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Title: The unknown seven
A detective story
Author: Herman Landon
Release date: February 22, 2026 [eBook #78010]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Chelsea House, 1923
Credits: Tim Miller, Robert Tonsing, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNKNOWN SEVEN ***
The Unknown Seven
_A Detective Story_
BY
HARRY COVERDALE
[Illustration]
CHELSEA HOUSE
79 Seventh Avenue New York City
Copyright, 1923
By CHELSEA HOUSE
The Unknown Seven
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. +The Woman in the Limousine+ 9
II. +Temptation+ 20
III. +The Temptress Speaks+ 36
IV. +“Yellow”+ 46
V. +Disguised+ 58
VI. +Doctor Latham+ 73
VII. +Cole Receives a Warning+ 85
VIII. +The Unknown Seven+ 94
IX. +The Red Light+ 106
X. +Pursuit+ 117
XI. +Behind the Locked Door+ 125
XII. +In Four Rounds+ 132
XIII. +The Morning’s Mail+ 141
XIV. +Cole’s Ruse+ 153
XV. +The Traitor Unmasked+ 171
XVI. +Gold+ 186
XVII. +In Room 2512+ 201
XVIII. +The Light in the Window+ 217
XIX. +A Warning+ 228
XX. +The Veneer of Intelligence+ 239
XXI. +The Face at the Window+ 256
XXII. +A Duel of Wits+ 265
XXIII. +The Seventh Ingredient+ 271
XXIV. +Cornered+ 280
XXV. +Face to Face+ 288
XXVI. +A Cry+ 299
XXVII. +The Way Out+ 309
XXVIII. +The Enemy Strikes+ 314
THE UNKNOWN SEVEN
CHAPTER I
THE WOMAN IN THE LIMOUSINE
Standing in the dark doorway of a delicatessen shop, Kingdon Cole
gazed, through the fog and drizzle of the October night, at a
second-story window across the street. The brim of a slouch hat
shaded his eyes and most of his face. His lean figure was draped in a
mackintosh that reached almost to his feet. The upward slant of the
cigar, clamped between his teeth, hinted at total absorption in what he
saw.
The building that claimed his attention was an ordinary three-story
structure of murky brick. Flanked by a warehouse on one side and a
secondhand clothing store on the other, it presented a sullen and
gloomy aspect to the watcher across the street. Yet there was something
in the very drabness of the house and the chill atmosphere which hung
over it that might have appealed to the imagination of a man like
Kingdon Cole.
A man’s head and shoulders were dimly silhouetted against the lighted
window shade at which he was looking so fixedly. For half an hour or
longer the figure had not stirred. The rigid poise of the head and the
stiff set of the shoulders suggested that the man at the window was
engaged in a task that occupied his whole mind.
Cole struck a match and, holding it in his cupped hands, lighted his
dead cigar. The flickering light shone for an instant on fingers that
were long, slim, and finely tapering, the fingers of a man of great
mental energy and a compelling personality.
“Wonder what the learned Professor Carmody finds so interesting,” he
mumbled. “Some scientific treatise, very likely, or perhaps it is——”
He lowered his gaze, as he vaguely sensed that a pair of eyes was
trying to pierce the gloom in which he stood. What with the wet night
and the lateness of the hour that dreary section of Bleecker Street
was all but deserted. Now and then a crosstown car jogged along at a
lumbering pace; occasionally a taxicab passed on its way.
Cole looked up and down the block. The impression was more distinct
now. Some one was watching him, just as he was watching the solitary
figure in the window. His senses, sharpened by long training, told him
he was under observation even before he could trace the impression to
its source. Now he saw a limousine drawn up at the corner, less than
twenty paces from where he stood. Its sides of burnt sienna gleamed
in the blurred lights. It seemed to lend a touch of affluence to the
squalor and dreariness of the scene. How long the car had been there
he did not know, for the window across the street had claimed all his
attention.
The car began to move, crawling, snaillike and silent toward the point
where Cole stood. It stopped opposite the doorway that sheltered him.
He fancied that he saw the flicker of a face behind the curtains. Then
the door opened a few inches, and he caught a glimpse of a beckoning
hand.
His eyes narrowed under their puckering brows. The monotony of his
vigil was being broken in a strange way, and the slow twisting of his
lips signified that the interruption was not altogether displeasing.
Once more he glanced up at the window across the street, noticing that
the shadowy figure had not stirred. Then he crossed the sidewalk, and
instantly the door of the limousine was flung wide.
“Won’t you step in, Mr. Cole?” asked a voice.
Though his life had inured him to surprises, Cole started a little. It
was odd that the occupant of the car should address him by name. The
interior was dark, but in the shadows he saw the figure of a woman.
“You are very patient, Mr. Cole,” the voice continued. “You are wasting
your time, however. It isn’t likely that Professor Carmody will go out
to-night, so you might as well jump in.”
A sharp hunching of Cole’s shoulders registered surprise number two. It
was all very mystifying. Not only did the occupant of the car know his
name, but she seemed familiar with his business as well. He liked her
voice, a deep soprano with a faintly playful undertone. For a moment he
studied the long, slender lines of her figure, faintly discernible in
the dusk and melting, here and there, into a background of saffron-hued
cushions.
“You hesitate? I happen to know that Professor Carmody is in for the
night and that your vigilance is useless.”
Cole looked at her intently. The mist, the drizzle, and the blurred
sheen from the street lamps seemed to lend a touch of unreality to
what he saw and heard.
“What do you know about Professor Carmody,” he demanded.
“A great deal more than you do. It’s quite possible that I am in a
position to give you some valuable information. At any rate my car is
more comfortable than a dark doorway.”
She leaned forward slightly, and there was a trace of mockery on her
faintly parted lips. “Not afraid, are you, Mr. Cole?”
He gave a low laugh at the implied dare. With a shrug he stepped inside
the car and sat down beside her. She picked up the speaking tube and,
turning her head away from Cole, said something which he could not
hear. In an instant the car was in motion.
“You seem to know a great deal,” he observed, trying to obtain a
glimpse of her face under the billowing brim that shaded it.
“And you are anxious to learn how much more I know. Isn’t it so, Mr.
Cole? It was neither vulgar curiosity nor adventurousness that prompted
you to accept my invitation to ride with me. You accepted only because
you hoped to learn something. Having heard me speak your name and
mention Professor Carmody you naturally thought it might be profitable
to cultivate my acquaintance.”
“Perhaps so,” said Cole dryly. “What do you know about me aside from my
name and my interest in the estimable professor?”
“A great deal,” was the surprisingly prompt reply. “You are a student
of criminology, a follower in the footsteps of Lombroso, Pinel, and
Prichard, though you by no means accept their theories. You have
written two books on crime and criminals. They are too scientific for
the general reader, I have been told, but experts on the subject regard
them as authoritative. Perhaps some day I shall try to read them.”
“I fear you won’t find them very interesting,” replied Cole. “What
else?”
“You live in a small apartment in Gramercy Park, which also serves as
your office. Two years ago you did a very brilliant piece of work on
the Wilmerding murder case, though you magnanimously, or for reasons of
your own, let the police claim the credit for the results. You follow
criminal investigations largely as a scientific pursuit. If you cared
to devote all your time to it you could make a great success, but you
accept only such cases as happen to interest you personally. As a
result you lead a quiet and somewhat precarious existence, deriving
your sole pleasure from your work and such inexpensive amusements as
books, music, and, on rare occasions, the theater.”
“You seem to have taken considerable pains looking me up,” he remarked.
“Oh, I haven’t told you all I know yet. I have learned a number of
things about your private life and personal habits, but we needn’t go
into those things now.”
“Are you equally well informed in regard to Professor Carmody?”
“Not quite. The professor is a riddle. To all outward appearances he is
interested in nothing but his experiments and his musty old books. He
seems to be living in that kind of neighborhood by preference, because
he isn’t so apt to be bothered by meddling neighbors. His house is said
to contain one of the best-equipped laboratories of its kind in the
world. That’s only a rumor, of course. The professor doesn’t encourage
visitors. To the few people who have talked with him he is what the
novelists call a man of mystery. He comes and goes without speaking
to any one, and his life is a closed book. As far as I know, only one
person has been inside his house in a year, and that person never came
out.”
“Oh, you know that!”
“Yes, I am one of the very few who are aware of the fact. Let me see,
it’s about three weeks since Malcolm Reeves disappeared. His relatives,
your clients, in other words, have reason to believe that he visited
Professor Carmody on the night of his disappearance. No wonder the
case fascinates you, Mr. Cole. Disappearances are always interesting,
but especially so when a mysterious person like Professor Carmody is
involved.”
Cole regarded her in frank amazement, but her head was now slightly
bowed, and all he could see of her face was the curve of the chin.
“The relatives did well to put the case in your hands,” she went on.
“You are both capable and discreet and, as I presume you know, there
were excellent reasons for not reporting Reeves’ disappearance to the
police. Are you making satisfactory progress?”
“My clients seem satisfied.”
“You have not yet paid the professor a visit?”
“What would be the use?”
“You are right, of course. It would only put him on his guard. You
prefer not to let him know that he is under suspicion.” She laughed
gently, as if amused at something. “Besides, it is doubtful whether a
search of Carmody’s house would reveal any clews to Reeves’ fate. The
professor is a chemist, and I understand there are certain chemical
processes by which bodies can be made to disappear completely, leaving
no trace.”
“Then you think Reeves has been murdered?”
“Don’t you?” she asked quickly.
