimony
to outweigh the tragedy of a beautiful woman? Do? Why, they can ruin
me, even if I get a verdict of acquittal. They can leave me with
a reputation for carelessness that no mere court decision can ever
overcome.”

“Gregory, you can rely on me,” said Kennedy. “Anything I can do to help
you I will gladly do. Jameson and I were on the point of going out to
dinner. Join us, and after that we will go down to your office and talk
things over.”

“You are really too kind,” murmured the doctor. The air of relief that
was written on his face was pathetically eloquent.

“Now not a word about the case till we have had dinner,” commanded
Craig. “I see very plainly that you have been worrying about the blow
for a long time. Well, it has fallen. The neat thing to do is to look
over the situation and see where we stand.”

Dinner over, we rode down-town in the subway, and Gregory ushered us
into an office-building on Madison Avenue, where he had a very handsome
suite of several rooms. We sat own in his waiting-room to discuss the
affair.

“It is indeed a very tragic case,” began Kennedy, “almost more tragic
than if the victim had been killed outright. Mrs. Huntington Close
is--or rather I suppose I should say was--one of the famous beauties
of the city. From what the paper says, her beauty has been hopelessly
ruined by this dermatitis, which, I understand, Doctor, is practically
incurable.”

Dr. Gregory nodded, and I could not help following his eyes as he looked
at his own rough and scarred hands.

“Also,” continued Craig, with his eyes half closed and his finger-tips
together, as if, he were taking a mental inventory of the facts in the
case, “her nerves are so shattered that she will be years in recovering,
if she ever recovers.”

“Yes,” said the doctor simply. “I myself, for instance, am subject to
the most unexpected attacks of neuritis. But, of course, I am under the
influence of the rays fifty or sixty times a day, while she had only a
few treatments at intervals of many days.”

“Now, on the other hand,” resumed Craig, “I know you, Gregory, very
well. Only the other day, before any of this came out, you told me the
whole story with your fears as to the outcome. I know that that lawyer
of Close’s has been keeping this thing hanging over your head for a
long time. And I also know that you are one of the most careful X-ray
operators in the city. If this suit goes against you, one of the most
brilliant men of science in America will be ruined. Now, having said
this much, let me ask you to describe just exactly what treatments you
gave Mrs. Close.”

The doctor led us into his X-ray room adjoining. A number of X-ray tubes
were neatly put away in a great glass case, and at one end of the room
was an operating-table with an X-ray apparatus suspended over it. A
glance at the room showed that Kennedy’s praise was not exaggerated.

“How many treatments did you give Mrs. Close?” asked Kennedy.

“Not over a dozen, I should say;” replied Gregory. “I have a record of
them and the dates, which I will give you presently. Certainly they were
not numerous enough or frequent enough to have caused a dermatitis such
as she has. Besides, look here. I have an apparatus which, for safety
to the patient, has few equals in the country. This big lead-glass bowl,
which is placed over my X-ray tube when in use, cuts off the rays at
every point except exactly where they are needed.”

He switched on the electric current, and the apparatus began to sputter.
The pungent odour of ozone from the electric discharge filled the room.
Through the lead-glass bowl I could see the X-ray tube inside suffused
with its peculiar, yellowish-green light, divided into two hemispheres
of different shades. That, I knew, was the cathode ray, not the X-ray,
for the X-ray itself, which streams outside the tube, is invisible to
the human eye. The doctor placed in our hands a couple of fluoroscopes,
an apparatus by which X-rays can be detected. It consists simply of a
closed box with an opening to which the eyes are placed. The opposite
end of the box is a piece of board coated with a salt such as
platino-barium cyanide. When the X-ray strikes this salt it makes it
glow, or fluoresce, and objects held between the X-ray tube and the
fluoroscope cast shadows according to the density of the parts which the
X-rays penetrate.

With the lead-glass bowl removed, the X-ray tube sent forth its
wonderful invisible radiation and made the back of the fluoroscope
glow with light. I could see the bones of my fingers as I held them up
between the X-ray tube and the fluoroscope. But with the lead-glass bowl
in position over the tube, the fluoroscope was simply a black box into
which I looked and saw nothing. So very little of the radiation escaped
from the bowl that it was negligible--except at one point where there
was an opening in the bottom of the bowl to allow the rays to pass
freely through exactly on the spot on the patient where they were to be
used.

“The dermatitis, they say, has appeared all over her body, particularly
on her head and shoulders,” added Dr. Gregory. “Now I have shown you my
apparatus to impress on you how really impossible it would have been
for her to contract it from her treatments here. I’ve made thousands
of exposures with never an X-ray burn before--except to myself. As for
myself, I’m as careful as I can be, but you can see I am under the rays
very often, while the patient is only under them once in a while.”

To illustrate his care he pointed out to us a cabinet directly back of
the operating-table, lined with thick sheets of lead. From this cabinet
he conducted most of his treatments as far as possible. A little
peep-hole enabled him to see the patient and the X-ray apparatus, while
an arrangement of mirrors and a fluorescent screen enabled him to
see exactly what the X-rays were disclosing, without his leaving the
lead-lined cabinet.

“I can think of no more perfect protection for either patient or
operator,” said Kennedy admiringly. “By the way, did Mrs. Close come
alone?”

“No, the first time Mr. Close came with her. After that, she came with
her French maid.”

The next day we paid a visit to Mrs. Close herself at the private
hospital. Kennedy had been casting about in his mind for an excuse to
see her, and I had suggested that we go as reporters from the Star.
Fortunately after sending up my card on which I had written Craig’s name
we were at length allowed to go up to her room.

We found the patient reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages,
a wreck of her former self. I felt the tragedy keenly. All that social
position and beauty had meant to her had been suddenly blasted.

“You will pardon my presumption,” began Craig, “but, Mrs. Close, I
assure you that I am actuated by the best of motives. We represent the
New York Star--”

“Isn’t it terrible enough that I should suffer so,” she interrupted,
“but must the newspapers hound me, too?”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Close,” said Craig, “but you must be aware that
the news of your suit of Dr. Gregory has now become public property. I
couldn’t stop the Star, much less the other papers, from talking about
it. But I can and will do this, Mrs. Close. I will see that justice is
done to you and all others concerned. Believe me, I am not here as a
yellow journalist to make newspaper copy out of your misfortune. I am
here to get at the truth sympathetically. Incidentally, I may be able to
render you a service, too.”

“You can render me no service except to expedite the suit against that
careless doctor--I hate him.”

“Perhaps,” said Craig. “But suppose someone else should be proved to
have been really responsible? Would you still want to press the suit and
let the guilty person escape?”

She bit her lip. “What is it you want of me?” she asked.

“I merely want permission to visit your rooms at your home and to talk
with your maid. I do not mean to spy on you, far from it; but consider,
Mrs. Close, if I should be able to get at the bottom of this thing, find
out the real cause of your misfortune, perhaps show that you are the
victim of a cruel wrong rather than of carelessness, would you not be
willing to let me go ahead? I am frank to tell you that I suspect there
is more to this affair than you yourself have any idea of.”

“No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy. I know the cause of it. It was my
love of beauty. I couldn’t resist the temptation to get rid of even a
slight defect. If I had left well enough alone I should not be here now.
A friend recommended Dr. Gregory to my husband, who took me there.
My husband wishes me to remain at home, but I tell him I feel more
comfortable here in the hospital. I shall never go to that house
again--the memory of the torture of sleepless nights in my room there
when I felt my good looks going, going”--she shuddered--“is such that
I can never forget it. He says I would be better off there, but no, I
cannot go. Still,” she continued wearily, “there can be no harm in your
talking to my maid.”

Kennedy noted attentively what she was saying. “I thank you, Mrs.
Close,” he replied. “I am sure you will not regret your permission.
Would you be so kind as to give me a note to her?”

She rang, dictated a short note to a nurse, signed it, and languidly
dismissed us.

I don’t know that I ever felt as depressed as I did after that interview
with one who had entered a living death to ambition, for while Craig had
done all the talking I had absorbed nothing but depression. I vowed that
if Gregory or anybody else was responsible I would do my share toward
bringing on him retribution.

The Closes lived in a splendid big house in the Murray Hill section. The
presentation of the note quickly brought Mrs. Close’s maid down to us.
She had not gone to the hospital because Mrs. Close had considered the
services of the trained nurses quite sufficient.

Yes, the maid had noticed how her mistress had been failing, had noticed
it long ago, in fact almost at the time when she had begun the X-ray
treatment. She had seemed to improve once when she went away for a few
days, but that was at the start, and directly after her return she grew
worse again, until she was no longer herself.

“Did Dr. Gregory, the X-ray specialist, ever attend Mrs. Close at her
home, in her room?” asked Craig.

“Yes, once, twice, he call, but he do no good,” she said with her French
accent.

“Did Mrs. Close have other callers?”

“But, m’sieur, everyone in society has many. What does m’sieur mean?”

“Frequent callers--a Mr. Lawrence, for instance?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Lawrence frequently.”

“When Mr. Close was at home?”

“Yes, on business and on business, too, when he was not at home. He is
the attorney, m’sieur.”

“How did Mrs. Close receive him?”

“He is the attorney, m’sieur,” Marie repeated persistently.

“And he, did he always call on business?”

“Oh, yes, always on business, but well, madame, she was a very beautiful
woman. Perhaps he like beautiful women--eh bien? That was before the
Doctor Gregory treated madame. After the doctor treated madame M’sieur
Lawrence do not call so often. That’s all.”

“Are you thoroughly devoted to Mrs. Close? Would you do a favour for
her?” asked Craig point-blank.

“Sir, I would give my life, almost, for madame. She was always so good
to me.”

“I don’t ask you to give your life for her, Marie,” said Craig, “but you
can do her a great service, a very great service.”

“I will do it.”

“To-night,” said Craig, “I want you to sleep in Mrs. Close’s room. You
can do so, for I know that Mr. Close is living at the St. Francis Club
until his wife returns from the sanitarium. To-morrow morning come to my
laboratory”--Craig handed her his card--“and I will tell you what to do
next. By the way, don’t say anything to anyone in the house about it,
and keep a sharp watch on the actions of any of the servants who may go
into Mrs. Close’s room.”

“Well,” said Craig, “there is nothing more to be done immediately.” We
had once more regained the street and were walking up-town. We walked in
silence for several blocks.

“Yes,” mused Craig, “there is something you can do, after all, Walter. I
would like you to look up Gregory and Close and Lawrence. I already
know something about them. But you can find out a good deal with your
newspaper connections. I would like to have every bit of scandal that
has ever been connected with them, or with Mrs. Close, or,” he added
significantly, “with any other woman. It isn’t necessary to say that not
a breath of it must be published--yet.”

I found a good deal of gossip, but very little of it, indeed, seemed to
me at the time to be of importance. Dropping in at the St. Francis
Club, where I had some friends, I casually mentioned the troubles of the
Huntington Closes. I was surprised to learn that Close spent little of
his time at the Club, none at home, and only dropped into the hospital
to make formal inquiries as to his wife’s condition. It then occurred
to me to drop into the office of Society Squibs, whose editor I had
long known. The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical
scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Huntington
Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulkington, a very wealthy Western
divorcee about whom the smart set were much excited, particularly those
whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of society as it was
going at present.

“And before the tragedy,” said the editor with another nameless look, as
if he were imparting a most valuable piece of gossip, “it was the talk
of the town, the attention that Close’s lawyer was paying to Mrs. Close.
But to her credit let me say that she never gave us a chance to hint
at anything, and--well, you know us; we don’t need much to make snappy
society news.”

The editor then waged even more confidential, for if I am anything at
all, I am a good listener, and I have found that often by sitting tight
and listening I can get more than if I were a too-eager questioner.

“It really was a shame,--the way that man Lawrence played his game,” he
went on. “I understand that it was he who introduced Close to Mrs. T.
They were both his clients. Lawrence had fought her case in the courts
when she sued old Tulkington for divorce, and a handsome settlement
he got for her, too. They say his fee ran up into the hundred
thousands--contingent, you know. I don’t know what his game was”--here
he lowered his voice to a whisper “but they say Close owes him a good
deal of money. You can figure it out for yourself as you like. Now, I’ve
told you all I know. Come in again, Jameson, when you want some more
scandal, and remember me to the boys down on the Star.”

The following day the maid visited Kennedy at his laboratory while I was
reporting to him on the result of my investigations.

She looked worn and haggard. She had spent a sleepless night and begged
that Kennedy would not ask her to repeat the experiment.

“I can promise you, Marie,” he said, “that you will rest better
to-night. But you must spend one more night in Mrs. Close’s room. By the
way, can you arrange for me to go through the room this morning when you
go back?”

Marie said she could, and an hour or so later Craig and I quietly
slipped into the Close residence under her guidance. He was carrying
something that looked like a miniature barrel, and I had another package
which he had given me, both carefully wrapped up. The butler eyed us
suspiciously, but Marie spoke a few words to him and I think showed him
Mrs. Close’s note. Anyhow he said nothing.

Within the room that the unfortunate woman had occupied Kennedy took
the coverings off the packages. It was nothing but a portable electric
vacuum cleaner, which he quickly attached and set running. Up and down
the floor, around and under the bed he pushed the cleaner. He used
the various attachments to clean the curtains, the walls, and even the
furniture. Particularly did he pay attention to the base board on
the wall back of the bed. Then he carefully removed the dust from the
cleaner and sealed it up in a leaden box.

He was about to detach and pack up the cleaner when another idea seemed
to occur to him. “Might as well make a thorough job of it, Walter,” he
said, adjusting the apparatus again. “I’ve cleaned everything but the
mattress and the brass bars behind the mattress on the bed. Now
I’ll tackle them. I think we ought to go into the suction-cleaning
business--more money in it than in being a detective, I’ll bet.”

The cleaner was run over and under the mattress and along every crack
and cranny of the brass bed. This done and this dust also carefully
stowed away, we departed, very much to the mystification of Marie and, I
could not help feeling, of other eyes that peered in through keyholes or
cracks in doors.

“At any rate,” said Kennedy exultingly, “I think we have stolen a march
on them. I don’t believe they were prepared for this, not at least at
this stage in the game. Don’t ask me any questions, Walter. Then you
will have no secrets to keep if anyone should try to pry them loose.
Only remember that this man Lawrence is a shrewd character.”

The next day Marie came, looking even more careworn than before.

“What’s the matter, mademoiselle?” asked Craig. “Didn’t you pass a
better night?”

“Oh, mon Dieu, I rest well, yes. But this morning, while I am at
breakfast, Mr. Close send for me. He say that I am discharged. Some
servant tell of your visit and he verry angr-ry. And now what is to
become of me--will madame his wife give a recommendation now?”

“Walter, we have been discovered,” exclaimed Craig with considerable
vexation. Then he remembered the poor girl who had been an involuntary
sacrifice to our investigation. Turning to her he said: “Marie, I know
several very good families, and I am sure you will not suffer for what
you have done by being faithful to your mistress. Only be patient a few
days. Go live with some of your folks. I will see that you are placed
again.”

The girl was profuse in her thanks as she dried her tears and departed.

“I hadn’t anticipated having my hand forced so soon,” said Craig after
she had gone, leaving her address. “However, we are on the right track.
What was it that you were going to tell me when Marie came in?”

“Something that may be very important, Craig,” I said, “though I don’t
understand it myself. Pressure is being brought to bear on the Star to
keep this thing out of the papers, or at least to minimise it.”

“I’m not surprised,” commented Craig. “What do you mean by pressure
being brought?”

“Why, Close’s lawyer, Lawrence, called up the editor this morning--I
don’t suppose that you know, but he has some connection with the
interests which control the Star--and said that the activity of one of
the reporters from the Star, Jameson by name, was very distasteful to
Mr. Close and that this reporter was employing a man named Kennedy to
assist him.

“I don’t understand it, Craig;” I confessed, “but here one day they give
the news to the papers, and two days later they almost threaten us with
suit if we don’t stop publishing it.”

“It is perplexing,” said Craig, with the air of one who was not a bit
perplexed, but rather enlightened.

He pulled down the district telegraph messenger lever three times, and
we sat in silence for a while.

“However,” he resumed, “I shall be ready for them to-night.”

I said nothing. Several minutes elapsed. Then the messenger rapped on
the door.

“I want these two notes delivered right away,” said Craig to the boy;
“here’s a quarter for you. Now mind you don’t get interested in a
detective story and forget the notes. If you are back here quickly with
the receipts I’ll give you another quarter. Now scurry along.”

Then, after the boy had gone, he said casually to me: “Two notes to
Close and Gregory, asking them to be present with their attorneys
to-night. Close will bring Lawrence, and Gregory will bring a young
lawyer named Asche, a very clever fellow. The notes are so worded that
they can hardly refuse the invitation.”

Meanwhile I carried out an assignment for the Star, and telephoned my
story in so as to be sure of being with Craig at the crucial moment. For
I was thoroughly curious about his next move in the game. I found
him still in his laboratory attaching two coils of thin wire to the
connections on the outside of a queer-looking little black box.

“What’s that” I asked, eyeing the sinister looking little box
suspiciously. “An infernal machine? You’re not going to blow the culprit
into eternity, I hope.”

“Never mind what it is, Walter. You’ll find that out in due time. It may
or it may not be an infernal machine of a different sort than any you
have probably ever heard of. The less you know now the less likely you
are to give anything away by a look or an act. Come now, make yourself
useful as well as ornamental. Take these wires and lay them in the
cracks of the floor, and be careful not to let them show. A little dust
over them will conceal them beautifully.”

Craig now placed the black box back of one of the chairs well down
toward the floor, where it could hardly have been perceived unless one
were suspecting something of the sort. While he was doing so I ran the
wires across the floor, and around the edge of the room to the door.

“There,” he said, taking the wires from me. “Now I’ll complete the job
by carrying them into the next room. And while I’m doing it, go over the
wires again and make sure they are absolutely concealed.”

That night six men gathered in Kennedy’s laboratory. In my utter
ignorance of what was about to happen I was perfectly calm, and so were
all the rest, except Gregory. He was easily the most nervous of us all,
though his lawyer Asche tried repeatedly to reassure him.

“Mr. Close,” began Kennedy, “if you and Mr. Lawrence will sit over here
on this side of the room while Dr. Gregory and Mr. Asche sit on the
opposite side with Mr. Jameson in the middle, I think both of you
opposing parties will be better suited. For I apprehend that at various
stages in what I am about to say both you, Mr. Close, and you, Dr.
Gregory, will want to consult your attorneys. That, of course, would be
embarrassing, if not impossible, should you be sitting near each other.
Now, if we are ready, I shall begin.”

Kennedy placed a small leaden casket on the table of his lecture hall.
“In this casket,” he commenced solemnly, “there is a certain substance
which I have recovered from the dust swept up by a vacuum cleaner in the
room of Mrs. Close.”

One could feel the very air of the room surcharged with excitement.
Craig drew on a pair of gloves and carefully opened the casket. With his
thumb and forefinger he lifted out a glass tube and held it gingerly
at arm’s length. My eyes were riveted on it, for the bottom of the tube
glowed with a dazzling point of light.

Both Gregory and his attorney and Close and Lawrence whispered to each
other when the tube was displayed, as indeed they did throughout the
whole exhibition of Kennedy’s evidence.

“No infernal machine was ever more subtle,” said Craig, “than the tube
which I hold in my hand. The imagination of the most sensational writer
of fiction might well be thrilled with the mysteries of this fatal tube
and its power to work fearful deeds. A larger quantity of this substance
in the tube would produce on me, as I now hold it, incurable burns,
just as it did on its discoverer before his death. A smaller amount,
of course, would not act so quickly. The amount in this tube, if
distributed about, would produce the burns inevitably, providing I
remained near enough for a long-enough time.”

Craig paused a moment to emphasise his remarks.

“Here in my hand, gentlemen, I hold the price of a woman’s beauty.”

He stopped again for several moments, then resumed.

“And now, having shown it to you, for my own safety I will place it back
in its leaden casket.”

Drawing off his gloves, he proceeded.

“I have found out by a cablegram to-day that seven weeks ago an order
for one hundred milligrams of radium bromide at thirty-five dollars a
milligram from a certain person in America was filled by a corporation
dealing in this substance.”

Kennedy said this with measured words, and I felt a thrill run through
me as he developed his case.

“At that same time, Mrs. Close began a series of treatments with
an X-ray specialist in New York,” pursued Kennedy. “Now, it is not
generally known outside scientific circles, but the fact is that in
their physiological effects the X-ray and radium are quite one and
the same. Radium possesses this advantage, however, that no elaborate
apparatus is necessary for its use. And, in addition, the emanation from
radium is steady and constant, whereas the X-ray at best varies slightly
with changing conditions of the current and vacuum in the X-ray tube.
Still, the effects on the body are much the same.

“A few days before this order was placed I recall the following despatch
which appeared in the New York papers. I will read it.

“‘Liege, Belgium, Oct.--, 1910. What is believed to be the first
criminal case in which radium figures as a death-dealing agent is
engaging public attention at this university town. A wealthy old
bachelor, Pailin by name, was found dead in his flat. A stroke of
apoplexy was at first believed to have caused his death, but a close
examination revealed a curious discolouration of his skin. A specialist
called in to view the body gave as his opinion that the old man had been
exposed for a long time to the emanations of X-ray or radium. The police
theory is that M. Pailin was done to death by a systematic application
of either X-rays or radium by a student in the university who roomed
next to him. The student has disappeared.’

“Now here, I believe, was the suggestion which this American criminal
followed, for I cut it out of the paper rather expecting sooner or later
that some clever person would act on it. I have thoroughly examined the
room of Mrs. Close. She herself told me she never wanted to return to
it, that her memory of sleepless nights in it was too vivid. That
served to fix the impression that I had already formed from reading
this clipping. Either the X-ray or radium had caused her dermatitis
and nervousness. Which was it? I wished to be sure that I would make no
mistake. Of course I knew it was useless to look for an X-ray machine in
or near Mrs. Close’s room. Such a thing could never have been concealed.
The alternative? Radium! Ah! that was different. I determined on
an experiment. Mrs. Close’s maid was prevailed on to sleep in her
mistress’s room. Of course radiations of brief duration would do her no
permanent harm, although they would produce their effect, nevertheless.
In one night the maid became extremely nervous. If she had stayed under
them several nights no doubt the beginning of a dermatitis would have
affected her, if not more serious trouble. A systematic application,
covering weeks and months, might in the end even have led to death.

“The next day I managed, as I have said, to go over the room thoroughly
with a vacuum cleaner--a new one of my own which I had bought myself.
But tests of the dust which I got from the floors, curtains, and
furniture showed nothing at all. As a last thought I had, however,
cleaned the mattress of the bed and the cracks and crevices in the brass
bars. Tests of that dust showed it to be extremely radioactive. I had
the dust dissolved, by a chemist who understands that sort of thing,
recrystallised, and the radium salts were extracted from the refuse.
Thus I found that I had recovered all but a very few milligrams of the
radium that had been originally purchased in London. Here it is in this
deadly tube in the leaden casket.

“It is needless to add that the night after I had cleaned out this
deadly element the maid slept the sleep of the just--and would have been
all right when next I saw her but for the interference of the unjust on
whom I had stolen a march.”

Craig paused while the lawyers whispered again to their clients. Then he
continued: “Now three persons in this room had an opportunity to secrete
the contents of this deadly tube in the crevices of the metal work of
Mrs. Close’s bed. One of these persons must have placed an order through
a confidential agent in London to purchase the radium from the English
Radium Corporation. One of these persons had a compelling motive,
something to gain by using this deadly element. The radium in this tube
in the casket was secreted, as I have said, in the metal work of Mrs.
Close’s bed, not in large enough quantities to be immediately fatal,
but mixed with dust so as to produce the result more slowly but no
less surely, and thus avoid suspicion. At the same time Mrs. Close was
persuaded--I will not say by whom--through her natural pride, to take a
course of X-ray treatment for a slight defect. That would further serve
to divert suspicion. The fact is that a more horrible plot could hardly
have been planned or executed. This person sought to ruin her beauty to
gain a most selfish and despicable end.”

Again Craig paused to let his words sink into our minds.

“Now I wish to state that anything you gentlemen may say will be used
against you. That is why I have asked you to bring your attorneys.
You may consult with them, of course, while I am getting ready my next
disclosure.”

As Kennedy had developed his points in the case I had been more and more
amazed. But I had not failed to notice how keenly Lawrence was following
him.

With half a sneer on his astute face, Lawrence drawled: “I cannot
see that you have accomplished anything by this rather extraordinary
summoning of us to your laboratory. The evidence is just as black
against Dr. Gregory as before. You may think you’re clever, Kennedy,
but on the very statement of facts as you have brought them out there is
plenty of circumstantial evidence against Gregory--more than there
was before. As for anyone else in the room, I can’t see that you have
anything on us--unless perhaps this new evidence you speak of may
implicate Asche, or Jameson,” he added, including me in a wave of his
hand, as if he were already addressing a jury. “It’s my opinion that
twelve of our peers would be quite as likely to bring in a verdict of
guilty against them as against anyone else even remotely connected with
this case, except Gregory. No, you’ll have to do better than this in
your next case, if you expect to maintain that so-called reputation of
yours for being a professor of criminal science.”

As for Close, taking his cue from his attorney, he scornfully added: “I
came to find out some new evidence against the wretch who wrecked the
beauty of my wife. All I’ve got is a tiresome lecture on X-rays and
radium. I suppose what you say is true. Well, it only bears out what I
thought before. Gregory treated my wife at home, after he saw the damage
his office treatments had done. I guess he was capable of making a
complete job out of it--covering up his carelessness by getting rid
of the woman who was such a damning piece of evidence against his
professional skill.”

Never a shade passed Craig’s face as he listened to this tirade. “Excuse
me a moment,” was all he said, opening the door to leave the room. “I
have just one more fact to disclose. I will be back directly.”

Kennedy was gone several minutes, during which Close and Lawrence
fell to whispering behind their hands, with the assurance of those who
believed that this was only Kennedy’s method of admitting a defeat.
Gregory and Asche exchanged a few words similarly, and it was plain that
Asche was endeavouring to put a better interpretation on something than
Gregory himself dared hope.

As Kennedy re-entered, Close was buttoning up his coat preparatory to
leaving, and Lawrence was lighting a fresh cigar.

In his hand Kennedy held a notebook. “My stenographer writes a very
legible shorthand; at least I find it so--from long practice, I suppose.
As I glance over her notes I find many facts which will interest you
later--at the trial. But--ah, here at the end--let me read:

“‘Well, he’s very clever, but he has nothing against me, has he?’

“‘No, not unless he can produce the agent who bought the radium for
you.’

“‘But he can’t do that. No one could ever have recognised you on your
flying trip to London disguised as a diamond merchant who had just
learned that he could make his faulty diamonds good by applications of
radium and who wanted a good stock of the stuff.’

“‘Still, we’ll have to drop the suit against Gregory after all, in spite
of what I said. That part is hopelessly spoiled.’

“‘Yes, I suppose so. Oh, well, I’m free now. She can hardly help but
consent to a divorce now, and a quiet settlement. She brought it on
herself--we tried every other way to do it, but she--she was too good to
fall into it. She forced us to it.’

“‘Yes, you’ll get a good divorce now. But can’t we shut up this man
Kennedy? Even if he can’t prove anything against us, the mere rumour of
such a thing coming to the ears of Mrs. Tulkington would be unpleasant.’

“‘Go as far as you like, Lawrence. You know what the marriage will mean
to me. It will settle my debts to you and all the rest.’

“‘I’ll see what I can do, Close. He’ll be back in a moment.’”

Close’s face was livid. “It’s a pack of lies!” he shouted, advancing
toward Kennedy, “a pack of lies! You are a fakir and a blackmailer. I’ll
have you in jail for this, by God--and you too, Gregory.”

“One moment, please,” said Kennedy calmly. “Mr. Lawrence, will you be so
kind as to reach behind your chair? What do you find?”

Lawrence lifted up the plain black box and with it he pulled up the
wires which I had so carefully concealed in the cracks of the floor.

“That,” said Kennedy, “is a little instrument called the microphone.
Its chief merit lies in the fact that it will magnify a sound sixteen
hundred times, and carry it to any given point where you wish to place
the receiver. Originally this device was invented for the aid of the
deaf, but I see no reason why it should not be used to aid the law.
One needn’t eavesdrop at the keyhole with this little instrument about.
Inside that box there is nothing but a series of plugs from which wires,
much finer than a thread, are stretched taut. Yet a fly walking near it
will make a noise as loud as a draft-horse. If the microphone is placed
in any part of the room, especially if near the persons talking--even if
they are talking in a whisper--a whisper such as occurred several times
during the evening and particularly while I was in the next room getting
the notes made by my stenographer--a whisper, I say, is like shouting
your guilt from the housetops.

“You two men, Close and Lawrence, may consider yourselves under arrest
for conspiracy and whatever other indictments will lie against such
creatures as you. The police will be here in a moment. No, Close,
violence won’t do now. The doors are locked--and see, we are four to
two.”



V. The Seismograph Adventure

“Dr. James Hanson, Coroner’s Physician, Criminal Courts Building,” read
Craig Kennedy, as he held a visitor’s card in his hand. Then to the
visitor he added, “Take a chair, Doctor.”

The physician thanked him and sat down. “Professor Kennedy,” he began,
“I have been referred to you by Inspector O’Connor of the Detective
Bureau. It may seem an impertinence for a city official to call on you
for assistance, but--well, you see, I’m completely floored. I think,
too, that the case will interest you. It’s the Vandam case.”

If Dr. Hanson had suddenly turned on the current of an induction coil
and I had been holding the handles I don’t think the thrill I received
could have been any more sudden. The Vandam case was the sensation of
the moment, a triple puzzle, as both Kennedy and myself had agreed. Was
it suicide, murder, or sudden death? Every theory, so far, had proved
unsatisfactory.

“I have read only what the newspapers have published,” replied Craig to
the doctor’s look of inquiry. “You see, my friend Jameson here is on the
staff of the Star, and we are in the habit of discussing these cases.”

“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Jameson,” exclaimed Dr. Hanson at the
implied introduction. “The relations between my office and your paper
have always been very satisfactory, I can assure you.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Depend on me to keep them so,” I replied, shaking
his proffered hand.

“Now, as to the case,” continued the doctor slowly. “Here is a beautiful
woman in the prime of life, the wife of a very wealthy retired banker
considerably older than herself--perhaps nearly seventy--of very fine
family. Of course you have read it all, but let me sketch it so you will
look at it from my point of view. This woman, apparently in good health,
with every luxury money can buy, is certain within a very few years,
from her dower rights, to be numbered among the richest women in
America. Yet she is discovered in the middle of the night by her maid,
seated at the table in the library of her home, unconscious. She never
regains consciousness, but dies the following morning.

“The coroner is called in, and, as his physician, I must advise him.
The family physician has pronounced it due to natural causes, the uremic
coma of latent kidney trouble. Some of the newspapers, I think the Star
among them, have hinted at suicide. And then there are others, who have
flatly asserted it was murder.”

The coroner’s physician paused to see if we were following him. Needless
to say Kennedy was ahead of him.

“Have you any facts in your possession which have not been given to the
public yet?” asked Craig.

“I’m coming to that in a moment,” replied Dr. Hanson. “Let me sketch
the case first. Henry Vandam had become--well, very eccentric in his old
age, we will say. Among his eccentricities none seems to have impressed
the newspapers more than his devotion to a medium and her manager, Mrs.
May Popper and Mr. Howard Farrington. Now, of course, the case does not
go into the truth or falsity of spiritualism, you understand. You have
your opinion, and I have mine. What this aspect of the case involves is
merely the character of the medium and her manager. You know, of course,
that Henry Vandam is completely under their control.”

He paused again, to emphasise the point.

“You asked me if I was in possession of any facts which have not been
given to the press. Yes, I am. And just there lies the trouble. They are
so very conflicting as to be almost worse than useless, as far as I can
see. We found near the unfortunate woman a small pill-box with three
capsules still in it. It was labelled ‘One before retiring’ and bore
the name of a certain druggist and the initials ‘Dr. C. W. H.’ Now, I am
convinced that the initials are merely a blind and do not give any
clue. The druggist says that a maid from the Vandam house brought in
the prescription, which of course he filled. It is a harmless enough
prescription--contains, among other things, four and a half grains of
quinine and one-sixth of a grain of morphine. Six capsules were prepared
altogether.

“Now, of course my first thought was that she might have taken
several capsules at once and that it was a case of accidental morphine
poisoning, or it might even be suicide. But it cannot be either, to my
mind, for only three of the six capsules are gone. No doubt, also, you
are acquainted with the fact that the one invariable symptom of
morphine poisoning is the contraction of the pupils of the eyes to a
pin-point--often so that they are unrecognisable. Moreover, the pupils
are symmetrically contracted, and this symptom is the one invariably
present in coma from morphine poisoning and distinguishes it from all
other forms of death.

“On the other hand, in the coma of kidney disease one pupil is dilated
and the other contracted--they are unsymmetrical. But in this case
both the pupils are normal, or only a very little dilated, and they are
symmetrical. So far we have been able to find no other poison than the
slight traces of morphine remaining in the stomach after so many hours.
I think you are enough of a chemist to know that no doctor would dare go
on the stand and swear to death from morphine poisoning in the face of
such evidence against him. The veriest tyro of an expert toxicologist
could too easily confute him.”

Kennedy nodded. “Have you the pill-box and the prescription?”

“I have,” replied Dr. Hanson, placing them on the table.

Kennedy scrutinised them sharply. “I shall need these,” he said. “Of
course you understand I will take very good care of them. Is there
anything else of importance?”

“Really, I don’t know,” said the physician dubiously. “It’s rather out
of my province, but perhaps you would think it important. It’s mighty
uncanny anyhow. Henry Vandam, as you doubtless know, was much more
deeply interested in the work of this medium than was his wife. Perhaps
Mrs. Vandam was a bit jealous--I don’t know. But she, too, had an
interest in spiritualism, though he was much more deeply influenced by
Mrs. Popper than she.

“Here’s the strange part of it. The old man believes so thoroughly in
rappings and materialisations that he constantly keeps a notebook in his
pocket in which he records all the materialisations he thinks he sees
and the rappings he hears, along with the time and place. Now it so
happened that on the night Mrs. Vandam was taken ill, he had
retired--I believe in another part of the house, where he has a regular
seance-room. According to his story, he was awakened from a profound
sleep by a series of rappings. As was his custom, he noted the time
at which they occurred. Something made him uneasy, and he said to his
‘control’--at least this is his story:

“‘John, is it about Mary?’

“Three raps answered ‘yes,’ the usual code.

“‘What is the matter? Is she ill?’

“The three answering raps were so vigorous that he sprang out of bed and
called for his wife’s maid. The maid replied that Mrs. Vandam had not
gone to bed yet, but that there was a light in the library and she would
go to her mistress immediately. The next moment the house was awakened
by the screams of the maid calling for help, that Mrs. Vandam was dying.

“That was three nights ago. On each of the two succeeding nights
Henry Vandam says he has been awakened at precisely the same hour by a
rapping, and on each night his ‘control’ has given him a message from
his dead wife. As a man of science, I attribute the whole thing to an
overwrought imagination. The original rappings may have been a mere
coincidence with the fact of the condition of Mrs. Vandam. However, I
give this to you for what it is worth.”

Craig said nothing, but, as was his habit, shaded his eyes with the
tips of his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair: “I
suppose,” he said, “you can give me the necessary authority to enter the
Vandam house and look at the scene of these happenings?”

“Certainly,” assented the physician, “but you will find it a queer
place. There are spirit paintings and spirit photographs in every room,
and Vandam’s own part of the house--well, it’s creepy, that’s all I can
say.”

“And also I suppose you have performed an autopsy on the body and will
allow me to drop into your laboratory to-morrow morning and satisfy
myself on this morphine point?”

“Certainly,” replied the coroner’s physician, “at any time you say.”

“At ten sharp, then, to-morrow I shall be there,” said Craig. “It is now
eight-thirty. Do you think I can see Vandam to-night? What time do these
rappings occur?”

“Why, yes, you surely will be able to see him to-night. He hasn’t
stirred from the house since his wife died. He told me he momentarily
expected messages from her direct when she had got strong enough in her
new world. I believe they had some kind of a compact to that effect. The
rappings come at twelve-thirty.”

“Ah, then I shall have plenty of time to run over to my laboratory
before seeing Mr. Vandam and get some apparatus I have in mind. No,
Doctor, you needn’t bother to go with me. Just give me a card of
introduction. I’ll see you to-morrow at ten. Good-night--oh, by the way,
don’t give out any of the facts you have told me.”

“Jameson,” said Craig, when we were walking rapidly over toward the
university, “this promises to be an uncommonly difficult case.”

“As I view it now,” I said, “I have suspicions of everybody concerned
in it. Even the view of the Star, that it is a case of suicide due to
overwrought nerves, may explain it.”

“It might even be a natural death,” Craig added. “And that would make
it a greater mystery than ever--a case for psychical research. One thing
that I am going to do to-night will tell me much, however.”

At the laboratory he unlocked a glass case and took out a little
instrument which looked like two horizontal pendulums suspended by fine
wires. There was a large magnet near each pendulum, and the end of
each pendulum bore a needle which touched a circular drum driven by
clock-work. Craig fussed with and adjusted the apparatus, while I said
nothing, for I had long ago learned that in applying a new apparatus
to doing old things Craig was as dumb as an oyster, until his work was
crowned with success.

We had no trouble in getting in to see Mr. Vandam in his seance-room.
His face was familiar to me, for I had seen him in public a number of
times, but it looked strangely altered. He was nervous, and showed his
age very perceptibly.

It was as the coroner’s physician had said. The house was littered
with reminders of the cult, books, papers, curious daubs of paintings
handsomely framed, and photographs; hazy overexposures, I should have
called them, but Mr. Vandam took great pride in them, and Kennedy quite
won him over by his admiration for them.

They talked about the rappings, and the old man explained where and when
they occurred. They proceeded from a little cabinet or closet at one end
of the room. It was evident that he was a thorough believer in them and
in the messages they conveyed.

Craig carefully noted everything about the room and then fell to
admiring the spirit photographs, if such they might be called.

“The best of all I do not display, they are too precious,” said the old
man. “Would you like to see them?”

Craig assented eagerly, and Vandam left us for a moment to get them. In
an instant Craig had entered the cabinet, and in a dark corner on the
floor he deposited the mechanism he had brought from the laboratory.
Then he resumed his seat, shutting the box in which he had brought the
mechanism, so that it would not appear that he had left anything about
the room.

Artfully he led the conversation along lines that interested the old
man until he seemed to forget the hour. Not so, Craig. He knew it was
nearing half-past twelve. The more they talked the more uncanny did this
house and room of spirits seem to me. In fact, I was rapidly reaching
the point where I could have sworn that once or twice something
incorporeal brushed by me. I know now that it was purely imagination,
but it shows what tricks the imagination can play on us.

Rap! rap! rap! rap! rap!

Five times came a curiously hollow noise from the cabinet. If it
had been possible I should certainly have fled, it was so sudden and
unexpected. The hall clock downstairs struck the half-hour in those
chimes written by Handel for St. Paul’s.

Craig leaned over to me and whispered hoarsely, “Keep perfectly
still--don’t move a hand or foot.”

The old man seemed utterly to have forgotten us. “Is that you, John?” he
asked expectantly.

Rap! rap! rap! came the reply.

“Is Mary strong enough to speak to me to-night?”

Rap! rap!

“Is she happy?”

Rap! rap!

“What makes her unhappy? What does she want? Will you spell it out?”

Rap! rap! rap!

Then, after a pause, the rapping started slowly, and distinctly to spell
out words. It was so weird and uncanny that I scarcely breathed. Letter
after letter the message came, nineteen raps for “s,” eight for “h,”
 five for “e,” according to the place in the alphabet, numerically, of
the required letter. At last it was complete.

“She thinks you are not well. She asks you to have that prescription
filled again.”

“Tell her I will do it to-morrow morning. Is there anything else?”

Rap! rap! came back faintly:

“John, John, don’t go yet,” pleaded the old man earnestly. It was easy
to see how thoroughly he believed in “John,” as perhaps well he might
after the warning of his wife’s death three nights before. “Won’t you
answer one other question?”

Fainter, almost imperceptibly, came a rap! rap!

For several minutes the old man sat absorbed in thought, trance-like.
Then, gradually, he seemed to realise that we were in the room with
him. With difficulty he took up the thread of the conversation where the
rappings had broken it.

“We were talking about the photographs,” he said slowly. “I hope soon
to get one of my wife as she is now that she is transfigured. John has
promised me one soon.”

He was gathering up his treasures preparatory to putting them back in
their places of safekeeping. The moment he was out of the room Craig
darted into the cabinet and replaced his mechanism in the box. Then he
began softly to tap the walls. At last he found the side that gave a
noise similar to that which we had heard, and he seemed pleased to have
found it, for he hastily sketched on an old envelope a plan of that part
of the house, noting on it the location of the side of the cabinet.

Kennedy almost dragged me back to our apartment, he was in such a hurry
to examine the apparatus at his leisure. He turned on all the lights,
took the thing out of its case, and stripped off the two sheets of ruled
paper wound around the two revolving drums. He laid them flat on
the table and studied them for some minutes with evidently growing
satisfaction.

At last he turned to me and said, “Walter, here is a ghost caught in the
act.”

I looked dubiously at the irregular up-and-down scrawl on the paper,
while he rang up the Homicide Bureau of the Central Office and left word
for O’Connor to call him up the first thing in the morning.

Still eyeing with satisfaction the record traced on the sheets of paper,
he lighted a cigarette in a matter-of-fact way and added: “It proves to
be a very much flesh-and-blood ghost, this ‘John.’ It walked up to the
wall back of that cabinet, rapped, listened to old Vandam, rapped
some more, got the answer it wanted, and walked deliberately away. The
cabinet, as you may have noticed, is in a corner of the room with one
side along the hallway. The ghost must have been in the hall.”

“But who was it?”

“Not so fast, Walter,” laughed Craig. “Isn’t it enough for one night
that we have found out that much?”

Fortunately I was tired, or I certainly should have dreamed of rappings
and of “John” that night. I was awakened early by Kennedy talking with
someone over the telephone. It was Inspector O’Connor.

Of course I heard only one side of the conversation, but as near as I
could gather Kennedy was asking the inspector to obtain several samples
of ink for him. I had not heard the first part of the conversation, and
was considerably surprised when Kennedy hung up the receiver and said:

“Vandam had the prescription filled again early this morning, and it
will soon be in the hands of O’Connor. I hope I haven’t spoiled things
by acting too soon, but I don’t want to run the risk of a double
tragedy.”

“Well,” I said, “it is incomprehensible to me. First I suspected
suicide. Then I suspected murder. Now I almost suspect a murder and a
suicide. The fact is, I don’t know just what I suspect. I’m like Dr.
Hanson--floored. I wonder if Vandam would voluntarily take all the
capsules at once in order to be with his wife?”

“One of them alone would be quite sufficient if the ‘ghost’ should take
a notion, as I think it will, to walk in the daytime,” replied Craig
enigmatically. “I don’t want to run any chances, as I have said. I may
be wrong in my theory of the case, Walter, so let us not discuss this
phase of it until I have gone a step farther and am sure of my ground.
O’Connor’s man will get the capsules before Vandam has a chance to take
the first one, anyhow. The ‘ghost’ had a purpose in that message, for
O’Connor tells me that Vandam’s lawyer visited him yesterday and in all
probability a new will is being made, perhaps has already been made.”

We breakfasted in silence and later rode down to the office of Dr.
Hanson, who greeted us enthusiastically.

“I’ve solved it at last,” he cried, “and it’s easy.”

Kennedy looked gravely over the analysis which Dr. Hanson shoved into
his hand, and seemed very much interested in the probable quantity
of morphine that must have been taken to yield such an analysis. The
physician had a text-book open on his desk.

“Our old ideas of the infallible test of morphine poisoning are all
exploded,” he said, excitedly beginning to read a passage he had marked
in the book.

“‘I have thought that inequality of the pupils, that is to say, where
they are not symmetrically contracted, is proof that a case is not one
of narcotism, or morphine poisoning. But Professor Taylor has recorded
a case of morphine poisoning in which the unsymmetrical contraction
occurred.’

“There, now, until I happened to run across that in one of the
authorities I had supposed the symmetrical contraction of the pupils
of the eyes to be the distinguishing symptom of morphine poisoning
Professor Kennedy, in my opinion we can, after all, make out our case as
one of morphine poisoning.”

“Is that case in the book all you base your opinion on?” asked Craig
with excessive politeness.

“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor reluctantly.

“Well,” said Kennedy quietly, “if you will investigate that case quoted
from Professor Taylor, you will find that it has been proved that the
patient had one glass eye.”

“Then my contention collapses and she was not poisoned?”

“No, I do not say that. All I say is that expert testimony would refute
us as far as we have gone. But if you will let me make a few tests of my
own I can readily clear up that end of the case, I now feel sure. Let me
take these samples to my laboratory.”

I was surprised when we ran into Inspector O’Connor waiting for us in
the corridor of the Criminal Courts Building as we left the office of
the coroner’s physician. He rushed up to Kennedy and shoved into
his hand a pill-box in which six capsules rattled. Kennedy narrowly
inspected the box, opened it, and looked thoughtfully at the six white
capsules lying so innocently within.

“One of these capsules would have been worth hundreds of thousands of
dollars to ‘John,’” said Craig contemplatively, as he shut the box and
deposited it carefully in his inside vest pocket. “I don’t believe
I even said good morning to you, O’Connor,” he continued. “I hope I
haven’t kept you waiting here long. Have you obtained the samples of
ink?”

“Yes, Professor. Here they are. As soon as you telephoned this morning
I sent my men out separately to get them. There’s the ink from the
druggist, this is from the Vandam library, this is from Farrington’s
room, and this is from Mrs. Popper’s apartment.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I don’t know what I’d do without your help,”
 said Kennedy, eagerly taking four small vials from him. “Science is all
right, but organisation enables science to work quickly. And quickness
is the essence of this case.”

During the afternoon Kennedy was very busy in his laboratory, where I
found him that night after my hurried dinner, from which he was absent.

“What, is it after dinner-time?” he exclaimed, holding up a glass
beaker and watching the reaction of something he poured into it from a
test-tube.

“Craig, I believe that when you are absorbed in a case, you would rather
work than eat. Did you have any lunch after I left you?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied, regarding the beaker and not his answer.
“Now, Walter, old fellow, I don’t want you to be offended with me,
but really I can work better if you don’t constantly remind me of such
things as eating and sleeping. Say, do you want to help me--really?”

“Certainly. I am as interested in the case as you are, but I can’t make
heads or tails of it,” I replied.

“Then, I wish you would look up Mrs. Popper to-night and have a private
seance with her. What I want you to do particularly is to get a good
idea of the looks of the room in which she is accustomed to work. I’m
going to duplicate it here in my laboratory as nearly as possible. Then
I want you to arrange with her for a private ‘circle’ here to-morrow
night. Tell her it is with a few professors at the university who are
interested in psychical research and that Mr. Vandam will be present.
I’d rather have her come willingly than to force her to come.
Incidentally watch that manager of hers, Farrington. By all means he
must accompany her.”

That evening I dropped casually in on Mrs. Popper. She was a woman
of great brilliance and delicacy, both in her physical and mental
perceptions, of exceptional vivacity and cleverness. She must have
studied me more closely than I was aware of, for I believe she relied on
diverting my attention whenever she desired to produce one of her really
wonderful results. Needless to say, I was completely mystified by her
performance. She did spirit writing that would have done credit to the
immortal Slade, told me a lot of things that were true, and many more
that were unverifiable or hopelessly vague. It was really worth much
more than the price, and I did not need to feign the interest necessary
to get her terms for a circle in the laboratory.

Of course I had to make the terms with Farrington. The first glance
aroused my suspicions of him. He was shifty-eyed, and his face had a
hard and mercenary look. In spite of, perhaps rather because of, my
repugnance we quickly came to an agreement, and as I left the apartment
I mentally resolved to keep my eye on him.

Craig came in late, having been engaged in his chemical analyses all the
evening. From his manner I inferred that they had been satisfactory,
and he seemed much gratified when I told him that I had arranged
successfully for the seance and that Farrington would accompany the
medium.

As we were talking over the case a messenger arrived with a note from
O’Connor. It was written with his usual brevity: “Have just found from
servants that Farrington and Mrs. P. have key to Vandam house. Wish
I had known it before. House shadowed. No one has entered or left it
to-night.”

Craig looked at his watch. It was a quarter after one. “The ghost
won’t walk to-night, Walter,” he said as he entered his bedroom for a
much-needed rest. “I guess I was right after all in getting the capsules
as soon as possible. The ghost must have flitted unobserved in there
this morning directly after the maid brought them back from the
druggist.”

Again, the next morning, he had me out of bed bright and early. As we
descended from the Sixth Avenue “L,” he led me into a peculiar little
shop in the shadow of the “L” structure. He entered as though he knew
the place well; but, then, that air of assurance was Kennedy’s stock in
trade and sat very well on him.

Few people, I suppose, have ever had a glimpse of this workshop of magic
and deception. This little shop of Marina’s was the headquarters of the
magicians of the country. Levitation and ghostly disappearing hands were
on every side. The shelves in the back of the shop were full of nickel,
brass, wire, wood, and papier-mache contrivances, new and strange to the
eye of the uninitiated. Yet it was all as systematic as a hardware shop.

“Is Signor Marina in?” asked Craig of a girl in the first room, given
up to picture post-cards. The room was as deceptive as the trade, for
it was only an anteroom to the storeroom I have described above. This
storeroom was also a factory, and half a dozen artisans were hard at
work in it.

Yes, the signor was in, the girl replied, leading us back into the
workshop. He proved to be a short man with a bland, open face and frank
eyes, the very antithesis of his trade.

“I have arranged for a circle with Mrs. May Popper,” began Kennedy,
handing the man his card. “I suppose you know her?”

“Indeed yes,” he answered. “I furnished her seance room.”

“Well, I want to hire for to-night just the same sort of tables,
cabinets, carpets, everything that she has--only hire, you understand,
but I am willing to pay you well for them. It is the best way to get a
good sitting, I believe. Can you do it?”

The little man thought a moment, then replied: “Si, signor yes--very
nearly, near enough. I would do anything for Mrs. Popper. She is a good
customer. But her manager--”

“My friend here, Mr. Jameson, has had seances with her in her own
apartment,” interposed Craig. “Perhaps he can help you to recollect just
what is necessary.”

“I know very well, signor. I have the duplicate bill, the bill which was
paid by that Farrington with a check from the banker Vandam. Leave it to
me.”

“Then you will get the stuff together this morning and have it up to my
place this afternoon.”

“Yes, Professor, yes. It is a bargain. I would do anything for Mrs.
Popper--she is a fine woman.”

Late that afternoon I rejoined Craig at his laboratory. Signor Marina
had already arrived with a truck and was disposing the paraphernalia
about the laboratory. He had first laid a thick black rug. Mrs. Popper
very much affected black carpets, and I had noticed that Vandam’s room
was carpeted in black, too. I suppose black conceals everything that one
oughtn’t to see at a seance.

A cabinet with a black curtain, several chairs, a light deal table,
several banjos, horns, and other instruments were disposed about the
room. With a few suggestions from me we made a fair duplication of the
hangings on the walls. Kennedy was manifestly anxious to finish, and at
last it was done.

After Marina had gone, Kennedy stretched a curtain over the end of
the room farthest from the cabinet. Behind it he placed on a shelf
the apparatus composed of the pendulums and magnets. The beakers and
test-tubes were also on this shelf.

He had also arranged that the cabinet should be so situated that it was
next a hallway that ran past his laboratory.

“To-night, Jameson,” he said, indicating a spot on the hall wall just
back of the cabinet, “I shall want you to bring my guests out here and
do a little spirit rapping--I’ll tell you just what to do when the time
comes.”

That night, when we gathered in the transformed laboratory, there were
Henry Vandam, Dr. Hanson, Inspector O’Connor, Kennedy, and myself.
At last the sound of wheels was heard, and Mrs. Popper drove up in a
hansom, accompanied by Farrington. They both inspected the room narrowly
and seemed satisfied. I had, as I have said, taken a serious dislike
to the man, and watched him closely. I did not like his air of calm
assurance.

The lights were switched off, all except one sixteen-candle-power lamp
in the farthest corner, shaded by a deep-red globe. It was just light
enough to see to read very, large print with difficulty.

Mrs. Popper began immediately with the table. Kennedy and I sat on her
right and left respectively, in the circle, and held her hands and feet.
I confess to a real thrill when I felt the light table rise first on two
legs, then on one, and finally remain suspended in the air, whence it
dropped with a thud, as if someone had suddenly withdrawn his support.

The medium sat with her back to the curtain of the cabinet, and several
times I could have sworn that a hand reached out and passed close to my
head. At least it seemed so. The curtain bulged at times, and a breeze
seemed to sweep out from the cabinet.

After some time of this sort of work Craig led gradually up to a request
for a materialisation of the control of Vandam, but Mrs. Popper refused.
She said she did not feel strong enough, and Farrington put in a hasty
word that he, too, could feel that “there was something working against
them.” But Kennedy was importunate and at last she consented to see if
“John” would do some rapping, even if he could not materialise.

Kennedy asked to be permitted to put the questions.

“Are you the ‘John’ who appears to Mr. Vandam every night at
twelve-thirty?”

Rap! rap! rap! came the faint reply from the cabinet. Or rather it
seemed to me to come from the floor near the cabinet, and perhaps to be
a trifle muffled by the black carpet.

“Are you in communication with Mrs. Vandam?”

Rap! rap! rap!

“Can she be made to rap for us?”

Rap! rap!

“Will you ask her a question and spell out her answer?”

Rap! rap! rap!

Craig paused a moment to frame the question, then shot it out
point-blank: “Does Mrs. Vandam know now in the other world whether
anyone in this room substituted a morphine capsule for one of those
ordered by her three days before she died? Does she know whether the
same person has done the same thing with those later ordered by Mr.
Vandam?”

“John” seemed considerably perturbed at the mention of capsules. It
was a long time before any answer was forthcoming. Kennedy was about to
repeat the question when a faint sound was heard.

Rap!----

Suddenly came a wild scream. It was such a scream as I had never
heard before in my life. It came as though a dagger had been thrust into
the heart of Mrs. Popper. The lights flashed up as Kennedy turned the
switch.

A man was lying flat on the floor--it was Inspector O’Connor. He had
succeeded in slipping noiselessly, like a snake, below the curtain
into the cabinet. Craig had told him to look out for wires or threads
stretched from Mrs. Popper’s clothing to the bulging curtain of the
cabinet. Imagine his surprise when he saw that she had simply freed
her foot from the shoe, which I was carefully holding down, and with a
backward movement of the leg was reaching out into the cabinet behind
her chair and was doing the rapping with her toes.

Lying on the floor he had grasped her foot and caught her heel with a
firm hand. She had responded with a wild yell that showed she knew she
was trapped. Her secret was out.

Hysterically Mrs. Popper began to upbraid the inspector as he rose to
his feet, but Farrington quickly interposed.

“Something was working against us to-night, gentlemen. Yet you demanded
results. And when the spirits will not come, what is she to do? She
forgets herself in her trance; she produces, herself, the things that
you all could see supernaturally if you were in sympathy.”

The mere sound of Farrington’s voice seemed to rouse in me all the
animosity of my nature. I felt that a man who could trump up an excuse
like that when a person was caught with the goods was capable of almost
anything.

“Enough of this fake seance,” exclaimed Craig. “I have let it go
on merely for the purpose of opening the eyes of a certain deluded
gentleman in this room. Now, if you will all be seated I shall have
something to say that will finally establish whether Mary Vandam was the
victim of accident, suicide, or murder.”

With hearts beating rapidly we sat in silence.

Craig took the beakers and test-tubes from the shelf behind the curtain
and placed them on the little deal table that had been so merrily
dancing about the room.

“The increasing frequency with which tales of murder by poison appear
in the newspapers,” he began formally, “is proof of how rapidly this new
civilisation of ours is taking on the aspects of the older civilisations
across the seas. Human life is cheap in this country; but the ways
in which human life has been taken among us have usually been direct,
simple, aboveboard, in keeping with our democratic and pioneer
traditions. The pistol and the bowie-knife for the individual, the rope
and the torch for the mob, have been the usual instruments of sudden
death. But when we begin to use poisons most artfully compounded
in order to hasten an expected bequest and remove obstacles in its
way--well, we are practising an art that calls up all the memories of
sixteenth century Italy.

“In this beaker,” he continued, “I have some of the contents of the
stomach of the unfortunate woman. The coroner’s physician has found that
they show traces of morphine. Was the morphine in such quantities as to
be fatal? Without doubt. But equally without doubt analysis could not
discover and prove it in the face of one inconsistency. The usual test
which shows morphine poisoning failed in this case. The pupils of her
eyes were not symmetrically contracted. In fact they were normal.

“Now, the murderer must have known of this test. This clever criminal
also knew that to be successful in the use of this drug where others had
failed, the drug must be skilfully mixed with something else. In that
first box of capsules there were six. The druggist compounded them
correctly according to the prescription. But between the time when they
came into the house from the druggist’s and the time when she took the
first capsule, that night, someone who had access to the house emptied
one capsule of its harmless contents and refilled it with a deadly dose
of morphine--a white powder which looks just like the powder already in
the capsules.

“Why, then, the normal pupils of the eyes? Simply because the criminal
put a little atropine, or belladonna, with the morphine. My tests show
absolutely the presence of atropine, Dr. Hanson,” said Craig, bowing to
the physician.

“The best evidence, however, is yet to come. A second box of six
capsules, all intact, was discovered yesterday in the possession of
Henry Vandam. I have analysed the capsules. One contains no quinine at
all--it is all morphine and atropine. It is, without doubt, precisely
similar to the capsule which killed Mrs. Vandam. Another night or so,
and Henry Vandam would have died the same death.”

The old man groaned. Two such exposures had shaken him. He looked from
one of us to another as if not knowing in whom he could trust. But
Kennedy hurried on to his next point.

“Who was it that gave the prescription to Mrs. Vandam originally? She is
dead and cannot tell. The others won’t tell, for the person who gave her
that prescription was the person who later substituted the fatal capsule
in place of the harmless. The original prescription is here. I have been
able to discover from it nothing at all by examining the handwriting.
Nor does the texture of the paper indicate anything to me. But the
ink--ah, the ink.

“Most inks seem very similar, I suppose, but to a person who has made a
study of the chemical composition of ink they are very different. Ink
is composed of iron tannate, which on exposure to air gives the black of
writing. The original pigment--say blue or blue-black ink--is placed
in the ink, to make the writing visible at first, and gradually fades,
giving place to the black of the tannate which is formed. The dyestuffs
employed in the commercial inks of to-day vary in colour from pale
greenish blue to indigo and deep violet. No two give identical
reactions--at all events not when mixed with the iron tannate to form
the pigment in writing.

“It is owing to the difference in these provisional colouring matters
that it is possible to distinguish between writing written with
different kinds of ink. I was able easily to obtain samples of the
inks used by the Vandams, by Mrs. Popper, by Mr. Farrington, and by the
druggist. I have compared the writing of the original prescription with
a colour scale of my own construction, and I have made chemical
tests. The druggist’s ink conforms exactly to the writing on the two
pill-boxes, but not to the prescription. One of the other three inks
conforms by test absolutely to the ink in that prescription signed ‘Dr.
C. W. H.’ as a blind. In a moment my chain of evidence against the owner
of that bottle of ink will be complete.”

I could not help but think of the two pendulums on the shelf behind
the curtain, but Craig said nothing for a moment to indicate that he
referred to that apparatus. We sat dazed. Farrington seemed nervous
and ill at ease. Mrs. Popper, who had not recovered from the hysterical
condition of her exposure, with difficulty controlled her emotion.
Vandam was crushed.

“I have not only arranged this laboratory so as to reproduce Mrs.
Popper’s seance-room,” began Craig afresh, “but I have had the cabinet
placed in relatively the same position a similar cabinet occupies in Mr.
Vandam’s private seance-room in the Vandam mansion.

“One night, Mr. Jameson and myself were visiting Mr. Vandam. At
precisely twelve-thirty we heard most unaccountable rappings from that
cabinet. I particularly noted the position of the cabinet. Back of
it ran a hallway. That is duplicated here. Back of this cabinet is a
hallway. I had heard of these rappings before we went, but was afraid
that it would be impossible for me to catch the ghost red handed. There
is a limit to what you can do the first time you enter a man’s house,
and, besides, that was no time to arouse suspicion in the mind of
anyone. But science has a way out of every dilemma. I determined to
learn something of these rappings.”

Craig paused and glanced first at Farrington, then at Mrs. Popper, and
then at Mr. Vandam.

“Mr. Jameson,” he resumed, “will escort the doctor, the inspector, Mr.
Farrington, Mrs. Popper, and Mr. Vandam into my imitation hall of the
Vandam mansion. I want each of you in turn to tiptoe up that hall to a
spot indicated on the wall, back of the cabinet, and strike that spot
several sharp blows with your knuckles.”

I did as Craig instructed tiptoeing up myself first so that they could
not mistake his meaning. The rest followed separately, and after a
moment we returned silently in suppressed excitement to the room.

Craig was still standing by the table, but now the pendulums with the
magnets and needles and the drums worked by clockwork were before him.

“Another person outside the Vandam family had a key to the Vandam
mansion,” he began gravely. “That person, by the way, was the one who
waited, night by night, until Mrs. Vandam took the fatal capsule,
and then when she had taken it apprised the old man of the fact and
strengthened an already blind faith in the shadow world.”

You could have heard a pin drop. In fact you could almost have felt it
drop.

“That other person who, unobserved, had free access to the house,” he
continued in the breathless stillness, “is in this room now.”

He was looking at O’Connor as if for corroboration. O’Connor nodded.
“Information derived from the butler,” he muttered.

“I did not know this until yesterday,” Kennedy continued, “but I
suspected that something of the sort existed when I was first told by
Dr. Hanson of the rappings. I determined to hear those rappings, and
make a record of them. So, the night Mr. Jameson and I visited Mr.
Vandam, I carried this little instrument with me.”

Almost lovingly he touched the pendulums on the table. They were now
at rest and kept so by means of a lever that prevented all vibration
whatever.

“See, I release this lever--now, let no one in the room move. Watch
the needles on the paper as the clockwork revolves the drums. I take a
step--ever so lightly. The pendulums vibrate, and the needles trace a
broken line on the paper on each drum. I stop; the lines are practically
straight. I take another step and another, ever so lightly. See the
delicate pendulums vibrate? See, the lines they trace are jagged lines.”

He stripped the paper off the drums and laid it flat on the table before
him, with two other similar pieces of paper.

“Just before the time of the rapping I placed this instrument in the
corner of the Vandam cabinet, just as I placed it in this cabinet after
Mr. Jameson conducted you from the room. In neither case were suspicions
aroused. Everything in both cases was perfectly normal--I mean the
‘ghost’ was in ignorance of the presence, if not the very existence, of
this instrument.

“This is an improved seismograph,” he explained, “one after a very
recent model by Prince Galitzin of the Imperial Academy of St.
Petersburg. The seismograph, as you know, was devised to register
earthquakes at a distance. This one not only measures the size of
a distant earthquake, but the actual direction from which the
earth-tremors come. That is why there are two pendulums and two drums.

“The magnetic arrangement is to cut short the vibrations set up in the
pendulums, to prevent them from continuing to vibrate after the first
shock. Thus they are ready in an instant to record another tremor. Other
seismographs continue to vibrate for a long time as a result of one
tremor only. Besides, they give little indication of the direction from
which the tremors come.

“I think you must all appreciate that your tiptoeing up the hall must
cause a far greater disturbance in this delicate seismograph than even
a very severe earthquake thousands of miles away, which it was built to
record.”

He paused and examined the papers sharply.

“This is the record made by the ‘ghost’s’ walk the other night,” he
said, holding up two of them in his left hand. “Here on the table, on
two other longer sheets, I have records of the vibrations set up by
those in this room walking to-night.

“Here is Mr. Jameson’s--his is not a bit like the ghost’s. Nor is Mr.
Vandam’s. Least of all are Dr. Hanson’s and Inspector O’Connor’s, for
they are heavy men.

“Now here is Mr. Farrington’s”--he bent down closely, “he is a light
man, and the ghost was light.”

Craig was playing with his victim like a cat with a mouse.

Suddenly I felt something brush by me, and with a swish of air and of
garments I saw Mrs. Popper fling herself wildly at the table that bore
the incriminating records. In another instant Farrington was on his feet
and had made a wild leap in the same direction.

It was done so quickly that I must have acted first and thought
afterward. I found myself in the midst of a melee with my hand at
his throat and his at mine. O’Connor with a jiu-jitsu movement bent
Farrington’s other arm until he released me with a cry of pain.

In front of me I saw Craig grasping Mrs. Popper’s wrists as in a vise.
She was glaring at him like a tigress.

“Do you suppose for a moment that that toy is going to convince the
world that Henry Vandam has been deceived and that the spirit which
visited him was a fraud? Is that why you have lured me here under false
pretences, to play on my feelings, to insult me, to take advantage of a
lone, defenceless woman, surrounded by hostile men? Shame on you,” she
added contemptuously. “You call yourself a gentleman, but I call you a
coward.”

Kennedy, always calm and collected, ignored the tirade. His voice was
as cold as steel as he said: “It would do little good, Mrs. Popper, to
destroy this one link in the chain I have forged. The other links are
too heavy for you. Don’t forget the evidence of the ink. It was your
ink. Don’t forget that Henry Vandam will not any longer conceal that he
has altered his will in favour of you. To-night he goes from here to his
lawyer’s to draw up a new will altogether. Don’t forget that you have
caused the Vandams separately to have the prescription filled, and that
you are now caught in the act of a double murder. Don’t forget that you
had access to the Vandam mansion, that you substituted the deadly for
the harmless capsules. Don’t forget that your rappings announced the
death of one of your victims and urged the other, a cruelly wronged and
credulous old man, to leave millions to you who had deceived and would
have killed him.

“No, the record of the ghost on the seismograph was not Mr.
Farrington’s, as I implied at the moment when you so kindly furnished
this additional proof of your guilt by trying to destroy the evidence.
The ghost was you, Mrs. Popper, and you are at liberty to examine the
markings as minutely as you please, but you must not destroy them. You
are an astute criminal, Mrs. Popper, but to-night you are under arrest
for the murder of Mary Vandam and the attempted murder of Henry Vandam.”



VI. The Diamond Maker

“I’ve called, Professor Kennedy, to see if we can retain you in a case
which I am sure will tax even your resources. Heaven knows it has taxed
ours.”

The visitor was a large, well-built man. He placed his hat on the table
and, without taking off his gloves, sat down in an easy chair which he
completely filled.

“Andrews is my name--third vice-president of the Great Eastern Life
Insurance Company. I am the nominal head of the company’s private
detective force, and though I have some pretty clever fellows on
my staff we’ve got a case that, so far, none of us has been able to
unravel. I’d like to consult you about it.”

Kennedy expressed his entire willingness to be consulted, and after the
usual formalities were over, Mr. Andrews proceeded.

“I suppose you are aware that the large insurance companies maintain
quite elaborate detective forces and follow very keenly such of the
cases of their policy-holders as look at all suspicious. This case which
I wish to put in your hands is that of Mr. Solomon Morowitch, a wealthy
Maiden Lane jeweller. I suppose you have read something in the papers
about his sudden death and the strange robbery of his safe?”

“Very little,” replied Craig. “There hasn’t been much to read.”

“Of course not, of course not,” said Mr. Andrews with some show of
gratification. “I flatter myself that we have pulled the wires so as to
keep the thing out of the papers as much as possible. We don’t want to
frighten the quarry till the net is spread. The point is, though, to
find out who is the quarry. It’s most baffling.”

“I am at your service,” interposed Craig quietly, “but you will have
to enlighten me as to the facts in the case. As to that, I know no more
than the newspapers.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. That is to say, you know nothing at all and
can approach it without bias.” He paused and then, seeming to notice
something in Craig’s manner, added hastily: “I’ll be perfectly frank
with you. The policy in question is for one hundred thousand dollars,
and is incontestable. His wife is the beneficiary. The company is
perfectly willing to pay, but we want to be sure that it is all straight
first. There are certain suspicious circumstances that in justice to
ourselves we think should be cleared up. That is all--believe me. We are
not seeking to avoid an honest liability.”

“What are these suspicious circumstances?” asked Craig, apparently
satisfied with the explanation.

“This is in strict confidence, gentlemen,” began Mr. Andrews. “Mr.
Morowitch, according to the story as it comes to us, returned home late
one night last week, apparently from his office, in a very weakened,
a semiconscious, condition. His family physician, Doctor Thornton, was
summoned, not at once, but shortly. He pronounced Mr. Morowitch to be
suffering from a congestion of the lungs that was very like a sudden
attack of pneumonia.

“Mr. Morowitch had at once gone to bed, or at least was in bed, when the
doctor arrived, but his condition grew worse so rapidly that the doctor
hastily resorted to oxygen, under which treatment he seemed to revive.
The doctor had just stepped out to see another patient when a hurry call
was sent to him that Mr. Morowitch was rapidly sinking. He died before
the doctor could return. No statement whatever concerning the cause of
his sudden illness was made by Mr. Morowitch, and the death-certificate,
a copy of which I have, gives pneumonia as the cause of death. One of
our men has seen Doctor Thornton, but has been able to get nothing out
of him. Mrs. Morowitch was the only person with her, husband at the
time.”

There was something in his tone that made me take particular note of
this last fact, especially as he paused for an instant.

“Now, perhaps there would be nothing surprising about it all, so far
at least, were it not for the fact that the following morning, when his
junior partner, Mr. Kahan, opened the place of business, or rather went
to it, for it was to remain closed, of course, he found that during
the night someone had visited it. The lock on the great safe, which
contained thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds, was intact; but in
the top of the safe a huge hole was found--an irregular, round hole, big
enough to put your foot through. Imagine it, Professor Kennedy, a great
hole in a safe that is made of chrome steel, a safe that, short of a
safety-deposit vault, ought to be about the strongest thing on earth.

“Why, that steel would dull and splinter even the finest diamond-drill
before it made an impression. The mere taking out and refitting of
drills into the brace would be a most lengthy process. Eighteen or
twenty hours is the time by actual test which it would take to bore
such a hole through those laminated plates, even if there were means
of exerting artificial pressure. As for the police, they haven’t even a
theory yet.”

“And the diamonds”

“All gone--everything of any value was gone. Even the letter-files were
ransacked. His desk was broken open, and papers of some nature had been
taken out of it. Thorough is no name for the job. Isn’t that enough to
arouse suspicion?”

“I should like to see that safe,” was all Kennedy said.

“So you shall, so you shall,” said Mr. Andrews. “Then we may retain you
in our service? My car is waiting down-stairs. We can go right down to
Maiden Lane if you wish.”

“You may retain me on one condition,” said Craig without moving. “I am
to be free to get at the truth whether it benefits or hurts the company,
and the case is to be entirely in my hands.”

“Hats on,” agreed Mr. Andrews, reaching in his vest pocket and pulling
out three or four brevas. “My chauffeur is quite a driver. He can almost
beat the subway down.”

“First, to my laboratory,” interposed Craig. “It will take only a few
minutes.”

We drove up to the university and stopped on the campus while Craig
hurried into the Chemistry Building to get something.

“I like your professor of criminal science;” said Andrews to me, blowing
a huge fragrant cloud of smoke.

I, for my part, liked the vice-president. He was a man who seemed
thoroughly to enjoy life, to have most of the good things, and a
capacity for getting out of them all that was humanly possible. He
seemed to be particularly enjoying this Morowitch case.

“He has solved some knotty cases,” was all I said. “I’ve come to believe
there is no limit to his resourcefulness.”

“I hope not. He’s up against a tough one this trip, though, my boy.”

I did not even resent the “my boy.” Andrews was one of those men in
whom we newspaper writers instinctively believe. I knew that it would
be “pens lifted” only so long as the case was incomplete. When the time
comes with such men they are ready to furnish us the best “copy” in the
world.

Kennedy quickly rejoined us, carrying a couple of little glass bottles
with ground-glass stoppers.

Morowitch & Co. was, of course, closed when we arrived, but we had
no trouble in being admitted by the Central Office man who had been
detailed to lock the barn door after the horse was stolen. It was
precisely as Mr. Andrews had said. Mr. Kahan showed us the safe. Through
the top a great hole had been made--I say made, for at the moment I was
at a loss to know whether it had been cut, drilled, burned, blown out,
or what-not.

Kennedy examined the edges of the hole carefully, and just the trace
of a smile of satisfaction flitted over his face as he did so. Without
saying a word he took the glass stopper out of the larger bottle which
he had brought and poured the contents on the top of the safe near the
hole. There it lay, a little mound of reddish powder.

Kennedy took a little powder of another kind from the other bottle and
lighted it with a match.

“Stand back--close to the wall,” he called as he dropped the burning
mass on the red powder. In two or three leaps he joined us at the far
end of the room.

Almost instantly a dazzling, intense flame broke out, and sizzled and
crackled. With bated breath we watched. It was almost incredible, but
that glowing mass of powder seemed literally to be sinking, sinking
right down into the cold steel. In tense silence we waited. On the
ceiling we could still see the reflection of the molten mass in the cup
which it had burned for itself in the top of the safe.

At last it fell through into the safe--fell as the burning roof of a
frame building would fall into the building. No one spoke a word, but as
we cautiously peered over the top of the safe we instinctively turned to
Kennedy for an explanation. The Central Office man, with eyes as big as
half-dollars, acted almost as if he would have liked to clap the irons
on Kennedy. For there in the top of the safe was another hole, smaller
but identical in nature with the first one.

“Thermit,” was all Kennedy said.

“Thermit?” echoed Andrews, shifting the cigar which he had allowed to go
out in the excitement.

“Yes, an invention of a chemist named Goldschmidt, of Essen, Germany. It
is a compound of iron oxide, such as comes off a blacksmith’s anvil or
the rolls of a rolling-mill, and powdered metallic aluminum. You could
thrust a red-hot bar into it without setting it off, but when you
light a little magnesium powder and drop it on thermit, a combustion is
started that quickly reaches fifty-four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It
has the peculiar property of concentrating its heat to the immediate
spot on which it is placed. It is one of the most powerful oxidising
agents known, and it doesn’t even melt the rest of the steel surface.
You see how it ate its way through the steel. Either black or red
thermit will do the trick equally well.”

No one said anything. There was nothing to say.

“Someone uncommonly clever, or instructed by someone uncommonly clever,
must have done that job,” added Craig. “Well, there is nothing more to
be done here,” he added, after a cursory look about the office. “Mr.
Andrews, may I have a word with you? Come on, Jameson. Good day, Mr.
Kahan. Good day, Officer.”

Outside we stopped for a moment at the door of Andrews’s car.

“I shall want to see Mr. Morowitch’s papers at home,” said Craig,
“and also to call on Doctor Thornton. Do you think I shall have any
difficulty?”

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Andrews, “not at all. I will go with you
myself and see that you have none. Say, Professor Kennedy,” he broke
out, “that was marvellous. I never dreamed such a thing was possible.
But don’t you think you could have learned something more up there in
the office by looking around?”

“I did learn it,” answered Kennedy. “The lock on the door was
intact--whoever did the job let himself in by a key. There is no other
way to get in.”

Andrews gave a low whistle and glanced involuntarily up at the window
with the sign of Morowitch & Co. in gold letters several floors above.

“Don’t look up. I think that was Kahan looking out at us,” he said,
fixing his eyes on his cigar. “I wonder if he knows more about this than
he has told! He was the ‘company,’ you know, but his interest in the
business was only very slight. By George--”

“Not too fast, Mr. Andrews,” interrupted Craig. “We have still to see
Mrs. Morowitch and the doctor before we form any theories.”

“A very handsome woman, too,” said Andrews, as we seated ourselves
in the car: “A good deal younger than Morowitch. Say, Kahan isn’t a
bad-looking chap, either, is he? I hear he was a very frequent visitor
at his partner’s house. Well, which first, Mrs. M. or the doctor?”

“The house,” answered Craig.

Mr. Andrews introduced us to Mrs. Morowitch, who was in very deep
mourning, which served, as I could not help noticing, rather to heighten
than lessen her beauty. By contrast it brought out the rich deep colour
of her face and the graceful lines of her figure. She was altogether a
very attractive young widow.

She seemed to have a sort of fear of Andrews, whether merely because he
represented the insurance company on which so much depended or because
there were other reasons for fear, I could not, of course, make out.
Andrews was very courteous and polite, yet I caught myself asking if it
was not a professional rather than a personal politeness. Remembering
his stress on the fact that she was alone with her husband when he
died, it suddenly flashed across my mind that somewhere I had read of
a detective who, as his net was being woven about a victim, always grew
more and more ominously polite toward the victim. I know that Andrews
suspected her of a close connection with the case. As for myself, I
don’t know what I suspected as yet.