Cole smiled. Instead of answering the question he asked another. “How
can you be so sure that Carmody will not leave his house to-night?”
“Because he has the best of reasons for staying in.”
“What are they?”
“One is that his engagement for to-night was canceled by telephone at
four o’clock this afternoon.”
Cole gave her a puzzled stare. “How do you know that?”
She laughed a little. “There are ways of finding out,” she said
mysteriously. “Tapped wires, for instance. But the professor’s
principal reason for staying in to-night is that he is well aware that
you are watching him. You see, Mr. Cole, he has more shrewdness than
you have been giving him credit for. And the fact that he is staying in
on your account shows that he has great respect for your ability.”
She had raised her head a trifle, and Cole gave her a long, bewildered
glance. He half expected to see a smile on her lips, but her face was
grave.
“Are you one of Reeves’ relatives?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, no!”
“Then how——”
“I have certain sources of information. Sources so vast that you would
be staggered if I were to tell you of them. Please don’t look at me
like that. I am not insane, neither am I subject to hallucinations. The
fact that I happen to know more about the Carmody case than you do is
no reflection on your ability as an investigator. It merely shows that
your equipment is inadequate. Care to hear more?”
“What else do you know?”
“I know that the case you are working on is only one minor angle of a
vast mystery. The disappearance of Malcolm Reeves is nothing but an
incident. Reeves himself was only an insignificant puppet in one of
the greatest games ever played. All you have seen so far is one of the
minor threads in the woof. I am always mixing my metaphors, but I know
you won’t mind. Mr. Cole, this affair has ramifications that may some
day rock the whole continent.”
“I feel considerably shaken up already,” admitted Cole. “You realize,
of course, that you are using strong words?”
“No stronger than the situation demands.”
“If it is as bad as all that why doesn’t somebody put a stop to it?”
“Because——” She checked herself and regarded him intently. “Well,
because the man who is big enough for the task has not yet been found.”
Again Cole cast a glance at the window. The car had made several
turns in the last few minutes. He caught only a blurred view of his
surroundings, but he thought they were traversing one of the cavernlike
streets near the southern tip of Manhattan Island.
“Have you heard enough?” she asked.
“Just enough to give me an appetite for more.”
“In that case you must trust me implicitly and obey me without
questions. I am taking desperate chances in confiding in you, Mr. Cole,
and certain precautions are absolutely necessary. Will you promise me
on your honor that you will not try to ascertain the location of the
place I shall take you to?”
Cole considered. There was a flavor of mystery about the adventure that
appealed to him, but the prospect of learning something more about the
Carmody case was an even greater temptation. From what little the woman
had so far told him he surmised that she must have unusual sources of
information. Much that she had said coincided with what he already
knew, so he had no cause to doubt her truthfulness.
“You have my promise,” he told her.
The car made another turn, swung down a dark block, then veered again
to the south. Cole caught a hazy glimpse of dark, towering skyscrapers.
The woman looked at him fixedly, as if in doubt. “I believe you are a
man of your word, Mr. Cole, but promises are sometimes broken in spite
of the best intentions. Please don’t be offended.”
She produced a scarf and with a deft touch covered his eyes, securing
the bandage with a firm knot at the back. Cole chuckled amusedly. He
might be walking into a trap, but it would not be the first time, and
he had great confidence in his ability to take care of himself in any
situation that might come up.
After continuing its zigzagging course a few minutes longer the car
stopped. His mysterious conductress touched his arm as they stepped
out. She guided him across the sidewalk and up a few stone steps, and
then they traversed what appeared to be a long corridor. Finally Cole
found himself in a narrow inclosure which he guessed to be an elevator.
“We are in one of the tallest office buildings in New York,” the woman
whispered in his ear, “but you’re not likely to guess its name.”
The door clanked shut, and the cage shot swiftly upward. Cole felt
a rush of wind in his ears. He maintained a languid composure, but
inwardly he marveled. A modern skyscraper was the last place he would
have expected the woman to take him to. He tried to estimate the number
of floors they were passing. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty——
Still the cage darted upward, and then it stopped so suddenly that
he caught his breath sharply. They stepped out, and the girl removed
the scarf from his eyes. He gazed around him bewilderedly. All about
him, with the exception of a single elevator shaft was a vast expanse
of blank wall. There was no sign of doors or windows, and the only
illumination was a small electric bulb in the ceiling.
“We came up in a private elevator,” the woman explained. “This is the
top floor. To the public at large and to most of the tenants of the
building it practically does not exist. This way, Mr. Cole.”
She stepped to one of the corners of the triangular space, of which the
elevator shaft formed the center, and Cole followed. In the dim light
he could not see exactly what happened, but the woman’s hand went out
and then a narrow portion of the wall slid back. They stepped through
an aperture, and instantly the opening closed behind them. They were in
a long corridor with doors on each side.
“Surprised?” she asked, starting to lead him down the hall.
“Rather. Never expected to find such mysterious contrivances in a
modern office building.”
Her only reply was a low laugh. The floor of the corridor was
luxuriously carpeted; the doors on either side had a solid appearance.
Cole’s amazement grew. He wondered what was beyond the massive doors
and what was the nature of this establishment that was hidden behind
blank walls. He had little time for speculation, for his companion
opened a door and bade him enter.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cole,” she murmured when she had switched on the light.
“I shall be back directly.”
The door closed, and she was gone. Alone, Cole looked about him, and
his eyes opened wide in astonishment.
CHAPTER II
TEMPTATION
For a moment Cole forgot that he was in a building devoted to the
pursuits of commerce. The room in which he stood, bordered by walls of
paneled walnut, was worthy of a Fifth Avenue mansion. It struck him as
a bit grotesque. From an elevator he had stepped, through a blank wall,
into a magnificence that fairly dazzled him. It was like an “Arabian
Nights” adventure. As he looked about him he saw quiet elegance
everywhere, without a taint of showiness. For some time he stood lost
in admiration, then he noticed that the room had no windows. A moment
later he discovered that the door was locked on the outside. Despite
the splendor that surrounded him he was virtually a prisoner.
He sat down and smoked a cigarette, waiting for his strange conductress
to return. Evidently the walls were solidly built, for no sounds
reached him. The air was fresh and pure despite the absence of windows,
hinting that there was a concealed ventilator somewhere in the room.
The armchair was comfortable, and he stretched out his lean figure,
slightly short of six feet. The man suggested mental force rather
than bodily strength, but a great surprise awaited any antagonist who
underestimated Cole’s physical prowess. He was far stronger than the
average man, and his endurance was phenomenal. His gray eyes, with a
faint humorous twinkle in their depths, were fixed on the door. His
dark face, slightly lined about the mouth and the outer corner of the
eyes, bore a look of mild expectancy. In moments of repose he looked as
though he had not a care in the world. His friends often wondered how
he managed to maintain the freshness and sparkle suggestive of a recent
needle shower. Perhaps it was because he was thoroughly in love with
his work and had learned to shake off the minor frets and irritations
of life.
In the midst of his musings the door opened, and he stared rather
rudely at the vision that entered. It was the woman, and she had
undergone an amazing transformation since he last saw her. He wondered
whether the shimmering gown she wore had been designed by Poiret
himself. Its delicate rose color afforded a charming contrast to her
complexion, a sort of luminous white that somehow escaped being pale.
Standing there, with a faint smile on her lips, her face fringed by an
aureole of fine-spun gold, she was easily the most bewitching woman
Cole had ever seen.
He rose, bowed, and gazed appreciatively at the simple, but strikingly
effective, ornament she wore at her throat.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she murmured. “Sit down, please, and
smoke as much as you like. I want to talk with you.”
Cole sat down. He wondered if she had arrayed herself like this for the
sole purpose of having a talk with him.
“You promised to tell me something more about the Carmody case,” he
reminded her. “I suppose you brought me to this charming place so
that we might have a quiet talk without danger of interruption or
eavesdropping.”
She sat down a short distance from him. By degrees the smile faded from
her lips. A curiously solemn expression crept into her face. “Haven’t I
told you enough, Mr. Cole?”
“What little you told me was only a provocation. It gave me a taste for
more. By the way, you have the advantage over me. Won’t you tell me
your name?”
“You may call me Miss Brown.”
“The name doesn’t fit you,” he objected.
“Names never do fit. That’s one of the ironies of existence. For the
present, until we know each other better, it will have to be Miss
Brown. I had to tell you a little about the Carmody case in order to
get your attention. I hope I convinced you that it is quite useless
for you to continue at work on a case that is so enormous in scope and
presents such insuperable difficulties, Mr. Cole.” A pleading note had
come into her voice. “Can anything persuade you to drop the Carmody
case?”
She bent forward a little. With hands clasped across her knee, she
studied him intently, and Cole looked into the deepest, bluest eyes he
had ever seen.
“Drop the Carmody case!” he exclaimed.
“You must drop it, Mr. Cole! If you knew more about it, what terrible
things you are going up against, you would willingly drop it without
further argument. You would recognize your utter helplessness in the
matter, not to mention a number of other things.”
Cole was momentarily speechless. He found himself strangely impressed
by her big, sorcerous eyes, full of mute pleading and entreaty.
“I don’t understand. You don’t realize what you are saying. Why should
I drop the case?”
“Because of the things I have told you.”
Cole laughed. “They are only an added incentive for me to go on with
it.”
She drew a long breath. “That’s your man’s way of looking at things.
The greater the dangers and difficulties the more determined you are
to forge ahead. You don’t stop to consider the price, or estimate the
cost. The wreckage you scatter about you means nothing to you. All you
think of is the gratification of your boundless ambition. Mr. Cole,
won’t you forgo your foolish pride and do what I ask?”