No objection was offered to our request to examine Mr. Morowitch’s
personal effects in the library, and accordingly Craig ransacked
the desk and the letter-file. There was practically nothing to be
discovered.

“Had Mr. Morowitch ever received any threats of robbery?” asked Craig,
as he stood before the desk.

“Not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Morowitch. “Of course every jeweller
who carries a large stock of diamonds must be careful. But I don’t think
my husband had any special reason to fear robbery. At least he never
said anything about it. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. I merely thought there might be some hint as to the
motives of the robbery,” said Craig. He was fingering one of those
desk-calendars which have separate leaves for each day with blank spaces
for appointments.

“‘Close deal Poissan,’” he read slowly from one of the entries, as if to
himself. “That’s strange. It was the correspondence under the letter
‘P’ that was destroyed at the office, and there is nothing in the
letter-file here, either. Who was Poissan?”

Mrs. Morowitch hesitated, either from ignorance or from a desire to
evade the question. “A chemist, I think,” she said doubtfully. “My
husband had some dealings with him--some discovery he was going to buy.
I don’t know anything about it. I thought the deal was off.”

“The deal?”

“Really, Mr. Kennedy, you had better ask Mr. Kahan. My husband talked
very, little to me about business affairs.”

“But what was the discovery?”

“I don’t know. I only heard Mr. Morowitch and Mr. Kahan refer to some
deal about a discovery regarding diamonds.”

“Then Mr. Kahan knows about it?”

“I presume so.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morowitch,” said Kennedy, when it was evident that she
either could not or would not add anything to what she had said. “Pardon
us for causing all this trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she replied graciously, though I could see she was
intent on every word and motion of Kennedy and Andrews.

Kennedy stopped the car at a drug-store a few blocks away and asked for
the business telephone directory. In an instant, under chemists, he
put his finger on the name of Poissan--“Henri Poissan, electric
furnaces,--William St.,” he read.

“I shall visit him to-morrow morning. Now for the doctor.”

Doctor Thornton was an excellent specimen of the genus physician to
the wealthy--polished, cool, suave. One of Mr. Andrews’s men, as I
have said, had seen him already, but the interview had been very
unsatisfactory. Evidently, however, the doctor had been turning
something over in his mind since then and had thought better of it. At
any rate, his manner was cordial enough now.

As he closed the doors to his office, he began to pace the floor. “Mr.
Andrews,” he said, “I am in some doubt whether I had better tell you or
the coroner what I know. There are certain professional secrets that a
doctor must, as a duty to his patients, conceal. That is professional
ethics. But there are also cases when, as a matter of public policy, a
doctor should speak out.”

He stopped and faced us.

“I don’t mind telling you that I dislike the publicity that would attend
any statement I might make to the coroner.”

“Exactly,” said Andrews. “I appreciate your position exactly. Your other
patients would not care to see you involved in a scandal--or at least
you would not care to have them see you so involved, with all the
newspaper notoriety such a thing brings.”

Doctor Thornton shot a quick glance at Andrews, as if he would like to
know just how much his visitor knew or suspected.

Andrews drew a paper from his pocket. “This is a copy of the
death-certificate,” he said. “The Board of Health has furnished it
to us. Our physicians at the insurance company tell me it is rather
extraordinarily vague. A word from us calling the attention of the
proper authorities to it would be sufficient, I think. But, Doctor, that
is just the point. We do not desire publicity any more than you do. We
could have the body of Mr. Morowitch exhumed and examined, but I
prefer to get the facts in the case without resorting to such extreme
measures.”

“It would do no good,” interrupted the doctor hastily. “And if you’ll
save me the publicity, I’ll tell you why.”

Andrews nodded, but still held the death-certificate where the doctor
was constantly reminded of it.

“In that certificate I have put down the cause of death as congestion
of the lungs due to an acute attack of pneumonia. That is substantially
correct, as far as it goes. When I was summoned to see Mr. Morowitch
I found him in a semiconscious state and scarcely breathing. Mrs.
Morowitch told me that he had been brought home in a taxicab by a man
who had picked him up on William Street. I’m frank to say that at first
sight I thought it was a case of plain intoxication, for Mr. Morowitch
sometimes indulged a little freely when he made a splendid deal. I
smelled his breath, which was very feeble. It had a sickish sweet odour,
but that did not impress me at the time. I applied my stethoscope to
his lungs. There was a very marked congestion, and I made as my working
diagnosis pneumonia. It was a case for quick and heroic action. In a
very few minutes I had a tank of oxygen from the hospital.

“In the meantime I had thought over that sweetish odour, and it flashed
on my mind that it might, after all, be a case of poisoning. When the
oxygen arrived I administered it at once. As it happens, the Rockefeller
Institute has just published a report of experiments with a new antidote
for various poisons, which consists simply in a new method of enforced
breathing and throwing off the poison by oxidising it in that way. In
either case--the pneumonia theory or the poison theory--this line of
action was the best that I could have adopted on the spur of the moment.
I gave him some strychnine to strengthen his heart and by hard work I
had him resting apparently a little easier. A nurse had been sent for,
but had not arrived when a messenger came to me telling of a very sudden
illness of Mrs. Morey, the wife of the steel-magnate. As the Morey home
is only a half-block away, I left Mr. Morowitch, with very particular
instructions to his wife as to what to do.

“I had intended to return immediately, but before I got back Mr.
Morowitch was dead. Now I think I’ve told you all. You see, it was
nothing but a suspicion--hardly enough to warrant making a fuss about.
I made out the death-certificate, as you see. Probably that would have
been all there was to it if I hadn’t heard of this incomprehensible
robbery. That set me thinking again. There, I’m glad I’ve got it out of
my system. I’ve thought about it a good deal since your man was here to
see me.”

“What do you suspect was the cause of that sweetish odour?” asked
Kennedy.

The doctor hesitated. “Mind, it is only a suspicion. Cyanide of
potassium or cyanogen gas; either would give such an odour.”

“Your treatment would have been just the same had you been certain?”

“Practically the same, the Rockefeller treatment.”

“Could it have been suicide” asked Andrews.

“There was no motive for it, I believe,” replied the doctor.

“But was there any such poison in the Morowitch house?”

“I know that they were much interested in photography. Cyanide of
potassium is used in certain processes in photography.”

“Who was interested in photography, Mr. or Mrs. Morowitch?”

“Both of them.”

“Was Mrs. Morowitch?”

“Both of them,” repeated the doctor hastily. It was evident how
Andrews’s questions were tending, and it was also evident that the
doctor did not wish to commit himself or even to be misunderstood.

Kennedy had sat silently for some minutes, turning the thing over in his
mind. Apparently disregarding Andrews entirely, he now asked, “Doctor,
supposing it had been cyanogen gas which caused the congestion of the
lungs, and supposing it had not been inhaled in quantities large enough
to kill outright, do you nevertheless feel that Mr. Morowitch was in a
weak enough condition to die as a result of the congestion produced by
the gas after the traces of the cyanogen had been perhaps thrown off?”

“That is precisely the impression which I wished to convey.”

“Might I ask whether in his semiconscious state he said anything that
might at all serve as a clue?”

“He talked ramblingly, incoherently. As near as I can remember it, he
seemed to believe himself to have become a millionaire, a billionaire.
He talked of diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. He seemed to be picking them
up, running his fingers through them, and once I remember he seemed to
want to send for Mr. Kahan and tell him something. ‘I can make them,
Kahan,’ he said, ‘the finest, the largest, the whitest--I can make
them.’”

Kennedy was all attention as Dr. Thornton added this new evidence.

“You know,” concluded the doctor, “that in cyanogen poisoning there
might be hallucinations of the wildest kind. But then, too, in the
delirium of pneumonia it might be the same.”

I could see by the way Kennedy acted that for the first time a ray of
light had dawned upon him in tracing out the case. As we rose to go,
the doctor shook hands with us. His last words were said with an air of
great relief, “Gentlemen, I have eased my conscience considerably.”

As we parted for the night Kennedy faced Andrews. “You recall that you
promised me one thing when I took up this case?” he asked.

Andrews nodded.

“Then take no steps until I tell you. Shadow Mrs. Morowitch and Mr.
Kahan, but do not let them know you suspect them of anything. Let me run
down this Poissan clue. In other words, leave the case entirely in my
hands in other respects. Let me know any new facts you may unearth, and
some time to-morrow I shall call on you, and we will determine what the
next step is to be. Good night. I want to thank you for putting me in
the way of this case. I think we shall all be surprised at the outcome.”

It was late the following afternoon before I saw Kennedy again. He was
in his laboratory winding two strands of platinum wire carefully about
a piece of porcelain and smearing on it some peculiar black glassy
granular substance that came in a sort of pencil, like a stick of
sealing-wax. I noticed that he was very particular to keep the two wires
exactly the same distance from each other throughout the entire length
of the piece of porcelain, but I said nothing to distract his attention,
though a thousand questions about the progress of the case were at my
tongue’s end.

Instead I watched him intently. The black substance formed a sort of
bridge connecting and covering the wires. When he had finished he said:
“Now you can ask me your questions, while I heat and anneal this little
contrivance. I see you are bursting with curiosity.”

“Well, did you see Poissan?” I asked.

Kennedy continued to heat the wire-covered porcelain. “I did, and he is
going to give me a demonstration of his discovery to-night.”

“His discovery!”

“You remember Morowitch’s ‘hallucination,’ as the doctor called it? That
was no hallucination; that was a reality. This man Poissan says he has
discovered a way to make diamonds artificially out of pure carbon in an
electric furnace. Morowitch, I believe, was to buy his secret. His dream
of millions was a reality--at least to him.”

“And did Kahan and Mrs. Morowitch know it?” I asked quickly.

“I don’t know yet,” replied Craig, finishing the annealing.

The black glassy substance was now a dull grey.

“What’s that stuff you were putting on the wire?” I asked.

“Oh, just a by-product made in the manufacture of sulphuric acid,”
 answered Kennedy airily, adding, as if to change the subject: “I want
you to go with me to-night. I told Poissan I was a professor in the
university and that I would bring one of our younger trustees, the son
of the banker, T. Pierpont Spencer, who might put some capital into his
scheme. Now, Jameson, while I’m finishing up my work here, run over to
the apartment and get my automatic revolver. I may need it to-night. I
have communicated with Andrews, and he will be ready. The demonstration
will take place at half-past-eight at Poissan’s laboratory. I tried to
get him to give it here, but he absolutely refused.”

Half an hour later I rejoined Craig at his laboratory, and we rode down
to the Great Eastern Life Building.

Andrews was waiting for us in his solidly furnished office. Outside I
noted a couple of husky men, who seemed to be waiting for orders from
their chief.

From the manner in which the vice-president greeted us it was evident
that he was keenly interested in what Kennedy was about to do. “So
you think Morowitch’s deal was a deal to purchase the secret of
diamond-making?” he mused.

“I feel sure of it,” replied Craig. “I felt sure of it the moment I
looked up Poissan and found that he was a manufacturer of electric
furnaces. Don’t you remember the famous Lemoine case in London and
Paris?”

“Yes, but Lemoine was a fakir of the first water;” said Andrews. “Do you
think this man is, too?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out to-night before I take another step,”
 said Craig. “Of course there can be no doubt that by proper use the
electric furnace will make small, almost microscopic diamonds. It is not
unreasonable to suppose that some day someone will be able to make large
diamonds synthetically by the same process.”

“Maybe this man has done it,” agreed Andrews. “Who knows? I’ll wager
that if he has and that if Morowitch had bought an interest in his
process Kahan knew of it. He’s a sharp one. And Mrs. Morowitch doesn’t
let grass grow under her feet, when it comes to seeing the main chance
as to money. Now just supposing Mr. Morowitch had bought an interest in
a secret like that and supposing Kahan was in love with Mrs. Morowitch
and that they--”

“Let us suppose nothing, Mr. Andrews,” interrupted Kennedy. “At least
not yet. Let me see; it is now ten minutes after eight. Poissan’s place
is only a few blocks from here. I’d like to get there a few minutes
early. Let’s start.”

As we left the office, Andrews signalled to the two men outside, and
they quietly followed a few feet in the rear, but without seeming to be
with us.

Poissan’s laboratory was at the top of a sort of loft building a dozen
stories or so high. It was a peculiar building, with several entrances
besides a freight elevator at the rear and fire-escapes that led to
adjoining lower roofs.

We stopped around the corner in the shadow, and Kennedy and Andrews
talked earnestly. As near as I could make out Kennedy was insisting that
it would be best for Andrews and his men not to enter the building
at all, but wait down-stairs while he and I went up. At last the
arrangement was agreed on.

“Here,” said Kennedy, undoing a package he had carried, “is a little
electric bell with a couple of fresh dry batteries attached to it, and
wires that will reach at least four hundred feet. You and the men wait
in the shadow here by this side entrance for five minutes after Jameson
and I go up. Then you must engage the night watchman in some way. While
he is away you will find two wires dangling down the elevator shaft.
Attach them to these wires from the bell and the batteries--these
two--you know how to do that. The wires will be hanging in the third
shaft--only one elevator is running at night, the first. The moment you
hear the bell begin to ring; jump into the elevator and come up to the
twelfth floor--we’ll need you.”

As Kennedy and I rode up in the elevator I could not help thinking what
an ideal place a down-town office building is for committing a crime,
even at this early hour of the evening. If the streets were deserted,
the office-buildings were positively uncanny in their grim, black
silence with only here and there a light.

The elevator in the first shaft shot down again to the ground floor, and
as it disappeared Kennedy took two spools of wire from his pocket and
hastily shoved them through the lattice work the third elevator shaft.
They quickly unrolled, and I could hear them strike the top of the empty
car below in the basement. That meant that Andrews on the ground floor
could reach the wires and attach them to the bell.

Quickly in the darkness Kennedy attached the ends of the wires to the
curious little coil I had seen him working on in the laboratory, and we
proceeded down the hall to the rooms occupied by Poissan, Kennedy had
allowed for the wire to reach from the elevator-shaft up this hall,
also, and as he walked he paid it out in such a manner that it fell on
the floor close to the wall, where, in the darkness, it would never be
noticed or stumbled over.

Around an “L” in the hall I could see a ground-glass window with a light
shining through it. Kennedy stopped at the window and quickly placed
the little coil on the ledge, close up against the glass, with the wires
running from it down the hall. Then we entered.

“On time to the minute, Professor,” exclaimed Poissan, snapping his
watch. “And this, I presume, is the banker who is interested in my
great discovery of making artificial diamonds of any size or colour?” he
added, indicating me.

“Yes,” answered Craig, “as I told you, a son of Mr. T. Pierpont
Spencer.”

I shook hands with as much dignity as I could assume, for the role of
impersonation was a new one to me.

Kennedy carelessly laid his coat and hat on the inside ledge of the
ground-glass window, just opposite the spot where he had placed the
little coil on the other side of the glass. I noted that the window was
simply a large pane of wire-glass set in the wall for the purpose of
admitting light in the daytime from the hall outside.

The whole thing seemed eerie to me--especially as Poissan’s assistant
was a huge fellow and had an evil look such as I had seen in pictures of
the inhabitants of quarters of Paris which one does not frequent except
in the company of a safe guide. I was glad Kennedy had brought his
revolver, and rather vexed that he had not told me to do likewise.
However, I trusted that Craig knew what he was about.

We seated ourselves some distance from a table on which was a huge,
plain, oblong contrivance that reminded me of the diagram of a
parallelopiped which had caused so much trouble in my solid geometry at
college.

“That’s the electric furnace, sir,” said Craig to me with an assumed
deference, becoming a college professor explaining things to the son
of a great financier. “You see the electrodes at either end? When the
current is turned on and led through them into the furnace you can get
the most amazing temperatures in the crucible. The most refractory of
chemical compounds can be broken up by that heat. What is the highest
temperature you have attained, Professor?”

“Something over three thousand degrees Centigrade,” replied Poissan, as
he and his assistant busied themselves about the furnace.

We sat watching him in silence.

“Ah, gentlemen, now I am ready,” he exclaimed at length, when everything
was arranged to his satisfaction. “You see, here is a lump of sugar
carbon--pure amorphous carbon: Diamonds, as you know, are composed of
pure carbon crystallised under enormous pressure. Now, my theory is that
if we can combine an enormous pressure and an enormous heat we can make
diamonds artificially. The problem of pressure is the thing, for here
in the furnace we have the necessary heat. It occurred to me that when
molten cast iron cools it exerts a tremendous pressure. That pressure is
what I use.”

“You know, Spencer, solid iron floats on molten iron like solid
water--ice--floats on liquid water,” explained Craig to me.

Poissan nodded. “I take this sugar carbon and place it in this soft iron
cup. Then I screw on this cap over the cup, so. Now I place this mass of
iron scraps in the crucible of the furnace and start the furnace.”

He turned a switch, and long yellowish-blue sheets of flame spurted out
from the electrodes on either side. It was weird, gruesome. One could
feel the heat of the tremendous electric discharge.

As I looked at the bluish-yellow flames they gradually changed to a
beautiful purple, and a sickish sweet odour filled the room. The
furnace roared at first, but as the vapors increased it became a better
conductor of the electricity, and the roaring ceased.

In almost no time the mass of iron scraps became molten. Suddenly
Poissan plunged the cast-iron cup into the seething mass. The cup
floated and quickly began to melt. As it did so he waited attentively
until the proper moment. Then with a deft motion he seized the whole
thing with a long pair of tongs and plunged it into a vat of running
water. A huge cloud of steam filled the room.

I felt a drowsy sensation stealing over me as the sickish sweet smell
from the furnace increased. Gripping the chair, I roused myself and
watched Poissan attentively. He was working rapidly. As the molten mass
cooled and solidified he took it out of the water and laid it on an
anvil.

Then his assistant began to hammer it with careful, sharp blows,
chipping off the outside.

“You see, we have to get down to the core of carbon gently,” he said, as
he picked up the little pieces of iron and threw them into a scrap-box.
“First rather brittle cast iron, then hard iron, then iron and carbon,
then some black diamonds, and in the very centre the diamonds.

“Ah! we are getting to them. Here is a small diamond. See, Mr.
Spencer--gently Francois--we shall come to the large ones presently.”

“One moment, Professor Poissan,” interrupted Craig; “let your assistant
break them out while I stand over him.”

“Impossible. You would not know when you saw them. They are just rough
stones.”

“Oh, yes, I would.”

“No, stay where you are. Unless I attend to it the diamonds might be
ruined.”

There was something peculiar about his insistence, but after he picked
out the next diamond I was hardly prepared for Kennedy’s next remark.

“Let me see the palms of your hands.”

Poissan shot an angry glance at Kennedy, but he did not open his hands.

“I merely wish to convince you, ‘Mr. Spencer,’” said Kennedy to me,
“that it is no sleight-of-hand trick and that the professor has not
several uncut stones palmed in his hand like a prestidigitator.”

The Frenchman faced us, his face livid with rage. “You call me a
prestidigitator, a fraud--you shall suffer for that! Sacrebleu! Ventre
du Saint Gris! No man ever insults the honour of Poissan. Francois,
water on the electrodes!”

The assistant dashed a few drops of water on the electrodes. The sickish
odour increased tremendously. I felt myself almost going, but with an
effort I again roused myself. I wondered how Craig stood the fumes, for
I suffered an intense headache and nausea.

“Stop!” Craig thundered. “There’s enough cyanogen in this room already.
I know your game--the water forms acetylene with the carbon, and that
uniting with the nitrogen of the air under the terrific heat of the
electric arc forms hydrocyanic acid. Would you poison us, too? Do you
think you can put me unconscious out on the street and have a society
doctor diagnose my case as pneumonia? Or do you think we shall die
quietly in some hospital as a certain New York banker did last year
after he had watched an alchemist make silver out of apparently
nothing!”

The effect on Poissan was terrible. He advanced toward Kennedy, the
veins in his face fairly standing out. Shaking his forefinger, he
shouted: “You know that, do you? You are no professor, and this is no
banker. You are spies, spies. You come from the friends of Morowitch, do
you? You have gone too far with me.”

Kennedy said nothing, but retreated and took his coat and hat off the
window ledge. The hideous penetrating light of the tongues of flame from
the furnace played on the ground-glass window.

Poissan laughed a hollow laugh.

“Put down your hat and coat, Mistair Kennedy,” he hissed. “The door has
been locked ever since you have been here. Those windows are barred, the
telephone wire is cut, and it is three hundred feet to the street. We
shall leave you here when the fumes have overcome you. Francois and
I can stand them up to a point, and when we reach that point we are
going.”

Instead of being cowed Kennedy grew bolder, though I, for my part, felt
so weakened that I feared the outcome of a hand-to-hand encounter with
either Poissan or Francois, who appeared as fresh as if nothing had
happened. They were hurriedly preparing to leave us.


“That would do you no good,” Kennedy rejoined, “for we have no safe full
of jewels for you to rob. There are no keys to offices to be stolen from
our pockets. And let me tell you--you are not the only man in New York
who knows the secret of thermite. I have told the secret to the
police, and they are only waiting to find who destroyed Morowitch’s
correspondence under the letter ‘P’ to apprehend the robber of his safe.
Your secret is out.”

“Revenge! revenge!” Poissan cried. “I will have revenge. Francois,
bring out the jewels--ha! ha!--here in this bag are the jewels of Mr.
Morowitch. To-night Francois and I will go down by the back elevator to
a secret exit. In two hours all your police in New York cannot find us.
But in two hours you two impostors will be suffocated--perhaps you will
die of cyanogen, like Morowitch, whose jewels I have at last.”

He went to the door into the hall and stood there with a mocking laugh.
I moved to make a rush toward them, but Kennedy raised his hand.

“You will suffocate,” Poissan hissed again.

Just then we heard the elevator door clang, and hurried steps came down
the long hall.

Craig whipped out his automatic and began pumping the bullets out in
rapid succession. As the smoke cleared I expected to see Poissan and
Francois lying on the floor. Instead, Craig had fired at the lock of the
door. He had shattered it into a thousand bits. Andrews and his men were
running down the hall.

“Curse you!” muttered Poissan as he banged the now useless lock, “who
let those fellows in? Are you a wizard?”

Craig smiled coolly as the ventilation cleared the room of the deadly
cyanogen.

“On the window-sill outside is a selenium cell. Selenium is a bad
conductor of electricity in the dark, and an excellent conductor when
exposed to light. I merely moved my coat and hat, and the light from the
furnace which was going to suffocate us played through the glass on the
cell, the circuit was completed without your suspecting that I could
communicate with friends outside, a bell was rung on the street, and
here they are. Andrews, there is the murderer of Morowitch, and there in
his hands are the Morowitch--”

Poissan had moved toward the furnace. With a quick motion he seized the
long tongs. There was a cloud of choking vapour. Kennedy leaped to
the switch and shut off the current. With the tongs he lifted out a
shapeless piece of valueless black graphite.

“All that is left of the priceless Morowitch jewels,” he exclaimed
ruefully. “But we have the murderer.”

“And to-morrow a certified check for one hundred thousand dollars
goes to Mrs. Morowitch with my humblest apologies and sympathy,” added
Andrews. “Professor Kennedy, you have earned your retainer.”



VII. The Azure Ring

Files of newspapers and innumerable clippings from the press bureaus
littered Kennedy’s desk in rank profusion. Kennedy himself was so
deeply absorbed that I had merely said good evening as I came in and had
started to open my mail. With an impatient sweep of his hand, however,
he brushed the whole mass of newspapers into the waste-basket.

“It seems to me, Walter,” he exclaimed in disgust, “that this mystery
is considered insoluble for the very reason which should make it easy to
solve--the extraordinary character of its features.”

Inasmuch as he had opened the subject, I laid down the letter I was
reading. “I’ll wager I can tell you just why you made that remark,
Craig,” I ventured. “You’re reading up on that Wainwright-Templeton
affair.”

“You are on the road to becoming a detective yourself, Walter,” he
answered with a touch of sarcasm. “Your ability to add two units to
two other units and obtain four units is almost worthy of Inspector
O’Connor. You are right and within a quarter of an hour the district
attorney of Westchester County will be here. He telephoned me this
afternoon and sent an assistant with this mass of dope. I suppose he’ll
want it back,” he added, fishing the newspapers out of the basket again.
“But, with all due respect to your profession, I’ll say that no one
would ever get on speaking terms with the solution of this case if he
had to depend solely on the newspaper writers.”

“No?” I queried, rather nettled at his tone.

“No,” he repeated emphatically. “Here one of the most popular girls
in the fashionable suburb of Williston, and one of the leading younger
members of the bar in New York, engaged to be married, are found dead in
the library of the girl’s home the day before the ceremony. And now,
a week later, no one knows whether it was an accident due to the fumes
from the antique charcoal-brazier, or whether it was a double suicide,
or suicide and murder, or a double murder, or--or--why, the experts
haven’t even been able to agree on whether they have discovered poison
or not,” he continued, growing as excited as the city editor did over my
first attempt as a cub reporter.

“They haven’t agreed on anything except that on the eve of what was,
presumably, to have been the happiest day of their lives two of the best
known members of the younger set are found dead, while absolutely no
one, as far as is known, can be proved to have been near them within the
time necessary to murder them. No wonder the coroner says it is simply
a case of asphyxiation. No wonder the district attorney is at his wits’
end. You fellows have hounded them with your hypotheses until they can’t
see the facts straight. You suggest one solution and before-”

The door-bell sounded insistently, and without waiting for an answer a
tall, spare, loose-jointed individual stalked in and laid a green bag on
the table.

“Good evening, Professor Kennedy,” he began brusquely. “I am District
Attorney Whitney, of Westchester. I see you have been reading up on the
case. Quite right.”

“Quite wrong,” answered Craig. “Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Jameson,
of the Star. Sit down. Jameson knows what I think of the way the
newspapers have handled this case. I was about to tell him as you came
in that I intended to disregard everything that had been printed, to
start out with you as if it were a fresh subject and get the facts at
first hand. Let’s get right down to business. First tell us just how it
was that Miss Wainwright and Mr. Templeton were discovered and by whom.”

The district attorney loosened the cords of the green bag and drew out a
bundle of documents. “I’ll read you the affidavit of the maid who
found them,” he said, fingering the documents nervously. “You see, John
Templeton had left his office in New York early that afternoon, telling
his father that he was going to visit Miss Wainwright. He caught
the three-twenty train, reached Williston all right, walked to the
Wainwright house, and, in spite of the bustle of preparation for the
wedding, the next day, he spent the rest of the afternoon with Miss
Wainwright. That’s where the mystery begins. They had no visitors. At
least, the maid who answers the bell says they had none. She was busy
with the rest of the family, and I believe the front door was not
locked--we don’t lock our doors in Williston, except at night.”

He had found the paper and paused to impress these facts on our minds.

“Mrs. Wainwright and Miss Marian Wainwright, the sister, were busy about
the house. Mrs. Wainwright wished to consult Laura about something. She
summoned the maid and asked if Mr. Templeton and Miss Wainwright were
in the house. The maid replied that she would see, and this is her
affidavit. Ahem! I’ll skip the legal part: ‘I knocked at the library
door twice, but obtaining no answer, I supposed they had gone out for
a walk or perhaps a ride across country as they often did. I opened the
door partly and looked in. There was a silence in the room, a strange,
queer silence. I opened the door further and, looking toward the
davenport in the corner, I saw Miss Laura and Mr. Templeton in such an
awkward position. They looked as if they had fallen asleep. His head was
thrown back against the cushions of the davenport, and on his face was a
most awful look. It was discoloured. Her head had fallen forward on his
shoulder, sideways, and on her face, too, was the same terrible stare
and the same discolouration. Their right hands were tightly clasped.

“‘I called to them. They did not answer. Then the horrible truth flashed
on me. They were dead. I felt giddy for a minute, but quickly recovered
myself, and with a cry for help I rushed to Mrs. Wainwright’s room,
shrieking that they were dead. Mrs. Wainwright fainted. Miss Marian
called the doctor on the telephone and helped us restore her mother. She
seemed perfectly cool in the tragedy, and I do not know what we servants
should have done if she had not been there to direct us. The house was
frantic, and Mr. Wainwright was not at home.

“‘I did not detect any odour when I opened the library door. No glasses
or bottles or vials or other receptacles which could have held poison
were discovered or removed by me, or to the best of my knowledge and
belief by anyone else.’”

“What happened next?” asked Craig eagerly.

“The family physician arrived and sent for the coroner immediately, and
later for myself. You see, he thought at once of murder.”

“But the coroner, I understand, thinks differently,” prompted Kennedy.

“Yes, the coroner has declared the case to be accidental. He says that
the weight of evidence points positively to asphyxiation. Still, how can
it be asphyxiation? They could have escaped from the room at any time;
the door was not locked. I tell you, in spite of the fact that the tests
for poison in their mouths, stomachs, and blood have so far revealed
nothing, I still believe that John Templeton and Laura Wainwright were
murdered.”

Kennedy looked at his watch thoughtfully. “You have told me just enough
to make me want to see the coroner himself,” he mused. “If we take
the next train out to Williston with you, will you engage to get us a
half-hour talk with him on the case, Mr. Whitney?”

“Surely. But we’ll have to start right away. I’ve finished my other
business in New York. Inspector O’Connor--ah, I see you know him--has
promised to secure the attendance of anyone whom I can show to be a
material witness in the case. Come on, gentlemen: I’ll answer your other
questions on the train.”

As we settled ourselves in the smoker, Whitney remarked in a low voice,
“You know, someone has said that there is only one thing more difficult
to investigate and solve than a crime whose commission is surrounded
by complicated circumstances and that is a crime whose perpetration is
wholly devoid of circumstances.”

“Are you so sure that this crime is wholly devoid of circumstances?”
 asked Craig.

“Professor,” he replied, “I’m not sure of anything in this case. If I
were I should not require your assistance. I would like the credit of
solving it myself, but it is beyond me. Just think of it: so far we
haven’t a clue, at least none that shows the slightest promise, although
we have worked night and day for a week. It’s all darkness. The facts
are so simple that they give us nothing to work on. It is like a blank
sheet of paper.”

Kennedy said nothing, and the district attorney proceeded: “I don’t
blame Mr. Nott, the coroner, for thinking it an accident. But to
my mind, some master criminal must have arranged this very baffling
simplicity of circumstances. You recall that the front door was
unlocked. This person must have entered the house unobserved, not a
difficult thing to do, for the Wainwright house is somewhat isolated.
Perhaps this person brought along some poison in the form of a beverage,
and induced the two victims to drink. And then, this person must have
removed the evidences as swiftly as they were brought in and by the same
door. That, I think, is the only solution.”

“That is not the only solution. It is one solution,” interrupted Kennedy
quietly.

“Do you think someone in the house did it?” I asked quickly.

“I think,” replied Craig, carefully measuring his words, “that if poison
was given them it must have been by someone they both knew pretty well.”

No one said a word, until at last I broke the silence. “I know from the
gossip of the Star office that many Williston people say that Marian was
very jealous of her sister Laura for capturing the catch of the season.
Williston people don’t hesitate to hint at it.”

Whitney produced another document from that fertile green bag. It was
another affidavit. He handed it to us. It was a statement signed by Mrs.
Wainwright, and read:

“Before God, my daughter Marian is innocent. If you wish to find out
all, find out more about the past history of Mr. Templeton before he
became engaged to Laura. She would never in the world have committed
suicide. She was too bright and cheerful for that, even if Mr. Templeton
had been about to break off the engagement. My daughters Laura and
Marian were always treated by Mr. Wainwright and myself exactly alike.
Of course they had their quarrels, just as all sisters do, but there was
never, to my certain knowledge, a serious disagreement, and I was always
close enough to my girls to know. No, Laura was murdered by someone
outside.”

Kennedy did not seem to attach much importance to this statement. “Let
us see,” he began reflectively. “First, we have a young woman especially
attractive and charming in both person and temperament. She is just
about to be married and, if the reports are to be believed, there was
no cloud on her happiness. Secondly, we have a young man whom everyone
agrees to have been of an ardent, energetic, optimistic temperament. He
had everything to live for, presumably. So far, so good. Everyone who
has investigated this case, I understand, has tried to eliminate the
double-suicide and the suicide-and-murder theories. That is all
right, providing the facts are as stated. We shall see, later, when we
interview the coroner. Now, Mr. Whitney, suppose you tell us briefly
what you have learned about the past history of the two unfortunate
lovers.”

“Well, the Wainwrights are an old Westchester family, not very wealthy,
but of the real aristocracy of the county. There were only two children,
Laura and Marian. The Templetons were much the same sort of family. The
children all attended a private school at White Plains, and there also
they met Schuyler Vanderdyke. These four constituted a sort of little
aristocracy in the school. I mention this, because Vanderdyke later
became Laura’s first husband. This marriage with Templeton was a second
venture.”

“How long ago was she divorced?” asked Craig attentively.

“About three years ago. I’m coming to that in a moment. The sisters went
to college together, Templeton to law school, and Vanderdyke studied
civil engineering. Their intimacy was pretty well broken up, all except
Laura’s and Vanderdyke’s. Soon after he graduated he was taken into the
construction department of the Central Railroad by his uncle, who was a
vice-president, and Laura and he were married. As far as I can learn he
had been a fellow of convivial habits at college, and about two years
after their marriage his wife suddenly became aware of what had
long been well known in Williston, that Vanderdyke was paying marked
attention to a woman named Miss Laporte in New York.

“No sooner had Laura Vanderdyke learned of this intimacy of her
husband,” continued Whitney, “than she quietly hired private detectives
to shadow him, and on their evidence she obtained a divorce. The papers
were sealed, and she resumed her maiden name.

“As far as I can find out, Vanderdyke then disappeared from her life. He
resigned his position with the railroad and joined a party of engineers
exploring the upper Amazon. Later he went to Venezuela. Miss Laporte
also went to South America about the same time, and was for a time in
Venezuela, and later in Peru.

“Vanderdyke seems to have dropped all his early associations completely,
though at present I find he is back in New York raising capital for
a company to exploit a new asphalt concession in the interior of
Venezuela. Miss Laporte has also reappeared in New York as Mrs. Ralston,
with a mining claim in the mountains of Peru.”

“And Templeton?” asked Craig. “Had he had any previous matrimonial
ventures?”

“No, none. Of course he had had love affairs, mostly with the
country-club set. He had known Miss Laporte pretty well, too, while he
was in law school in New York. But when he settled down to work he seems
to have forgotten all about the girls for a couple of years or so. He
was very anxious to get ahead, and let nothing stand in his way. He was
admitted to the bar and taken in by his father as junior member of the
firm of Templeton, Mills & Templeton. Not long ago he was appointed
a special master to take testimony in the get-rich-quick-company
prosecutions, and I happen to know that he was making good in the
investigation.”

Kennedy nodded. “What sort of fellow personally was Templeton?” he
asked.

“Very popular,” replied the district attorney, “both at the country
club and in his profession in New York. He was a fellow of naturally
commanding temperament--the Templetons were always that way. I doubt if
many young men even with his chances could have gained such a reputation
at thirty-five as his. Socially he was very popular, too, a great
catch for all the sly mamas of the country club who had marriageable
daughters. He liked automobiles and outdoor sports, and he was strong in
politics, too. That was how he got ahead so fast.

“Well, to cut the story short, Templeton met the Wainwright girls again
last summer at a resort on Long Island. They had just returned from a
long trip abroad, spending most of the time in the Far East with their
father, whose firm has business interests in China. The girls were very
attractive. They rode and played tennis and golf better than most of the
men, and this fall Templeton became a frequent visitor at the Wainwright
home in Williston.

“People who know them best tell me that his first attentions were paid
to Marian, a very dashing and ambitious young woman. Nearly every day
Templeton’s car stopped at the house and the girls and some friend of
Templeton’s in the country club went for a ride. They tell me that at
this time Marian always sat with Templeton on the front seat. But
after a few weeks the gossips--nothing of that sort ever escapes
Williston--said that the occupant of the front seat was Laura. She often
drove the car herself and was very clever at it. At any rate, not long
after that the engagement was announced.”

As he walked up from the pretty little Williston station Kennedy asked:
“One more question, Mr. Whitney. How did Marian take the engagement?”

The district attorney hesitated. “I will be perfectly frank, Mr.
Kennedy,” he answered. “The country-club people tell me that the girls
were very cool toward each other. That was why I got that statement from
Mrs. Wainwright. I wish to be perfectly fair to everyone concerned in
this case.”

We found the coroner quite willing to talk, in spite of the fact that
the hour was late. “My friend, Mr. Whitney, here, still holds the poison
theory,” began the coroner, “in spite of the fact that everything points
absolutely toward asphyxiation. If I had been able to discover the
slightest trace of illuminating-gas in the room I should have pronounced
it asphyxia at once. All the symptoms accorded with it. But the asphyxia
was not caused by escaping illuminating-gas.

“There was an antique charcoal-brazier in the room, and I have
ascertained that it was lighted. Now, anything like a brazier will,
unless there is proper ventilation, give rise to carbonic oxide
or carbon monoxide gas, which is always present in the products of
combustion, often to the extent of from five to ten per cent. A very
slight quantity of this gas, insufficient even to cause an odour in a
room, will give a severe headache, and a case is recorded where a whole
family in Glasgow was poisoned without knowing it by the escape of this
gas. A little over one per cent of it in the atmosphere is fatal,
if breathed for any length of time. You know, it is a product of
combustion, and is very deadly--it is the much-dreaded white damp or
afterdamp of a mine explosion.

“I’m going to tell you a secret which I have not given out to the press
yet. I tried an experiment in a closed room today, lighting the brazier.
Some distance from it I placed a cat confined in a cage so it could not
escape. In an hour and a half the cat was asphyxiated.”

The coroner concluded with an air of triumph that quite squelched the
district attorney.

Kennedy was all attention. “Have you preserved samples of the blood of
Mr. Templeton and Miss Wainwright?” he asked.

“Certainly. I have them in my office.”

The coroner, who was also a local physician, led us back into his
private office.

“And the cat?” added Craig.

Doctor Nott produced it in a covered basket.

Quickly Kennedy drew off a little of the blood of the cat and held it up
to the light along with the human samples. The difference was apparent.

“You see,” he explained, “carbon monoxide combines firmly with the
blood, destroying the red colouring matter of the red corpuscles. No,
Doctor, I’m afraid it wasn’t carbonic oxide that killed the lovers,
although it certainly killed the cat.”

Doctor Nott was crestfallen, but still unconvinced. “If my whole medical
reputation were at stake,” he repeated, “I should still be compelled to
swear to asphyxia. I’ve seen it too often, to make a mistake. Carbonic
oxide or not, Templeton and Miss Wainwright were asphyxiated.”

It was now Whitney’s chance to air his theory.

“I have always inclined toward the cyanide-of-potassium theory, either
that it was administered in a drink or perhaps injected by a needle,” he
said. “One of the chemists has reported that there was a possibility of
slight traces of cyanide in the mouths.”

“If it had been cyanide,” replied Craig, looking reflectively at the two
jars before him on the table, “these blood specimens would be blue in
colour and clotted. But they are not. Then, too, there is a substance
in the saliva which is used in the process of digestion. It gives a
reaction which might very easily be mistaken for a slight trace of
cyanide. I think that explains what the chemist discovered; no more, no
less. The cyanide theory does not fit.”

“One chemist hinted at nux vomica,” volunteered the coroner. “He said
it wasn’t nux vomica, but that the blood test showed something very
much like it. Oh, we’ve looked for morphine chloroform, ether, all the
ordinary poisons, besides some of the little known alkaloids. Believe
me, Professor Kennedy, it was asphyxia.”

I could tell by the look that crossed Kennedy’s face that at last a ray
of light had pierced the darkness. “Have you any spirits of turpentine
in the office?” he asked.

The coroner shook his head and took a step toward the telephone as if to
call the drug-store in town.

“Or ether?” interrupted Craig. “Ether will do.”

“Oh, yes, plenty of ether.”

Craig poured a little of one of the blood samples from the jar into a
tube and added a few drops of ether. A cloudy dark precipitate formed.
He smiled quietly and said, half to himself, “I thought so.”

“What is it?” asked the coroner eagerly. “Nux vomica?”

Craig shook his head as he stared at the black precipitate. “You were
perfectly right about the asphyxiation, Doctor,” he remarked
slowly, “but wrong as to the cause. It wasn’t carbon monoxide or
illuminating-gas. And you, Mr. Whitney, were right about the poison,
too. Only it is a poison neither of you ever heard of.”

“What is it?” we asked simultaneously.

“Let me take these samples and make some further tests. I am sure of
it, but it is new to me. Wait till to-morrow night, when my chain of
evidence is completed. Then you are all cordially invited to attend
at my laboratory at the university. I’ll ask you, Mr. Whitney, to
come armed with a warrant for John or Jane Doe. Please see that the
Wainwrights, particularly Marian, are present. You can tell Inspector
O’Connor that Mr. Vanderdyke and Mrs. Ralston are required as material
witnesses--anything so long as you are sure that these five persons are
present. Good night, gentlemen.”

We rode back to the city in silence, but as we neared the station,
Kennedy remarked: “You see, Walter, these people are like the
newspapers. They are floundering around in a sea of unrelated facts.
There is more than they think back of this crime. I’ve been revolving
in my mind how it will be possible to get some inkling about this
concession of Vanderdyke’s, the mining claim of Mrs. Ralston, and the
exact itinerary of the Wainwright trip in the Far East. Do you think
you can get that information for me? I think it will take me all day
to-morrow to isolate this poison and get things in convincing shape on
that score. Meanwhile if you can see Vanderdyke and Mrs. Ralston you
can help me a great deal. I am sure you will find them very interesting
people.”

“I have been told that she is quite a female high financier,” I replied,
tacitly accepting Craig’s commission. “Her story is that her claim is
situated near the mine of a group of powerful American capitalists, who
are opposed to having any competition, and on the strength of that
story she has been raking in the money right and left. I don’t know
Vanderdyke, never heard of him before, but no doubt he has some equally
interesting game.”

“Don’t let them think you connect them with the case, however,”
 cautioned Craig.

Early the next morning I started out on my quest for facts, though not
so early but that Kennedy had preceded me to his work in his laboratory.
It was not very difficult to get Mrs. Ralston to talk about her troubles
with the government. In fact, I did not even have to broach the subject
of the death of Templeton. She volunteered the information that in his
handling of her case he had been very unjust to her, in spite of the
fact that she had known him well a long time ago. She even hinted that
she believed he represented the combination of capitalists who
were using the government to aid their own monopoly and prevent the
development of her mine. Whether it was an obsession of her mind,
or merely part of her clever scheme, I could not make out. I noted,
however, that when she spoke of Templeton it was in a studied,
impersonal way, and that she was at pains to lay the blame for the
governmental interference rather on the rival mine-owners.

It quite surprised me when I found from the directory that Vanderdyke’s
office was on the floor below in the same building. Like Mrs. Ralston’s,
it was open, but not doing business, pending the investigation by the
Post-Office Department.

Vanderdyke was a type of which I had seen many before. Well dressed to
the extreme, he displayed all those evidences of prosperity which are
the stock in trade of the man with securities to sell. He grasped
my hand when I told him I was going to present the other side of the
post-office cases and held it between both of his as if he had known me
all his life. Only the fact that he had never seen me before prevented
his calling me by my first name. I took mental note of his stock of
jewellery, the pin in his tie that might almost have been the Hope
diamond, the heavy watch chain across his chest, and a very brilliant
seal ring of lapis lazuli on the hand that grasped mine. He saw me
looking at it and smiled.

“My dear fellow, we have deposits of that stuff that would make a
fortune if we could get the machinery to get at it. Why, sir, there is
lapis lazuli enough on our claim to make enough ultramarine paint to
supply all the artists to the end of the world. Actually we could afford
to crush it up and sell it as paint. And that is merely incidental to
the other things on the concession. The asphalt’s the thing. That’s
where the big money is. When we get started, sir, the old asphalt trust
will simply melt away, melt away.”

He blew a cloud of tobacco smoke and let it dissolve significantly in
the air.

When it came to talking about the suits, however, Vanderdyke was not
so communicative as Mrs. Ralston, but he was also not so bitter against
either the post-office or Templeton.

“Poor Templeton,” he said. “I used to know him years ago when we were
boys. Went to school with him and all that sort of thing, you know,
but until I ran across him, or rather he ran across me, in this
investigation I hadn’t heard much about him. Pretty clever fellow he
was, too. The state will miss him, but my lawyer tells me that we
should have won the suit anyhow, even if that unfortunate tragedy hadn’t
occurred. Most unaccountable, wasn’t it? I’ve read about it in the
papers for old time’s sake, and can make nothing out of it.”

I said nothing, but wondered how he could pass so lightheartedly over
the death of the woman who had once been his wife. However, I said
nothing. The result was he launched forth again on the riches of his
Venezuelan concession and loaded me down with “literature,” which I
crammed into my pocket for future reference.

My next step was to drop into the office of a Spanish-America paper
whose editor was especially well informed on South American affairs.

“Do I know Mrs. Ralston?” he repeated, thoughtfully lighting one of
those black cigarettes that look so vicious and are so mild. “I should
say so. I’ll tell you a little story about her. Three or four years
ago she turned up in Caracas. I don’t know who Mr. Ralston was--perhaps
there never was any Mr. Ralston. Anyhow, she got in with the official
circle of the Castro government and was very successful as an
adventuress. She has considerable business ability and represented
a certain group of Americans. But, if you recall, when Castro was
eliminated pretty nearly everyone who had stood high with him went, too.
It seems that a number of the old concessionaires played the game on
both sides. This particular group had a man named Vanderdyke on the
anti-Castro side. So, when Mrs. Ralston went, she just quietly sailed by
way of Panama to the other side of the continent, to Peru--they paid her
well--and Vanderdyke took the title role.

“Oh, yes, she and Vanderdyke were very good friends, very, indeed. I
think they must have known each other here in the States. Still they
played their parts well at the time. Since things have settled down in
Venezuela, the concessionaires have found no further use for Vanderdyke
either, and here they are, Vanderdyke and Mrs. Ralston, both in New York
now, with two of the most outrageous schemes of financing ever seen on
Broad Street. They have offices in the same building, they are together
a great deal, and now I hear that the state attorney-general is after
both of them.”

With this information and a very meagre report of the Wainwright trip to
the Far East, which had taken in some out-of-the-way places apparently,
I hastened back to Kennedy. He was surrounded by bottles, tubes, jars,
retorts, Bunsen burners, everything in the science and art of chemistry,
I thought.

I didn’t like the way he looked. His hand was unsteady, and his eyes
looked badly, but he seemed quite put out when I suggested that he was
working too hard over the case. I was worried about him, but rather than
say anything to offend him I left him for the rest of the afternoon,
only dropping in before dinner to make sure that he would not forget to
eat something. He was then completing his preparations for the evening.
They were of the simplest kind, apparently. In fact, all I could see was
an apparatus which consisted of a rubber funnel, inverted and attached
to a rubber tube which led in turn into a jar about a quarter full of
water. Through the stopper of the jar another tube led to a tank of
oxygen.

There were several jars of various liquids on the table and a number
of chemicals. Among other things was a sort of gourd, encrusted with a
black substance, and in a corner was a box from which sounds issued as
if it contained something alive.

I did not trouble Kennedy with questions, for I was only too glad when
he consented to take a brisk walk and join me in a thick porterhouse.

It was a large party that gathered in Kennedy’s laboratory that night,
one of the largest he had ever had. Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright and Miss
Marian came, the ladies heavily veiled. Doctor Nott and Mr. Whitney were
among the first to arrive. Later came Mr. Vanderdyke and last of all
Mrs. Ralston with Inspector O’Connor. Altogether it was an unwilling
party.

“I shall begin,” said Kennedy, “by going over, briefly, the facts in
this case.”

Tersely he summarised it, to my surprise laying great stress on the
proof that the couple had been asphyxiated.

“But it was no ordinary asphyxiation,” he continued. “We have to deal in
this case with a poison which is apparently among the most subtle known.
A particle of matter so minute as to be hardly distinguishable by the
naked eye, on the point of a needle or a lancet, a prick of the skin
scarcely felt under any circumstances and which would pass quite
unheeded if the attention were otherwise engaged, and not all the power
in the world--unless one was fully prepared--could save the life of the
person in whose skin the puncture had been made.”

Craig paused a moment, but no one showed any evidence of being more than
ordinarily impressed.

“This poison, I find, acts on the so-called endplates of the muscles and
nerves. It produces complete paralysis, but not loss of consciousness,
sensation, circulation, or respiration until the end approaches. It
seems to be one of the most powerful sedatives I have ever heard of.
When introduced in even a minute quantity it produces death finally by
asphyxiation--by paralysing the muscles of respiration. This asphyxia is
what so puzzled the coroner.

“I will now inject a little of the blood serum of the victims into a
white mouse.”

He took a mouse from the box I had seen, and with a needle injected the
serum. The mouse did not even wince, so lightly did he touch it, but as
we watched, its life seemed gently to ebb away, without pain and without
struggle. Its breath simply seemed to stop.

Next he took the gourd I had seen on the table and with a knife scraped
off just the minutest particle of the black licorice-like stuff that
encrusted it. He dissolved the particle in some alcohol and with a
sterilised needle repeated his experiment on a second mouse. The effect
was precisely similar to that produced by the blood on the first.

It did not seem to me that anyone showed any emotion except possibly
the slight exclamation that escaped Miss Marian Wainwright. I fell
to wondering whether it was prompted by a soft heart or a guilty
conscience.

We were all intent on what Craig was doing, especially Doctor Nott, who
now broke in with a question.

“Professor Kennedy, may I ask a question? Admitting that the first mouse
died in an apparently similar manner to the second, what proof have you
that the poison is the same in both cases? And if it is the same can you
show that it affects human beings in the same way, and that enough of
it has been discovered in the blood of the victims to have caused their
death? In other words, I want the last doubt set aside. How do you know
absolutely that this poison which you discovered in my office last night
in that black precipitate when you added the ether--how do you know that
it asphyxiated the victims?”

If ever Craig startled me it was by his quiet reply. “I’ve isolated
it in their blood, extracted it, sterilised it, and I’ve tried it on
myself.”

In breathless amazement, with eyes riveted on Craig, we listened.

“Altogether I was able to recover from the blood samples of both of
the victims of this crime six centigrams of the poison,” he pursued.
“Starting with two centigrams of it as a moderate dose, I injected it
into my right arm subcutaneously. Then I slowly worked my way up
to three and then four centigrams. They did not produce any very
appreciable results other than to cause some dizziness, slight vertigo,
a considerable degree of lassitude, and an extremely painful headache
of rather unusual duration. But five centigrams considerably improved
on this. It caused a degree of vertigo and lassitude that was most
distressing, and six centigrams, the whole amount which I had recovered
from the samples of blood, gave me the fright of my life right here in
this laboratory this afternoon.

“Perhaps I was not wise in giving myself so large an injection on a day
when I was overheated and below par otherwise because of the strain I
have been under in handling this case. However that may be, the added
centigram produced so much more on top of the five centigrams previously
taken that for a time I had reason to fear that that additional
centigram was just the amount needed to bring my experiments to a
permanent close.

“Within three minutes of the time of injection the dizziness and vertigo
had become so great as to make walking seem impossible. In another
minute the lassitude rapidly crept over me, and the serious disturbance
of my breathing made it apparent to me that walking, waving my arms,
anything, was imperative. My lungs felt glued up, and the muscles of my
chest refused to work. Everything swam before my eyes, and I was soon
reduced to walking up and down the laboratory with halting steps, only
preventing falling on the floor by holding fast to the edge of this
table. It seemed to me that I spent hours gasping for breath. It
reminded me of what I once experienced in the Cave of the Winds of
Niagara, where water is more abundant in the atmosphere than air. My
watch afterward indicated only about twenty minutes of extreme distress,
but that twenty minutes is one never to be forgotten, and I advise you
all, if you ever are so foolish as to try the experiment, to remain
below the five-centigram limit.

“How much was administered to the victims, Doctor Nott, I cannot say,
but it must have been a good deal more than I took. Six centigrams,
which I recovered from these small samples, are only nine-tenths of
a grain. Yet you see what effect it had. I trust that answers your
question.”

Doctor Nott was too overwhelmed to reply.

“And what is this deadly poison?” continued Craig, anticipating our
thoughts. “I have been fortunate enough to obtain a sample of it from
the Museum of Natural History. It comes in a little gourd, or often a
calabash. This is in a gourd. It is blackish brittle stuff encrusting
the sides of the gourd just as if it was poured in in the liquid state
and left to dry. Indeed, that is just what has been done by those who
manufacture this stuff after a lengthy and somewhat secret process.”

He placed the gourd on the edge of the table where we could all see it.
I was almost afraid even to look at it.

“The famous traveller, Sir Robert Schomburgh first brought it into
Europe, and Darwin has described it. It is now an article of commerce
and is to be found in the United States Pharmacopoeia as a medicine,
though of course it is used in only very minute quantities, as a heart
stimulant.”

Craig opened a book to a place he had marked:

“At least one person in this room will appreciate the local colour of a
little incident I am going to read--to illustrate what death from this
poison is like. Two natives of the part of the world whence it comes
were one day hunting. They were armed with blowpipes and quivers full
of poisoned darts made of thin charred pieces of bamboo tipped with this
stuff. One of them aimed a dart. It missed the object overhead, glanced
off the tree, and fell down on the hunter himself. This is how the other
native reported the result:

“‘Quacca takes the dart out of his shoulder. Never a word. Puts it in
his quiver and throws it in the stream. Gives me his blowpipe for his
little son. Says to me good-bye for his wife and the village. Then he
lies down. His tongue talks no longer. No sight in his eyes. He folds
his arms. He rolls over slowly. His mouth moves without sound. I feel
his heart. It goes fast and then slow. It stops. Quacca has shot his
last woorali dart.’”

We looked at each other, and the horror of the thing sank deep into our
minds. Woorali. What was it? There were many travellers in the room who
had been in the Orient, home of poisons, and in South America. Which one
had run across the poison?

“Woorali, or curare,” said Craig slowly, “is the well-known poison with
which the South American Indians of the upper Orinoco tip their arrows.
Its principal ingredient is derived from the Strychnos toxifera tree,
which yields also the drug nux vomica.”

A great light dawned on me. I turned quickly to where Vanderdyke was
sitting next to Mrs. Ralston, and a little behind her. His stony stare
and laboured breathing told me that he had read the purport of Kennedy’s
actions.

“For God’s sake, Craig,” I gasped. “An emetic, quick--Vanderdyke.”

A trace of a smile flitted over Vanderdyke’s features, as much as to say
that he was beyond our interference.

“Vanderdyke,” said Craig, with what seemed to me a brutal calmness,
“then it was you who were the visitor who last saw Laura Wainwright and
John Templeton alive. Whether you shot a dart at them I do not know. But
you are the murderer.”

Vanderdyke raised his hand as if to assent. It fell back limp, and I
noted the ring of the bluest lapis lazuli.

Mrs. Ralston threw herself toward him. “Will you not do something? Is
there no antidote? Don’t let him die!” she cried.

“You are the murderer,” repeated Kennedy, as if demanding a final
answer.

Again the hand moved in confession, and he feebly moved the finger on
which shone the ring.

Our attention was centred on Vanderdyke. Mrs. Ralston, unobserved, went
to the table and picked up the gourd. Before O’Connor could stop her
she had rubbed her tongue on the black substance inside. It was only a
little bit, for O’Connor quickly dashed it from her lips and threw the
gourd through the window, smashing the glass.

“Kennedy,” he shouted frantically, “Mrs. Ralston has swallowed some of
it.”

Kennedy seemed so intent on Vanderdyke that I had to repeat the remark.

Without looking up, he said: “Oh, one can swallow it--it’s strange,
but it is comparatively inert if swallowed even in a pretty good-sized
quantity. I doubt if Mrs. Ralston ever heard of it before except by
hearsay. If she had, she’d have scratched herself with it instead of
swallowing it.”

If Craig had been indifferent to the emergency of Vanderdyke before,
he was all action now that the confession had been made. In an instant
Vanderdyke was stretched on the floor and Craig had taken out the
apparatus I had seen during the afternoon.

“I am prepared for this,” he exclaimed quickly. “Here is the apparatus
for artificial respiration. Nott, hold that rubber funnel over his nose,
and start the oxygen from the tank. Pull his tongue forward so it won’t
fall down his throat and choke him. I’ll work his arms. Walter, make a
tourniquet of your handkerchief and put it tightly on the muscles of
his left arm. That may keep some of the poison in his arm from spreading
into the rest of his body. This is the only antidote known--artificial
respiration.”

Kennedy was working feverishly, going through the motions of first
aid to a drowned man. Mrs. Ralston was on her knees beside Vanderdyke,
kissing his hands and forehead whenever Kennedy stopped for a minute,
and crying softly.

“Schuyler, poor boy, I wonder how you could have done it. I was with him
that day. We rode up in his car, and as we passed through Williston he
said he would stop a minute and wish Templeton luck. I didn’t think it
strange, for he said he had nothing any longer against Laura Wainwright,
and Templeton only did his duty as a lawyer against us. I forgave John
for prosecuting us, but Schuyler didn’t, after all. Oh, my poor boy, why
did you do it? We could have gone somewhere else and started all over
again--it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

At last came the flutter of an eyelid and a voluntary breath or two.
Vanderdyke seemed to realise where he was. With a last supreme effort he
raised his hand and drew it slowly across his face. Then he fell back,
exhausted by the effort.

But he had at last put himself beyond the reach of the law. There was no
tourniquet that would confine the poison now in the scratch across his
face. Back of those lack-lustre eyes he heard and knew, but could not
move or speak. His voice was gone, his limbs, his face, his chest,
and, last, his eyes. I wondered if it were possible to conceive a more
dreadful torture than that endured by a mind which so witnessed the
dying of one organ after another of its own body, shut up, as it were,
in the fulness of life, within a corpse.

I looked in bewilderment at the scratch on his face. “How did he do it?”
 I asked.

Carefully Craig drew off the azure ring and examined it. In that part
which surrounded the blue lapis lazuli, he indicated a hollow point,
concealed. It worked with a spring and communicated with a little
receptacle behind, in such a way that the murderer could give the fatal
scratch while shaking hands with his victim.

I shuddered, for my hand had once been clasped by the one wearing
that poison ring, which had sent Templeton, and his fiancee and now
Vanderdyke himself, to their deaths.



VIII. “Spontaneous Combustion”

Kennedy and I had risen early, for we were hustling to get off for a
week-end at Atlantic City. Kennedy was tugging at the straps of his grip
and remonstrating with it under his breath, when the door opened and a
messenger-boy stuck his head in.

“Does Mr. Kennedy live here?” he asked.

Craig impatiently seized the pencil, signed his name in the book, and
tore open a night letter. From the prolonged silence that followed I
felt a sense of misgiving. I, at least, had set my heart on the Atlantic
City outing, but with the appearance of the messenger-boy I intuitively
felt that the board walk would not see us that week.

“I’m afraid the Atlantic City trip is off, Walter,” remarked Craig
seriously. “You remember Tom Langley in our class at the university?
Well, read that.”

I laid down my safety razor and took the message. Tom had not spared
words, and I could see at a glance at the mere length of the thing that
it must be important. It was from Camp Hang-out in the Adirondacks.

“Dear old K.,” it began, regardless of expense, “can you arrange to come
up here by next train after you receive this? Uncle Lewis is dead. Most
mysterious. Last night after we retired noticed peculiar odour about
house. Didn’t pay much attention. This morning found him lying on floor
of living-room, head and chest literally burned to ashes, but lower part
of body and arms untouched. Room shows no evidence of fire, but full of
sort of oily soot. Otherwise nothing unusual. On table near body siphon
of seltzer, bottle of imported limes, and glass for rickeys. Have
removed body, but am keeping room exactly as found until you arrive.
Bring Jameson. Wire if you cannot come, but make every effort and spare
no expense. Anxiously, Tom Langley.”

Craig was impatiently looking at his watch as I hastily ran through the
letter.

“Hurry, Walter,” he exclaimed. “We can just catch the Empire State.
Never mind shaving--we’ll have a stopover at Utica to wait for the
Montreal express. Here, put the rest of your things in your grip and
jam it shut. We’ll get something to eat on the train--I hope. I’ll wire
we’re coming. Don’t forget to latch the door.”

Kennedy was already half-way to the elevator, and I followed ruefully,
still thinking of the ocean and the piers, the bands and the roller
chairs.

It was a good ten-hour journey up to the little station nearest Camp
Hang-out and at least a two hour ride after that. We had plenty of time
to reflect over what this death might mean to Tom and his sister and to
speculate on the manner of it. Tom and Grace Langley were relatives by
marriage of Lewis Langley, who, after the death of his wife, had made
them his proteges. Lewis Langley was principally noted, as far as I
could recall, for being a member of some of the fastest clubs of both
New York and London. Neither Kennedy nor myself had shared in the
world’s opinion of him, for we knew how good he had been to Tom in
college and, from Tom, how good he had been to Grace. In fact, he had
made Tom assume the Langley name, and in every way had treated the
brother and sister as if they had been his own children.

Tom met us with a smart trap at the station, a sufficient indication,
if we had not already known, of the “roughing it” at such a luxurious
Adirondack “camp” as Camp Hang-out. He was unaffectedly glad to see us,
and it was not difficult to read in his face the worry which the affair
had already given him.

“Tom; I’m awfully sorry to--” began Craig when, warned by Langley’s
look at the curious crowd that always gathers at the railroad station
at train time, he cut it short. We stood silently a moment while Tom was
arranging the trap for us.

As we swung around the bend in the road that cut off the little station
and its crowd of lookers-on, Kennedy was the first to speak. “Tom,” he
said, “first of all, let me ask that when we get to the camp we are
to be simply two old classmates whom you had asked to spend a few days
before the tragedy occurred. Anything will do. There may be nothing at
all to your evident suspicions, and then again there may. At any
rate, play the game safely--don’t arouse any feeling which might cause
unpleasantness later in case you are mistaken.”

“I quite agree with you,” answered Tom. “You wired, from Albany, I
think, to keep the facts out of the papers as much as possible. I’m
afraid it is too late for that. Of course the thing became vaguely known
in Saranac, although the county officers have been very considerate of
us, and this morning a New York Record correspondent was over and talked
with us. I couldn’t refuse, that would have put a very bad face on it.”

“Too bad,” I exclaimed. “I had hoped, at least, to be able to keep the
report down to a few lines in the Star. But the Record will have such
a yellow story about it that I’ll simply have to do something to
counteract the effect.”

“Yes,” assented Craig. “But--wait. Let’s see the Record story first. The
office doesn’t know you’re up here. You can hold up the Star and give
us time to look things over, perhaps get in a beat on the real story and
set things right. Anyhow, the news is out. That’s certain. We must work
quickly. Tell me, Tom, who are at the camp--anyone except relatives?”

“No,” he replied, guardedly measuring his words. “Uncle Lewis had
invited his brother James and his niece and nephew, Isabelle and James,
junior--we call him Junior. Then there are Grace and myself and
a distant relative, Harrington Brown, and--oh, of course, uncle’s
physician, Doctor Putnam.”

“Who is Harrington Brown” asked Craig.

“He’s on the other side of the Langley family, on Uncle Lewis’s mother’s
side. I think, or at least Grace thinks, that he is quite in love with
Isabelle. Harrington Brown would be quite a catch. Of course he isn’t
wealthy, but his family is mighty well connected. Oh, Craig,” sighed
Langley, “I wish he hadn’t done it--Uncle Lewis, I mean. Why did he
invite his brother up here now when he needed to recover from the swift
pace of last winter in New York? You know--or you don’t know, I suppose,
but you’ll know it now--when he and Uncle Jim got together there was
nothing to it but one drink after another. Doctor Putnam was quite
disgusted, at least he professed to be, but, Craig,” he lowered his
voice to a whisper, as if the very forest had ears, “they’re all
alike--they’ve been just waiting for Uncle Lewis to drink himself to
death. Oh,” he added bitterly, “there’s no love lost between me and the
relatives on that score, I can assure you.”

“How did you find him that morning?” asked Kennedy, as if to turn off
this unlocking of family secrets to strangers.

“That’s the worst part of the whole affair,” replied Tom, and even in
the dusk I could see the lines of his face tighten. “You know Uncle
Lewis was a hard drinker, but he never seemed to show it much. We
had been out on the lake in the motor-boat fishing all the afternoon
and--well, I must admit both my uncles had had frequent recourse to
‘pocket pistols,’ and I remember they referred to it each time as
‘bait.’ Then after supper nothing would do but fizzes and rickeys. I was
disgusted, and after reading a bit went to bed. Harrington and my uncles
sat up with Doctor Putnam--according to Uncle Jim--for a couple of
hours longer. Then Harrington, Doctor Putnam, and Uncle Jim went to bed,
leaving Uncle Lewis still drinking. I remember waking in the night, and
the house seemed saturated with a peculiar odour. I never smelt anything
like it in my life. So I got up and slipped into my bathrobe. I met
Grace in the hall. She was sniffing.

“‘Don’t you smell something burning?’ she asked.

“I said I did and started down-stairs to investigate. Everything was
dark, but that smell was all over the house. I looked in each
room down-stairs as I went, but could see nothing. The kitchen and
dining-room were all right. I glanced into the living-room, but, while
the smell was more noticeable there, I could see no evidence of a fire
except the dying embers on the hearth. It had been coolish that night,
and we had had a few logs blazing. I didn’t examine the room--there
seemed no reason for it. We went back to our rooms, and in the morning
they found the gruesome object I had missed in the darkness and shadows
of the living-room.”

Kennedy was intently listening. “Who found him?” he asked.

“Harrington,” replied Tom. “He roused us. Harrington’s theory is that
uncle set himself on fire with a spark from his cigar--a charred cigar
butt was found on the floor.”

We found Tom’s relatives a saddened, silent party in the face of the
tragedy. Kennedy and I apologised very profusely for our intrusion, but
Tom quickly interrupted, as we had agreed, by explaining that he had
insisted on our coming, as old friends on whom he felt he could rely,
especially to set the matter right in the newspapers.

I think Craig noticed keenly the reticence of the family group in the
mystery--I might almost have called it suspicion. They did not seem to
know just whether to take it as an accident or as something worse,
and each seemed to entertain a reserve toward the rest which was very
uncomfortable.

Mr. Langley’s attorney in New York had been notified, but apparently was
out of town, for he had not been heard from. They seemed rather anxious
to get word from him.

Dinner over, the family group separated, leaving Tom an opportunity to
take us into the gruesome living-room. Of course the remains had
been removed, but otherwise the room was exactly as it had been when
Harrington discovered the tragedy. I did not see the body, which was
lying in an anteroom, but Kennedy did, and spent some time in there.

After he rejoined us, Kennedy next examined the fireplace. It was full
of ashes from the logs which had been lighted on the fatal night.
He noted attentively the distance of Lewis Langley’s chair from the
fireplace, and remarked that the varnish on the chair was not even
blistered.

Before the chair, on the floor where the body had been found, he pointed
out to us the peculiar ash-marks for some space around, but it really
seemed to me as if something else interested him more than these
ash-marks.

We had been engaged perhaps half an hour in viewing the room. At last
Craig suddenly stopped.

“Tom,” he said, “I think I’ll wait till daylight before I go any
further. I can’t tell with certainty under these lights, though perhaps
they show me some things the sunlight wouldn’t show. We’d better leave
everything just as it is until morning.”

So we locked the room again and went into a sort of library across the
hall.

We were sitting in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts on the
mystery, when the telephone rang. It proved to be a long-distance call
from New York for Tom himself. His uncle’s attorney had received the
news at his home out on Long Island and had hurried to the city to take
charge of the estate. But that was not the news that caused the grave
look on Tom’s face as he nervously rejoined us.

“That was uncle’s lawyer, Mr. Clark, of Clark & Burdick,” he said.
“He has opened uncle’s personal safe in the offices of the Langley
estate--you remember them, Craig--where all the property of the Langley
heirs is administered by the trustees. He says he can’t find the will,
though he knows there was a will and that it was placed in that safe
some time ago. There is no duplicate.”

The full purport of this information at once flashed on me, and I was
on the point of blurting out my sympathy, when I saw by the look which
Craig and Tom exchanged that they had already realised it and understood
each other. Without the will the blood-relatives would inherit all of
Lewis Langley’s interest in the old Langley estate. Tom and his sister
would be penniless.

It was late, yet we sat for nearly an hour longer, and I don’t think we
exchanged a half-dozen sentences in all that time. Craig seemed absorbed
in thought. At length, as the great hall-clock sounded midnight, we rose
as if by common consent.

“Tom,” said Craig, and I could feel the sympathy that welled up in his
voice, “Tom, old man, I’ll get at the bottom of this mystery if human
intelligence can do it.”

“I know you will, Craig,” responded Tom, grasping each of us by the
hand. “That’s why I so much wanted you fellows to come up here.”

Early in the morning Kennedy aroused me. “Now, Walter, I’m going to ask
you to come down into the living-room with me, and we’ll take a look at
it in the daytime.”

I hurried into my clothes, and together we quietly went down. Starting
with the exact spot where the unfortunate man had been discovered,
Kennedy began a minute examination of the floor, using his pocket lens.
Every few moments he would stop to examine a spot on the rug or on
the hardwood floor more intently. Several times I saw him scrape
up something with the blade of his knife and carefully preserve the
scrapings, each in a separate piece of paper.

Sitting idly by, I could not for the life of me see just what good it
did for me to be there, and I said as much. Kennedy laughed quietly.

“You’re a material witness, Walter,” he replied. “Perhaps I shall need
you some day to testify that I actually found these spots in this room.”

Just then Tom stuck his head in. “Can I help?” he asked. “Why didn’t you
tell me you were going at it so early?”

“No, thanks,” answered Craig, rising from the floor. “I was just making
a careful examination of the room before anyone was up so that nobody
would think I was too interested. I’ve finished. But you can help me,
after all. Do you think you could describe exactly how everyone was
dressed that night?”

“Why, I can try. Let me see. To begin with, uncle had on a
shooting-jacket--that was pretty well burnt, as you know. Why, in fact,
we all had our shooting-jackets on. The ladies were in white.”

Craig pondered a little, but did not seem disposed to pursue the subject
further, until Tom volunteered the information that since the tragedy
none of them had been wearing their shooting jackets.

“We’ve all been wearing city clothes,” he remarked.

“Could you get your Uncle James and your Cousin Junior to go with
you for an hour or two this morning on the lake, or on a tramp in the
woods?” asked Craig after a moment’s thought.

“Really, Craig,” responded Tom doubtfully, “I ought to go to Saranac to
complete the arrangements for taking Uncle Lewis’s body to New York.”

“Very well, persuade them to go with you. Anything, so long as you keep
me from interruption for an hour or two.”

They agreed on doing that, and as by that time most of the family were
up, we went in to breakfast, another silent and suspicious meal.

After breakfast Kennedy tactfully withdrew from the family, and I did
the same. We wandered off in the direction of the stables and there fell
to admiring some of the horses. The groom, who seemed to be a sensible
and pleasant sort of fellow, was quite ready to talk, and soon he and
Craig were deep in discussing the game of the north country.

“Many rabbits about here?” asked Kennedy at length, when they had
exhausted the larger game.

“Oh, yes. I saw one this morning, sir,” replied the groom.

“Indeed?” said Kennedy. “Do you suppose you could catch a couple for
me?”

“Guess I could, sir--alive, you mean?”

“Oh, yes, alive--I don’t want you to violate the game laws. This is the
closed season, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, but then it’s all right, sir, here on the estate.”

“Bring them to me this afternoon, or--no, keep them here in the stable
in a cage and let me know when you have them. If anybody asks you about
them, say they belong to Mr. Tom.”

Craig handed a small treasury note to the groom, who took it with a grin
and touched his hat.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I have the bunnies.”

As we walked slowly back from the stables we caught sight of Tom down
at the boat-house just putting off in the motor-boat with his uncle and
cousin. Craig waved to him, and he walked up to meet us.

“While you’re in Saranac,” said Craig, “buy me a dozen or so test-tubes.
Only, don’t let anyone here at the house know you are buying them. They
might ask questions.”

While they were gone Kennedy stole into James Langley’s room and after
a few minutes returned to our room with the hunting-jacket. He carefully
examined it with his pocket lens. Then he filled a drinking-glass with
warm boiled water and added a few pinches of table salt. With a piece
of sterilised gauze from Doctor Putnam’s medicine-chest, he carefully
washed off a few portions of the coat and set the glass and the gauze
soaking in it aside. Then he returned the coat to the closet where
he had found it. Next, as silently, he stole into Junior’s room and
repeated the process with his hunting-jacket, using another glass and
piece of gauze.

“While I am out of the room, Walter,” he said, “I want you to take these
two glasses, cover them, and number them and on a slip of paper which
you must retain, place the names of the owners of the respective coats.
I don’t like this part of it--I hate to play spy and would much rather
come out in the open, but there is nothing else to do, and it is much
better for all concerned that I should play the game secretly just
now. There may be no cause for suspicion at all. In that case I’d never
forgive myself for starting a family row. And then again but we shall
see.”

After I had numbered and recorded the glasses Kennedy returned, and we
went down-stairs again.

“Curious about the will, isn’t it?” I remarked as we stood on the wide
verandah a moment.

“Yes,” he replied. “It may be necessary to go back to New York to delve
into that part of it before we get through, but I hope not. We’ll wait.”

At this point the groom interrupted us to say that he had caught the
rabbits. Kennedy at once hurried to the stable. There he rolled up his
sleeves, pricked a vein in his arm, and injected a small quantity of his
own blood into one of the rabbits. The other he did not touch.

It was late in the afternoon when Tom returned from town with his uncle
and cousin. He seemed even more agitated than usual. Without a word he
hurried up from the landing and sought us out.

“What do you think of that?” he cried, opening a copy of the Record, and
laying it flat on the library table.

There on the front page was Lewis Langley’s picture with a huge
scare-head:

    MYSTERIOUS CASE OF SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION

“It’s all out,” groaned Tom, as we bent over to read the account. “And
such a story!”

Under the date of the day previous, a Saranac despatch ran:

Lewis Langley, well known as sporting man and club member in New York,
and eldest son of the late Lewis Langley, the banker, was discovered
dead under the most mysterious circumstances this morning at Camp
Hangout, twelve miles from this town.

The Death of “Old Krook” in Dickens’s “Bleak House” or of the victim in
one of Marryat’s most thrilling tales was not more gruesome than this
actual fact. It is without doubt a case of spontaneous human combustion,
such as is recorded beyond dispute in medical and medico-legal
text-books of the past two centuries. Scientists in this city consulted
for the Record agree that, while rare, spontaneous human combustion is
an established fact and that everything in this curious case goes to
show that another has been added to the already well-authenticated
list of cases recorded in America and Europe. The family refuse to be
interviewed, which seems to indicate that the rumours in medical circles
in Saranac have a solid basis of fact.

Then followed a circumstantial account of the life of Langley and the
events leading up to the discovery of the body--fairly accurate in
itself, but highly coloured.

“The Record man must have made good use of his time here,” I commented,
as I finished reading the despatch. “And--well, they must have done some
hard work in New York to get this story up so completely--see, after
the despatch follow a lot of interviews, and here is a short article on
spontaneous combustion itself.”

Harrington and the rest of the family had just come in.

“What’s this we hear about the Record having an article?” Harrington
asked. “Read it aloud, Professor, so we can all hear it.”

“‘Spontaneous human combustion, or catacausis ebriosus,’” began Craig,
“‘is one of the baffling human scientific mysteries. Indeed, there can
be no doubt but that individuals have in some strange and inexplicable
manner caught fire and been partially or almost wholly consumed.

“‘Some have attributed it to gases in the body, such as carbureted
hydrogen. Once it was noted at the Hotel Dieu in Paris that a body on
being dissected gave forth a gas which was inflammable and burned with a
bluish flame. Others have attributed the combustion to alcohol. A toper
several years ago in Brooklyn and New York used to make money by blowing
his breath through a wire gauze and lighting it. Whatever the cause,
medical literature records seventy-six cases of catacausis in two
hundred years.

“‘The combustion seems to be sudden and is apparently confined to
the cavities, the abdomen, chest, and head. Victims of ordinary fire
accidents rush hither and thither frantically, succumb from exhaustion,
their limbs are burned, and their clothing is all destroyed. But in
catacausis they are stricken down without warning, the limbs are rarely
burned, and only the clothing in contact with the head and chest is
consumed. The residue is like a distillation of animal tissue, grey and
dark, with an overpoweringly fetid odour. They are said to burn with
a flickering stifled blue flame, and water, far from arresting the
combustion, seems to add to it. Gin is particularly rich in inflammable,
empyreumatic oils, as they are called, and in most cases it is recorded
that the catacausis took place among gin-drinkers, old and obese.