Her eyes held him despite his will. There was a look of terror in
their depths that exerted a subtle appeal upon him. He got to his feet
and tried to shake off the fascination of her beauty and her magnetic
personality.
“Impossible,” he declared. “If you brought me here in the hope of
inducing me to drop the Carmody case, your time and effort are wasted.”
“Please, Mr. Cole! Forget that you ever heard of this terrible case.
Tell your clients in the morning that you will have nothing further to
do with it.”
“That wouldn’t alter matters. They would promptly accept my
resignation and engage somebody else.”
“There is only one Kingdon Cole.”
“That’s a very neat compliment, but it won’t bear analysis. I haven’t
accomplished anything very wonderful, and another man could finish what
I have begun.”
She was silent for a time, her big, luminous eyes regarding him
imploringly. “If you won’t drop the case for your own sake, because of
the terrible dangers involved, then I beg you to do so for my sake.”
“For your sake? Really, Miss—er—Brown, I don’t understand. What is your
interest in the Carmody case?”
She stepped up and clutched his hand. The touch of her fingers sent
a thrill through him. Her eyes were moist, and the curve beneath her
throat rose and fell with accelerated rhythm. “Yes, for my sake. I
can’t explain, except to say that awful things will happen to me if you
go on. Death would be as nothing in comparison. Doesn’t a woman’s soul
mean anything to you, Mr. Cole?”
Cole looked down into her eyes, while her fingers spasmodically
clutched his hand. Far into their blue depths he gazed, and suddenly
his face underwent a change. His lips curled a trifle, and a hard glint
came into his eyes. Somewhat roughly he released his hand.
“Very touching,” he dryly remarked, “but I don’t see the connection
between the Carmody case and a woman’s soul.”
She drew back with a little sob of bafflement.
“If you meant your own soul, Miss Brown, you mentioned something that
doesn’t exist,” he went on sarcastically. “Trickery and pretense are
poor substitutes for soul.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged disgustedly. “Your acting is superb, but it don’t bear
close inspection. You were splendid at a little distance. Despite the
fact that I am the only Kingdon Cole, as you so charmingly phrased it,
I am rather susceptible to the tears of a beautiful woman. With your
sobs and your loveliness you could have melted a stone, if such a feat
were possible. As soon as I got a close view of you, however, I knew
you were only shamming. Your eyes gave you away when you sprung that
choice line about a woman’s soul. Perhaps you realized you were laying
the pathos on too thick. Anyway the illusion is shattered, and all that
remains is the gorgeous gown you are wearing. It is really stunning.”
“Thank you,” she said coldly, dropping the rôle she had been playing,
as easily as she would a wrap. “No doubt I should have known better
than to try such methods on you.”
“Yes, you should,” said Cole. “For, despite the little slip you made,
I believe that you are really a very clever woman. Now that we are off
the subject of women’s souls won’t you tell me your real reason for
wishing to throw up the Carmody case?”
She shook her head, but he thought he detected a gleam of unwilling
admiration in her eyes. Motioning him to follow, she stepped to the
door and opened it, then preceded him down the hall. Cole guessed that
his little adventure was over, and he felt a twinge of disappointment
at the thought that, in all probability, he would never learn the
meaning of her puzzling behavior. No doubt she would try to blindfold
him again before conducting him away from the place, and he was
prepared to raise strenuous objections.
But it appeared Miss Brown was not yet ready to let him go. She stopped
before one of the massive doors that had already excited his curiosity,
and knocked twice. It opened quickly and noiselessly. In a moment,
before he realized what he was doing, Cole was inside, and the door
closed at his back.
The room was so dimly lighted that at first he could distinguish
nothing but bare, gloomy walls. Miss Brown, who had followed him into
the room, hastened forward and seemed to melt away in the dusk, leaving
him to wonder what new turn his adventure was taking. Gradually, as his
eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he was able to see objects with some
degree of clearness. He was in a long, narrow room, and what he saw
was in keeping with the other strange things that he had witnessed and
experienced in this surprising establishment.
A number of shadowy figures were seated around a circular table in
the center of the room. He counted seven of them, and at first he had
a ludicrous impression that there were only blank spaces where their
faces should have been. Then, as his pupils continued to respond to the
strain imposed by the dim light, he saw that each man wore a mask.
It was only a strip of cloth, with tiny slits over the eyes, but in
the dusk it was the only covering that was needed to make recognition
impossible.
Again Cole was struck with a sense of unreality. The men, sitting
stiffly erect in their chairs, caused him to wonder whether he was in
the midst of some ghostly séance. He felt their eyes searching him
through the vents in the masks. The gloom and the silence gave an added
illusory touch to the scene. Cole had to shake himself before he could
realize that he was on the top floor of a modern skyscraper.
Miss Brown stepped behind one of the chairs and held a brief whispered
conversation with its occupant. The latter nodded, and the girl
slipped away toward the door. A moment later it closed behind her, and
the man, with whom she had been talking, indicated that Cole was to
step forward. With a shrug he complied, and the masked faces stirred
slightly as he approached. For a full minute nothing was said, and
again he felt the sharp and steady scrutiny of seven pairs of eyes.
Finally the man who had beckoned him spoke. “Mr. Cole, how much will
you take to drop the Carmody case?”
Cole could not help but laugh. The words, spoken with a directness
and a matter-of-factness that left nothing to the imagination, had
shattered the illusion completely. In an instant the spell of unreality
was broken. He knew he was dealing with practical men who were in the
habit of reducing everything to terms of dollars and cents. A blunt
reply came to his lips, but his desire to learn more of these strange
men caused him to hold it back.
“Suppose we put all the cards on the table,” he suggested. “I don’t
like to talk business in the dark. Who are you, and what is your
objection to my connection with the Carmody case?”
“We are not here to answer questions,” declared the one who seemed to
be acting as spokesman for the others. “All I care to say is that,
because of a peculiar combination of circumstances, it is to our
advantage to pay you liberally for withdrawing from the case. What’s
your price, Mr. Cole?”
Under ordinary circumstances, Cole would have been indignant at this
cool assumption that every man has his price, but now his dominant
emotion was curiosity. He could not understand why they seemed so
intent upon persuading him to sever his connection with the affair, but
what Miss Brown had said about the vast ramifications of the Carmody
case suggested that they had ample reasons for what they were doing.
“Let me get this straight,” he said evenly. “You are willing to pay me
my price for withdrawing from the Carmody case. Are there any strings
to the proposition?”
The other chuckled dryly. “I wouldn’t call them strings, exactly. They
are only gossamer threads. In addition to retiring from the case you
are to give us a full and veracious report of what you have discovered
to date in connection with the disappearance of Malcolm Reeves.”
“I see,” said Cole. “Anything else?”
“Just one thing more. In addition to withdrawing from your present
connection with the case and turning the information you possess over
to us, you are to come over to our side and put your ability at our
disposal. We are ready to pay you handsomely for your services, either
on a contingent basis, or in the form of a weekly salary.”
“Very generous,” declared Cole, with a faint trace of sarcasm. “Your
proposition is that, for a consideration, I am to betray my present
clients and——”
“Betray is a harsh word,” objected the spokesman for the group.
“Truthful terms are usually harsh,” Cole remarked. “Let’s not quibble
over words. In addition to the amount, which you are willing to pay me
for betraying my clients, you offer to reward me liberally for certain
services that you require. May I ask what they are?”
“You will learn soon enough if you accept our proposition. Let me state
that we have unlimited funds at our disposal and stand ready to pay
you well. It would be no exaggeration to say that in a short time you
should be a rich man if you accept our offer. In view of our liberality
don’t you think it behooves you to be less squeamish and ask fewer
questions?”
“I suppose it is in deucedly bad taste for me to argue with a man who
offers me a fortune on a silver platter,” Cole admitted. “Just the same
I can’t help wondering why you are offering such a glittering bribe to
one who is practically unknown in his profession.”
The man gave an amused chuckle. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Cole.
We are not in the habit of buying pigs in a poke. You have been under
observation for some time.”
“So I gathered from what the bewitching Miss—Brown told me.”
“We have learned that you have a great deal of ability. You are
fearless and persevering. You have qualities that the average
professional detective sadly lacks, such as tact, polish, and a
magnetic personality. In short, you are precisely the kind of man
we need. We have reason to believe that you have discovered certain
interesting facts in connection with Malcolm Reeves’ disappearance,
facts which would naturally become our property if you came over to our
side.”
Cole marveled at the extent of the man’s knowledge. It was true that he
had picked up several stray facts which, when considered in conjunction
with the known circumstances of Reeves’ disappearance, made a fairly
interesting showing. His glance wandered over the circle of veiled
faces. Each of the seven men was watching him intently through the
slits in his mask.
“We are waiting for your decision, Mr. Cole,” remarked the spokesman
after a pause. “If our proposition appeals to you, name your price.”
Cole pretended to hesitate. He hoped to learn a little more before he
closed the interview. He wondered how far these men would go in their
efforts to induce him to betray his clients and transfer his allegiance
to themselves. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked. “Do you
realize that a man who has been bought once will probably sell himself
again?”
Though he could not see, he fancied the spokesman’s eyes were twinkling
behind the mask.
“We have considered everything, Mr. Cole. You wouldn’t sell yourself
except to a higher bidder, and it isn’t likely any one will outbid us.
If such a situation should arise, however, we would know how to handle
it. What is your price?”
“Suppose you name the price you are willing to pay?”
There was a craning of necks, and nods and subdued whispers passed
around the circle. Evidently the seven construed his words as meaning
that he was yielding. The spokesman unlocked a drawer in front of him
and placed a small package on the table.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” he remarked impressively. “If you are
in doubt as to the amount, or if you suspect that I am handing you
stage money, you will be permitted to examine it in the light.”
He handed the package to Cole. “Remember that this is only your
retaining fee, so to speak. There will be lots more coming to you if
you decide to throw in your lot with us.”
Cole felt the crisp fiber of the bills. He did not doubt that the money
was genuine or that the package contained the exact amount mentioned
by the spokesman. Whatever else these men might do, he did not think
they would stoop to petty cheating. An odd sensation surged through him
as he weighed the currency in the palm of his hand. It was more money
than had ever before come within his reach. Of a sudden he remembered
some of the things he had been compelled to deny himself because of
his slender and uncertain income. Until this moment, when he held the
wherewithal in his hand, it had not occurred to him that he was missing
any of the good things in life. He had accepted his privations, as a
matter of course, with a smile or a shrug, according to his mood of the
moment.
For a few seconds longer he gave himself over to thrill of possession,
and then he tossed the bundle of currency down on the table. “It isn’t
enough,” he declared.
A chorus of murmurs went around the circular table. The veiled faces
strained forward a little. Once again Cole fancied the spokesman’s eyes
were twinkling through the orifices in the mask.
“Splendid, Mr. Cole,” said the man approvingly. “I didn’t think
twenty-five thousand would satisfy you, but I wanted to make sure. As a
matter of fact, if you had accepted such a paltry amount, we would have
broken off the negotiations instantly. We don’t want a man who holds
himself cheap. Here”—again he opened the drawer in front of him—“is
another twenty-five thousand. That makes fifty. Quite a neat sum for a
man whose income last year was only a trifle over four thousand.”
“How did you know that?”
“Income-tax reports,” said the man.
Cole took one bundle of currency in each hand. He was no longer
marveling at the surprising sources of information that seemed to be
open to these men. For the moment all his senses were centered on the
wealth that lay in his palms. A flash of self-revelation came to him,
and he was surprised and frightened by it. He had never known that mere
money could give him such a delectable sensation. In the past, as a
passive onlooker, he had smiled tolerantly at other men’s scramble for
wealth. With philosophic eyes he had watched the money-mad procession
sweep by him. Now he found that the sheer touch of the currency sent a
contagion through his veins, awakening strange emotions within him.
The sensation put an indefinable fear into him, fear of himself and
the weakness he had just discovered. Of a sudden the currency seemed
to scorch his palms. He shrugged, and the spell was broken. With an
inward paroxysm he flung the money down on the table. “Not even that is
enough,” he announced in slightly dazed tones, like one just awakening
from a dream.
The spokesman’s head came up a little. With a shrug and an indistinct
mutter he once more opened the drawer, but Cole laid a detaining hand
on his sleeve.
“Wait!” he said quietly. “You are going ahead on the idea that every
man has his price. You’re mistaken. There isn’t money enough in the
whole United States treasury to buy me.”
There came a hush, and then a ripple of commotion went around the
table. It died instantly as the spokesman raised a silencing hand. He
tilted his head back, and through the holes in the mask his eyes bored
into Cole’s face. For a time not a sound was heard in the room. Finally
the spokesman gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “I see,” he declared.
“You’re a weakling like most men. You’re a slave to the absurd thing we
call conscience. I had hoped that you were one of the rare exceptions.”
“Wrong again,” said Cole, smiling. “It isn’t conscience. Anyway, I
wouldn’t call it that. It is only pride, a foolish pride, perhaps. I
want to go through life knowing that I can look every man straight in
the eye and tell him to go to the devil if necessary. I couldn’t do
that if I were to sell myself. I should become a despicable thing in my
own eyes, and life wouldn’t be worth living after that. I don’t suppose
you understand, but that’s just how I feel.”
Seven pairs of eyes were leveled at Cole’s face as his short, crisp
sentences fell on the tense air. Then came silence, a long and oddly
vibrant silence during which Cole experienced an unaccountable feeling
that his life hung in the balance. He could neither understand it nor
trace it to its source, but the nameless sense of danger grew more
distinct with every moment.
By instinct his hand went to the hip pocket in which he always carried
a small, but reliable, pistol. Before his hands could touch the weapon
a strange thing happened. The spokesman’s arm described a slight
movement in the dusk, and in a twinkling utter darkness fell. Cole
stood in blackness so intense that it seemed as though he could touch
it.
His fingers found the handle of the pistol, but in the next instant his
hand fell to his side. In that impenetrable darkness the weapon was of
no more avail than a toy. He heard a faint scraping of chairs, then a
patter of feet. He groped for the chair where the spokesman had sat,
but it was empty. Gradually the faint sounds ceased, and then came an
engulfing silence. It was as if every manifestation of life had been
drained out of the blackness that surrounded him.
Silence—darkness—solitude. Cole, as he dropped into the spokesman’s
chair, felt as if the three words had suddenly acquired a new and more
powerful significance.
CHAPTER III
THE TEMPTRESS SPEAKS
Five minutes passed. Cole could no longer control his restlessness. He
got up from the chair and went gropingly across the heavily carpeted
floor. His footsteps made scarcely a sound, and he had a queer
sensation that the darkness and silence were insinuating themselves
into his very pores. It was as if a magic spell had fallen over him. He
could no longer trust his reason or his senses.
He stopped short as a faint whisper went through the dead silence. With
head thrown back and straining his ears, he listened. Again the whisper
came, trailing through the blackness like a disembodied breath. He
groped in the direction whence the sound came, and now he could hear it
quite distinctly.
“Mr. Cole!”
Tracing the sound vibrations, he crossed the floor and brought up
against the wall. Again his name was spoken, and now he had an
impression that the speaker was only a few feet away. He thought he
recognized the voice.
“Mr. Cole!”
His highly sensitized ears gauged and dissected each small fraction
of a syllable. He knew he was not mistaken. The voice belonged to the
woman who had introduced herself by the absurdly inappropriate name of
Miss Brown.
“Where are you?” he asked. He fumbled with his hands in the dark, but
found nothing but emptiness. He turned and ran his fingers up and
down the wall until he encountered a metallic object imbedded in the
paneling. Again his name was called, and he gave a short laugh as he
realized that the sounds were coming to him through the mouthpiece of a
speaking tube. The touch of the cold metal against his fingers seemed
to shatter an illusion. Simple though the contrivance was, it smacked
of up-to-dateness. A sense of reality broke the spell which the weird
events of the night had cast over him.
“Hello,” he spoke into the mouthpiece. “You, Miss Brown?”
A brief pause, and then her voice came to him in hurried tones that
bespoke intense excitement. “Yes, Mr. Cole. I must warn you. I feel
responsible for your predicament. Awful things will happen if you
persist in your headstrong course. You must abandon it and accept the
proposition that was made to you. Otherwise——”
Her voice quavered and broke. The suspended sentence and the words she
had left unspoken impressed Cole grimly. He could almost see her, white
and shuddering at the other end of the speaking tube. Though he knew
she was a clever actress, there was an earnestness in her tones that
gave him pause.
“You mean these men will kill me unless I accept their vile terms?” he
asked.
“Oh, they will do worse than that! They are terrible men, Mr. Cole,
and they are in a desperate temper. Death, a hundred deaths, would
be preferable to the thing they intend doing. Won’t you come to your
senses before it’s too late? Oh, please——”
Cole laughed into the mouthpiece. “Compose yourself, Miss Brown. Don’t
worry on my account. I’ve been in tight corners before, and I always
wriggled out of them somehow. I shall do so this time.”
A sob sounded at the other end, and then all was quiet. Cole drew away
from the speaking tube. It might have been only another bit of clever
acting, but Miss Brown’s warning had left him in a state of tingling
suspense. She had hinted at dire things that were to happen to him,
and Cole tried to tell himself that she had only been exercising
her imagination. Such things belonged in the realm of romance and
melodrama. It was laughable to think that they might happen on the top
floor of a skyscraper, located close to the world’s financial nerve
center. The incongruity of it struck Cole as quite amusing.
He chuckled, but in the next instant he sharply caught his breath. A
sound resembling that of a clicking lock reached his ears. He heard
nothing more, but he had a feeling that some one had entered the room,
that he was no longer alone. Instinctively he braced himself to resist
an attack. His ears were keyed to catch the slightest sound; every
muscle in his body had the tension of a cocked trigger.
He stood with his back against the wall, all his senses quiveringly
alert. He could neither hear nor see, but he knew some one was
steadily approaching from the farther end of the long room. Presently
he could hear sounds of breathing, but the prowler’s progress was
still muffled by the heavy carpet. Now a little thud signified that
the intruder had walked up against the circular table, so he could
be no more than a few feet from where Cole stood. The fact that he
could not see who it was that was coming toward him made the suspense
nerve-racking.
Suddenly he thought of matches. He searched his pockets, but the little
case in which he usually carried them was empty. Somewhere in the room
there must be an electric-light switch, but it was not likely he could
find it in the dark.
He peered sharply into the blackness. Now his ears caught a pawing
sound, like that of some one crawling on hands and knees. He bent
forward a little, shoulders squared, for he knew the prowler was only a
foot or two away. Evidently he hoped Cole was unaware of his entrance
and expected to take his victim by surprise.