“‘Within the past few years cases are on record which seem to establish
catacausis beyond doubt. In one case the heat was so great as to explode
a pistol in the pocket of the victim. In another, a woman, the victim’s
husband was asphyxiated by the smoke. The woman weighed, one hundred and
eighty pounds in life, but the ashes weighed only twelve pounds: In all
these cases the proof of spontaneous combustion seems conclusive.’”

As Craig finished reading, we looked blankly, horrified, at one another.
It was too dreadful to realise.

“What do you think of it, Professor” asked James Langley, at length.
“I’ve read somewhere of such cases, but to think of its actually
happening--and to my own brother. Do you really think Lewis could have
met his death in this terrible manner?”

Kennedy made no reply. Harrington seemed absorbed in thought. A shudder
passed over us as we thought about it. But, gruesome as it was, it was
evident that the publication of the story in the Record had relieved the
feelings of the family group in one respect--it at least seemed to offer
an explanation. It was noticeable that the suspicious air with which
everyone had regarded everyone else was considerably dispelled.

Tom said nothing until the others had withdrawn. “Kennedy,” he
burst out, then, “do you believe that such combustion is absolutely
spontaneous? Don’t you believe that something else is necessary to start
it?”

“I’d rather not express an opinion just yet, Tom,” answered Craig
carefully. “Now, if you can get Harrington and Doctor Putnam away from
the house for a short time, as you did with your uncle and cousin this
morning, I may be able to tell you something about this case soon.”

Again Kennedy stole into another bedroom, and returned to our room with
a hunting-jacket. Just as he had done before, he carefully washed it
off with the gauze soaked in the salt solution and quickly returned the
coat, repeating the process with Doctor Putnam’s coat and, last, that of
Tom himself. Finally he turned his back while I sealed the glasses and
marked and recorded them on my slip.

The next day was spent mainly in preparations for the journey to New
York with the body of Lewis Langley. Kennedy was very busy on
what seemed to me to be preparations for some mysterious chemical
experiments. I found myself fully occupied in keeping special
correspondents from all over the country at bay.

That evening after dinner we were all sitting in the open summer house
over the boat-house. Smudges of green pine were burning and smoking on
little artificial islands of stone near the lake shore, lighting up the
trees on every side with a red glare. Tom and his sister were seated
with Kennedy and myself on one side, while some distance from us
Harrington was engaged in earnest conversation with Isabelle. The other
members of the family were further removed. That seemed typical to me of
the way the family group split up.

“Mr. Kennedy,” remarked Grace in a thoughtful, low tone, “what do you
make of that Record article?”

“Very clever, no doubt,” replied Craig.

“But don’t you think it strange about the will?”

“Hush,” whispered Tom, for Isabelle and Harrington had ceased talking
and might perhaps be listening.

Just then one of the servants came up with a telegram.

Tom hastily opened it and read the message eagerly in the corner of the
summer house nearest one of the glowing smudges. I felt instinctively
that it was from his lawyer. He turned and beckoned to Kennedy and
myself.

“What do you think of that?” he whispered hoarsely.

We bent over and in the flickering light read the message:


New York papers full of spontaneous combustion story. Record had
exclusive story yesterday, but all papers to-day feature even more.
Is it true? Please wire additional details at once. Also immediate
instructions regarding loss of will. Has been abstracted from safe.
Could Lewis Langley have taken it himself? Unless new facts soon must
make loss public or issue statement Lewis Langley intestate.

             DANIEL CLARK


Tom looked blankly at Kennedy, and then at his sister, who was sitting
alone. I thought I could read what was passing in his mind. With all
his faults Lewis Langley had been a good foster-parent to his adopted
children. But it was all over now if the will was lost.

“What can I do?” asked Tom hopelessly. “I have nothing to reply to him.”

“But I have,” quietly returned Kennedy, deliberately folding up the
message and handing it back. “Tell them all to be in the library in
fifteen minutes. This message hurries me a bit, but I am prepared. You
will have something to wire Mr. Clark after that.” Then he strode
off toward the house, leaving us to gather the group together in
considerable bewilderment.

A quarter of an hour later we had all assembled in the library, across
the hall from the room in which Lewis Langley had been found. As usual
Kennedy began by leaping straight into the middle of his subject.

“Early in the eighteenth century;” he commenced slowly, “a woman was
found burned to death. There were no clues, and the scientists of that
time suggested spontaneous combustion. This explanation was accepted.
The theory always has been that the process of respiration by which
the tissues of the body are used up and got rid of gives the body a
temperature, and it has seemed that it may be possible, by preventing
the escape of this heat, to set fire to the body.”

We were leaning forward expectantly, horrified by the thought that
perhaps, after all, the Record was correct.

“Now,” resumed Kennedy, his tone changing, “suppose we try a little
experiment--one that was tried very convincingly by the immortal Liebig.
Here is a sponge. I am going to soak it in gin from this bottle, the
same that Mr. Langley was drinking from on the night of the--er--the
tragedy.”

Kennedy took the saturated sponge and placed it in an agate-iron pan
from the kitchen. Then he lighted it. The bluish flame shot upward,
and in tense silence we watched it burn lower and lower, till all the
alcohol was consumed. Then he picked up the sponge and passed it around.
It was dry, but the sponge itself had not been singed.

“We now know,” he continued, “that from the nature of combustion it
is impossible for the human body to undergo spontaneous ignition
or combustion in the way the scientific experts of the past century
believed. Swathe the body in the thickest of non-conductors of heat, and
what happens? A profuse perspiration exudes, and before such an ignition
could possibly take place all the moisture of the body would have to be
evaporated. As seventy-five per cent or more of the body is water, it
is evident that enormous heat would be necessary--moisture is the great
safeguard. The experiment which I have shown you could be duplicated
with specimens of human organs preserved for years in alcohol in
museums. They would burn just as this sponge--the specimen itself would
be very nearly uninjured by the burning of the alcohol.”

“Then, Professor Kennedy, you maintain that my brother did not meet his
death by such an accident” asked James Langley.

“Exactly that, sir,” replied Craig. “One of the most important aspects
of the historic faith in this phenomenon is that of its skilful
employment in explaining away what would otherwise appear to be
convincing circumstantial evidence in cases of accusations of murder.”

“Then how do you explain Mr. Langley’s death?” demanded Harrington. “My
theory of a spark from a cigar may be true, after all.”

“I am coming to that in a moment,” answered Kennedy quietly. “My first
suspicion was aroused by what not even Doctor Putnam seems to have
noticed. The skull of Mr. Langley, charred and consumed as it was,
seemed to show marks of violence. It might have been from a fracture of
the skull or it might have been an accident to his remains as they were
being removed to the anteroom. Again, his tongue seemed as though it was
protruding. That might have been natural suffocation, or it might have
been from forcible strangulation. So far I had nothing but conjecture to
work on. But in looking over the living-room I found near the table, on
the hardwood floor, a spot--just one little round spot. Now, deductions
from spots, even if we know them to be blood, must be made very
carefully. I did not know this to be a blood-spot, and so was very
careful at first.

“Let us assume it was a blood-spot, however. What did it show? It was
just a little regular round spot, quite thick. Now, drops of blood
falling only a few inches usually make a round spot with a smooth
border. Still the surface on which the drop falls is quite as much a
factor as the height from which it falls. If the surface is rough
the border may be irregular. But this was a smooth surface and not
absorbent. The thickness of a dried blood-spot on a non-absorbent
surface is less the greater the height from which it has fallen. This
was a thick spot. Now if it had fallen, say, six feet, the height of Mr.
Langley, the spot would have been thin--some secondary spatters
might have been seen, or at least an irregular edge around the spot.
Therefore, if it was a blood-spot, it had fallen only one or two feet.
I ascertained next that the lower part of the body showed no wounds or
bruises whatever.

“Tracks of blood such as are left by dragging a bleeding body differ
very greatly from tracks of arterial blood which are left when the
victim has strength to move himself. Continuing my speculations,
supposing it to be a blood-spot, what did it indicate? Clearly that
Mr. Langley was struck by somebody on the head with a heavy instrument,
perhaps in another part of the room, that he was choked, that as the
drops of blood oozed from the wound on his head, he was dragged across
the floor, in the direction of the fireplace--”

“But, Professor Kennedy,” interrupted Doctor Putnam, “have you proved
that the spot was a blood-spot? Might it not have been a paint-spot or
something of that sort?”

Kennedy had apparently been waiting for just such a question.

“Ordinarily, water has no effect on paint,” he answered. “I found that
the spot could be washed off with water. That is not all. I have a test
for blood that is so delicately sensitive that the blood of an Egyptian
mummy thousands of years old will respond to it. It was discovered by
a German scientist, Doctor Uhlenhuth, and was no longer ago than last
winter applied in England in connection with the Clapham murder.
The suspected murderer declared that stains on his clothes were only
spatters of paint, but the test proved them to be spatters of blood.
Walter, bring in the cage with the rabbits.”

I opened the door and took the cage from the groom, who had brought it
up from the stable and stood waiting with it some distance away.

“This test is very simple, Doctor Putnam,” continued Craig, as I placed
the cage on the table and Kennedy unwrapped the sterilised test-tubes.
“A rabbit is inoculated with human blood, and after a time the serum
that is taken from the rabbit supplies the material for the test.

“I will insert this needle in one of these rabbits which has been so
inoculated and will draw off some of the serum, which I place in this
test-tube to the right. The other rabbit has not been inoculated. I draw
off some of its serum and place that tube here on the left--we will call
that our ‘control tube.’ It will check the results of our tests.

“Wrapped up in this paper I have the scrapings of the spot which I
found on the floor--just a few grains of dark, dried powder. To show
how sensitive the test is, I will take only one of the smallest of these
minute scrapings. I dissolve it in this third tube with distilled water.
I will even divide it in half, and place the other half in this fourth
tube.

“Next I add some of the serum of the uninoculated rabbit to the half in
this tube. You observe, nothing happens. I add a little of the serum of
the inoculated rabbit to the other half in this other tube. Observe how
delicate the test is--”

Kennedy was leaning forward, almost oblivious of the rest of us in the
room, talking almost as if to himself. We, too, had riveted our eyes on
the tubes.

As he added the serum from the inoculated rabbit, a cloudy milky ring
formed almost immediately in the hitherto colourless, very dilute
blood-solution.

“That,” concluded Craig, triumphantly holding the tube aloft, “that
conclusively proves that the little round spot on the hardwood floor was
not paint, was not anything in this wide world but blood.”

No one in the room said a word, but I knew there must have been someone
there who thought volumes in the few minutes that elapsed.

“Having found one blood-spot, I began to look about for more, but was
able to find only two or three traces where spots seemed to have been.
The fact is that the blood spots had been apparently carefully wiped up.
That is an easy matter. Hot water and salt, or hot water alone, or even
cold water, will make quite short work of fresh blood-spots--at least
to all outward appearances. But nothing but a most thorough cleaning
can conceal them from the Uhlenhuth test, even when they are apparently
wiped out. It is a case of Lady Macbeth over again, crying in the face
of modern science, ‘Out, out, damned spot.’

“I was able with sufficient definiteness to trace roughly a course
of blood-spots from the fireplace to a point near the door of the
living-room. But beyond the door, in the hall, nothing.”

“Still,” interrupted Harrington, “to get back to the facts in the case.
They are perfectly in accord either with my theory of the cigar or the
Record’s of spontaneous combustion. How do you account for the facts?”

“I suppose you refer to the charred head, the burned neck, the upper
chest cavity, while the arms and legs were untouched?”

“Yes, and then the body was found in the midst of combustible
furniture that was not touched. It seems to me that even the
spontaneous-combustion theory has considerable support in spite of this
very interesting circumstantial evidence about blood-spots. Next to my
own theory, the combustion theory seems most in harmony with the facts.”

“If you will go over in your mind all the points proved to have been
discovered--not the added points in the Record story--I think you
will agree with me that mine is a more logical interpretation than
spontaneous combustion,” reasoned Craig. “Hear me out and you will see
that the facts are more in harmony with my less fanciful explanation.
No, someone struck Lewis Langley down either in passion or in cold
blood, and then, seeing what he had done, made a desperate effort to
destroy the evidence of violence. Consider my next discovery.”

Kennedy placed the five glasses which I had carefully sealed and
labelled on the table before us.

“The next step,” he said, “was to find out whether any articles of
clothing in the house showed marks that might be suspected of being
blood-spots. And here I must beg the pardon of all in the room for
intruding in their private wardrobes. But in this crisis it was
absolutely necessary, and under such circumstances I never let ceremony
stand before justice.

“In these five glasses on the table I have the washings of spots from
the clothing worn by Tom, Mr. James Langley, Junior, Harrington Brown,
and Doctor Putnam. I am not going to tell you which is which--indeed I
merely have them marked, and I do not know them myself. But Mr. Jameson
has the marks with the names opposite on a piece of paper in his pocket.
I am simply going to proceed with the tests to see if any of the stains
on the coats were of blood.”

Just then Doctor Putnam interposed. “One question, Professor Kennedy.
It is a comparatively easy thing to recognise a blood-stain, but it is
difficult, usually impossible, to tell whether the blood is that of a
man or of an animal. I recall that we were all in our hunting-jackets
that day, had been all day. Now, in the morning there had been an
operation on one of the horses at the stable, and I assisted the
veterinary from town. I may have got a spot or two of blood on my coat
from that operation. Do I understand that this test would show that?”

“No,” replied Craig, “this test would not show that. Other tests would,
but not this. But if the spot of human blood were less than the size of
a pin-head, it would show--it would show if the spot contained even
so little as one twenty-thousandth of a gram of albumin. Blood from a
horse, a deer, a sheep, a pig, a dog, could be obtained, but when the
test was applied the liquid in which they were diluted would remain
clear. No white precipitin, as it is called, would form. But let human
blood, ever so diluted, be added to the serum of the inoculated rabbit,
and the test is absolute.”

A death-like silence seemed to pervade the room. Kennedy slowly and
deliberately began to test the contents of the glasses. Dropping into
each, as he broke the seal, some of the serum of the rabbit, he waited a
moment to see if any change occurred.

It was thrilling. I think no one could have gone through that fifteen
minutes without having it indelibly impressed on his memory. I recall
thinking as Kennedy took each glass, “Which is it to be, guilt or
innocence, life or death?” Could it be possible that a man’s life might
hang on such a slender thread? I knew Kennedy was too accurate and
serious to deceive us. It was not only possible, it was actually a fact.

The first glass showed no reaction. Someone had been vindicated.

The second was neutral likewise--another person in the room had been
proved innocent.

The third--no change. Science had released a third.

The fourth--

Almost it seemed as if the record in my pocket burned--spontaneously--so
intense was my feeling. There in the glass was that fatal, telltale
white precipitate.

“My God, it’s the milk ring!” whispered Tom close to my ear.

Hastily Kennedy dropped the serum into the fifth. It remained as clear
as crystal.

My hand trembled as it touched the envelope containing my record of the
names.

“The person who wore the coat with that blood-stain on it,” declared
Kennedy solemnly, “was the person who struck Lewis Langley down, who
choked him and then dragged his scarcely dead body across the floor
and obliterated the marks of violence in the blazing log fire. Jameson,
whose name is opposite the sign on this glass?”

I could scarcely tear the seal to look at the paper in the envelope. At
last I unfolded it, and my eye fell on the name opposite the fatal sign.
But my mouth was dry, and my tongue refused to move. It was too much
like reading a death-sentence. With my finger on the name I faltered an
instant.

Tom leaned over my shoulder and read it to himself. “For Heaven’s sake,
Jameson,” he cried, “let the ladies retire before you read the name.”

“It’s not necessary,” said a thick voice. “We quarrelled over the
estate. My share’s mortgaged up to the limit, and Lewis refused to lend
me more even until I could get Isabelle happily married. Now Lewis’s
goes to an outsider--Harrington, boy, take care of Isabelle, fortune or
no fortune. Good--”

Someone seized James Langley’s arm as he pressed an automatic revolver
to his temple. He reeled like a drunken man and dropped the gun on the
floor with an oath.

“Beaten again,” he muttered. “Forgot to move the ratchet from ‘safety’
to ‘fire.’”

Like a madman he wrenched himself loose from us, sprang through the
door, and darted upstairs. “I’ll show you some combustion!” he shouted
back fiercely.

Kennedy was after him like a flash. “The will!” he cried.

We literally tore the door off its hinges and burst into James Langley’s
room. He was bending eagerly over the fireplace. Kennedy made a flying
leap at him. Just enough of the will was left unburned to be admitted to
probate.



IX. The Terror In The Air

“There’s something queer about these aeroplane accidents at Belmore
Park,” mused Kennedy, one evening, as his eye caught a big headline in
the last edition of the Star, which I had brought uptown with me.

“Queer?” I echoed. “Unfortunate, terrible, but hardly queer. Why, it is
a common saying among the aeronauts that if they keep at it long enough
they will all lose their lives.”

“Yes, I know that,” rejoined Kennedy; “but, Walter, have you noticed
that all these accidents have happened to Norton’s new gyroscope
machines?”

“Well, what of that” I replied. “Isn’t it just barely possible that
Norton is on the wrong track in applying the gyroscope to an aeroplane?
I can’t say I know much about either the gyroscope or the aeroplane, but
from what I hear the fellows at the office say it would seem to me that
the gyroscope is a pretty good thing to keep off an aeroplane, not to
put on it.”

“Why?” asked Kennedy blandly.

“Well, it seems to me, from what the experts say, that anything which
tends to keep your machine in one position is just what you don’t want
in an aeroplane. What surprises them, they say, is that the thing seems
to work so well up to a certain point--that the accidents don’t happen
sooner. Why, our man on the aviation field tells me that when that
poor fellow Browne was killed he had all but succeeded in bringing his
machine to a dead stop in the air. In other words, he would have won the
Brooks Prize for perfect motionlessness in one place. And then Herrick,
the day before, was going about seventy miles an hour when he collapsed.
They said it was heart failure. But to-night another expert says in
the Star--here, I’ll read it: ‘The real cause was carbonic-acid-gas
poisoning due to the pressure on the mouth from driving fast through the
air, and the consequent inability to expel the poisoned air which had
been breathed. Air once breathed is practically carbonic-acid-gas. When
one is passing rapidly through the air this carbonic-acid-gas is pushed
back into the lungs, and only a little can get away because of the rush
of air pressure into the mouth. So it is rebreathed, and the result is
gradual carbonic-acid-gas poisoning, which produces a kind of narcotic
sleep.’”

“Then it wasn’t the gyroscope in that case?” said Kennedy with a rising
inflection.

“No,” I admitted reluctantly, “perhaps not.”

I could see that I had been rash in talking so long. Kennedy had only
been sounding me to see what the newspapers thought of it. His next
remark was characteristic.

“Norton has asked me to look into the thing,” he said quietly. “If his
invention is a failure, he is a ruined man. All his money is in it,
he is suing a man for infringing on his patent, and he is liable
for damages to the heirs, according to his agreement with Browne and
Herrick. I have known Norton some time; in fact, he worked out his ideas
at the university physical laboratory. I have flown in his machine, and
it is the most marvellous biplane I ever saw. Walter, I want you to get
a Belmore Park assignment from the Star and go out to the aviation meet
with me to-morrow. I’ll take you on the field, around the machines--you
can get enough local colour to do a dozen Star specials later on. I may
add that devising a flying-machine capable of remaining stationary in
the air means a revolution that will relegate all other machines to the
scrap-heap. From a military point of view it is the one thing necessary
to make the aeroplane the superior in every respect to the dirigible.”

The regular contests did not begin until the afternoon, but Kennedy
and I decided to make a day of it, and early the next morning we were
speeding out to the park where the flights were being held.

We found Charles Norton, the inventor, anxiously at work with his
mechanicians in the big temporary shed that had been accorded him, and
was dignified with the name of hangar.

“I knew you would come, Professor,” he exclaimed, running forward to
meet us.

“Of course,” echoed Kennedy. “I’m too much interested in this invention
of yours not to help you, Norton. You know what I’ve always thought of
it--I’ve told you often that it is the most important advance since the
original discovery by the Wrights that the aeroplane could be balanced
by warping the planes.”

“I’m just fixing up my third machine,” said Norton. “If anything
happens to it, I shall lose the prize, at least as far as this meet is
concerned, for I don’t believe I shall get my fourth and newest model
from the makers in time. Anyhow, if I did I couldn’t pay for it--I am
ruined, if I don’t win that twenty-five-thousand-dollar Brooks Prize.
And, besides, a couple of army men are coming to inspect my aeroplane
and report to the War Department on it. I’d have stood a good chance
of selling it, I think, if my flights here had been like the trials you
saw. But, Kennedy,” he added, and his face was drawn and tragic, “I’d
drop the whole thing if I didn’t know I was right. Two men dead--think
of it. Why, even the newspapers are beginning to call me a cold,
heartless, scientific crank, to keep on. But I’ll show them--this
afternoon I’m going to fly myself. I’m not afraid to go anywhere I send
my men. I’ll die before I’ll admit I’m beaten.”

It was easy to see why Kennedy was fascinated by a man of Norton’s
type. Anyone would have been. It was not foolhardiness. It was dogged
determination, faith in himself and in his own ability to triumph over
every obstacle.

We now slowly entered the shed where two men were working over Norton’s
biplane. One of the men was a Frenchman, Jaurette, who had worked with
Farman, a silent, dark-browed, weatherbeaten fellow with a sort of
sullen politeness. The other man was an American, Roy Sinclair, a tall,
lithe, wiry chap with a seamed and furrowed face and a loose-jointed
but very deft manner which marked him a born bird-man. Norton’s third
aviator, Humphreys, who was not to fly that day, much to his relief, was
reading a paper in the back of the shed.

We were introduced to him, and be seemed to be a very companionable sort
of fellow, though not given to talking.

“Mr. Norton,” he said, after the introduction, “there’s quite an account
of your injunction against Delanne in this paper. It doesn’t seem to be
very friendly,” he added, indicating the article.

Norton read it and frowned. “Humph! I’ll show them yet that my
application of the gyroscope is patentable. Delanne will put me into
‘interference’ in the patent office, as the lawyers call it, will he?
Well, I filed a ‘caveat’ over a year and a half ago. If I’m wrong, he’s
wrong, and all gyroscope patents are wrong, and if I’m right, by George,
I’m first in the field. That’s so, isn’t it?” he appealed to Kennedy.

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders non-committally, as if he had never
heard of the patent office or the gyroscope in his life. The men were
listening, whether or not from loyalty I could not tell.

“Let us see your gyroplane, I mean aeroscope--whatever it is you call
it,” asked Kennedy.

Norton took the cue. “Now you newspaper men are the first that I’ve
allowed in here,” he said. “Can I trust your word of honour not to
publish a line except such as I O.K. after you write it?”

We promised.

As Norton directed, the mechanicians wheeled the aeroplane out on the
field in front of the shed. No one was about.

“Now this is the gyroscope,” began Norton, pointing out a thing encased
in an aluminum sheath, which weighed, all told, perhaps fourteen or
fifteen pounds. “You see, the gyroscope is really a flywheel mounted
on gimbals and can turn on any of its angles so that it can assume any
angle in space. When it’s at rest like this you can turn it easily. But
when set revolving it tends to persist always in the plane in which it
was started rotating.”

I took hold of it, and it did turn readily in any direction. I could
feel the heavy little flywheel inside.

“There is a pretty high vacuum in that aluminum case,” went on Norton.
“There’s very little friction on that account. The power to rotate the
flywheel is obtained from this little dynamo here, run by the gas-engine
which also turns the propellers of the aeroplane.”

“But suppose the engine stops, how about the gyroscope?” I asked
sceptically.

“It will go right on for several minutes. You know, the Brennan monorail
car will stand up some time after the power is shut off. And I carry a
small storage-battery that will run it for some time, too. That’s all
been guarded against.”

Jaurette cranked the engine, a seven-cylindered affair, with the
cylinders sticking out like the spokes of a wheel without a rim. The
propellers turned so fast that I could not see the blades--turned
with that strong, steady, fierce droning buzz that can be heard a long
distance and which is a thrilling sound to hear. Norton reached over and
attached the little dynamo, at the same time setting the gyroscope at
its proper angle and starting it.

“This is the mechanical brain of my new flier,” he remarked, patting the
aluminum case lovingly. “You can look in through this little window in
the case and see the flywheel inside revolving--ten thousand revolutions
a minute. Press down on the gyroscope,” he shouted to me.

As I placed both hands on the case of the apparently frail little
instrument, he added, “You remember how easily you moved it just a
moment ago.”

I pressed down with all my might. Then I literally raised myself off
my feet, and my whole weight was on the gyroscope. That uncanny little
instrument seemed to resent--yes, that’s the word, resent--my touch.
It was almost human in the resentment, too. Far from yielding to me, it
actually rose on the side I was pressing down!

The men who were watching me laughed at the puzzled look on my face.

I took my hands off, and the gyroscope leisurely and nonchalantly went
back to its original position.

“That’s the property we use, applied to the rudder and the
ailerons--those flat planes between the large main planes. That gives
automatic stability to the machine,” continued Norton. “I’m not going
to explain how it is done--it is in the combination of the various parts
that I have discovered the basic principle, and I’m not going to talk
about it till the thing is settled by the courts. But it is there, and
the court will see it, and I’ll prove that Delanne is a fraud--a fraud
when he says that my combination isn’t patentable and isn’t practicable
even at that. The truth is that his device as it stands isn’t
practicable, and, besides, if he makes it so it infringes on mine. Would
you like to take a flight with me?”

I looked at Kennedy, and a vision of the wreckage of the two previous
accidents, as the Star photographer had snapped them, flashed across my
mind. But Kennedy was too quick for me.

“Yes,” he answered. “A short flight. No stunts.”

We took our seats by Norton, I, at least, with some misgiving. Gently
the machine rose into the air. The sensation was delightful. The fresh
air of the morning came with a stinging rush to my face. Below I could
see the earth sweeping past as if it were a moving-picture film. Above
the continuous roar of the engine and propeller Norton indicated
to Kennedy the automatic balancing of the gyroscope as it bent the
ailerons.

“Could you fly in this machine without the gyroscope at all?” yelled
Kennedy. The noise was deafening, conversation almost impossible. Though
sitting side by side he had to repeat his remark twice to Norton.

“Yes,” called back Norton. Reaching back of him, he pointed out the way
to detach the gyroscope and put a sort of brake on it that stopped its
revolutions almost instantly. “It’s a ticklish job to change in the
air,” he shouted. “It can be done, but it’s safer to land and do it.”

The flight was soon over, and we stood admiring the machine while Norton
expatiated on the compactness of his little dynamo.

“What have you done with the wrecks of the other machines?” inquired
Kennedy at length.

“They are stored in a shed down near the railroad station. They are just
a mass of junk, though there are some parts that I can use, so I’ll ship
them back to the factory.”

“Might I have a look at them?”

“Surely. I’ll give you the key. Sorry I can’t go myself, but I want to
be sure everything is all right for my flight this afternoon.”

It was a long walk over to the shed near the station, and, together
with our examination of the wrecked machines, it took us the rest of the
morning. Craig carefully turned over the wreckage. It seemed a hopeless
quest to me, but I fancied that to him it merely presented new problems
for his deductive and scientific mind.

“These gyroscopes are out of business for good,” he remarked as he
glanced at the dented and battered aluminum cases. “But there doesn’t
seem to be anything wrong with them except what would naturally happen
in such accidents.”

For my part I felt a sort of awe at the mass of wreckage in which Browne
and Herrick had been killed. It was to me more than a tangled mass of
wires and splinters. Two human lives had been snuffed out in it.

“The engines are a mass of scrap; see how the cylinders are bent and
twisted,” remarked Kennedy with great interest. “The gasoline-tank is
intact, but dented out of shape. No explosion there. And look at this
dynamo. Why, the wires in it are actually fused together. The insulation
has been completely burned off. I wonder what could have caused that?”

Kennedy continued to regard the tangled mass thoughtfully for some time,
then locked the door, and we strolled back to the grand stand on our
side of the field. Already the crowd had begun to collect. Across the
field we could see the various machines in front of their hangars with
the men working on them. The buzz of the engines was wafted across by
the light summer breeze as if a thousand cicadas had broken loose to
predict warm weather.

Two machines were already in flight, a little yellow Demoiselle,
scurrying around close to the earth like a frightened hen, and a
Bleriot, high overhead, making slow and graceful turns like a huge bird.

Kennedy and I stopped before the little wireless telegraph station of
the signal corps in front of the grand stand and watched the operator
working over his instruments.

“There it is again,” muttered the operator angrily.

“What’s the matter?” asked Kennedy. “Amateurs interfering with you?”

The man nodded a reply, shaking his head with the telephone-like
receiver, viciously. He continued to adjust his apparatus.

“Confound it!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that fellow has been jamming me for
the past two days off and on, every time I get ready to send or receive
a message. Williams is going up with a Wright machine equipped with
wireless apparatus in a minute, and this fellow won’t get out of the
way. By Jove, though, those are powerful impulses of his. Hear that
crackling? I’ve never been interfered with so in my experience. Touch
that screen door with your knife.”

Kennedy did so, and elicited large sparks with quite a tingle of a
shock.

“Yesterday and the day before it was so bad we had to give up attempting
to communicate with Williams,” continued the operator. “It was worse
than trying to work in a thunder-shower. That’s the time we get our
troubles, when the air is overcharged with electricity, as it is now.”

“That’s interesting,” remarked Kennedy.

“Interesting?” flashed back the operator, angrily noting the condition
in his “log book.”

“Maybe it is, but I call it darned mean. It’s almost like trying to work
in a power station.”

“Indeed?” queried Kennedy. “I beg your pardon--I was only looking at it
from the purely scientific point of view. Who is it, do you suppose?”

“How do I know? Some amateur, I guess. No professional would butt in
this way.”

Kennedy took a leaf out of his note-book and wrote a short message which
he gave to a boy to deliver to Norton.

“Detach your gyroscope and dynamo,” it read. “Leave them in the hangar.
Fly without them this afternoon, and see what happens. No use to try for
the prize to-day. Kennedy.”

We sauntered out on the open part of the field, back of the fence and to
the side of the stands, and watched the fliers for a few moments. Three
were in the air now, and I could see Norton and his men getting ready.

The boy with the message was going rapidly across the field. Kennedy was
impatiently watching him. It was too far off to see just what they were
doing, but as Norton seemed to get down out of his seat in the aeroplane
when the boy arrived, and it was wheeled back into the shed, I gathered
that he was detaching the gyroscope and was going to make the flight
without it, as Kennedy had requested.

In a few minutes it was again wheeled out.

The crowd, which had been waiting especially to see Norton, applauded.

“Come, Walter,” exclaimed Kennedy, “let’s go up there on the roof of the
stand where we can see better. There’s a platform and railing, I see.”

His pass allowed him to go anywhere on the field, so in a few moments we
were up on the roof.

It was a fascinating vantage-point, and I was so deeply engrossed
between watching the crowd below, the bird-men in the air, and the
machines waiting across the field that I totally neglected to notice
what Kennedy was doing. When I did, I saw that he had deliberately
turned his back on the aviation field, and was anxiously, scanning the
country back of us.

“What are you looking for?” I asked. “Turn around. I think Norton is
just about to fly.”

“Watch him then,” answered Craig. “Tell me when he gets in the air.”

Just then Norton’s aeroplane rose gently from the field. A wild shout
of applause came from the people below us, at the heroism of the man who
dared to fly this new and apparently fated machine. It was succeeded by
a breathless, deathly calm, as if after the first burst of enthusiasm
the crowd had suddenly realised the danger of the intrepid aviator.
Would Norton add a third to the fatalities of the meet?

Suddenly Kennedy jerked my arm. “Walter, look over there across the road
back of us--at the old weatherbeaten barn. I mean the one next to that
yellow house. What do you see?”

“Nothing, except that on the peak of the roof there is a pole that looks
like the short stub of a small wireless mast. I should say there was a
boy connected with that barn, a boy who has read a book on wireless for
beginners.”

“Maybe,” said Kennedy. “But is that all you see? Look up in the little
window of the gable, the one with the closed shutter.”

I looked carefully. “It seems to me that I saw a gleam of something
bright at the top of the shutter, Craig,” I ventured. “A spark or a
flash.”

“It must be a bright spark, for the sun is shining brightly,” mused
Craig.

“Oh, maybe it’s the small boy with a looking-glass. I can remember when
I used to get behind such a window and shine a glass into the darkened
room of my neighbours across the street.”

I had really said that half in raillery, for I was at a loss to account
in any other way for the light, but I was surprised to see how eagerly
Craig accepted it.

“Perhaps you are right, in a way,” he assented. “I guess it isn’t a
spark, after all. Yes, it must be the reflection of the sun on a piece
of glass--the angles are just about right for it. Anyhow it caught my
eye. Still, I believe that barn will bear watching.”

Whatever his suspicions, Craig kept them to himself, and descended.
At the same time Norton gently dropped back to earth in front of his
hangar, not ten feet from the spot where he started. The applause was
deafening, as the machine was again wheeled into the shed safely.

Kennedy and I pushed through the crowd to the wireless operator.

“How’s she working?” inquired Craig.

“Rotten,” replied the operator sullenly. “It was worse than ever about
five minutes ago. It’s much better now, almost normal again.”

Just then the messenger-boy, who had been hunting through the crowd for
us, handed Kennedy a note. It was merely a scrawl from Norton:


  “Everything seems fine. Am going to try her next with the
  gyroscope.  NORTON.”


“Boy,” exclaimed Craig, “has Cdr. Norton a telephone?”

“No, sir, only that hangar at the end has a telephone.”

“Well, you run across that field as fast as your legs can carry you and
tell him if he values his life not to do it.”

“Not to do what, sir?”

“Don’t stand there, youngster. Run! Tell him not to fly with that
gyroscope. There’s a five-spot in it if you get over there before he
starts.”

Even as he spoke the Norton aeroplane was wheeled out again. In a minute
Norton had climbed up into his seat and was testing the levers.

Would the boy reach him in time? He was half across the field, waving
his arms like mad. But apparently Norton and his men were too engrossed
in their machine to pay attention.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Craig. “He’s going to try it. Run, boy, run!”
 he cried, although the boy was now far out of hearing.

Across the field we could hear now the quick staccato chug-chug of the
engine. Slowly Norton’s aeroplane, this time really equipped with
the gyroscope, rose from the field and circled over toward us. Craig
frantically signalled to him to come down, but of course Norton could
not have seen him in the crowd. As for the crowd, they looked askance at
Kennedy, as if he had taken leave of his senses.

I heard the wireless operator cursing the way his receiver was acting.

Higher and higher Norton went in one spiral after another, those spirals
which his gyroscope had already made famous.

The man with the megaphone in front of the judge’s stand announced in
hollow tones that Mr. Norton had given notice that he would try for the
Brooks Prize for stationary equilibrium.

Kennedy and I stood speechless, helpless, appalled.

Slower and slower went the aeroplane. It seemed to hover just like the
big mechanical bird that it was.

Kennedy was anxiously watching the judges with one eye and Norton with
the other. A few in the crowd could no longer restrain their applause. I
remember that the wireless back of us was spluttering and crackling like
mad.

All of a sudden a groan swept over the crowd. Something was wrong with
Norton. His aeroplane was swooping downward at a terrific rate. Would he
be able to control it? I held my breath and gripped Kennedy by the arm.
Down, down came Norton, frantically fighting by main strength, it seemed
to me, to warp the planes so that their surface might catch the air and
check his descent.

“He’s trying to detach the gyroscope,” whispered Craig hoarsely.

The football helmet which Norton wore blew off and fell more rapidly
than the plane. I shut my eyes. But Kennedy’s next exclamation caused me
quickly to open them again.

“He’ll make it, after all!”

Somehow Norton had regained partial control of his machine, but it was
still swooping down at a tremendous pace toward the level centre of the
field.

There was a crash as it struck the ground in a cloud of dust.

With a leap Kennedy had cleared the fence and was running toward Norton.
Two men from the judge’s stand were ahead of us, but except for them
we were the first to reach him. The men were tearing frantically at
the tangled framework, trying to lift it off Norton, who lay pale and
motionless, pinned under it. The machine was not so badly damaged, after
all, but that together we could lift it bodily off him.

A doctor ran out from the crowd and hastily put his ear to Norton’s
chest. No one spoke, but we all scanned the doctor’s face anxiously.

“Just stunned--he’ll be all right in a moment. Get some water,” he said.

Kennedy pulled my arm. “Look at the gyroscope dynamo,” he whispered.

I looked. Like the other two which we had seen, it also was a wreck. The
insulation was burned off the wires, the wires were fused together, and
the storage-battery looked as if it had been burned out.

A flicker of the eyelid and Norton seemed to regain some degree of
consciousness. He was living over again the ages that had passed during
the seconds of his terrible fall.

“Will they never stop? Oh, those sparks, those sparks! I can’t
disconnect it. Sparks, more sparks--will they never--” So he rambled on.
It was fearsome to hear him.

But Kennedy was now sure that Norton was safe and in good hands, and he
hurried back in the direction of the grand stand. I followed. Flying
was over for that day, and the people were filing slowly out toward the
railroad station where the special trains were waiting. We stopped at
the wireless station for a moment.

“Is it true that Norton will recover?” inquired the operator.

“Yes. He was only stunned, thank Heaven! Did you keep a record of the
antics of your receiver since I saw you last?”

“Yes, sir. And I made a copy for you. By the way, it’s working all right
now when I don’t want it. If Williams was only in the air now I’d give
you a good demonstration of communicating with an aeroplane,” continued
the operator as he prepared to leave.

Kennedy thanked him for the record and carefully folded it. Joining the
crowd, we pushed our way out, but instead of going down to the station
with them, Kennedy turned toward the barn and the yellow house.

For some time we waited about casually, but nothing occurred. At length
Kennedy walked up to the shed. The door was closed and double padlocked.
He knocked, but there was no answer.

Just then a man appeared on the porch of the yellow house. Seeing us, he
beckoned. As we approached he shouted, “He’s gone for the day!”

“Has he a city address--any place I could reach him to-night?” asked
Craig.

“I don’t know. He hired the barn from me for two weeks and paid in
advance. He told me if I wanted to address him the best way was ‘Dr. K.
Lamar, General Delivery, New York City.’”

“Ah, then I suppose I had better write to him,” said Kennedy, apparently
much gratified to learn the name. “I presume he’ll be taking away his
apparatus soon?”

“Can’t say. There’s enough of it. Cy Smith--he’s in the electric light
company up to the village--says the doctor has used a powerful lot of
current. He’s good pay, though he’s awful closemouthed. Flying’s over
for to-day, ain’t it? Was that feller much hurt?”

“No, he’ll be all right to-morrow. I think he’ll fly again. The
machine’s in pretty good condition. He’s bound to win that prize.
Good-bye.”