A fumbling hand swept Cole’s knees, and he kicked out his foot with
great force, foiling the attempt to trip him. A startled yell testified
to the effectiveness of the kick, but in the next instant Cole knew
that his adversary had risen to his feet and was changing his tactics.
His fist struck out, but it landed on a body hard and firm as rock, and
the only apparent result of the blow was a stinging sensation in his
knuckles. He tried to strike again, but now his shoulders were seized
in a powerful grip that pinned his arms to his side and rendered him
helpless.
His mind worked quickly, while the enormous weight of his adversary
bore him down. Evidently he was a huge man, and his arms were hard
as flails. Even if Cole’s hands had been free, his fists would have
made no stronger impression on the man’s body than on a wall of brick.
Though nimbler and more wiry than his opponent, Cole knew he could not
match him in brute strength and physical endurance. His only hope lay
in releasing his arms and, striking at the fellow’s face, batter him
into insensibility.
He writhed and wriggled in the powerful embrace of the gigantic arms,
resisting the downward pressure till he felt as if his spine must snap.
Inch by inch his opponent was bending him to his knees, and all the
while his arms felt as if they were caught between metal springs. In
vain he put every ounce of strength into the struggle; the mountainous
body of his adversary was constantly forcing him downward. Already his
knees were touching the floor, and his neck felt as if it were being
gradually wrenched out of shape.
His breath grew weak and fluttering. His heart pounded against his ribs
like a trip hammer. In the blackness tiny specks whirled before his
eyes. He knew the struggle must end soon, and the realization seemed
to kindle a flame within him. An idea shot like a flash through his
reeling mind.
Suddenly he grew limp in the sturdy arms of his opponent. With a
grunt of satisfaction the latter let go his hold, and Cole lay flat
and inert on his back. For a few moments he drank huge gulps of air
into his straining lungs. Then, with the elastic swiftness of a spring
suddenly released, he leaped to his feet. With one hand he located his
adversary, with the other he drove a savage blow straight into the
man’s face.
A short cry of pain and rage broke from the other’s lips. His hands
fumbled at Cole’s throat for a strangle hold, but the merciless
hammering of the latter’s fists drove him steadily backward. Whenever
his fingers tightened around Cole’s windpipe a rain of smashing blows
to nose and mouth forced him to relax his hold and retreat a little
farther toward the wall. Cole, his strength electrified by the joy of
battle, did not notice that his knuckles were bruised. Time and again,
with a sureness of aim that surprised himself, he drove them into the
other’s torn and mangled face. Already a stertorous breathing told that
his adversary was becoming groggy. Cole summoned all his strength for a
final knock-out blow.
He flung his arm backward, and in the same instant the other uttered a
loud yell. Cole cut it short with a crashing thrust of his fist. With a
gasp his opponent went to the floor. For a moment he gave himself over
to the thrill of victory, but in the next instant he was all alertness.
A faint click signified that the door had opened, and now several pairs
of feet were stealing swiftly across the floor.
Cole whirled around on his heels, but a stalwart form collided with
him, nearly sweeping him off his feet. Another hurled himself upon him
from behind, and a third jerked his legs from under him. With a sharp
sense of bafflement, Cole fell headlong to the floor. He struck out
with hands and feet, fighting with desperate vehemence, determined to
inflict all the injury he could on his opponents.
But he was outnumbered three to one, and something of his strength had
been spent in the earlier encounter. Defiantly he met the onslaught,
but he was overpowered by numbers. Eventually they laid him on his
back, and then his adversaries shackled his hands and feet with stout
cord. He thought they were handling him with strange gentleness, and he
wondered if they were saving him for another ordeal. He remembered, as
he was picked up and carried, that Miss Brown had said something about
a fate worse than a hundred deaths.
In silence the little procession passed through a door, and presently
Cole was placed on a cot. In a few moments the men walked out, and once
more he was left alone in impenetrable darkness. Not a word had been
spoken by his captors, and he had not obtained a single glimpse of
their faces. The whole episode had been enacted in silence and under
cover of darkness.
The door opened just as his mind was shaking off the numbness that had
seized it when he fell. Some one walked up to the cot where he lay. For
a few moments no sound was heard save the slow breathing of the two
men. Finally the other spoke, and Cole recognized the voice of the one
who had acted as spokesman for the group around the circular table.
“You’re an obstinate man, Mr. Cole. We have made you a very flattering
proposition, and you have seen fit to reject it. I have come to offer
you one more chance to comply with our wishes.”
“And if I refuse,” said Cole evenly, “you will kill me, I suppose. I am
beginning to think you are quite capable of it.”
“Oh, no!” The other man laughed softly. “We know you are not the kind
of man that’s afraid of death. Something stronger than fear for your
life is needed to bend you to our will. But we will bend you sooner or
later. Make no mistake about that.”
The words were spoken in a tone of calm assurance that impressed Cole
against his will.
“How, if I may ask?”
“By a form of persuasion that is far more powerful than the fear of
death. After all, death is nothing. Only a dip into a void. A little
suffering, perhaps, and then nothingness. There are things that are far
worse. Mr. Cole, did you ever stop to consider what your life would
amount to if you should suddenly lose your mind?”
“What?” Cole gave an involuntary shudder.
“Suppose that keen mind of yours should become a blank. Suppose that
your wonderful mental faculties were to desert you, that you were to
become a leering, tottering wretch, inspiring loathing and horror in
your fellow men. Can you picture such a fate, Mr. Cole? Death would be
a thousand times more merciful, yet you would lack the incentive to
kill yourself. What could be worse?”
Cole was silent. The darkness gave free rein to his imagination, and
the picture he saw sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“All that life means to you would be blotted out,” the other went on
with remorseless eloquence. “Instead of matching your wits against a
man’s problems, as at present, you would probably be devoting your
time to childish amusements. Imagine yourself placing buttons in a row
and building houses out of blocks. You would be dragging a useless and
broken body through life until——”
“Stop it!” said Cole. “You’re in more danger of losing your mind than I
am. Yours is already a bit twisted, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Don’t fool yourself. Unless you give us a reasonable guarantee that
you will comply with our wishes, you will be a grimacing lunatic by
morning. A very simple operation on the brain will do it. Among those
seven men whom you saw around the circular table is a noted surgeon.
Everything, including the ether and the instruments, will be ready in a
few minutes. There is still time for you to come to your senses.”
In the back of Cole’s mind was a hazy suspicion that he was dreaming,
but the other’s calm and softly penetrating tones gave him a feeling of
reality.
“You wouldn’t——” he began.
“Ah, wouldn’t we? Just wait and see. Perhaps I can convince you.”
Cole heard his footfalls cross the floor, and then a door opened and
closed. For a few minutes he was alone, trying to arrange in an orderly
process the odds and ends of the night’s amazing happenings. His
mind staggered before the task, and suddenly the door opened again.
He had a vague impression that two men were entering, and that they
were carrying a burden between them. They moved about quickly in the
darkness, and now and then they whispered in tones so low that Cole
could not hear them.
A light flashed on, and in the same instant the door closed. After the
long period of utter darkness, the sudden glare had a blinding effect.
Cole blinked his eyes, but after a little he opened them wide in
astonishment, and the sight that met them drew a long, trembling gasp
from his lips.
There was only one other man in the room, a shivering, gibbering wreck
of a man whose grimacing features and hollow cackle sent a series of
chill shivers through Cole’s body. For a long time he stared into the
leering, slowly twitching face before he was able to realize that the
wretch, seated a few feet from his cot, was Malcolm Reeves.
CHAPTER IV
“YELLOW”
When he first went to work on the case of Reeves’ mysterious
disappearance, Cole had been shown several photographs of the missing
man. Along the numerous twistings of the trail, he had carried with him
a mental picture of a fine intellectual face, deep and rather somber
eyes, a long nose, whose slenderness hinted at aristocratic breeding,
a clean-cut jaw that denoted a great deal of aggressiveness, and lips
that were a trifle too full and might have suggested sensuality, if the
broad slope of the forehead had not conveyed a dominant impression of
the student and the thinker. The picture in Cole’s mind had represented
a man about fifty years old, with a virile personality and quiet tastes.
The contrast between his mental image of Malcolm Reeves and the
miserable creature, now sitting a few feet away, was so sharp that the
comparison gave Cole a profound shock. His clothing hung loosely over
his bony frame, and he seemed to have aged decades in the three weeks
that had elapsed since his disappearance. His shoulders were hunched
down a little, his head was bent forward, and the eyes stared rigidly
into space, as if he were seeing something in the distance. His lips
were twisted into a fixed, vacant smile that impressed Cole as the most
hideous thing he had ever seen.
He tried to spring from the cot, momentarily forgetting that his arms
and legs were bound. He sank back with a mutter of exasperation. Not
much imagination was required to guess that the men who had brought
about his own plight were also responsible for the condition of Malcolm
Reeves.
Again something drew his glance to the insane man. The revolting
picture seemed to hold Cole with an uncanny fascination. “What’s
happened?” he inquired, realizing a moment later that he might as well
have addressed a wooden image.
Reeves was still gazing fixedly at the opposite wall. There was a look
of insane glee in his shrunken eyes. He bent forward a little more, and
then his lips began to move. “Yellow,” he said. “Pretty yellow!”
The soft-spoken words and the giggle that followed caused Cole to
shudder. He could see that Reeves’ mind, or the pitiful remnant of it,
was reveling in some childish fancy. The wreckage of a once splendid
intellect was horrible to behold.
“What do you see?” he asked, wondering whether the man was capable of
any form of response.
The other’s face brightened, but Cole thought it was only an external
glow, a reflected light rather than one kindled from within. He
recoiled inwardly as another stream of giggling mirth flowed from the
insane man’s lips.
“Yellow,” said Reeves again. “Pretty yellow!”
His expression became more rapt. His smile grew broader and deeper, but
to Cole it seemed nothing more than a contortion of facial muscles.
He wondered whether the two words were all that was left of the man’s
vocabulary. He felt a desire to test him and see if there was not a
remaining scrap of intellect that could be aroused.
“Listen, Mr. Reeves,” he said sharply. “When did you last see Professor
Carmody?”
The giggling ended in a quick intake of breath. Reeves’ smile faded
as abruptly as if an invisible hand had blotted it out. Watching him
intently, Cole could see that his question had touched a slumbering
chord in the man’s mind. Fear and something akin to hate blazed in the
shrunken eyes. It was a startling transformation, and Cole observed it
in wonder. He had mentioned Carmody’s name on the spur of a vagrant
impulse, wondering whether it would awaken a recollection in the débris
of Reeves’ intellect. The effect was far beyond his expectations.
“Carmody!” said the insane man, and each syllable cut like a knife
through the silence. “Carmody!”
He drew a shaking hand across his brow, and Cole fancied something was
stirring in the dark corners of his mind. His face took on a strained
look, as if he was trying to exercise the shattered remnants of his
intellect. There was a flicker of returning sanity, a feeble ray of
awakening reason.
It did not last long. Reeves gave a little shudder, there was a
trembling gleam in his eye, then the fatuous grin came back to his
lips, and once more he mumbled in rapt tones: “Yellow. Pretty yellow!”
Cole turned his head away with a shiver. His experiment had shown the
hopelessness of the insane man’s condition, but it had also suggested
several things to Cole. A recollection of a terrifying nature
seemed to be buried in the wreckage of Reeves’ mind, and evidently
it had something to do with Professor Carmody. Cole had felt certain
for a long time that the professor was responsible for the man’s
disappearance, but he had not cared to jeopardize his case by taking
action before he had sufficient evidence in his possession, as a
premature move on his part might have brought disastrous results. At
that time he had not been sure whether the missing man was dead or
alive. If still living, his safety might be endangered by hasty action,
for Carmody would not hesitate to kill him if he thought it advisable.
So Cole had waited, patiently biding his time and slowly, but surely,
strengthening the meshes in which he hoped to entangle the professor.
Now he wondered to what extent his course had been correct. The
maniac’s startling reaction to the mention of Carmody’s name seemed to
confirm at least a part of his theory. What he could not understand
was how Reeves, granting that the professor was responsible for his
abduction, happened to be in this place of dark intrigue and baffling
mystery. Evidently there must be a connecting link between Professor
Carmody and the seven masked men who had sat around the circular table.
Likely as not they were accomplices, banded together for the attainment
of some secret object. That would at least explain why the seven men
were so determined that Cole should drop the Carmody case, though it
explained nothing else.
A slight sound interrupted the speculations with which he had tried
to relieve the tension he felt. He turned his head a little and saw
that the door had opened a crack. A hand was inserted through the
narrow opening. For a moment it fumbled over the wall, then came a
faint click, and once more the room was dark. Men were moving about in
the black for a time, and then all was quiet. The silence seemed to
indicate that Cole was alone in the room, but he had an indefinable
feeling that some one was standing beside his cot. In a moment his
impression was confirmed.
“Mr. Cole,” said a voice, and he recognized it at once, “I trust that
what you have just seen has put you in a more reasonable frame of mind.
Unless you comply with our wishes we shall do to you what we did to
Malcolm Reeves.”
Cole strained spasmodically against the cords that fettered his hands
and feet. In the darkness his imagination sketched a picture of Reeves’
hideously grinning face. For a moment he could almost hear the maniac’s
insane cackle. He banished the vision by sheer force of will.
“There’s a great deal of finesse about your methods,” he ironically
observed. “I guessed, of course, that Reeves was brought in here to
serve as an object lesson to me. It was quite impressive.”
“And you have reconsidered?” asked the other hopefully.
Cole lay absolutely still on his back. It was all he could do to
exclude the disturbing pictures of Reeves from his mind. Whenever a
glimpse of it came back to him he felt a weakness that put him in fear
of himself. “Not exactly,” he managed to say in steady tones. “I have
merely been taking my own measure, as it were, trying to determine
whether the loss of pride and self-respect is worse than the loss of
one’s sanity.”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“I am still in doubt. There are so many ways of looking at the
situation. For instance, one thing to be considered is that lost
self-respect may be regained, while insanity is in most instances
incurable.”
“Excellent,” murmured the other. “That’s a very rational way of looking
at the proposition. Such being the case it should not be difficult for
you to choose between the two alternatives.”
“But it is,” protested Cole. “There is still another thing to be
considered. Suppose I were to accept your terms. All I could give you
would be my word of honor that I would live up to them.”
“Quite sufficient,” the other put in. “We know you are not the kind of
man who goes back on his word.”
“Thanks,” said Cole sarcastically. “Just the same one’s word of honor
is a rather intangible thing. You can’t bind me with a contract. It
would not be legal, no matter how ingeniously worded, and it might
incriminate yourselves. I am not in position to give you any pledges.
You would have to be content with my bare promise. It would be
sufficient in any ordinary case, but circumstances alter everything. I
realize I am at the mercy of a gang of unprincipled scoundrels.”
“Your epithets don’t hurt us in the least,” remarked the other man
icily.
“Didn’t expect they would. But don’t you see that, under the
circumstances, I would have no hesitancy at all about giving you a
promise that I didn’t intend to keep? I am not a bit quixotic, and I am
too practical to indulge in cheap heroics. I have no ambition to become
the hero of a tawdry melodrama. In order to escape a fate like the one
you inflicted on Reeves, I would promise anything, and so would every
other man whose head isn’t full of moonshine. You follow me?”
“Perfectly. You are trying to make out that we have no hold over you.
Your reasoning isn’t bad, but you forget one thing. As it happens, we
are in a position to exact a pledge from you, one that will hold you to
us for life.”
“What is it?”
The other gave a soft laugh. “You saw what a hopeless case Reeves is.
There’s no reason why he should go on living any longer. The merciful
thing to do is to put him out of his misery.”
“You mean——”
“Exactly, Mr. Cole. You are to seal the promise you give us by hustling
Reeves off to a better world. We have planned it so that we will be
able to prove that you killed him. Having incriminated yourself to that
extent, and with the evidence in our possession, we need have no fear
that you will go back on your word of honor. And now that we thoroughly
understand each other, I must ask you to decide promptly. Our time is
valuable.”
A few moments passed in silence, but to Cole they were like weeks.
Never before in all his life had so many thoughts and emotions been
crowded into such a narrow space of time. He felt weak and shaken when
it was over, but his voice was clear. “My answer is no,” he declared.
“If I were able I would give it to you in a more emphatic manner.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cole,” replied the other. “I won’t accept your decision
as final, however. I trust you will reconsider before you become
unconscious under the ether.”
With that he went out, leaving an ominous silence behind him. Cole
tore frantically at the cords around his wrists, but they only cut the
deeper into his flesh. He could see no escape from the awful fate that
awaited him. Time and again the picture of Reeves’ fatuously grinning
face came back to him, causing him to writhe in mental torment. A
tempting voice seemed to whisper in his ear, turning his thoughts into
strange channels. To end a life that was worse than a living death
appeared not such a dreadful thing to do. Cole himself would have
preferred to die rather than suffer a fate like Reeves’. If he should
ever fall into such a condition he would consider the man a benefactor
who ended his misery.
He shook himself violently. A clammy perspiration was bathing his
forehead. With a mental and physical paroxysm he brushed away the
temptation to which he had nearly yielded a moment ago. Footsteps
were approaching the door, and he knew a critical moment was at hand.
Something within him that was stronger than reason and logic shrank
from the mere thought of taking Reeves’ life. He wondered if there was
no other alternative.
He tried to take a calm view of the situation. Though his hands and
feet were tightly bound his persecutors evidently had not thought it
necessary to strap him to the cot, since he would soon be under the
influence of the ether. By experimenting he found that he could turn
over on his sides and, thanks to the fact that his hands had been tied
in front instead of behind, he was able to move his arms up and down
and in a horizontal direction. Since he could not use his hands he did
not see how he could turn this circumstance to his advantage, yet it
continued to tantalize his imagination.
The door opened, and his ears told him that several men were entering
the room. For a time they moved about in the darkness, as if making
preparations of some sort. After a little the footsteps receded, and
then the door opened and closed once more. Cole guessed that all but
one or two of the men had withdrawn. After another brief delay, the
lights flashed on once more, this time illuminating a different scene.
Reeves was back in the room, occupying the same chair in which he had
sat the other time, but now his limbs were as tightly manacled as
Cole’s own. He moved his head slowly from side to side, as if sensing
something unusual in the air, but his vacant stare showed that he had
not the faintest inkling of what was going on.
After a glance at him, Cole looked away. Not far from the cot stood a
tall man with a black beard that covered nearly his entire face. He
was holding a number of surgical implements to the light, giving each
one a critical inspection before he placed it on a small table with a
glass top that stood beside the cot. Cole could not restrain a shudder
as he saw how calmly the man examined the sinister-looking little
tools. There was a professional air about him that in Cole’s mind
stamped him as a surgeon.
Again his glance moved to the insane man, whose dull gaze seemed to be
taking in each detail of the scene. The meaning of the little knives
and the presence of the black-bearded man was terrifyingly clear.