As he walked away I remarked, “How do you know Norton will fly again?”

“I don’t,” answered Kennedy, “but I think that either he or Humphreys
will. I wanted to see that this Lamar believes it anyhow. By the way,
Walter, do you think you could grab a wire here and ‘phone in a story
to the Star that Norton isn’t much hurt and will probably be able to fly
to-morrow? Try to get the City News Association, too, so that all
the papers will have it. I don’t care about risking the general
delivery--perhaps Lamar won’t call for any mail, but he certainly will
read the papers. Put it in the form of an interview with Norton--I’ll
see that it is all right and that there is no come-back. Norton will
stand for it when I tell him my scheme.”

I caught the Star just in time for the last edition, and some of the
other papers that had later editions also had the story. Of course all
the morning papers had it.

Norton spent the night in the Mineola Hospital. He didn’t really need to
stay, but the doctor said it would be best in case some internal injury
had been overlooked. Meanwhile Kennedy took charge of the hangar where
the injured machine was. The men had been in a sort of panic;
Humphrey could not be found, and the only reason, I think, why the two
mechanicians stayed was because something was due them on their pay.

Kennedy wrote them out personal checks for their respective amounts,
but dated them two days ahead to insure their staying. He threw off all
disguise now and with authority from Norton directed the repairing of
the machine. Fortunately it was in pretty good condition. The broken
part was the skids, not the essential parts of the machine. As for the
gyroscope, there were plenty of them and another dynamo, and it was a
very simple thing to replace the old one that had been destroyed.

Sinclair worked with a will, far past his regular hours. Jaurette also
worked, though one could hardly say with a will. In fact, most of the
work was done by Sinclair and Kennedy, with Jaurette sullenly grumbling,
mostly in French under his breath. I did not like the fellow and was
suspicious of him. I thought I noticed that Kennedy did not allow him
to do much of the work, either, though that may have been for the reason
that Kennedy never asked anyone to help him who seemed unwilling.

“There,” exclaimed Craig about ten o’clock. “If we want to get back to
the city in any kind of time to-night we had better quit. Sinclair, I
think you can finish repairing these skids in the morning.”

We locked up the hangar and hurried across to the station. It was late
when we arrived in New York, but Kennedy insisted on posting off up to
his laboratory, leaving me to run down to the Star office to make sure
that our story was all right for the morning papers.

I did not see him until morning, when a large touring-car drove up.
Kennedy routed me out of bed. In the tonneau of the car was a huge
package carefully wrapped up.

“Something I worked on for a couple of hours last night,” explained
Craig, patting it. “If this doesn’t solve the problem then I’ll give it
up.”

I was burning with curiosity, but somehow, by a perverse association of
ideas, I merely reproached Kennedy for not taking enough rest.

“Oh,” he smiled. “If I hadn’t been working last night, Walter, I
couldn’t have rested at all for thinking about it.”

When we arrived at the field Norton was already there with his head
bandaged. I thought him a little pale, but otherwise all right. Jaurette
was sulking, but Sinclair had finished the repairs and was busily
engaged in going over every bolt and wire. Humphreys had sent word that
he had another offer and had not shown up.

“We must find him,” exclaimed Kennedy. “I want him to make a flight
to-day. His contract calls for it.”

“I can do it, Kennedy,” asserted Norton. “See, I’m all right.”

He picked up two pieces of wire and held them at arm’s length, bringing
them together, tip to tip, in front of him just to show us how he could
control his nerves.

“And I’ll be better yet by this afternoon,” he added. “I can do that
stunt with the points of pins then.”

Kennedy shook his head gravely, but Norton insisted, and finally Kennedy
agreed to give up wasting time trying to locate Humphreys. After that he
and Norton had a long whispered conference in which Kennedy seemed to be
unfolding a scheme.

“I understand,” said Norton at length, “you want me to put this
sheet-lead cover over the dynamo and battery first. Then you want me to
take the cover off, and also to detach the gyroscope, and to fly without
using it. Is that it?”

“Yes,” assented Craig. “I will be on the roof of the grand stand. The
signal will be three waves of my hat repeated till I see you get it.”

After a quick luncheon we went up to our vantage-point. On the way
Kennedy had spoken to the head of the Pinkertons engaged by the
management for the meet, and had also dropped in to see the wireless
operator to ask him to send up a messenger if he saw the same phenomena
as he had observed the day before.

On the roof Kennedy took from his pocket a little instrument with a
needle which trembled back and forth over a dial. It was nearing the
time for the start of the day’s flying, and the aeroplanes were getting
ready. Kennedy was calmly biting a cigar, casting occasional glances at
the needle as it oscillated. Suddenly, as Williams rose in the Wright
machine, the needle swung quickly and pointed straight at the aviation
field, vibrating through a small area, back and forth.

“The operator is getting his apparatus ready to signal to Williams,”
 remarked Craig. “This is an apparatus called an ondometer. It tells you
the direction and something of the magnitude of the Hertzian waves used
in wireless.”

Five or ten minutes passed. Norton was getting ready to fly. I could see
through my field glass that he was putting something over his gyroscope
and over the dynamo, but could not quite make out what it was. His
machine seemed to leap up in the air as if eager to redeem itself.
Norton with his white-bandaged head was the hero of the hour. No sooner
had his aeroplane got up over the level of the trees than I heard a
quick exclamation from Craig.

“Look at the needle, Walter!” he cried. “As soon as Norton got into the
air it shot around directly opposite to the wireless station, and now it
is pointing--”

We raised our eyes in the direction which it indicated. It was precisely
in line with the weather-beaten barn.

I gasped. What did it mean? Did it mean in some way another accident to
Norton--perhaps fatal this time? Why had Kennedy allowed him to try it
to-day when there was even a suspicion that some nameless terror was
abroad in the air? Quickly I turned to see if Norton was all right. Yes,
there he was, circling above us in a series of wide spirals, climbing
up, up. Now he seemed almost to stop, to hover motionless. He was
motionless. His engine had been cut out, and I could see his propeller
stopped. He was riding as a ship rides on the ocean.

A boy ran up the ladder to the roof. Kennedy unfolded the note and
shoved it into my hands. It was from the operator.

“Wireless out of business again. Curse that fellow who is butting in. Am
keeping record,” was all it said.

I shot a glance of inquiry at Kennedy, but he was paying no attention
now to anything but Norton. He held his watch in his hand.

“Walter,” he ejaculated as he snapped it shut, “it has now been seven
minutes and a half since he stopped his propeller. The Brooks Prize
calls for five minutes only. Norton has exceeded it fifty per cent. Here
goes.”

With his hat in his hand he waved three times and stopped. Then he
repeated the process.

At the third time the aeroplane seemed to give a start. The propeller
began to revolve, Norton starting it on the compression successfully.
Slowly he circled down again. Toward the end of the descent he stopped
the engine and volplaned, or coasted, to the ground, landing gently in
front of his hangar.

A wild cheer rose into the air from the crowd below us. All eyes
were riveted on the activity about Norton’s biplane. They were doing
something to it. Whatever it was, it was finished in a minute and the
men were standing again at a respectful distance from the propellers.
Again Norton was in the air. As he rose above the field Kennedy gave
a last glance at his ondometer and sprang down the ladder. I followed
closely. Back of the crowd he hurried, down the walk to the entrance
near the railroad station. The man in charge of the Pinkertons was at
the gate with two other men, apparently waiting.

“Come on!” shouted Craig.

We four followed him as fast as we could. He turned in at the lane
running up to the yellow house, so as to approach the barn from the
rear, unobserved.

“Quietly, now,” he cautioned.

We were now at the door of the barn. A curious crackling, snapping noise
issued. Craig gently tried the door. It was bolted on the inside. As
many of us as could threw ourselves like a human catapult against it. It
yielded.

Inside I saw a sheet of flame fifteen or twenty feet long--it was a
veritable artificial bolt of lightning. A man with a telescope had been
peering out of the window, but now was facing us in surprise.

“Lamar,” shouted Kennedy, drawing a pistol, “one motion of your hand
and you are a dead man. Stand still where you are. You are caught
red-handed.”

The rest of us shrank back in momentary fear of the gigantic forces of
nature which seemed let loose in the room. The thought, in my mind at
least, was: Suppose this arch-fiend should turn his deadly power on us?

Kennedy saw us from the corner of his eye. “Don’t be afraid,” he said
with just a curl to his lip. “I’ve seen all this before. It won’t hurt
you. It’s a high frequency current. The man has simply appropriated the
invention of Mr. Nikola Tesla. Seize him. He won’t struggle. I’ve got
him covered.”

Two burly Pinkertons leaped forward gingerly into the midst of the
electrical apparatus, and in less time than it takes to write it Lamar
was hustled out to the doorway, each arm pinioned back of him.

As we stood, half dazed by the suddenness of the turn of events, Kennedy
hastily explained:

“Tesla’s theory is that under certain conditions the atmosphere, which
is normally a high insulator; assumes conducting properties and so
becomes capable of conveying any amount of electrical energy. I myself
have seen electrical oscillations such as these in this room of such
intensity that while they could be circulated with impunity through
one’s arms and chest they would melt wires farther along in the
circuit. Yet the person through whom such a current is passing feels no
inconvenience. I have seen a loop of heavy copper wire energised by such
oscillations and a mass of metal within the loop heated to the fusing
point, and yet into the space in which this destructive aerial turmoil
was going on I have repeatedly thrust my hand and even my head, without
feeling anything or experiencing any injurious after-effect. In this
form all the energy of all the dynamos of Niagara could pass through
one’s body and yet produce no injury. But, diabolically directed, this
vast energy has been used by this man to melt the wires in the little
dynamo that runs Norton’s gyroscope. That is all. Now to the aviation
field. I have something more to show you.”

We hurried as fast as we could up the street and straight out on the
field, across toward the Norton hangar, the crowd gaping in wonderment.
Kennedy waved frantically for Norton to come down, and Norton, who was
only a few hundred feet in the air, seemed to see and understand.

As we stood waiting before the hangar Kennedy could no longer restrain
his impatience.

“I suspected some wireless-power trick when I found that the field
wireless telegraph failed to work every time Norton’s aeroplane was in
the air,” he said, approaching close to Lamar. “I just happened to catch
sight of that peculiar wireless mast of yours. A little flash of light
first attracted my attention to it. I thought it was an electric spark,
but you are too clever for that, Lamar. Still, you forgot a much simpler
thing. It was the glint of the sun on the lens of your telescope as you
were watching Norton that betrayed you.”

Lamar said nothing.

“I’m glad to say you had no confederate in the hangar here,” continued
Craig. “At first I suspected it. Anyhow, you succeeded pretty well
single handed, two lives lost and two machines wrecked. Norton flew all
right yesterday when he left his gyroscope and dynamo behind, but when
he took them along you were able to fuse the wires in the dynamo--you
pretty nearly succeeded in adding his name to those of Browne and
Herrick.”

The whir of Norton’s machine told us he was approaching. We scattered to
give him space enough to choose the spot where he would alight. As the
men caught his machine to steady it, he jumped lightly to the ground.

“Where’s Kennedy?” he asked, and then, without waiting for a reply,
he exclaimed: “Queerest thing I ever saw up there. The dynamo wasn’t
protected by the sheet-lead shield in this flight as in the first
to-day. I hadn’t risen a hundred feet before I happened to hear the
darndest sputtering in the dynamo. Look, boys, the insulation is
completely burned off the wires, and the wires are nearly all fused
together.”

“So it was in the other two wrecked machines,” added Kennedy, coming
coolly forward. “If you hadn’t had everything protected by those shields
I gave you in your first flight to-day you would have simply repeated
your fall of yesterday--perhaps fatally. This fellow has been directing
the full strength of his wireless high-tension electricity straight at
you all the time.”

“What fellow?” demanded Norton.

The two Pinkertons shoved Lamar forward. Norton gave a contemptuous look
at him. “Delanne,” he said, “I knew you were a crook when you tried
to infringe on my patent, but I didn’t think you were coward enough to
resort to--to murder.”

Lamar, or rather Delanne, shrank back as if even the protection of his
captors was safety compared to the threatening advance of Norton toward
him.

“Pouff!” exclaimed Norton, turning suddenly on his heel. “What a fool I
am! The law will take care of such scoundrels as you. What’s the grand
stand cheering for now?” he asked, looking across the field in an effort
to regain his self-control.

A boy from one of the hangars down the line spoke up from the back of
the crowd in a shrill, piping voice. “You have been awarded the Brooks
Prize, sir,” he said.



X. The Black Hand

Kennedy and I had been dining rather late one evening at Luigi’s, a
little Italian restaurant on the lower West Side. We had known the place
well in our student days, and had made a point of visiting it once a
month since, in order to keep in practice in the fine art of gracefully
handling long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore we did not think it strange
when the proprietor himself stopped a moment at our table to greet
us. Glancing furtively around at the other diners, mostly Italians, he
suddenly leaned over and whispered to Kennedy:

“I have heard of your wonderful detective work, Professor. Could you
give a little advice in the case of a friend of mine?”

“Surely, Luigi. What is the case?” asked Craig, leaning back in his
chair.

Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and lowered his voice. “Not
so loud, sir. When you pay your check, go out, walk around Washington
Square, and come in at the private entrance. I’ll be waiting in the
hall. My friend is dining privately upstairs.”

We lingered a while over our Chianti, then quietly paid the check and
departed.

True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in the dark hall. With a
motion that indicated silence, he led us up the stairs to the second
floor, and quickly opened a door into what seemed to be a fair-sized
private dining-room. A man was pacing the floor nervously. On a table
was some food, untouched. As the door opened I thought he started as if
in fear, and I am sure his dark face blanched, if only for an instant.
Imagine our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor, with whom
merely to have a speaking acquaintance was to argue oneself famous.

“Oh, it is you, Luigi,” he exclaimed in perfect English, rich and
mellow. “And who are these gentlemen?”

Luigi merely replied, “Friends,” in English also, and then dropped off
into a voluble, low-toned explanation in Italian.

I could see, as we waited, that the same idea had flashed over Kennedy’s
mind as over my own. It was now three or four days since the papers
had reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro’s five-year-old daughter
Adelina, his only child, and the sending of a demand for ten thousand
dollars ransom, signed, as usual, with the mystic Black Hand--a name to
conjure with in blackmail and extortion.

As Signor Gennaro advanced toward us, after his short talk with Luigi,
almost before the introductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him by
saying: “I understand, Signor, before you ask me. I have read all about
it in the papers. You want someone to help you catch the criminals who
are holding your little girl.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. “Not that. I want to get my
daughter first. After that, catch them if you can--yes, I should like
to have someone do it. But read this first and tell me what you think
of it. How should I act to get my little Adelina back without harming a
hair of her head?” The famous singer drew from a capacious pocketbook a
dirty, crumpled, letter, scrawled on cheap paper.

Kennedy translated it quickly. It read:

Honourable sir: Your daughter is in safe hands. But, by the saints, if
you give this letter to the police as you did the other, not only she
but your family also, someone near to you, will suffer. We will not fail
as we did Wednesday. If you want your daughter back, go yourself, alone
and without telling a soul, to Enrico Albano’s Saturday night at the
twelfth hour. You must provide yourself with $10,000 in bills hidden in
Saturday’s Il Progresso Italiano. In the back room you will see a man
sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower on his coat. You
are to say, “A fine opera is ‘I Pagliacci.’” If he answers, “Not without
Gennaro,” lay the newspaper down on the table. He will pick it up,
leaving his own, the Bolletino. On the third page you will find
written the place where your daughter has been left waiting for you.
Go immediately and get her. But, by the God, if you have so much as the
shadow of the police near Enrico’s your daughter will be sent to you in
a box that night. Do not fear to come. We pledge our word to deal fairly
if you deal fairly. This is a last warning. Lest you shall forget we
will show one other sign of our power to-morrow. La MANO NERA.

The end of this ominous letter was gruesomely decorated with a skull
and cross-bones, a rough drawing of a dagger thrust through a bleeding
heart, a coffin, and, under all, a huge black hand. There was no doubt
about the type of letter that it was. It was such as have of late years
become increasingly common in all our large cities, baffling the best
detectives.

“You have not showed this to the police, I presume?” asked Kennedy.

“Naturally not.”

“Are you going Saturday night?”

“I am afraid to go and afraid to stay away,” was the reply, and the
voice of the fifty-thousand-dollars-a-season tenor was as human as that
of a five-dollar-a-week father, for at bottom all men, high or low, are
one.

“‘We will not fail as we did Wednesday,’” reread Craig. “What does that
mean?”

Gennaro fumbled in his pocketbook again, and at last drew forth a
typewritten letter bearing the letter-head of the Leslie Laboratories,
Incorporated.

“After I received the first threat,” explained Gennaro, “my wife and
I went from our apartments at the hotel to her father’s, the banker
Cesare, you know, who lives on Fifth Avenue. I gave the letter to the
Italian Squad of the police. The next morning my father-in-law’s butler
noticed something peculiar about the milk. He barely touched some of it
to his tongue, and he has been violently ill ever since. I at once
sent the milk to the laboratory of my friend Doctor Leslie to have it
analysed. This letter shows what the household escaped.”

“My dear Gennaro,” read Kennedy. “The milk submitted to us for
examination on the 10th inst. has been carefully analysed, and I beg to
hand you herewith the result:

        Specific gravity 1.036 at 15 degrees Cent.

      Water............................... 84.60 per cent
      Casein..............................  3.49   “ ”
       Albumin.............................   .56   “ ”
       Globulin............................   .32   “ ”
       Lactose.............................  5.08   “ ”
       Ash.................................   .72   “ ”
       Fat.................................  3.42   “ ”
       Ricin...............................  1.19   “ ”

“Ricin is a new and little-known poison derived from the shell of the
castor-oil bean. Professor Ehrlich states that one gram of the pure
poison will kill 1,500,000 guinea pigs. Ricin was lately isolated by
Professor Robert, of Rostock, but is seldom found except in an impure
state, though still very deadly. It surpasses strychnine, prussic acid,
and other commonly known drugs. I congratulate you and yours on escaping
and shall of course respect your wishes absolutely regarding keeping
secret this attempt on your life. Believe me,

“Very sincerely yours,

“C. W. LESLIE.”


As Kennedy handed the letter back, he remarked significantly: “I can see
very readily why you don’t care to have the police figure in your case.
It has got quite beyond ordinary police methods.”

“And to-morrow, too, they are going to give another sign of their
power,” groaned Gennaro, sinking into the chair before his untasted
food.

“You say you have left your hotel?” inquired Kennedy.

“Yes. My wife insisted that we would be more safely guarded at the
residence of her father, the banker. But we are afraid even there since
the poison attempt. So I have come here secretly to Luigi, my old
friend Luigi, who is preparing food for us, and in a few minutes one
of Cesare’s automobiles will be here, and I will take the food up to
her--sparing no expense or trouble. She is heart-broken. It will kill
her, Professor Kennedy, if anything happens to our little Adelina.

“Ah, sir, I am not poor myself. A month’s salary at the opera-house,
that is what they ask of me. Gladly would I give it, ten thousand
dollars--all, if they asked it, of my contract with Herr Schleppencour,
the director. But the police--bah!--they are all for catching the
villains. What good will it do me if they catch them and my little
Adelina is returned to me dead? It is all very well for the Anglo-Saxon
to talk of justice and the law, but I am--what you call it?--an
emotional Latin. I want my little daughter--and at any cost. Catch the
villains afterward--yes. I will pay double then to catch them so that
they cannot blackmail me again. Only first I want my daughter back.”

“And your father-in-law?”

“My father-in-law, he has been among you long enough to be one of you.
He has fought them. He has put up a sign in his banking-house, ‘No money
paid on threats.’ But I say it is foolish. I do not know America as well
as he, but I know this: the police never succeed--the ransom is paid
without their knowledge, and they very often take the credit. I say, pay
first, then I will swear a righteous vendetta--I will bring the dogs to
justice with the money yet on them. Only show me how, show me how.”

“First of all,” replied Kennedy, “I want you to answer one question,
truthfully, without reservation, as to a friend. I am your friend,
believe me. Is there any person, a relative or acquaintance of yourself
or your wife or your father-in-law, whom you even have reason to suspect
of being capable of extorting money from you in this way? I needn’t say
that that is the experience of the district attorney’s office in the
large majority of cases of this so-called Black Hand.”

“No,” replied the tenor without hesitation: “I know that, and I have
thought about it. No, I can think of no one. I know you Americans often
speak of the Black Hand as a myth coined originally by a newspaper
writer. Perhaps it has no organisation. But, Professor Kennedy, to me
it is no myth. What if the real Black Hand is any gang of criminals who
choose to use that convenient name to extort money? Is it the less real?
My daughter is gone!”

“Exactly,” agreed Kennedy. “It is not a theory that confronts you. It is
a hard, cold fact. I understand that perfectly. What is the address of
this Albano’s?”

Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, and Kennedy made a note of
it.

“It is a gambling saloon,” explained Luigi. “Albano is a Neapolitan,
a Camorrista, one of my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly ashamed,
Professor Kennedy.”

“Do you think this Albano had anything to do with the letter?”

Luigi shrugged his shoulders.

Just then a big limousine was heard outside. Luigi picked up a huge
hamper that was placed in a corner of the room and, followed closely by
Signor Gennaro, hurried down to it. As the tenor left us he grasped our
hands in each of his.

“I have an idea in my mind,” said Craig simply. “I will try to think it
out in detail to-night. Where can I find you to-morrow?”

“Come to me at the opera-house in the afternoon, or if you want me
sooner at Mr. Cesare’s residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks
to you, Professor Kennedy, and to you, also, Mr. Jameson. I trust you
absolutely because Luigi trusts you.”

We sat in the little dining-room until we heard the door of the
limousine bang shut and the car shoot off with the rattle of the
changing gears.

“One more question, Luigi,” said Craig as the door opened again. “I have
never been on that block in Mulberry Street where this Albano’s is. Do
you happen to know any of the shopkeepers on it or near it?”

“I have a cousin who has a drug-store on the corner below Albano’s, on
the same side of the street.”

“Good! Do you think he would let me use his store for a few minutes
Saturday night--of course without any risk to himself!”

“I think I could arrange it.”

“Very well. Then to-morrow, say at nine in the morning, I will stop
here, and we will all go over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many,
thanks for thinking of me in connection with this case. I’ve enjoyed
Signor Gennaro’s singing often enough at the opera to want to render him
this service, and I’m only too glad to be able to be of service to all
honest Italians; that is, if I succeed in carrying out a plan I have in
mind.”

A little before nine the following day Kennedy and I dropped into
Luigi’s again. Kennedy was carrying a suit-case which he had taken over
from his laboratory to our rooms the night before. Luigi was waiting for
us, and without losing a minute we sallied forth.

By means of the tortuous twists of streets in old Greenwich village
we came out at last on Bleecker Street and began walking east amid
the hurly-burly of races of lower New York. We had not quite reached
Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by a large crowd on
one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of police who were
endeavouring to keep the people moving with that burly good nature
which the six-foot Irish policeman displays toward the five-foot
burden-bearers of southern and eastern Europe who throng New York.

Apparently, we saw, as we edged up into the front of the crowd, here was
a building whose whole front had literally been torn off and wrecked.
The thick plate-glass of the windows was smashed to a mass of greenish
splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper floors and
for several houses down the block in either street were likewise broken.
Some thick iron bars which had formerly protected the windows were now
bent and twisted. A huge hole yawned in the floor inside the doorway,
and peering in we could see the desks and chairs a tangled mass of
kindling.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired of an officer near me, displaying my
reporter’s fire-line badge, more for its moral effect than in the hope
of getting any real information in these days of enforced silence toward
the press.

“Black Hand bomb,” was the laconic reply.

“Whew!” I whistled. “Anyone hurt?”

“They don’t usually kill anyone, do they?” asked the officer by way of
reply to test my acquaintance with such things.

“No,” I admitted. “They destroy more property than lives. But did they
get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly overloaded bomb,
I should judge by the looks of things.”

“Came pretty close to it. The bank hadn’t any more than opened when,
bang! went this gaspipe-and-dynamite thing. Crowd collected before the
smoke had fairly cleared. Man who owns the bank was hurt, but not badly.
Now come, beat it down to headquarters if you want to find out any
more.--You’ll find it printed on the pink slips--the ‘squeal book’--by
this time. ‘Gainst the rules for me to talk,” he added with a
good-natured grin, then to the crowd: “G’wan, now. You’re blockin’
traffic. Keep movin’.”

I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were riveted on the big gilt
sign, half broken, and all askew overhead. It read:

      CIRO DI CESARE & Co. BANKERS

     NEW YORK, GENOA, NAPLES, ROME, PALERMO

“This is the reminder so that Gennaro and his father-in-law will not
forget,” I gasped.

“Yes,” added Craig, pulling us away, “and Cesare himself is wounded,
too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay. Perhaps
not. It’s a queer case--they usually set the bombs off at night when
no one is around. There must be more back of this than merely to scare
Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were after Casare, too, first by
poison, then by dynamite.”

We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we came to
Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the little shops,
dodging the children, and making way for women with huge bundles of
sweatshop clothing accurately balanced on their heads or hugged up under
their capacious capes. Here was just one little colony of the hundreds
of thousands of Italians--a population larger than the Italian
population of Rome--of whose life the rest of New York knew and cared
nothing.

At last we came to Albano’s little wine-shop, a dark, evil, malodorous
place on the street level of a five-story, alleged “new-law” tenement.
Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part of
a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour, men out
of employment and an inoffensive-looking lot, though of course they eyed
us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed fellow who
had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such a fellow spreading
terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely pressing both temples with
his thumbs and drawing his long bony fore-finger under his throat--the
so-called Black Hand sign that has shut up many a witness in the middle
of his testimony even in open court.

We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and
sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano’s famous California “red
ink” we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place. In
the middle of the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big reflector
over, it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal oblong window,
barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom. The tables were
dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and unfinished, with
beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as unprepossessing a
place as I had ever seen.

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,
complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had
made up his mind as to his course of action.

“How sordid crime really is,” he remarked as we walked on down the
street. “Look at that place of Albano’s. I defy even the police news
reporter on the Star to find any glamour in that.”

Our next stop was at the corner at the little store kept by the cousin
of Luigi, who conducted us back of the partition where prescriptions
were compounded, and found us chairs.

A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of the
druggist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune open
to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and interrupted.

“All that I wish to do,” he said, “is to put in a little instrument here
and use it to-night for a few minutes. Indeed, there will be no risk to
you, Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one will ever know about
it.”

Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig opened his suit-case. There
was little in it except several coils of insulated wire; some tools, a
couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple of pairs of overalls. In a
moment Kennedy had donned overalls and was smearing dirt and grease over
his face and hands. Under his direction I did the same.

Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of the small packages, we
went out on the street and then up through the dark and ill-ventilated
hall of the tenement. Half-way up a woman stopped us suspiciously.

“Telephone company,” said Craig curtly. “Here’s permission from the
owner of the house to string wires across the roof.”

He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, but as it was too dark to
read even if the woman had cared to do so, we went on up as he had
expected, unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where there were some
children at play a couple of houses down from us.

Kennedy began by dropping two strands of wire down to the ground in the
back yard behind Vincenzo’s shop. Then he proceeded to lay two wires
along the edge of the roof.

We had worked only a little while when the children began to collect.
However, Kennedy kept right on until we reached the tenement next to
that in which Albano’s shop was.

“Walter,” he whispered, “just get the children away for a minute now.”

“Look here, you kids,” I yelled, “some of you will fall off if you get
so close to the edge of the roof. Keep back.”

It had no effect. Apparently they looked not a bit frightened at the
dizzy mass of clothes-lines below us.

“Say, is there a candy-store on this block?” I asked in desperation.

“Yes, sir,” came the chorus.

“Who’ll go down and get me a bottle of ginger ale?” I asked.

A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the answer. They all would. I
took a half-dollar from my pocket and gave it to the oldest.

“All right now, hustle along, and divide the change.”

With the scamper of many feet they were gone, and we were alone. Kennedy
had now reached Albano’s, and as soon as the last head had disappeared
below the scuttle of the roof he dropped two long strands down into the
back yard, as he had done at Vincenzo’s.

I started to go back, but he stopped me.

“Oh, that will never do,” he said. “The kids will see that the wires end
here. I must carry them on several houses farther as a blind and trust
to luck that they don’t see the wires leading down below.”

We were several houses down, still putting up wires when the crowd came
shouting back, sticky with cheap trust-made candy and black with East
Side chocolate. We opened the ginger ale and forced ourselves to drink
it so as to excite no suspicion, then a few minutes later descended the
stairs of the tenement, coming out just above Albano’s.

I was wondering how Kennedy was going to get into Albano’s again without
exciting suspicion. He solved it neatly.

“Now, Walter, do you think you could stand another dip into that red ink
of Albano’s!”

I said I might in the interests of science and justice--not otherwise.

“Well, your face is sufficiently dirty,” he commented, “so that with the
overalls you don’t look very much as you did the first time you went in.
I don’t think they will recognise you. Do I look pretty good?”

“You look like a coal-heaver out of a job,” I said. “I can scarcely
restrain my admiration.”

“All right. Then take this little glass bottle. Go into the back room
and order something cheap, in keeping with your looks. Then when you are
all alone break the bottle. It is full of gas drippings. Your nose
will dictate what to do next. Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas
company’s wagon on the next block and come up here and tell me.”

I entered. There was a sinister-looking man, with a sort of unscrupulous
intelligence, writing at a table. As he wrote and puffed at his cigar,
I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow running from the lobe of his
ear to his mouth. That, I knew, was a brand set upon him by the Camorra.
I sat and smoked and sipped slowly for several minutes, cursing him
inwardly more for his presence than for his evident look of the “mala
vita.” At last he went out to ask the barkeeper for a stamp.

Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the room and ground the
little bottle under my heel. Then I resumed my seat. The odour that
pervaded the room was sickening.

The sinister-looking man with the scar came in again and sniffed. I
sniffed. Then the proprietor came in and sniffed.

“Say,” I said in the toughest voice I could assume, “you got a leak.
Wait. I seen the gas company wagon on the next block when I came in.
I’ll get the man.”

I dashed out and hurried up the street to the place where Kennedy was
waiting impatiently. Rattling his tools, he followed me with apparent
reluctance.

As he entered the wine-shop he snorted, after the manner of gas-men,
“Where’s de leak?”

“You find-a da leak,” grunted Albano. “What-a you get-a you pay for? You
want-a me do your work?”

“Well, half a dozen o’ you wops get out o’ here, that’s all. D’youse
all wanter be blown ter pieces wid dem pipes and cigarettes? Clear out,”
 growled Kennedy.

They retreated precipitately, and Craig hastily opened his bag of tools.

“Quick, Walter, shut the door and hold it,” exclaimed Craig, working
rapidly. He unwrapped a little package and took out a round, flat
disc-like thing of black vulcanised rubber. Jumping up on a table, he
fixed it to the top of the reflector over the gas-jet.

“Can you see that from the floor, Walter?” he asked under his breath.

“No,” I replied, “not even when I know it is there.”

Then he attached a couple of wires to it and led them across the ceiling
toward the window, concealing them carefully by sticking them in the
shadow of a beam. At the window he quickly attached the wires to the
two that were dangling down from the roof and shoved them around out of
sight.

“We’ll have to trust that no one sees them,” he said. “That’s the best I
can do at such short notice. I never saw a room so bare as this, anyway.
There isn’t another place I could put that thing without its being
seen.”

We gathered up the broken glass of the gas drippings bottle, and I
opened the door.

“It’s all right, now,” said Craig, sauntering out before the bar. “Only
de next time you has anyt’ing de matter call de company up. I ain’t
supposed to do dis wit’out orders, see?”

A moment later I followed, glad to get out of the oppressive atmosphere,
and joined him in the back of Vincenzo’s drug-store, where he was again
at work. As there was no back window there, it was quite a job to lead
the wires around the outside from the back yard and in at a side window.
It was at last done, however, without exciting suspicion, and Kennedy
attached them to an oblong box of weathered oak and a pair of specially
constructed dry batteries.

“Now,” said Craig, as we washed off the stains of work and stowed the
overalls back in the suitcase, “that is done to my satisfaction. I can
tell Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the Black-Handers.”

From Vincenzo’s we walked over toward Centre Street, where Kennedy and
I left Luigi to return to his restaurant, with instructions to be at
Vincenzo’s at half-past eleven that night.

We turned into the new police headquarters and went down the long
corridor to the Italian Bureau. Kennedy sent in his card to Lieutenant
Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admitted. The lieutenant was a
short, fullfaced, fleshy Italian, with lightish hair and eyes that were
apparently dull, until you suddenly discovered that that was merely a
cover to their really restless way of taking in everything and fixing
the impressions on his mind, as if on a sensitive plate.

“I want to talk about the Gennaro case,” began Craig. “I may add that
I have been rather closely associated with Inspector O’Connor of the
Central Office on a number of cases, so that I think we can trust each
other. Would you mind telling me what you know about it if I promise you
that I, too, have something to reveal?”

The lieutenant leaned back and watched Kennedy closely without seeming
to do so. “When I was in Italy last year,” he replied at length, “I did
a good deal of work in tracing up some Camorra suspects. I had a tip
about some of them to look up their records--I needn’t say where it came
from, but it was a good one. Much of the evidence against some of those
fellows who are being tried at Viterbo was gathered by the Carabinieri
as a result of hints that I was able to give them--clues that were
furnished to me here in America from the source I speak of. I suppose
there is really no need to conceal it, though. The original tip came
from a certain banker here in New York.”

“I can guess who it was,” nodded Craig.

“Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. He is the man who
organised the White Hand--an organisation which is trying to rid the
Italian population of the Black Hand. His society had a lot of evidence
regarding former members of both the Camorra in Naples and the Mafia in
Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New York, Chicago, and other
cities. Well, Cesare, as you know, is Gennaro’s father-in-law.

“While I was in Naples looking up the record of a certain criminal I
heard of a peculiar murder committed some years ago. There was an honest
old music master who apparently lived the quietest and most harmless
of lives. But it became known that he was supported by Cesare and had
received handsome presents of money from him. The old man was, as
you may have guessed, the first music teacher of Gennaro, the man who
discovered him. One might have been at a loss to see how he could have
an enemy, but there was one who coveted his small fortune. One day he
was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out into the street, crying
out that the poor man had been killed. Naturally a crowd rushed up in
a moment, for it was in the middle of the day. Before the injured man
could make it understood who had struck him the assassin was down the
street and lost in the maze of old Naples where he well knew the
houses of his friends who would hide him. The man who is known to have
committed that crime--Francesco Paoli--escaped to New York. We are
looking for him to-day. He is a clever man, far above the average--son
of a doctor in a town a few miles from Naples, went to the university,
was expelled for some mad prank--in short, he was the black sheep of the
family. Of course over here he is too high-born to work with his
hands on a railroad or in a trench, and not educated enough to work
at anything else. So he has been preying on his more industrious
countrymen--a typical case of a man living by his wits with no visible
means of support.

“Now I don’t mind telling you in strict confidence,” continued the
lieutenant, “that it’s my theory that old Cesare has seen Paoli here,
knew he was wanted for that murder of the old music master, and gave me
the tip to look up his record. At any rate Paoli disappeared right after
I returned from Italy, and we haven’t been able to locate him since.
He must have found out in some way that the tip to look him up had been
given by the White Hand. He had been a Camorrista, in Italy, and had
many ways of getting information here in America.”

He paused, and balanced a piece of cardboard in his hand.

“It is my theory of this case that if we could locate this Paoli we
could solve the kidnapping of little Adelina Gennaro very quickly.
That’s his picture.”

Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I started in surprise. It was
my evil-looking friend with the scar on his cheek.

“Well,” said Craig, quietly handing back the card, “whether or not he is
the man, I know where we can catch the kidnappers to-night, Lieutenant.”

It was Giuseppe’s turn to show surprise now.

“With your assistance I’ll get this man and the whole gang to-night,”
 explained Craig, rapidly sketching over his plan and concealing just
enough to make sure that no matter how anxious the lieutenant was to get
the credit he could not spoil the affair by premature interference.

The final arrangement was that four of the best men of the squad were to
hide in a vacant store across from Vincenzo’s early in the evening, long
before anyone was watching. The signal for them to appear was to be
the extinguishing of the lights behind the coloured bottles in the
druggist’s window. A taxicab was to be kept waiting at headquarters
at the same time with three other good men ready to start for a given
address the moment the alarm was given over the telephone.

We found Gennaro awaiting us with the greatest anxiety at the
opera-house. The bomb at Cesare’s had been the last straw. Gennaro had
already drawn from his bank ten crisp one-thousand-dollar bills, and
already had a copy of Il Progresso in which he had hidden the money
between the sheets.

“Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “I am going to meet them to-night. They may kill
me. See, I have provided myself with a pistol--I shall fight, too, if
necessary for my little Adelina. But if it is only money they want, they
shall have it.”

“One thing I want to say,” began Kennedy.

“No, no, no!” cried the tenor. “I will go--you shall not stop me.”

“I don’t wish to stop you,” Craig reassured him. “But one thing--do
exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child’s head will
be injured and we will get the blackmailers, too.”

“How?” eagerly asked Gennaro. “What do you want me to do?”

“All I want you to do is to go to Albano’s at the appointed time. Sit
down in the back room. Get into conversation with them, and, above all,
Signor, as soon as you get the copy of the Bolletino turn to the third
page, pretend not to be able to read the address. Ask the man to read
it. Then repeat it after him. Pretend to be overjoyed. Offer to set up
wine for the whole crowd. Just a few minutes, that is all I ask, and I
will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in New York to-morrow.”

Gennaro’s eyes filled with tears as he grasped Kennedy’s hand. “That is
better than having the whole police force back of me,” he said. “I shall
never forget, never forget.”

As we went out Kennedy remarked: “You can’t blame them for keeping their
troubles to themselves. Here we send a police officer over to Italy to
look up the records of some of the worst suspects. He loses his life.
Another takes his place. Then after he gets back he is set to work on
the mere clerical routine of translating them. One of his associates is
reduced in rank. And so what does it come to? Hundreds of records have
become useless because the three years within which the criminals could
be deported have elapsed with nothing done. Intelligent, isn’t it?
I believe it has been established that all but about fifty of seven
hundred known Italian suspects are still at large, mostly in this city.
And the rest of the Italian population is guarded from them by a squad
of police in number scarcely one-thirtieth of the number of known
criminals. No, it’s our fault if the Black Hand thrives.”

We had been standing on the corner of Broadway, waiting for a car.

“Now, Walter, don’t forget. Meet me at the Bleecker Street station of
the subway at eleven-thirty. I’m off to the university. I have some very
important experiments with phosphorescent salts that I want to finish
to-day.”