The surgeon placed the last of the knives on the table beside the
cot. They lay there in plain view, so close to Cole that if his hands
had been free he could have reached out and touched them. The long,
slender metal blades gleamed diabolically in the electric lights, and
he wondered if they had been placed like that for the sole purpose of
impressing their hideous significance upon him.
The black-bearded man came closer to the cot, and Cole caught a full
view of his face. He had seen it once before, though only dimly,
for the surgeon was one of the seven who had sat in the dusk at the
circular table. He had worn a mask then, but the black beard, the high
forehead and the bald spot on top of his head were unmistakable. Now
his features were unveiled, and in this circumstance Cole saw a grim
significance. The surgeon no longer had any reason to fear that Cole
might recognize him if they should meet again.
He stopped beside the glass-topped table and, with hands clasped at his
back, fixed a tranquil gaze on the reclining man. “You have one more
chance, Mr. Cole,” he remarked in a casual tone. “Hadn’t you better
reconsider your refusal?”
Cole looked up into the bearded face with a feeling that there was
something peculiar about it, but his mind was too agitated to analyze
the impression. In a playful manner the surgeon picked up one of the
knives, holding it so that the light flashed against the keen blade.
Cole was trying to frame an answer, but just then something drew his
gaze to the insane man. Reeves was straining forward in his chair,
bending his weight against the fettering cords. From where he sat he
had a clear view of both Cole and the surgeon, and his eyes were fixed
with wild intensity on the knife in the latter’s hand. Time and again
he opened his lips, but the only sound that came was a hoarse rattle in
his throat.
“Well, Mr. Cole?”
The surgeon, paying no attention to the lunatic, looked impatiently
at Cole. Reeves, with mouth gaping and features horribly distorted,
continued to stare at the knife.
“You refuse?” The surgeon waited a moment longer for an answer; then,
with a shrug, he replaced the knife and stepped aside. Cole felt a
sudden rush of blood to his head. If he was to escape a fate worse than
death he must act at once. He spurred his wits to think of something
to do. A tinkling, like that of a jar or a bottle being moved, sounded
in the room. Again he bent his mind to the seemingly hopeless task
of finding a way out, but, even in this moment of desperate peril, he
could not take his gaze from the insane man’s face.
Reeves sat with shoulders hunched up and head turned a little to one
side. Now and then his mouth twisted at the corners; from time to time
a shudder broke the tension of his figure. A series of slight gurgling
sounds fell on the stillness at intervals. All the while his eyes, with
a smoldering something in their depths, were fixed on the knives spread
out on the glass-topped table.
Suddenly Cole’s body executed a little writhing motion. His nostrils
sucked in a strong, sickening odor. With a sponge in his hand, the
surgeon was coming toward the cot.
Once more, in a delirium of suspense, Cole glanced at the insane man.
The quick dilation of Reeves’ nostrils told he also had noticed the
ether. The chair creaked as he put his weight against the cords. There
was a look on his face that Cole felt would follow him through the
night of madness that threatened to engulf him. Reeves’ chest heaved
violently, his whole body seemed to be rocked by a tumultuous emotion,
and finally a long and oddly vibrant cry broke from his lips.
CHAPTER V
DISGUISED
To Cole’s rapt gaze the insane man presented a picture at once fearful
and fascinating. Reeves was no longer looking at the keen-bladed
knives, but now he was staring at the black-bearded surgeon with an
intensity that seemed to strain every nerve and muscle in his body. The
knotted cords at his temple swelled and took on a livid hue. Slowly and
shakily he drew himself erect in the chair, and then his whole body was
rocked by a paroxysm so violent that, for an instant, Cole thought the
cords were about to snap.
The surgeon, with the reeking sponge in his hand, turned and watched
the maniac. A smile twisted the bearded lips, and he stepped to the
chair and spoke a few words in Reeves’ ears. The insane man’s chest
heaved out, but the cry and the paroxysm seemed to have exhausted his
energies, and only a feeble, fluttering moan came.
The spectacle had held Cole spellbound. Now, while the surgeon was
leaning over the insane man and whispering in his ear, a sudden
realization of his peril caused him to throw off the weird fascination
which the scene had cast on him. He had only a few moments in which to
act. Soon the reeking sponge would be at his nostrils, deadening his
mental faculties.
His darting glance fell on the knives lying on the glass-topped table
beside the cot. They were so close to him that they seemed to mock and
taunt him. Again it occurred to him that they had been placed like that
for the sole purpose of impressing their infernal purpose upon him and
battering down his fortitude. It had been a touch of refined cruelty
on the black-bearded man’s part, but it only strengthened Cole’s
determination not to yield.
Suddenly, as he kept looking at the knives, the gleam of an inspiration
crept into his narrowing eyes. He cast a swift glance about the room.
The black-bearded man was still occupied with Reeves and stood with his
back turned to the cot. Cole, trembling with excitement, turned over on
his side and wriggled as close to the edge of the cot as he could. He
reached out his manacled hands over the glass-topped table. The cords
around the wrists gave the fingers considerable leeway. In an instant
they had closed around the handle of the nearest knife.
Cole tingled from head to foot. The subtle bit of strategy by which the
black-bearded man had hoped to shatter his victim’s nerve had now been
turned to Cole’s advantage. It gave him a fighting chance, though the
odds were still overwhelmingly against him. His lips curled a little,
and there was a belligerent sparkle in his eyes. Turning over on his
back he dropped the knife beside him on the pillow, so that his head
would temporarily screen it from the surgeon’s sight. Then, letting his
arms fall limply back against his abdomen, he waited for the surgeon to
act.
Presently the black-bearded man turned away from Reeves and stepped up
to the cot. Cole lay motionless, with eyes half closed, as if partly
dazed by contemplation of the terrible fate that awaited him. Inwardly
he was straining and quivering with suspense. As yet the surgeon did
not seem to have noticed that one of the knives was missing from the
table, but he might do so any moment, and then Cole’s only hope would
be gone.
“Well, Mr. Cole?” he asked lightly. “For the last time I ask you to
reconsider your refusal.”
Cole lay very still. The last few minutes of suspense seemed to have
wrought a great change in him. His lips moved as if he were trying to
speak, but was too weak to use his voice.
The surgeon grinned into his beard. Evidently he thought the knives
placed so close to his victim’s side had exerted the intended
psychological effect.
“Have you anything to say?” he asked, bending over the cot in an effort
to catch Cole’s faintly mumbled words.
Cole flexed his muscles for action. The moment for which he had waited
was at hand. His chance had come; everything depended upon how he used
it. He mumbled again, and the surgeon’s head came a little closer to
his chest.
“A little louder, please,” said the black-bearded man.
Slowly, by imperceptible degrees, Cole drew up his manacled hands
toward his chin. Suddenly his arms shot upward, forming a circular loop
that instantly descended over the surgeon’s head. With a startled cry
the black-bearded man tried to draw back, but the arms that encircled
his shoulders were as strong and hard as springs of steel. He
struggled frantically, but the encircling grip pinned his arms tightly
to his sides, and his head was constantly being forced lower and lower
toward the reclining man’s chest. The sponge had dropped from his hand
the moment Cole’s arms were flung around his neck.
An exultant thrill went through Cole as the other’s resistance grew
feebler. Now the surgeon’s head was almost level with his face. The
only sounds in the room were the hard panting of the adversaries and
an occasional giggle from the insane man. Fumes of ether were slowly
filling the air.
Cole turned his head. In an instant the handle of the knife was firmly
gripped between his strong, even teeth. He thrust out his jaw, and the
point of the weapon grazed the black-bearded man’s throat. Cole saw
a look of fear creep into the man’s eyes. The surgeon made a final
attempt to wriggle free, but Cole’s arms held him as in a vise. Once
more the knife, tightly clasped between Cole’s jaws, scratched the
other’s flesh. He remarked again the look of terror that was stamped
on the surgeon’s face. In view of the diabolical fate which the man
had meant to inflict on him Cole was human enough to enjoy the other’s
agony.
Suddenly he bent a sharper look on the man’s face. Once before he had
wondered why there seemed to be something peculiar about it, but this
was his first chance to examine the features at close quarters. Now he
noticed that the beard which covered most of the face had an unnatural
appearance. There were lines about the eyes that did not seem quite
genuine, and the exposed portions of the skin had an odd coloring.
Obviously the man was disguised, and Cole could see that it had been
rather cleverly done. He wondered why the disguise had been put on,
since the surgeon had had every reason to expect that Cole would
leave the room a raving lunatic and that there would be no danger of
recognition if they should meet again.
He had not time to think further about it. The deadlock was only
temporary; any fortuitous incident might upset Cole’s advantage;
instantly the door might open and admit one or more of the other
members of the gang. Just now he had the surgeon at his mercy. Only a
little slash with the knife, clamped between his teeth was needed to
open an artery, but that would not release him from his predicament.
Though he might be able to sever the cords around his ankles he could
not move his hands with sufficient freedom to cut the strings around
his wrists. While he was casting about for a plan a muffled groan of
fright and pain broke from the surgeon’s lips. Unconsciously Cole had
once more scratched the man’s throat with the knife.
“You’re killing me!” protested the other man in a feeble voice.
“It would serve you right,” declared Cole unfeelingly. “I don’t know
why I should have any compunction about killing a rat of your kind. We
might come to some arrangement, however. What will you do if I spare
your life?”
“Anything, anything you say.”