“What has that to do with the case?” I asked, mystified.

“Nothing,” replied Craig. “I didn’t say it had. At eleven-thirty, don’t
forget. By George, though, that Paoli must be a clever one--think of his
knowing about ricin. I only heard of it myself recently. Well, here’s my
car. Good-bye.”

Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight
nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the Star.

They passed at length, and at precisely the appointed time Kennedy and I
met. With suppressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked over to
Vincenzo’s. At night this section of the city was indeed a black enigma.
The lights in the shops where olive oil, fruit, and other things were
sold, were winking out one by one; here and there strains of music
floated out of wine-shops, and little groups lingered on corners
conversing in animated sentences. We passed Albano’s on the other side
of the street, being careful not to look at it too closely, for several
men were hanging idly about--pickets, apparently, with some secret code
that would instantly have spread far and wide the news of any alarming
action.

At the corner we crossed and looked in Vincenzo’s window a moment,
casting a furtive glance across the street at the dark empty store where
the police must be hiding. Then we went in and casually sauntered back
of the partition. Luigi was there already. There were several customers
still in the store, however, and therefore we had to sit in silence
while Vincenzo quickly finished a prescription and waited on the last
one.

At last the doors were locked and the lights lowered, all except those
in the windows which were to serve as signals.

“Ten minutes to twelve,” said Kennedy, placing the oblong box on the
table. “Gennaro will be going in soon. Let us try this machine now and
see if it works. If the wires have been cut since we put them up this
morning Gennaro will have to take his chances alone.”

Kennedy reached over and with a light movement of his forefinger touched
a switch.

Instantly a babel of voices filled the store, all talking at once,
rapidly and loudly. Here and there we could distinguish a snatch of
conversation, a word, a phrase, now and then even a whole sentence above
the rest. There was the clink of glasses. I could hear the rattle of
dice on a bare table, and an oath. A cork popped. Somebody scratched a
match.

We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an explanation.

“Imagine that you are sitting at a table in Albano’s back room,” was
all he said. “This is what you would be hearing. This is my ‘electric
ear’--in other words the dictograph, used, I am told, by the Secret
Service of the United States. Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro
come in. Luigi and Vincenzo, translate what you hear. My knowledge of
Italian is pretty rusty.”

“Can they hear us?” whispered Luigi in an awe-struck whisper.

Craig laughed. “No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other switch,
and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival the famous
writing on Belshazzar’s wall--only it would be a voice from the wall
instead of writing.”

“They seem to be waiting for someone,” said Vincenzo. “I heard somebody
say: ‘He will be here in a few minutes. Now get out.’”

The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room.
Only one or two were left.

“One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the back
yard,” translated Luigi.

“What yard? Did he say?” asked Kennedy.

“No; they just speak of it as the ‘yard,’” replied Luigi.

“Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up
headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready, with the men in it.”

I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that
everything was right.

“Then tell central to hold the line clear--we mustn’t lose a moment.
Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working
around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for
they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi?”

“Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them say, ‘Here he comes.’”

Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the
conversation in the dingy, little back room of Albano’s, down the
street.

“He’s ordering a bottle of red wine,” murmured Luigi, dancing up and
down with excitement.

Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window,
and I believe that my heartbeats were almost audible over the telephone
which I was holding, for the police operator called me down for asking
so many times if all was ready.

“There it is--the signal,” cried Craig. “‘A fine opera is
“I Pagliacci.”’ Now listen for the answer.”

A moment elapsed, then, “Not without Gennaro,” came a gruff voice in
Italian from the dictograph.

A silence ensued. It was tense.

“Wait, wait,” said a voice which I recognised instantly as Gennaro’s. “I
cannot read this. What is this, 23 Prince Street?”

“No. 33. She has been left in the backyard,” answered the voice.

“Jameson,” called Craig, “tell them to drive straight to 33 Prince
Street. They will find the girl in the back yard--quick, before the
Black-Handers have a chance to go back on their word.”

I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. “They’re off,”
 came back the answer, and I hung up the receiver.

“What was that?” Craig was asking of Luigi. “I didn’t catch it. What did
they say?”

“That other voice said to Gennaro, ‘Sit down while I count this.’”

“Sh! he’s talking again.”

“If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I find a mark on the bills
I’ll call to Enrico, and your daughter will be spirited away again,”
 translated Luigi.

“Now, Gennaro is talking,” said Craig. “Good--he is gaining time. He is
a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He’s asking the gruff voiced
fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he will. Good.
They must be at Prince Street now we’ll give them a few minutes more,
not too much, for word will be back to Albano’s like wildfire, and they
will get Gennaro after all. Ah, they are drinking again. What was that,
Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now, Vincenzo, out with the
lights!”

A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures darted
out in the direction of Albano’s.

With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted:
“Gennaro, this is Kennedy! To the street! Polizia! Polizia!”

A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently
from the bar, shouted, “Out with the lights, out with the lights!”

Bang! went a pistol, and another.

The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute as
a cigar-box.

“What’s the matter?” I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.

“They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed.
Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back, if you don’t want to appear in
this.”

A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the
faithful, Luigi.

In front of Albano’s an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being
fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement
windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd
we caught a glimpse of Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his
shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to
interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was
urging the first officer on. “That’s the man,” he was crying. “That’s
the kidnapper. I caught him.”

In a moment Kennedy was behind him. “Paoli, you lie. You are the
kidnapper. Seize him--he has the money on him. That other is Gennaro
himself.”

The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli. The
others were beating at the door, which was being frantically barricaded
inside.

Just then a taxicab came swinging up they street. Three men jumped
out and added their strength to those who were battering down Albano’s
barricade.

Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I could
see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice lisped “Why
didn’t you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I waited in the
yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he would shoot me.
And I waited, and waited--”

“There, there, Una; papa’s going to take you straight home to mother.”

A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in
the hands of the law.



XI. The Artificial Paradise

It was, I recall, at that period of the late unpleasantness in the
little Central American republic of Vespuccia, when things looked
darkest for American investors, that I hurried home one evening to
Kennedy, bursting with news.

By way of explanation, I may add that during the rubber boom Kennedy had
invested in stock of a rubber company in Vespuccia, and that its value
had been shrinking for some time with that elasticity which a rubber
band shows when one party suddenly lets go his end. Kennedy had been in
danger of being snapped rather hard by the recoil, and I knew he had
put in an order with his broker to sell and take his loss when a certain
figure was reached. My news was a first ray of light in an otherwise
dark situation, and I wanted to advise him to cancel the selling order
and stick for a rise.

Accordingly I hurried unceremoniously into our apartment with the words
on my lips before I had fairly closed the door. “What do you think,
Craig” I shouted. “It is rumoured that the revolutionists have captured
half a million dollars from the government and are sending it to--” I
stopped short. I had no idea that Kennedy had a client, and a girl, too.

With a hastily mumbled apology I checked myself and backed out toward
my own room. I may as well confess that I did not retreat very fast,
however. Kennedy’s client was not only a girl, but a very pretty one, I
found, as she turned her head quickly at my sudden entrance and betray
a lively interest at the mention of the revolution. She was a
Latin-American, and the Latin-American type of feminine beauty is
fascinating at least to me. I did not retreat very fast.

As I hoped, Kennedy rose to the occasion. “Miss Guerrero,” he said, “let
me introduce Mr. Jameson, who has helped me very much in solving some of
my most difficult cases. Miss Guerrero’s father, Walter, is the owner of
a plantation which sells its product to the company I am interested in.”

She bowed graciously, but there was a moment of embarrassment until
Kennedy came to the rescue.

“I shall need Mr. Jameson in handling your case, Miss Guerrero,” he
explained. “Would it be presuming to ask you to repeat to him briefly
what you have already told me about the mysterious disappearance of your
father? Perhaps some additional details will occur to you, things that
you may consider trivial, but which, I assure you, may be of the utmost
importance.”

She assented, and in a low, tremulous, musical voice bravely went
through her story.

“We come,” she began, “my father and I--for my mother died when I was a
little girl--we come from the northern part of Vespuccia, where foreign
capitalists are much interested in the introduction of a new rubber
plant. I am an only child and have been the constant companion of my
father for years, ever since I could ride a pony, going with him about
our hacienda and on business trips to Europe and the States.

“I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, that although my father is
a large land-owner, he has very liberal political views and is deeply in
sympathy with the revolution that is now going on in Vespuccia. In fact,
we were forced to flee very early in the trouble, and as there seemed
to be more need of his services here in New York than in any of the
neighbouring countries, we came here. So you see that if the revolution
is not successful his estate will probably be confiscated and we shall
be penniless. He is the agent--the head of the junta, I suppose you
would call it--here in New York.”

“Engaged in purchasing arms and ammunition,” put in Kennedy, as she
paused, “and seeing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans as
agricultural machinery, where another agent receives them and attends to
their safe transit across the Gulf.”

She nodded and after a moment resumed

“There is quite a little colony of Vespuccians here in New York, both
revolutionists and government supporters. I suppose that neither of
you has any idea of the intriguing that is going on under the peaceful
surface right here in your own city. But there is much of it, more than
even I know or can tell you. Well, my father lately has been acting very
queerly. There is a group who meet frequently at the home of a Senora
Mendez--an insurrecto group, of course. I do not go, for they are
all much older people than I. I know the senora well, but I prefer
a different kind of person. My friends are younger and perhaps more
radical, more in earnest about the future of Vespuccia.

“For some weeks it has seemed to me that this Senora Mendez has had too
much influence over my father. He does not seem like the same man he
used to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do not frequent the house of
the senora have remarked it. He seems moody, works by starts, then
will neglect his work entirely. Often I see him with his eyes closed,
apparently sitting quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause--the
only cause now which can restore us our estate.

“The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms--the Secret Service
captured them on the way from the warehouse on South Street to the
steamer which was to take them to New Orleans. Only once before had it
happened, when my father did not understand all the things to conceal.
Then he was frantic for a week. But this time he seems not to care. Ah,
senores,” she said, dropping her voice, “I fear there was some treachery
there.”

“Treachery?” I asked. “And have you any suspicions who might have played
informer?”

She hesitated. “I may as well tell you just what I suspect. I fear that
the hold of Senora Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it all. I
even have suspected that somehow she may be working in the pay of the
government that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the group who
so trust her. I suspect anything, everybody--that she is poisoning
his mind, perhaps even whispering into his ear some siren proposal of
amnesty and his estate again, if he will but do what she asks. My poor
father--I must save him from himself if it is necessary. Argument has
no effect with him. He merely answers that the senora is a talented
and accomplished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when I hint to him to
beware. I hate her.”

The fiery animosity of her dark eyes boded ill, I felt, for the senora.
But it flashed over me that perhaps, after all, the senora was not a
traitress, but had simply been scheming to win the heart and hence the
hacienda of the great land-owner, when he came into possession of his
estate if the revolution proved successful.

“And finally,” she concluded, keeping back the tears by an heroic
effort, “last night he left our apartment, promising to return early in
the evening. It is now twenty-four hours, and I have heard not a
word from him. It is the first time in my life that we have ever been
separated so long.”

“And you have no idea where he could have gone?” asked Craig.

“Only what I have learned from Senor Torreon, another member of the
junta. Senor Torreon said this morning that he left the home of Senora
Mendez last night about ten o’clock in company with my father. He says
they parted at the subway, as they lived on different branches of the
road. Professor Kennedy,” she added, springing up and clasping her hands
tightly in an appeal that was irresistible, “you know what steps to take
to find him. I trust all to you--even the calling on the police, though
I think it would be best if we could get along without them. Find my
father, senores, and when we come into our own again you shall not
regret that you befriended a lonely girl in a strange city, surrounded
by intrigue and danger.” There were tears in her eyes as she stood
swaying before us.

The tenseness of the appeal was broken by the sharp ringing of the
telephone bell. Kennedy quickly took down the receiver.

“Your maid wishes to speak to you,” he said, handing the telephone to
her.

Her face brightened with that nervous hope that springs in the human
breast even in the blackest moments. “I told her if any message came for
me she might find me here,” explained Miss Guerrero. “Yes, Juanita, what
is it--a message for me?”

My Spanish was not quite good enough to catch more than a word here and
there in the low conversation, but I could guess from the haggard look
which overspread her delicate face that the news was not encouraging.

“Oh!” she cried, “this is terrible--terrible! What shall I do? Why did I
come here? I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t believe what, Miss Guerrero?” asked Kennedy reassuringly. “Trust
me.”

“That he stole the money--oh, what am I saying? You must not look for
him--you must forget that I have been here. No, I don’t believe it.”

“What money?” asked Kennedy, disregarding her appeal to drop the case.
“Remember, it may be better that we should know it now than the police
later. We will respect your confidence.”

“The junta had been notified a few days ago, they say, that a large
sum--five hundred thousand silver dollars--had been captured from the
government and was on its way to New York to be melted up as bullion at
the sub-treasury,” she answered, repeating what she had heard over the
telephone as if in a dream. “Mr. Jameson referred to the rumour when he
came in. I was interested, for I did not know the public had heard of it
yet. The junta has just announced that the money is missing. As soon
as the ship docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent appeared with the
proper credentials from my father and a guard, and they took the money
away. It has not been heard of since--and they have no word from my
father.”

Her face was blanched as she realised what the situation was. Here she
was, setting people to run down her own father, if the suspicions of the
other members of the junta were to be credited.

“You--you do not think my father--stole the money?” she faltered
pitifully. “Say you do not think so.”

“I think nothing yet,” replied Kennedy in an even voice. “The first
thing to do is to find him--before the detectives of the junta do so.”

I felt a tinge--I must confess it--of jealousy as Kennedy stood beside
her, clasping her hand in both of his and gazing earnestly down into the
rich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks.

“Miss Guerrero,” he said, “you may trust me implicitly. If your father
is alive I will do all that a man can do to find him. Let me act--for
the best. And,” he added, wheeling quickly toward me, “I know Mr.
Jameson will do likewise.”

I was pulled two ways at once. I believed in Miss Guerrero, and yet the
flight of her father and the removal of the bullion swallowed up, as
it were, instantly, without so much as a trace in New York--looked very
black for him. And yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in mine
to say good-bye, she won another knight to go forth and fight her battle
for her, nor do I think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible,
either.

When she had gone, I looked hopelessly at Kennedy. How could we find a
missing man in a city of four million people, find him without the aid
of the police--perhaps before the police could themselves find him?

Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as though he read my
thoughts. “The first thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon from
whom the first information came,” he remarked as we left the apartment.
“Miss Guerrero told me that he might possibly be found in an obscure
boarding-house in the Bronx where several members of the junta live. Let
us try, anyway.”

Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torreon at the
address given. He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that he was
an unprepossessing looking man--undersized and a trifle over-stout, with
an eye that never met yours as you talked with him. Whether it was that
he was concealing something, or whether he was merely fearful that we
might after all be United States Secret Service men, or whether it was
simply a lack of command of English, he was uncommonly uncommunicative
at first. He repeated sullenly the details of the disappearance of
Guerrero, just as we had already heard them.

“And you simply bade him good-bye as you got on a subway train and that
is the last you ever saw of him?” repeated Kennedy.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Did he seem to be worried, to have anything on his mind, to act queerly
in any way?” asked Kennedy keenly.

“No,” came the monosyllabic reply, and there was just that shade of
hesitation about it that made me wish we had the apparatus we used in
the Bond case for registering association time. Kennedy noticed it, and
purposely dropped the line of inquiry in order not to excite Torreon’s
suspicion.

“I understand no word has been received from him at the headquarters on
South Street to-day.”

“None,” replied Torreon sharply.

“And you have no idea where he could have gone after you left him last
night?”

“No, senor, none.”

This answer was given, I thought, with suspicious quickness.

“You do not think that he could be concealed by Senora Mendez, then?”
 asked Kennedy quietly.

The little man jumped forward with his eyes flashing. “No,” he hissed,
checking this show of feeling as quickly as he could.

“Well, then,” observed Kennedy, rising slowly, “I see nothing to do but
to notify the police and have a general alarm sent out.”

The fire died in the eyes of Torreon. “Do not do that, Senor,” he
exclaimed. “Wait at least one day more. Perhaps he will appear.
Perhaps he has only gone up to Bridgeport to see about some arms and
cartridges--who can tell? No, sir, do not call in the police, I beg
you--not yet. I myself will search for him. It may be I can get some
word, some clue. If I can I will notify Miss Guerrero immediately.”

Kennedy turned suddenly. “Torreon,” he flashed quickly, “what do you
suspect about that shipment of half a million silver dollars? Where did
it go after it left the wharf?”

Torreon kept his composure admirably. An enigma of a smile flitted over
his mobile features as he shrugged his shoulders. “Ah,” he said simply,
“then you have heard that the money is missing? Perhaps Guerrero has not
gone to Bridgeport, after all!”

“On condition that I do not notify the police yet--will you take us to
visit Senora Mendez, and let us learn from her what she knows of this
strange case?”

Torreon was plainly cornered. He sat for a moment biting his nails
nervously and fidgeting in his chair. “It shall be as you wish,” he
assented at length.

“We are to go,” continued Kennedy, “merely as friends of yours, you
understand? I want to ask questions in my own way, and you are not to--”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “Wait. I will tell her we are coming,” and he
reached for the telephone.

“No,” interrupted Kennedy. “I prefer to go with you unexpected. Put
down the telephone. Otherwise, I may as well notify my friend Inspector
O’Connor of the Central Office and go up with him.”

Torreon let the receiver fall back in its socket, and I caught just a
glimpse of the look of hate and suspicion which crossed his face as he
turned toward Kennedy. When he spoke it was as suavely as if he himself
were the one who had planned this little excursion.

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, leading the way out to the
cross-town surface cars.

Senora Mendez received us politely, and we were ushered into a large
music-room in her apartment. There were several people there already.
They were seated in easy chairs about the room.

One of the ladies was playing on the piano as we entered. It was a
curious composition--very rhythmic, with a peculiar thread of monotonous
melody running through it.

The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on us. Kennedy kept very
close to Torreon, apparently for the purpose of frustrating any attempt
at a whispered conversation with the senora.

The guests rose and with courtly politeness bowed as Senora Mendez
presented two friends of Senor Torreon, Senor Kennedy and Senor Jameson.
We were introduced in turn to Senor and Senora Alvardo, Senor Gonzales,
Senorita Reyes, and the player, Senora Barrios.

It was a peculiar situation, and for want of something better to say I
commented on the curious character of the music we had overheard as we
entered.

The senora smiled, and was about to speak when a servant entered,
bearing a tray full of little cups with a steaming liquid, and in a
silver dish some curious, round, brown, disc-like buttons, about an inch
in diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. Torreon motioned
frantically to the servant to withdraw, but Kennedy was too quick for
him. Interposing himself between Torreon and the servant, he made way
for her to enter.

“You were speaking of the music,” replied Senora Mendez to me in rich,
full tones. “Yes, it is very curious. It is a song of the Kiowa Indians
of New Mexico which Senora Barrios has endeavoured to set to music so
that it can be rendered on the piano. Senora Barrios and myself fled
from Vespuccia to Mexico at the start of our revolution, and when the
Mexican government ordered us to leave on account of our political
activity we merely crossed the line to the United States, in New
Mexico. It was there that we ran across this very curious discovery. The
monotonous beat of that melody you heard is supposed to represent the
beating of the tom-toms of the Indians during their mescal rites. We are
having a mescal evening here, whiling away the hours of exile from our
native Vespuccia.”

“Mescal?” I repeated blankly at first, then feeling a nudge from
Kennedy, I added hastily: “Oh, yes, to be sure. I think I have heard of
it. It’s a Mexican drink, is it not? I have never had the pleasure of
tasting it or of tasting that other drink, pulque--poolkay--did I get
the accent right?”

I felt another, sharper nudge from Kennedy, and knew that I had only
made matters worse.

“Mr. Jameson,” he hastened to remark, “confounds this mescal of the
Indians with the drink of the same name that is common in Mexico.”

“Oh,” she laughed, to my great relief, “but this mescal is something
quite different. The Mexican drink mescal is made from the maguey-plant
and is a frightfully horrid thing that sends the peon out of his senses
and makes him violent. Mescal as I mean it is a little shrub, a god, a
cult, a religion.”

“Yes,” assented Kennedy; “discovered by those same Kiowa Indians, was it
not?”

“Perhaps,” she admitted, raising her beautiful shoulders in polite
deprecation. “The mescal religion, we found, has spread very largely in
New Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and with the removal of the
Kiowas to the Indian reservation it has been adopted by other tribes
even, I have heard, as far north as the Canadian border.”

“Is that so?” asked Kennedy. “I understood that the United States
government had forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and its
sale to the Indians under severe penalties.”

“It has, sir,” interposed Alvardo, who had joined us, “but still the
mescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be more wise
for your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer that unscrupulous
persons are selling. Senor Jameson,” he added, turning to me, “will
you join us in a little cup of this artificial paradise, as one of your
English writers--Havelock Ellis, I think--has appropriately called it?”

I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora Mendez took one of the little
buttons out of the silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy tuft of hairs
off the top of it--it looked to me very much like the tip of a cactus
plant, which, indeed, it was--she rolled it into a little pellet and
placed it in her mouth, chewing it slowly like a piece of chicle.

“Watch me; do just as I do,” whispered Kennedy to me at a moment when no
one was looking.

The servant advanced towards us with the tray.

“The mescal plant,” explained Alvardo, pointing at the little discs,
“grows precisely like these little buttons which you see here. It is a
species of cactus which rises only half an inch or so from the ground.
The stem is surrounded by a clump of blunt leaves which give it its
button shape, and on the top you will see still the tuft of filaments,
like a cactus. It grows in the rocky soil in many places in the state
of Jalisco, though only recently has it become known to science. The
Indians, when they go out to gather it, simply lop off these little ends
as they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for their
own use, and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous sum. Some
people chew the buttons, while a few have lately tried making an
infusion or tea out of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had better
recommend the infusion.”

I had scarcely swallowed the bitter, almost nauseous decoction than I
began to feel my heart action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller and
stronger. The pupils of my eyes expanded as with a dose of belladonna;
at least, I could see that Kennedy’s did, and so mine must have done the
same.

I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority--really I almost
began to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in this
investigation. I have since learned that this is the common experience
of mescal-users, this sense of elation; but the feeling of physical
energy and intellectual power soon wore off, and I found myself glad to
recline in my easy chair, as the rest did, in silent indolence.

Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such as
I find it hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to others
the beauty and splendour of what I saw.

I picked up a book lying on the table before me. A pale blue-violet
shadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after-image of pure
colour that was indescribable. I laid down the book and closed my eyes.
A confused riot of images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded before
me, at first indistinct, but, as I gazed with closed yes, more and more
definite. Golden and red and green jewels seemed to riot before me. I
bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-glass
worker has ever produced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire to
sleep--in fact, was hyper-sensitive. But it was a real effort to open
my eyes; to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes and
colours.

At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gasjets of the chandelier
as they flickered. They seemed to send out waves, expanding and
contracting, waves of colour. The shadows of the room were highly
coloured and constantly changing as the light changed.

Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowa
song, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats. Strange
as it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour--and the
rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought of the
untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-fire
while others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody. What were
the visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal button
and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a
“beautiful intoxication?”

Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric light
bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room
and all things in it. I gazed next intently at the electric lights. They
became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my
head and close my eyes. Even then the image persisted--I saw the golden
sands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they were
veritable diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling
up on the shore. A vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in an orgy
of vision. Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was at least
elevating.

Kennedy’s experiences as he related them to me afterwards were similar,
though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His visions took the forms
of animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in “Alice in Wonderland,” with
merely a grin that faded away, changing into a lynx which in turn
disappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointed
ears, then tortoises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession
of beasts. When the playing began a beautiful panorama unfolded before
him--the regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty, and changes in
the scenes, which he described as a most wonderful kinetoscopic display.

In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or Poe could have done justice
to the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even they unless an
amanuensis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, for
I defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march of
changes under its influence. Indeed, in observing its action I almost
forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I.
The music ceased, but not the visions.

Senora Mendez advanced toward us. The spangles on her net dress seemed
to give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpet
like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.

Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were there
for, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when
I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever,
though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind and vision. Kennedy
did not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on the
surprise to extract the truth.

“What time did Senor Guerrero leave last night?”

The question came so suddenly that she had no time to think of a reply
that would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.

“About ten o’clock,” she answered, then instantly was on her guard, for
Torreon had caught her eye.

“And you have no idea where he went?” asked Kennedy.

“None, unless he went home,” she replied guardedly.

I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt response
to Torreon’s warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that
spread over Torreon’s features. The music had started again, and I was
oblivious to all but the riot of colour.

Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light and
colour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. Yet
there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I was raised above
earthly things. Men and women were no longer men and women--they were
brilliant creatures of whom I was one. It was sensuous, but not sensual.
I looked at my own clothes. My everyday suit was idealised. My hands
were surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they must
be the hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward toward
the tray of little cups.

There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid itself on
my arm. A voice sang in my ear softly:

“No, Walter, we have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not like any
other known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh. Let us
go as soon as we politely can. I have found out what I wanted to know.
Guerrero is not here.”

We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, with general regrets in which
all but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness
with which we had been received.

As we left the house, the return to the world was quick. It was like
coming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street. They,
not the matinee, were unreal for the moment. But, strange to say, I
found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication.

“What is it about mescal that produces such results?” I asked.

“The alkaloids,” replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along. “Mescal was
first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by
our bureau of ethnology. Dr. Weir Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Wiley and
several German scientists have investigated it since then. It is well
known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious
and little-investigated nature. I can’t recall even the names of them
offhand, but I have them in my laboratory.”

As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I found
myself in a peculiar questioning state. What had we gained by our visit?
Looking calmly at it, I could not help but ask myself why both Torreon
and Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about
the whereabouts of Guerrero. Was she a spy? Did she know anything about
the loss of the half-million dollars?

Of one thing I was certain. Torreon was an ardent admirer of the
beautiful senora, equally ardent with Guerrero. Was he simply a jealous
suitor, angry at his rival, and now glad that he was out of the way?
Where had Guerrero gone The question was still unanswered.

Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice particularly where Kennedy
was hurrying me. In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculations
and knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of his
inquiry, I did not for the moment care where we went but allowed him to
take the lead.

We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive and rode up in
the elevator. A door opened and, with a start, I found myself in the
presence of Miss Guerrero again. The questioning look on her face
recalled the object of our search, and its ill success so far. Why had
Kennedy come back with so little to report?

“Have you heard anything?” she asked eagerly.

“Not directly,” replied Kennedy. “But I have a clue, at least. I believe
that Torreon knows where your father is and will let you know any moment
now. It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal about
the money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search through
your father’s desk?”

For some moments Kennedy rummaged through the drawers and pigeonholes,
silently.

“Where does the junta keep its arms stored--not in the meeting-place on
South Street does it?” asked Kennedy at length.

“Not exactly; that would be a little too risky,” she replied. “I believe
they have a loft above the office, hired in someone else’s name and not
connected with the place down-stairs at all. My father and Senor Torreon
are the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask?”

“I ask,” replied Craig, “because I was wondering whether there might not
be something that would take him down to South Street last night. It is
the only place I can think of his going to at such a late hour, unless
he has gone out of town. If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think I
will try what. I can find down there. Ah, what is this?”

Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed a
dozen mescal buttons.

We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but it was quite evident that
she was unacquainted with them.

She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang and
the maid announced that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Torreon.

A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy’s face as he leaned over
to me and whispered: “It is evident that Torreon is anxious to clear
himself. I’ll wager he has done some rapid hustling since we left him.”

“Perhaps this is some word about my father at last,” murmured Miss
Guerrero as she nervously hurried to the telephone, and answered, “Yes,
this is Senorita Guerrero, Senor Torreon. You are at the office of
the junta? Yes, yes, you have word from my father--you went down
there to-night expecting some guns to be delivered?--and you found him
there--up-stairs in the loft--ill, did you say?--unconscious?”

In an instant her face was drawn and pale, and the receiver fell
clattering to the hard-wood floor from her nerveless fingers.

“He is dead!” she gasped as she swayed backward and I caught her. With
Kennedy’s help I carried her, limp and unconscious, across the room, and
placed her in a deep armchair. I stood at her side, but for the moment
could only look on helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty of her
face.

“Some water, Juanita, quick!” I cried as soon as I had recovered from
the shock. “Have you any smelling-salts or anything of that sort?
Perhaps you can find a little brandy. Hurry.”

While we were making her comfortable the telephone continued to tinkle.

“This is Kennedy,” I heard Craig say, as Juanita came hurrying in with
water, smelling-salts, and brandy. “You fool. She fainted. Why couldn’t
you break it to her gently? What’s that address on South Street? You
found him over the junta meeting-place in a loft? Yes, I understand.
What were you doing down there? You went down expecting a shipment
of arms and saw a light overhead I see--and suspecting something you
entered with a policeman. You heard him move across the floor above
and fall heavily? All right. Someone will be down directly. Ambulance
surgeon has tried everything, you say? No heart action, no breathing?
Sure. Very well. Let the body remain just where it is until I get
down. Oh, wait. How long ago did it happen? Fifteen minutes? All right.
Good-bye.”

Such restoratives as we had found we applied faithfully. At last we were
rewarded by the first flutter of an eyelid. Then Miss Guerrero gazed
wildly about.

“He is dead,” she moaned. “They have killed him. I know it. My father
is dead.” Over and over she repeated: “He is dead. I shall never see him
again.”

Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there to say? There could be
no doubt about it. Torreon must have gone down directly after we left
Senora Mendez. He had seen a light in the loft, had entered with a
policeman--as a witness, he had told Craig over the telephone--had heard
Guerrero fall, and had sent for the ambulance. How long Guerrero had
been there he did not know, for while members of the junta had been
coming and going all day in the office below none had gone up into the
locked loft.

Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero’s dry-eyed hysteria into
a gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought feelings. We
silently withdrew, leaving the two women, mistress and servant, weeping.

“Craig,” I asked when we had gained the street, “what do you make of it?
We must lose no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she has a chance
to escape.”

“Not so fast, Walter,” he cautioned as we spun along in a taxicab. “Our
case isn’t very complete against anybody yet.”

“But it looks black for Guerrero,” I admitted. “Dead men tell no tales
even to clear themselves.”

“It all depends on speed now,” he answered laconically.

We had reached the university, which was only a few blocks away, and
Craig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the driver. He
reappeared almost instantly with some bulky apparatus under his arm,
and we more than ran from the building to the near-by subway station.
Fortunately there was an express just pulling in, as we tumbled down the
steps.

To one who knows South Street as merely a river-front street whose glory
of other days has long since departed, where an antiquated horsecar
now ambles slowly uptown, and trucks and carts all day long are in a
perpetual jam, it is peculiarly uninteresting by day, and peculiarly
deserted and vicious by night. But there is another fascination about
South Street. Perhaps there has never been a revolution in Latin America
which has not in some way or other been connected with this street,
whence hundreds of filibustering expeditions have started. Whenever a
dictator is to be overthrown, or half a dozen chocolate-skinned generals
in the Caribbean become dissatisfied with their portions of gold lace,
the arms- and ammunition-dealers of South Street can give, if they
choose, an advance scenario of the whole tragedy or comic opera, as the
case may be. Real war or opera-bouffe, it is all grist for the mills of
these close-mouthed individuals.

Our quest took us to a ramshackle building reminiscent of the days when
the street bristled with bowsprits of ships from all over the world, an
age when the American merchantman flew our flag on the uttermost of the
seven-seas. On the ground floor was an apparently innocent junk dealer’s
shop, in reality the meeting-place of the junta. By an outside stairway
the lofts above were reached, hiding their secrets behind windows opaque
with decades of dust.

At the door we were met by Torreon and the policeman. Both appeared to
be shocked beyond measure. Torreon was profuse in explanations which
did not explain. Out of the tangled mass of verbiage I did manage to
extract, however, the impression that, come what might to the other
members of the junta, Torreon was determined to clear his own name at
any cost. He and the policeman had discovered Senor Guerrero only a
short time before, up-stairs. For all he knew, Guerrero had been there
some time, perhaps all day, while the others were meeting down-stairs.
Except for the light he might have been there undiscovered still.
Torreon swore he had heard Guerrero fall; the policeman was not quite so
positive.

Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up the stairs, only to call
back to the policeman: “Go call me a taxicab at the ferry, an electric
cab. Mind, now, not a gasoline-cab--electric.”

We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of sailcloth in a loft
apparently devoted to the peaceful purposes of the junk trade, but
really a perfect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and cobwebbed,
crammed with stands of arms, tents, uniforms in bales, batteries of
Maxims and mountain-guns, and all the paraphernalia for carrying on a
real twentieth-century revolution.

The young ambulance surgeon was still there, so quickly had we been able
to get down-town. He had his stomach-pump, hypodermic syringe, emetics,
and various tubes spread out on a piece of linen on a packing-case.
Kennedy at once inquired just what he had done.

“Thought at first it was only a bad case of syncope,” he replied, “but
I guess he was dead some minutes before I got here. Tried rhythmic
traction of the tongue, artificial respiration, stimulants, chest and
heart massage--everything, but it was no use:”

“Have you any idea what caused his death?” asked Craig as he hastily
adjusted his apparatus to an electric light socket--a rheostat, an
induction-coil of peculiar shape, and an “interrupter.”

“Poison of some kind--an alkaloid. They say they heard him fall as they
came up-stairs, and when they got to him he was blue. His face was as
blue as it is now when I arrived. Asphyxia, failure of both heart and
lungs, that was what the alkaloid caused.”

The gong of the electric cab sounded outside. As Craig heard it he
rushed with two wires to the window, threw them out, and hurried
downstairs, attaching them to the batteries of the cab.

In an instant he was back again.

“Now, Doctor,” he said, “I’m going to perform a very delicate test on
this man. Here I have the alternating city current and here a direct,
continuous current from the storage-batteries of the cab below. Doctor,
hold his mouth open. So. Now, have you a pair of forceps handy? Good.
Can you catch hold of the tip of his tongue? There. Do just as I tell
you. I apply this cathode to his skin in the dorsal region; under the
back of the neck, and this anode in the lumbar region at the base of the
spine--just pieces of cotton soaked in salt solution and covering the
metal electrodes, to give me a good contact with the body.”

I was fascinated. It was gruesome, and yet I could not take my eyes
off it. Torreon stood blankly, in a daze. Craig was as calm as if his
every-day work was experimenting on cadavers.

He applied the current, moving the anode and the cathode slowly. I had
often seen the experiments on the nerves of a frog that had been freshly
killed, how the electric current will make the muscles twitch, as
discovered long ago by Galvani. But I was not prepared to see it on a
human being. Torreon muttered something and crossed himself.

The arms seemed half to rise--then suddenly to fall, flabby again. There
was a light hiss like an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastly
sound.

“Lungs react,” muttered Kennedy, “but the heart doesn’t. I must increase
the voltage.”

Again he applied the electrodes.

The face seemed a different shade of blue, I thought.

“Good God, Kennedy,” I exclaimed, “do you suppose the effect of that
mescal on me hasn’t worn off yet? Blue, blue everything blue is playing
pranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the blue of that face--his face--is
it changing? Do you see it, or do I imagine it?”

“Blood asphyxiated,” was the disjointed reply. “The oxygen is clearing
it.”

“But, Kennedy,” I persisted; “his face was dark blue, black a minute
ago. The most astonishing change has taken place. Its colour is almost
natural now. Do I imagine it or is it real?”

Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all. He
heard nothing, nothing save the slow, forced inspiration and expiration
of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the electrodes.

“Doctor,” he cried at length, “tell me what is going on in that heart.”

The young surgeon bent his head and placed his ear on the cold breast.
As he raised his eyes and they chanced to rest on Kennedy’s hands,
holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I think I never saw a
greater look of astonishment on a human face. “It--is--almost--natural,”
 he gasped.

“With great care and a milk diet for a few days Guerrero will live,”
 said Kennedy quietly. “It is natural.”

“My God, man, but he was dead!” exclaimed the surgeon. “I know it. His
heart was stopped and his lungs collapsed.”

“To all intents and purposes he was dead, dead as ever a man was,”
 replied Craig, “and would be now, if I hadn’t happened to think of this
special induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor who had studied deeply
the process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc of
the Nantes Ecole de Medicin. There is only one case I know of on record
which compares with this--a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The
girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was ‘dead’ forty minutes.”

I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after the
many surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, did
not comprehend for the moment.

As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero’s eyes opened, but he apparently
saw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Kennedy
quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath,
one after another. From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case,
identical with that he had found in the desk up-town. He opened it, and
one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded
it thoughtfully.

“I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug
who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this,” he added,
looking significantly at the man before us.

“Guerrero,” shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man’s ear,
but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said,
“Guerrero, where is the money?”

His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he said
anything.

Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the
electric light socket behind Torreon.

“Car-ramba!” I heard as I turned suddenly.

Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms. The
policeman quickly interposed.

“It’s all right,--officer,” exclaimed Craig. “Walter, reach into his
inside pocket.”

I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them over.

“What’s that?” asked Kennedy as I came to something neatly enclosed in
an envelope.

I opened it. It was a power of attorney from Guerrero to Torreon.

“Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal if he wants it--I doubt if
the penal code covers that,” ejaculated Kennedy. “But it is conspiracy
to give it to him and extract a power of attorney by which you can get
control of trust funds consigned to him. Manuel Torreon, the game is up.
You and Senora Mendez have played your parts well. But you have
lost. You waited until you thought Guerrero was dead, then you took a
policeman along as a witness to clear yourself. But the secret is not
dead, after all. Is there nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes? Ah,
a bill of lading dated to-day? Ten cases of ‘scrap iron’ from New York
to Boston--a long chance for such valuable ‘scrap,’ senor, but I suppose
you had to get the money away from New York, at any risk.”

“And Senora Mendez?” I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to the
brilliantly lighted room up-town. “What part did she have in the plot
against Guerrero?”

Torreon stood sullenly silent. Kennedy reached in another of Torreon’s
pockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons.
Holding all three of the boxes, identically the same, before us he
remarked: “Evidently Torreon was not averse to having his victim under
the influence of mescal as much as possible. He must have forced it on
him--all’s fair in love and revolution, I suppose. I believe he brought
him down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained the
power of attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication.
It was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal--the artificial
paradise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon knew it and tried to
profit by it to the extent of half a million dollars.”

It was more than I could grasp at the instant. The impossible had
happened. I had seen the dead--literally--brought back to life and the
secret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the grave.

Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face. “Walter,” he said,
casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, “don’t stand there gaping
like Billikin. Our part in this case is finished--at least mine is.
But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at various
times that--well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a real
paradise. I saw a telephone down-stairs. Go call up Miss Guerrero and
tell her her father is alive--and innocent.”



XII. The Steel Door

It was what, in college, we used to call “good football weather”--a
crisp, autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and
muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing
our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the
string of homeward-bound automobiles on the broad parkway. Suddenly a
huge black touring car marked with big letters, “P.D.N.Y.,” shot past.

“Joy-riding again in one of the city’s cars,” I remarked. “I thought the
last Police Department shake-up had put a stop to that.”

“Perhaps it has,” returned Kennedy. “Did you see who was in the car?”

“No, but I see it has turned and is coming back.”

“It was Inspector--I mean, First Deputy O’Connor. I thought he
recognised us as he whizzed along, and I guess he did, too. Ah,
congratulations, O’Connor! I haven’t had a chance to tell you before how
pleased I was to learn you had been appointed first deputy. It ought to
have been commissioner, though,” added Kennedy.

“Congratulations nothing,” rejoined O’Connor. “Just another
new-deal-election coming on, mayor must make a show of getting some
reform done, and all that sort of thing. So he began with the Police
Department, and here I am, first deputy. But, say, Kennedy,” he added,
dropping his voice, “I’ve a little job on my mind that I’d like to pull
off in about as spectacular a fashion as I--as you know how. I want to
make good, conspicuously good, at the start--understand? Maybe I’ll be
‘broke’ for it and sent to pounding the pavements of Dismissalville,
but I don’t care, I’ll take a chance. On the level, Kennedy, it’s a big
thing, and it ought to be done. Will you help me put it across?”

“What is it?” asked Kennedy with a twinkle in his eye at O’Connor’s
estimate of the security of his tenure of office.

O’Connor drew us away from the automobile toward the stone parapet
overlooking the railroad and river far below, and out of earshot of
the department chauffeur. “I want to pull off a successful raid on the
Vesper Club,” he whispered earnestly, scanning our faces.

“Good heavens, man,” I ejaculated, “don’t you know that Senator Danfield
is interested in--”

“Jameson,” interrupted O’Connor reproachfully, “I said ‘on the level’ a
few moments ago, and I meant it. Senator Danfield he--well, anyhow, if I
don’t do it the district attorney will, with the aid of the Dowling law,
and I am going to beat him to it, that’s all. There’s too much money
being lost at the Vesper Club, anyhow. It won’t hurt Danfield to be
taught a lesson not to run such a phony game. I may like to put up a
quiet bet myself on the ponies now and then--I won’t say I don’t, but
this thing of Danfield’s has got beyond all reason. It’s the crookedest
gambling joint in the city, at least judging by the stories they tell of
losses there. And so beastly aristocratic, too. Read that.”

O’Connor shoved a letter into Kennedy’s hand, a dainty perfumed and
monogrammed little missive addressed in a feminine hand. It was such a
letter as comes by the thousand to the police in the course of a year;
though seldom from ladies of the smart set.

“Dear Sir: I notice in the newspapers this morning that you have just
been appointed first deputy commissioner of police and that you have
been ordered to suppress gambling in New York. For the love that you
must still bear toward your own mother, listen to the story of a mother
worn with anxiety for her only son, and if there is any justice or
righteousness in this great city close up a gambling hell that is
sending to ruin scores of our finest young men. No doubt you know
or have heard of my family--the DeLongs are not unknown in New York.
Perhaps you have also heard of the losses of my son Percival at the
Vesper Club. They are fast becoming the common talk of our set. I am not
rich, Mr. Commissioner, in spite of our social position, but I am human,
as human as a mother in any station of life, and oh, if there is any
way, close up that gilded society resort that is dissipating our
small fortune, ruining an only son, and slowly bringing to the grave
a gray-haired widow, as worthy of protection as any mother of the poor
whose plea has closed up a little poolroom or low policy shop.”

Sincerely,

(Mrs.) Julia M. DeLong.

P.S.--Please keep this confidential--at least from my son Percival.

J. M. DeL.


“Well,” said Kennedy, as he handed back the letter, “O’Connor, if you do
it, I’ll take back all the hard things I’ve ever said about the police
system. Young DeLong was in one of my classes at the university, until
he was expelled for that last mad prank of his. There’s more to that boy
than most people think, but he’s the wildest scion of wealth I have ever
come in contact with. How are you going to pull off your raid--is it to
be down through the skylight or up from the cellar?”

“Kennedy,” replied O’Connor in the same reproachful tone with which he
had addressed me, “talk sense. I’m in earnest. You know the Vesper Club
is barred and barricaded like the National City Bank. It isn’t one of
those common gambling joints which depend for protection on what we
call ‘ice-box doors.’ It’s proof against all the old methods. Axes and
sledge-hammers would make no impression there.”

“Your predecessor had some success at opening doors with a hydraulic
jack, I believe, in some very difficult raids,” put in Kennedy.

“A hydraulic jack wouldn’t do for the Vesper Club, I’m afraid,”
 remarked O’Connor wearily. “Why, sir, that place has been proved
bomb-proof--bomb-proof, sir. You remember recently the so-called
‘gamblers’ war’ in which some rivals exploded a bomb on the steps? It
did more damage to the house next door than to the club. However, I can
get past the outer door, I think, even if it is strong. But inside--you
must have heard of it--is the famous steel door, three inches thick,
made of armourplate. It’s no use to try it at all unless we can pass
that door with reasonable quickness. All the evidence we shall get will
be of an innocent social club-room downstairs. The gambling is all on
the second floor, beyond this door, in a room without a window in it.
Surely you’ve heard of that famous gambling-room, with its perfect
system of artificial ventilation and electric lighting that makes it
rival noonday at midnight. And don’t tell me I’ve got to get on the
other side of the door by strategy, either. It is strategy-proof. The
system of lookouts is perfect. No, force is necessary, but it must not
be destructive of life or property--or, by heaven, I’d drive up there
and riddle the place with a fourteen-inch gun,” exclaimed O’Connor.

“H’m!” mused Kennedy as he flicked the ashes off his cigar and
meditatively watched a passing freight-train on the railroad below us.
“There goes a car loaded with tons and tons of scrap iron. You want me
to scrap that three-inch steel door, do you?”

“Kennedy, I’ll buy that particular scrap from you at almost its weight
in gold. The fact is, I have a secret fund at my disposal such as former
commissioners have asked for in vain. I can afford to pay you well,
as well as any private client, and I hear you have had some good fees
lately. Only deliver the goods.”

“No,” answered Kennedy, rather piqued, “it isn’t money that I am after.
I merely wanted to be sure that you are in earnest. I can get you past
that door as if it were made of green baize.”

It was O’Connor’s turn to look incredulous, but as Kennedy apparently
meant exactly what he said, he simply asked, “And will you?”

“I will do it to-night if you say so,” replied Kennedy quietly. “Are you
ready?”

For answer O’Connor simply grasped Craig’s hand, as if to seal the
compact.

“All right, then,” continued Kennedy. “Send a furniture-van, one of
those closed vans that the storage warehouses use, up to my laboratory
any time before seven o’clock. How many men will you need in the raid?
Twelve? Will a van hold that many comfortably? I’ll want to put some
apparatus in it, but that won’t take much room.”

“Why, yes, I think so,” answered O’Connor. “I’ll get a well-padded van
so that they won’t be badly jolted by the ride down-town. By George!
Kennedy, I see you know more of that side of police strategy than I gave
you credit for.”

“Then have the men drop into my laboratory singly about the same time.
You can arrange that so that it will not look suspicious, so far uptown.
It will be dark, anyhow. Perhaps, O’Connor, you can make up as the
driver yourself--anyhow, get one you can trust absolutely. Then have
the van down near the corner of Broadway below the club, driving slowly
along about the time the theatre crowd is out. Leave the rest to me. I
will give you or the driver orders when the time comes.”

As O’Connor thanked Craig, he remarked without a shade of insincerity,
“Kennedy, talk about being commissioner, you ought to be commissioner.”

“Wait till I deliver the goods,” answered Craig simply. “I may fall down
and bring you nothing but a lawsuit for damages for unlawful entry or
unjust persecution, or whatever they call it.”

“I’ll take a chance at that,” called back O’Connor as he jumped into his
car and directed, “Headquarters, quick.”

As the car disappeared, Kennedy filled his lungs with air as if
reluctant to leave the drive. “Our constitutional,” he remarked, “is
abruptly at an end, Walter.”

Then he laughed, as he looked about him.

“What a place in which to plot a raid on Danfield’s Vesper Club! Why,
the nurse-maids have hardly got the children all in for supper and bed.
It’s incongruous. Well, I must go over to the laboratory and get some
things ready to put in that van with the men. Meet me about half-past
seven, Walter, up in the room, all togged up. We’ll dine at the Cafe
Riviera to-night in style. And, by the way, you’re quite a man about
town--you must know someone who can introduce us into the Vesper Club.”

“But, Craig,” I demurred, “if there is any rough work as a result, it
might queer me with them. They might object to being used--”

“Oh, that will be all right. I just want to look the place over and
lose a few chips in a good cause. No, it won’t queer any of your Star
connections. We’ll be on the outside when the time comes for anything to
happen. In fact I shouldn’t wonder if your story would make you all the
more solid with the sports. I take all the responsibility; you can have
the glory. You know they like to hear the inside gossip of such things,
after the event. Try it. Remember, at seven-thirty. We’ll be a little
late at dinner, but never mind; it will be early enough for the club.”

Left to my own devices I determined to do a little detective work on my
own account, and not only did I succeed in finding an acquaintance who
agreed to introduce us at the Vesper Club that night about nine o’clock,
but I also learned that Percival DeLong was certain to be there that
night, too. I was necessarily vague about Kennedy, for fear my friend
might have heard of some of his exploits, but fortunately he did not
prove inquisitive.

I hurried back to our apartment and was in the process of transforming
myself into a full-fledged boulevardier, when Kennedy arrived in
an extremely cheerful frame of mind. So far, his preparations had
progressed very favourably, I guessed, and I was quite elated when he
complimented me on what I had accomplished in the meantime.

“Pretty tough for the fellows who are condemned to ride around in that
van for four mortal hours, though,” he said as he hurried into his
evening clothes, “but they won’t be riding all the time. The driver will
make frequent stops.”

I was so busy that I paid little attention to him until he had nearly
completed his toilet. I gave a gasp.

“Why, whatever are you doing?” I exclaimed as I glanced into his room.

There stood Kennedy arrayed in all the glory of a sharp-pointed
moustache and a goatee. He had put on evening clothes of decidedly
Parisian cut, clothes which he had used abroad and had brought back with
him, but which I had never known him to wear since he came back. On
a chair reposed a chimney-pot hat that would have been pronounced
faultless on the “continong,” but was unknown, except among impresarios,
on Broadway.

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders--he even had the shrug.

“Figure to yourself, monsieur,” he said. “Ze great Kennedy, ze detectif
Americain--to put it tersely in our own vernacular, wouldn’t it be a
fool thing for me to appear at the Vesper Club where I should surely be
recognised by someone if I went in my ordinary clothes and features? Un
faux pas, at the start? Jamais!”

There was nothing to do but agree, and I was glad that I had been
discreetly reticent about my companion in talking with the friend who
was to gain us entrance to the Avernus beyond the steel door.

We met my friend at the Riviera and dined sumptuously. Fortunately he
seemed decidedly impressed with my friend Monsieur Kay--I could do no
better on the spur of the moment than take Kennedy’s initial, which
seemed to serve. We progressed amicably from oysters and soup down to
coffee, cigars, and liqueurs, and I succeeded in swallowing Kennedy’s
tales of Monte Carlo and Ostend and Ascot without even a smile. He
must have heard them somewhere, and treasured them up for just such an
occasion, but he told them in a manner that was verisimilitude itself,
using perfect English with just the trace of an accent at the right
places.

At last it was time to saunter around to the Vesper Club without seeming
to be too indecently early. The theatres were not yet out, but my friend
said play was just beginning at the club and would soon be in full
swing.

I had a keen sense of wickedness as we mounted the steps in the yellow
flare of the flaming arc-light on the Broadway corner not far below us.
A heavy, grated door swung open at the practised signal of my friend,
and an obsequious negro servant stood bowing and pronouncing his name
in the sombre mahogany portal beyond, with its green marble pillars and
handsome decorations. A short parley followed, after which we entered,
my friend having apparently satisfied someone that we were all right.

We did not stop to examine the first floor, which doubtless was innocent
enough, but turned quickly up a flight of steps. At the foot of the
broad staircase Kennedy paused to examine some rich carvings, and I felt
him nudge me. I turned. It was an enclosed staircase, with walls that
looked to be of re-enforced concrete. Swung back on hinges concealed
like those of a modern burglar-proof safe was the famous steel door.

We did not wish to appear to be too interested, yet a certain amount of
curiosity was only proper.

My friend paused on the steps, turned, and came back.

“You’re perfectly safe,” he smiled, tapping the door with his cane with
a sort of affectionate respect. “It would take the police ages to get
past that barrier, which would be swung shut and bolted the moment the
lookout gave the alarm. But there has never been any trouble. The police
know that it is so far, no farther. Besides,” he added with a wink to
me, “you know, Senator Danfield wouldn’t like this pretty little door
even scratched. Come up, I think I hear DeLong’s voice up-stairs. You’ve
heard of him, monsieur? It’s said his luck has changed I’m anxious to
find out.”

Quickly he led the way up the handsome staircase and into a large,
lofty, richly furnished room. Everywhere there were thick, heavy carpets
on the floors, into which your feet sank with an air of satisfying
luxury.

The room into which we entered was indeed absolutely windowless. It was
a room built within the original room of the old house. Thus the windows
overlooking the street from the second floor in reality bore no relation
to it. For light it depended on a complete oval of lights overhead
so arranged as to be themselves invisible, but shining through richly
stained glass and conveying the illusion of a slightly clouded noonday.
The absence of windows was made up for, as I learned later, by a
ventilating device so perfect that, although everyone was smoking, a
most fastidious person could scarcely have been offended by the odour of
tobacco.

Of course I did not notice all this at first. What I did notice,
however, was a faro-layout and a hazard-board, but as no one was playing
at either, my eye quickly travelled to a roulette-table which stretched
along the middle of the room. Some ten or a dozen men in evening clothes
were gathered watching with intent faces the spinning wheel. There
was no money on the table, nothing but piles of chips of various
denominations. Another thing that surprised me as I looked was that the
tense look on the faces of the players was anything but the feverish,
haggard gaze I had expected. In fact, they were sleek, well-fed, typical
prosperous New-Yorkers rather inclined to the noticeable in dress and
carrying their avoirdupois as if life was an easy game with them. Most
of them evidently belonged to the financial and society classes. There
were no tragedies; the tragedies were elsewhere--in their offices,
homes, in the courts, anywhere, but not here at the club. Here all was
life, light, and laughter.

For the benefit of those not acquainted with the roulette-wheel--and I
may as well confess that most of my own knowledge was gained in that one
crowded evening--I may say that it consists, briefly, of a wooden disc
very nicely balanced and turning in the centre of a cavity set into
a table like a circular wash-basin, with an outer rim turned slightly
inward. The “croupier” revolves the wheel to the right. With a quick
motion of his middle finger he flicks a marble, usually of ivory, to the
left. At the Vesper Club, always up-to-date, the ball was of platinum,
not of ivory. The disc with its sloping sides is provided with a number
of brass rods, some perpendicular, some horizontal. As the ball and the
wheel lose momentum the ball strikes against the rods and finally is
deflected into one of the many little pockets or stalls facing the rim
of the wheel.

There are thirty-eight of these pockets; two are marked “0” and “00,”
 the others numbered from one to thirty-six in an irregular and confusing
order and painted alternately red and black. At each end of the table
are thirty-six large squares correspondingly numbered and coloured. The
“0” and “00” are of a neutral colour. Whenever the ball falls in the “0”
 or “00” the bank takes the stakes, or sweeps the the board. The Monte
Carlo wheel has only one “0,” while the typical American has two, and
the Chinese has four.

To one like myself who had read of the Continental gambling-houses with
the clink of gold pieces on the table, and the croupier with his wooden
rake noisily raking in the winnings of the bank, the comparative silence
of the American game comes as a surprise.

As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click of the
chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner: “Twenty-three, black.
Eight, red. Seventeen, black.” It was almost like the boys in a broker’s
office calling off the quotations of the ticker and marking them up on
the board.

Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival DeLong, a
tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill comported with
the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. Such a boy, it flashed
across my mind, ought to be studying the possible plays of football of
an evening in the field-house after his dinner at the training-table,
rather than the possible gyrations of the little platinum ball on the
wheel.

“Curse the luck!” he exclaimed, as “17” appeared again.

A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the “17” to come up a third
time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the circle. DeLong
hesitated, as one who thought, “Seventeen has come out twice--the odds
against its coming again are too great, even though the winnings would
be fabulous, for a good stake.” He placed his next bet on another
number.

“He’s playing Lord Rosslyn’s system, to-night,” whispered my friend.

The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again,
“Seventeen, black.” A tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It was
almost unprecedented.

DeLong, with a stifled oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about the
table.

“And ‘17’ has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next spin
as if it had not already had a run of three,” said a voice at my elbow.

It was Kennedy. The roulette-table needs no introduction when curious
sequences are afoot. All are friends.

“That’s the theory of Sir Hiram Maxim;” commented my friend, as he
excused himself reluctantly for another appointment. “But no true
gambler will believe it, monsieur, or at least act on it.”

All eyes were turned on Kennedy, who made a gesture of polite
deprecation, as if the remark of my friend were true, but he
nonchalantly placed his chips on the “17.”

“The odds against ‘17’ appearing four consecutive times are some
millions,” he went on, “and yet, having appeared three times, it is just
as likely to appear again as before. It is the usual practice to avoid a
number that has had a run, on the theory that some other number is more
likely to come up than it is. That would be the case if it were drawing
balls from a bag full of red and black balls--the more red ones drawn
the smaller the chance of drawing another red one. But if the balls are
put back in the bag after being drawn the chances of drawing a red one
after three have been drawn are exactly the same as ever. If we toss
a cent and heads appear twelve times, that does not have the slightest
effect on the thirteenth toss--there is still an even chance that it,
too, will be heads. So if ‘17’ had come up five times to-night, it would
be just as likely to come the sixth as if the previous five had not
occurred, and that despite the fact that before it has appeared at all
odds against a run of the same number six times in succession are about
two billion, four hundred and ninety-six million, and some thousands.
Most systems are based on the old persistent belief that occurrences of
chance are affected in some way by occurrences immediately preceding,
but disconnected physically. If we’ve had a run of black for twenty
times, system says play the red for the twenty-first. But black is just
as likely to turn up the twenty-first as if it were the first play of
all. The confusion arises because a run of twenty on the black should
happen once in one million, forty-eight thousand, five hundred and
seventy-six coups. It would take ten years to make that many coups, and
the run of twenty might occur once or any number of times in it. It is
only when one deals with infinitely large numbers of coups that one can
count on infinitely small variations in the mathematical results. This
game does not go on for infinity--therefore anything, everything, may
happen. Systems are based on the infinite; we play in the finite.”

“You talk like a professor I had at the university,” ejaculated DeLong
contemptuously as Craig finished his disquisition on the practical
fallibility of theoretically infallible systems. Again DeLong carefully
avoided the “17,” as well as the black.

The wheel spun again; the ball rolled. The knot of spectators around the
table watched with bated breath.

Seventeen won!

As Kennedy piled up his winnings superciliously, without even the
appearance of triumph, a man behind me whispered, “A foreign nobleman
with a system--watch him.”

“Non, monsieur,” said Kennedy quickly, having overheard the remark, “no
system, sir. There is only one system of which I know.”

“What?” asked DeLong eagerly.

Kennedy staked a large sum on the red to win. The black came up, and
he lost. He doubled the stake and played again, and again lost. With
amazing calmness Craig kept right on doubling.

“The martingale,” I heard the man whisper behind me. “In other words,
double or quit.”

Kennedy was now in for some hundreds, a sum that was sufficiently large
for him, but he doubled again, still cheerfully playing the red, and the
red won. As he gathered up his chips he rose.

“That’s the only system,” he said simply.

“But, go on, go on,” came the chorus from about the table.

“No,” said Kennedy quietly, “that is part of the system, too--to quit
when you have won back your stakes and a little more.”

“Huh!” exclaimed DeLong in disgust. “Suppose you were in for some
thousands--you wouldn’t quit. If you had real sporting blood you
wouldn’t quit, anyhow!”

Kennedy calmly passed over the open insult, letting it be understood
that he ignored this beardless youth.

“There is no way you can beat the game in the long run if you keep at
it,” he answered simply. “It is mathematically impossible. Consider. We
are Croesuses--we hire players to stake money for us on every possible
number at every coup. How do we come out? If there are no ‘0’ or ‘00,’
we come out after each coup precisely where we started--we are paying
our own money back and forth among ourselves; we have neither more
nor less. But with the ‘0’ and ‘00’ the bank sweeps the board every so
often. It is only a question of time when, after paying our money back
and forth among ourselves, it has all filtered through the ‘0’ and ‘00’
into the bank. It is not a game of chance for the bank--ah, it is exact,
mathematical--c’est une question d’ arithmetique, seulement, nest-ce
pas, messieurs?”

“Perhaps,” admitted DeLong, “but it doesn’t explain why I am losing
to-night while everyone else is winning.”

“We are not winning,” persisted Craig. “After I have had a bite to eat I
will demonstrate how to lose--by keeping on playing.” He led the way to
the cafe.

DeLong was too intent on the game to leave, even for refreshments. Now
and then I saw him beckon to an attendant, who brought him a stiff drink
of whiskey. For a moment his play seemed a little better, then he
would drop back into his hopeless losing. For some reason or other his
“system” failed absolutely.

“You see, he is hopeless,” mused Kennedy over our light repast. “And
yet of all gambling games roulette offers the player the best odds, far
better than horse-racing, for instance. Our method has usually been to
outlaw roulette and permit horse racing; in other words, suppress the
more favourable and permit the less favourable. However, we’re doing
better now; we’re suppressing both. Of course what I say applies only to
roulette when it is honestly played--DeLong would lose anyhow, I fear.”

I started at Kennedy’s tone and whispered hastily: “What do you mean? Do
you think the wheel is crooked?”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” he replied in an undertone. “That run of ‘17’
might happen--yes. But it is improbable. They let me win because I was
a new player--new players always win at first. It is proverbial, but
the man who is running this game has made it look like a platitude. To
satisfy myself on that point I am going to play again--until I have lost
my winnings and am just square with the game. When I reach the point
that I am convinced that some crooked work is going on I am going to try
a little experiment, Walter. I want you to stand close to me so that no
one can see what I am doing. Do just as I will indicate to you.”

The gambling-room was now fast filling up with the first of the theatre
crowd. DeLong’s table was the centre of attraction, owing to the high
play. A group of young men of his set were commiserating with him on his
luck and discussing it with the finished air of roues of double their
ages. He was doggedly following his system.

Kennedy and I approached.

“Ah, here is the philosophical stranger again;” DeLong exclaimed,
catching sight of Kennedy. “Perhaps he can enlighten us on how to win at
roulette by playing his own system.”

“Au contrarie, monsieur, let me demonstrate how to lose,” answered Craig
with a smile that showed a row of faultless teeth beneath his black
moustache, decidedly foreign.

Kennedy played and lost, and lost again; then he won, but in the main he
lost. After one particularly large loss I felt his arm on mine, drawing
me closely to him. DeLong had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the fact
that Kennedy, too, was losing. I found that Craig had paused in his play
at a moment when DeLong had staked a large sum that a number below “18”
 would turn up--for five plays the numbers had been between “18” and
“36.” Curious to see what Craig was doing, I looked cautiously down
between us. All eyes were fixed on the wheel. Kennedy was holding an
ordinary compass in the crooked-up palm of his hand. The needle pointed
at me, as I happened to be standing north of it.

The wheel spun. Suddenly the needle swung around to a point between
the north and south poles, quivered a moment, and came to rest in that
position. Then it swung back to the north.

It was some seconds before I realised the significance of it. It had
pointed at the table--and DeLong had lost again. There was some electric
attachment at work.

Kennedy and I exchanged glances, and he shoved the compass into my hand
quickly. “You watch it, Walter, while I play,” he whispered.

Carefully concealing it, as he had done, yet holding it as close to the
table as I dared I tried to follow two things at once without betraying
myself. As near as I could make out, something happened at every play. I
would not go so far as to assert that whenever the larger stakes were on
a certain number the needle pointed to the opposite side of the wheel,
for it was impossible to be at all accurate about it. Once I noticed the
needle did not move at all, and he won. But at the next play he staked
what I knew must be the remainder of his winnings on what seemed a
very good chance. Even before the wheel was revolved and the ball set
rolling, the needle swung about, and when the platinum ball came to rest
Kennedy rose from the table, a loser.

“By George though,” exclaimed DeLong, grasping his hand. “I take it all
back. You are a good loser, sir. I wish I could take it as well as you
do. But then, I’m in too deeply. There are too many ‘markers’ with the
house up against me.”

Senator Danfield had just come in to see how things were going. He was
a sleek, fat man, and it was amazing to see with what deference his
victims treated him. He affected not to have heard what DeLong said, but
I could imagine what he was thinking, for I had heard that he had scant
sympathy with anyone after he “went broke”--another evidence of the
camaraderie and good-fellowship that surrounded the game.

Kennedy’s next remark surprised me. “Oh, your luck will change, D.
L.,”--everyone referred to him as “D. L.,” for gambling-houses have an
aversion for real names and greatly prefer initials--“your luck will
change presently. Keep right on with your system. It’s the best you can
do to-night, short of quitting.”

“I’ll never quit,” replied the young man under his breath.

Meanwhile Kennedy and I paused on the way out to compare notes. My
report of the behaviour of the compass only confirmed him in his
opinion.

As we turned to the stairs we took in a full view of the room. A
faro-layout was purchasing Senator Danfield a new touring-car every
hour at the expense of the players. Another group was gathered about the
hazard board, deriving evident excitement, though I am sure none could
have given an intelligent account of the chances they were taking. Two
roulette-tables were now going full blast, the larger crowd still about
DeLong’s. Snatches of conversation came to us now and then, and I caught
one sentence, “De Long’s in for over a hundred thousand now on the
week’s play, I understand; poor boy--that about cleans him up.”

“The tragedy of it, Craig,” I whispered, but he did not hear.

With his hat tilted at a rakish angle and his opera-coat over his arm he
sauntered over for a last look.

“Any luck yet?” he asked carelessly.

“The devil--no,” returned the boy.

“Do you know what my advice to you is, the advice of a man who has seen
high play everywhere from Monte Carlo to Shanghai?”

“What?”

“Play until your luck changes if it takes until to-morrow.”

A supercilious smile crossed Senator Danfield’s fat face.

“I intend to,” and the haggard young face turned again to the table and
forgot us.

“For Heaven’s sake, Kennedy,” I gasped as we went down the stairway,
“what do you mean by giving him such advice--you?”

“Not so loud, Walter. He’d have done it anyhow, I suppose, but I want
him to keep at it. This night means life or death to Percival DeLong and
his mother, too. Come on, let’s get out of this.”

We passed the formidable steel door and gained the street, jostled by
the late-comers who had left the after-theatre restaurants for a few
moments of play at the famous club that so long had defied the police.

Almost gaily Kennedy swung along toward Broadway. At the corner he
hesitated, glanced up and down, caught sight of the furniture-van in the
middle of the next block. The driver was tugging at the harness of the
horses, apparently fixing it. We walked along and stopped beside it.

“Drive around in front of the Vesper Club slowly,” said Kennedy as the
driver at last looked up.

The van lumbered ahead, and we followed it casually. Around the corner
it turned. We turned also. My heart was going like a sledgehammer as the
critical moment approached. My head was in a whirl. What would that gay
throng back of those darkened windows down the street think if they knew
what was being prepared for them?

On, like the Trojan horse, the van lumbered. A man went into the Vesper
Club, and I saw the negro at the door eye the oncoming van suspiciously.
The door banged shut.

The next thing I knew, Kennedy had ripped off his disguise, had flung
himself up behind the van, and had swung the doors open. A dozen men
with ages and sledge-hammers swarmed out and up the steps of the club.

“Call the reserves, O’Connor,” cried Kennedy. “Watch the roof and the
back yard.”

The driver of the van hastened to send in the call.

The sharp raps of the hammers and the axes sounded on the thick
brass-bound oak of the outside door in quick succession. There was a
scurry of feet inside, and we could hear a grating noise and a terrific
jar as the inner, steel door shut.

“A raid! A raid on the Vesper Club!” shouted a belated passer-by.
The crowd swarmed around from Broadway, as if it were noon instead of
midnight.

Banging and ripping and tearing, the outer door was slowly forced. As
it crashed in, the quick gongs of several police patrols sounded. The
reserves had been called out at the proper moment, too late for them
to “tip off” the club that there was going to be a raid, as frequently
occurs.

Disregarding the melee behind me, I leaped through the wreckage with the
other raiders. The steel door barred all further progress with its
cold blue impassibility. How were we to surmount this last and most
formidable barrier?

I turned in time to see Kennedy and O’Connor hurrying up the steps
with a huge tank studded with bolts like a boiler, while two other men
carried a second tank.

“There,” ordered Craig, “set the oxygen there,” as he placed his own
tank on the opposite side:

Out of the tanks stout tubes led, with stopcocks and gages at the top.
From a case under his arm Kennedy produced a curious arrangement like a
huge hook, with a curved neck and a sharp beak. Really it consisted of
two metal tubes which ran into a sort of cylinder, or mixing chamber,
above the nozzle, while parallel to them ran a third separate tube with
a second nozzle of its own. Quickly he joined the ends of the tubes from
the tanks to the metal hook, the oxygen-tank being joined to two of the
tubes of the hook, and the second tank being joined to the other. With
a match he touched the nozzle gingerly. Instantly a hissing, spitting
noise followed, and an intense blinding needle of flame.

“Now for the oxy-acetylene blowpipe,” cried Kennedy as he advanced
toward the steel door. “We’ll make short work of this.”

Almost as he said it, the steel beneath the blowpipe became
incandescent.

Just to test it, he cut off the head of a three-quarter-inch steel
rivet--taking about a quarter of a minute to do it. It was evident,
though, that that would not weaken the door appreciably, even if the
rivets were all driven through. Still they gave a starting-point for the
flame of the high-pressure acetylene torch.

It was a brilliant sight. The terrific heat from the first nozzle caused
the metal to glow under the torch as if in an open-hearth furnace. From
the second nozzle issued a stream of oxygen under which the hot metal
of the door was completely consumed. The force of the blast as the
compressed oxygen and acetylene were expelled carried a fine spray of
the disintegrated metal visibly before it. And yet it was not a big hole
that it made--scarcely an eighth of an inch wide, but clear and sharp
as if a buzz-saw were eating its way through a three-inch plank of white
pine.

With tense muscles Kennedy held this terrific engine of destruction
and moved it as easily as if it had been a mere pencil of light. He was
easily the calmest of us all as we crowded about him at a respectful
distance.

“Acetylene, as you may know,” he hastily explained, never pausing for a
moment in his work, “is composed of carbon and hydrogen. As it burns at
the end of the nozzle it is broken into carbon and hydrogen--the carbon
gives the high temperature, and the hydrogen forms a cone that protects
the end of the blowpipe from being itself burnt up.”

“But isn’t it dangerous?” I asked, amazed at the skill with which he
handled the blowpipe.

“Not particularly--when you know how to do it. In that tank is a porous
asbestos packing saturated with acetone, under pressure. Thus I can
carry acetylene safely, for it is dissolved, and the possibility of
explosion is minimised. This mixing chamber by which I am holding the
torch, where the oxygen and acetylene mix, is also designed in such
a way as to prevent a flash-back. The best thing about this style of
blowpipe is the ease with which it can be transported and the curious
uses--like the present--to which it can be put.”

He paused a moment to test the door. All was silence on the other side.
The door itself was as firm as ever.

“Huh!” exclaimed one of the detectives behind me, “these new-fangled
things ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. Now if I was runnin’ this
show, I’d dynamite that door to kingdom come.”

“And wreck the house and kill a few people,” I returned, hotly resenting
the criticism of Kennedy. Kennedy affected not to hear.

“When I shut off the oxygen in this second jet,” he resumed as if
nothing had been said, “you see the torch merely heats the steel. I can
get a heat of approximately sixty-three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and
the flame will exert a pressure of fifty pounds to the square inch.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed O’Connor, who had not heard the remark of his
subordinate and was watching with undisguised admiration. “Kennedy, how
did you ever think of such a thing?”

“Why, it’s used for welding, you know,” answered Craig as he continued
to work calmly in the growing excitement: “I first saw it in actual
use in mending a cracked cylinder in an automobile. The cylinder was
repaired without being taken out at all. I’ve seen it weld new teeth and
build up old worn teeth on gearing, as good as new.”

He paused to let us see the terrifically heated metal under the flame.

“You remember when we were talking on the drive about the raid,
O’Connor? A car-load of scrap-iron went by on the railroad below us.
They use this blowpipe to cut it up, frequently. That’s what gave me the
idea. See. I turn on the oxygen now in this second nozzle. The blowpipe
is no longer an instrument for joining metals together, but for
cutting them asunder. The steel burns just as you, perhaps, have seen
a watch-spring burn in a jar of oxygen. Steel, hard or soft, tempered,
annealed, chrome, or Harveyised, it all burns just as fast and just as
easily. And it’s cheap too. This raid may cost a couple of dollars, as
far as the blowpipe is concerned--quite a difference from the thousands
of dollars’ loss that would follow an attempt to blow the door in.”

The last remark was directed quietly at the doubting detective. He had
nothing to say. We stood in awe-struck amazement as the torch slowly,
inexorably, traced a thin line along the edge of the door.

Minute after minute sped by, as the line burned by the blowpipe cut
straight from top to bottom. It seemed hours to me. Was Kennedy going to
slit the whole door and let it fall in with a crash?

No, I could see that even in his cursory examination of the door he had
gained a pretty good knowledge of the location of the bolts imbedded in
the steel. One after another he was cutting clear through and severing
them, as if with a superhuman knife.

What was going on on the other side of the door, I wondered. I could
scarcely imagine the consternation of the gamblers caught in their own
trap.

With a quick motion Kennedy turned off the acetylene and oxygen. The
last bolt had been severed. A gentle push of the hand, and he swung the
once impregnable door on its delicately poised hinges as easily as if he
had merely said, “Open Sesame.” The robbers’ cave yawned before us.

We made a rush up the stairs. Kennedy was first, O’Connor next, and
myself scarcely a step behind, with the rest of O’Connor’s men at our
heels.

I think we were all prepared for some sort of gun-play, for the crooks
were desperate characters, and I myself was surprised to encounter
nothing but physical force, which was quickly, overcome.

In the now disordered richness of the rooms, waving his “John Doe”
 warrants in one hand and his pistol in the other, O’Connor shouted
“you’re all under arrest, gentlemen. If you resist further it will go
hard with you.”

Crowded now in one end of the room in speechless amazement was the late
gay party of gamblers, including Senator Danfield himself. They had
reckoned on toying with any chance but this. The pale white face of
DeLong among them was like a spectre, as he stood staring blankly about
and still insanely twisting the roulette wheel before him.

Kennedy advanced toward the table with an ax which he had seized from
one of our men. A well-directed blow shattered the mechanism of the
delicate wheel.

“DeLong,” he said, “I’m not going to talk to you like your old professor
at the university, nor like your recent friend, the Frenchman with a
system. This is what you have been up against, my boy. Look.”

His forefinger indicated an ingenious, but now tangled and twisted,
series of minute wires and electro-magnets in the broken wheel before
us. Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. With another blow
of his axe, Craig disclosed wires running down through the leg of the
table to the floor and under the carpet to buttons operated by the man
who ran the game.

“Wh--what does it mean?” asked DeLong blankly.

“It means that you had little enough chance to win at a straight game of
roulette. But the wheel is very rarely straight, even with all the
odds in favour of the bank, as they are. This game was electrically
controlled. Others are mechanically controlled by what is sometimes
called the ‘mule’s ear,’ and other devices. You can’t win. These wires
and magnets can be made to attract the little ball into any pocket
the operator desires. Each one of those pockets contains a little
electro-magnet. One set of magnets in the red pockets is connected with
one button under the carpet and a battery. The other set in the black
pockets is connected with another button and the battery. This ball is
not really of platinum. Platinum is nonmagnetic. It is simply a soft
iron hollow ball, plated with platinum. Whichever set of electro-magnets
is energised attracts the ball and by this simple method it is in the
power of the operator to let the ball go to red or black as he may
wish. Other similar arrangements control the odd or even, and other
combinations from other push buttons. A special arrangement took care
of that ‘17’ freak. There isn’t an honest gambling-machine in the whole
place--I might almost say the whole city. The whole thing is crooked
from start to finish--the men, the machines, the--”

“That machine could be made to beat me by turning up a run of ‘17’ any
number of times, or red or black, or odd or even, over ‘18’ or under
‘18,’ or anything?”

“Anything, DeLong.”

“And I never had a chance,” he repeated, meditatively fingering the
wires. “They broke me to-night. Danfield”--DeLong turned, looking
dazedly about in the crowd for his former friend, then his hand
shot into his pocket, and a little ivory-handled pistol flashed
out--“Danfield, your blood is on your own head. You have ruined me.”

Kennedy must have been expecting something of the sort, for he seized
the arm of the young man, weakened by dissipation, and turned the pistol
upward as if it had been in the grasp of a mere child.

A blinding flash followed in the farthest corner of the room and a huge
puff of smoke. Before I could collect my wits another followed in the
opposite corner. The room was filled with a dense smoke.

Two men were scuffing at my feet. One was Kennedy. As I dropped down
quickly to help him I saw that the other was Danfield, his face purple
with the violence of the struggle.

“Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen,” I heard O’Connor shout, “the explosions
were only the flashlights of the official police photographers. We now
have the evidence complete. Gentlemen, you will now go down quietly to
the patrol-wagons below, two by two. If you have anything to say, say it
to the magistrate of the night court.”

“Hold his arms, Walter,” panted Kennedy.

I did. With a dexterity that would have done credit to a pickpocket,
Kennedy reached into Danfield’s pocket and pulled out some papers.

Before the smoke had cleared and order had been restored, Craig
exclaimed: “Let him up, Walter. Here, DeLong, here are the I.O.U.’s
against you. Tear them up--they are not even a debt of honour.”





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