Cole considered. The thing of first importance was to get his hands
free of the cords. In his present position, with his arms pinned
tightly in Cole’s embrace the surgeon could not untie them, and Cole
did not see how he could give the man any freedom of movement without
imperiling his own advantage.
“I am going to give you a chance for your life,” he said, “but if you
make the slightest false move you die instantly. Understand that?”
“I’ll do whatever you say.”
“All right, then. Turn over.”
Cole relaxed his hold a trifle, and the surgeon turned in his arms. The
point of the knife did not leave his flesh for an instant, and at any
moment Cole could have inflicted a mortal wound by merely thrusting his
head forward. Now, with the end of the blade in dangerous proximity to
the surgeon’s jugular vein, Cole gingerly released one of the man’s
arms, then commanded him to untie the cords around his wrists. The
black-bearded man obeyed, and Cole transferred the knife from his mouth
to his right hand. In a short time his feet had been released, and now
he flung the surgeon aside and slipped from the cot.
Reeves had watched the proceeding with a dull stare. Now and then a
hoarse giggle of glee had escaped him.
The surgeon got to his feet and drew a long breath of relief. His eyes,
with a glint of lingering fear in their depths, watched Cole admiringly.
“You’re a great scrapper, Mr. Cole,” he admitted. “You turned the
tables with a truly artistic touch. For a time I was in fear for my
life. There was no time to explain, and you wouldn’t have believed me
anyway.”
“Explain?” Cole asked contemptuously. The little knife was still
clutched tightly in his hand. “One doesn’t expect explanations from
curs of your type.”
The surgeon laughed, and in the same instant his fingers touched a
button. Cole flexed his muscles for another supreme test. Out of the
corner of an eye he watched the surgeon; the other eye was fixed on
the door. In a moment or two it would probably open in response to
the surgeon’s ring, and men would come tumbling upon him from all
directions. Cole smiled grimly. He would die fighting rather than
expose himself to the other and more terrible fate from which he had
just escaped.
The door opened, and he poised himself, ready to spring forward.
The nerve-racking suspense, which he had undergone on the cot, was
forgotten now. His eye was clear, and his brain was rapidly throwing
off the ether fumes that had escaped from the surgeon’s sponge. The
hand in which he held the knife came upward, prepared to strike down
the first man who should approach.
Some one entered through the open door, and the arm fell limply to
Cole’s side. With gaping mouth he stared at the newcomer who executed a
profound bow, while he pointed to the outer room. “Will you kindly step
this way, Mr. Cole?” he asked in the courteous tones of a well-trained
servant.
Cole laughed. The sudden reaction made him feel giddy. He had expected
at least half a dozen men to pounce on him when the door opened. By
contrast there was something ludicrous about the salaaming figure, now
confronting him.
“If you please, Mr. Cole.” The man again waved his hand toward the
outer room, and Cole obligingly followed his direction. There seemed
to be nothing else to do than wait for the other side to make the next
move. If he was walking into a trap, as appeared not at all unlikely,
he still had the knife to defend himself with. And that was not all,
he suddenly remembered; his pistol was still in his hip pocket. It was
rather odd, he reflected, as he walked behind the servant, that no
attempt had been made to take it from him.
In a few moments he was back in the long room with the circular table.
The seven masked men were again grouped around it, and the light was as
dim as before. The servant ushered him up to the chair occupied by the
spokesman, then silently glided away. Once more Cole felt seven pairs
of eyes searching his face, but this time he was aware of a new quality
in the air.
“You may feel quite at ease, Mr. Cole,” the spokesman began. “I can
promise that no harm will come to you.”
The calm, matter-of-fact tones incensed Cole when he recalled by what
a narrow margin he had escaped the fate which these men had tried to
inflict upon him.
“How magnanimous!” he gibingly exclaimed.
The other chuckled. “Oh, we can understand that you don’t feel
particularly friendly toward us. Incidentally we know all that happened
in the other room. You acquitted yourself nobly, Mr. Cole.”
“Save your compliments. They are on a par with your promises.”
“You would naturally feel that way after what has happened. Mr. Cole, I
am going to ask you to forget what occurred in the other room.”
“Forget?” asked Cole incredulously, feeling as though the episode he
had just passed through would live in his memory till his dying day.
“Well, perhaps that is asking too much,” the other admitted. “By the
way, your bitterness toward us is natural enough, but don’t you find
some compensation in the knowledge that you have passed through fire
unscathed? You remained true to yourself in one of the severest tests a
man can be subjected to. Isn’t there some satisfaction for you in that?”
“Oh, yes, a lot,” said Cole ironically. “It’s worth something to a man
to know that nothing can bend him. If you expect me, however, to get
down on my knees and thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself
you are mistaken.”
“We don’t expect anything of the kind. I am merely trying to point out
that you have cause for self-congratulation as well as bitterness. You
probably won’t be able to forget what has happened, but I am going to
ask you to dismiss it from your mind temporarily, while I make a new
proposition to you.”
Cole felt a trifle dazed. The effrontery of the man was unbelievable.
For a moment he suspected it was all a weird jest. “Go on,” he said
dryly. “Your superb insolence interests me. I am curious to see how
far it will carry you.”
“You shall see in a few minutes. I will begin by stating certain facts.
Perhaps later on I shall be able to prove them to their satisfaction,
but just now I must ask you to accept them as an hypothesis.”
“Proceed,” said Cole. “I’ll try to believe that black is white.”
“That’s practically what it amounts to. The first fact I am asking you
to accept on faith, for the present, is that we are not responsible for
Malcolm Reeves’ deplorable condition. An operation was performed on his
brain, but we had nothing to do with it.”
He paused as if expecting an objection.
“The second fact I am asking you to accept provisionally,” he went
on when Cole showed no inclination to speak, “is that we are just as
anxious to solve the Carmody case as you can possibly be. We are more
anxious, in fact, for we know more about its vast scope and enormous
complexities than you do. Are you with me so far, Mr. Cole?”
Cole’s shoulder made a seesawing motion. The whole thing was
preposterous, but there was a quality in the man’s tone that impressed
him against his will. “You are asking me to believe that you are sheep
in wolves’ clothing,” he remarked.
“That’s undoubtedly how it looks to you. Won’t you try to brush
your doubts aside, Mr. Cole? Remember that in due time I will prove
everything I say.”
Cole’s indignation was cooling. There was something about the
spokesman that seemed to exert a subtle magnetism on him. Already his
dreadful experience in the other room seemed dim and remote, though a
few minutes ago he had thought it was indelibly etched on the scroll of
his memory. “If what you say is true, then why——”
“No questions, please. You would not believe me if I were to answer
them. All I can say now is that we have excellent reasons for what we
have done. Some time before long I think you yourself will approve
them. Just now you must accept my statements on faith. Will you try to
believe that we had nothing to do with Reeves’ condition and that we
are on your side in the Carmody matter?”
“You can’t deny that you tried to put me in the same condition Reeves
is in?”
“We can, but we won’t just at present. What happened in the other room
I am asking you to dismiss from your mind in order that you may view
the facts I have placed before you in an unbiased frame of mind. With
that episode eliminated can’t you place a little temporary credence in
what I say?”
Cole tried to clarify his thoughts, but without much success. He
realized with satisfaction that his hand was still clutching the
knife. He wondered whether, but for his quickness of mind and his deft
handling of the little weapon, he would not now be a raving madman.
It seemed strange that he was able to think coolly about the matter,
and stranger still that he found himself listening to the spokesman’s
arguments with any degree of seriousness.
Finally he shook his head. “It won’t quite go down,” he declared. “You
are asking me to take too much for granted. One’s brain was made to
think with, and your statements won’t bear too close reasoning. You
will have to give me your proofs before I can believe you.”
A pause followed his words; then a chorus of whispers went around the
table. The spokesman leaned over and consulted the man seated beside
him.
“I don’t blame you,” he declared, again turning to Cole. “After
all, your skepticism is quite natural. It is even a tribute to your
intellectual powers, for only children and feeble-minded persons accept
unsupported statements. Now, as for proofs, let me see. Would you be
convinced if you should find the man who is responsible for Reeves’
condition?”
“You know who he is?”
“We have had our suspicions for some time, but we were not certain
until a short while ago. A delicate operation, by which certain brain
cells were deadened, was performed on Reeves. We knew Professor Carmody
could not have performed it, for he is not a surgeon. We began to look
for an accomplice, and finally we found a man who seemed to fit into
our theory of the case. Mr. Cole, did you ever hear of Doctor Dickson
Latham?”
“Never,” said Cole.
“Well, certain circumstances, which needn’t be mentioned just now, made
us believe that Doctor Latham was the man whom we were looking for. The
matter was really of no great importance, only one of the minor angles
of the case, but any little light, shed on the corners of the mystery,
might help toward solving the whole. We felt fairly certain Doctor
Latham was our man; in the last hour we have become positive of it.”
“In the last hour!” exclaimed Cole. “How?”
“Malcolm Reeves told us.”
“Reeves told you?”
“By his actions, while you were lying on the cot. We had two reasons
for staging that little scene in the other room. The primary one we
won’t go into at present. The other was to jog the dead part of Reeves’
brain back to life, by having him witness the preparations for an
operation that, in its essential aspects, must have resembled the one
performed on himself. We hoped that the smell of the ether, the sight
of the knives and the preparations in general would awaken a slumbering
memory in his mind. The experiment was only partly successful, but
Reeves’ actions proved beyond doubt that he recognized the officiating
surgeon.”
Through the dusk Cole stared into the speaker’s calm face. “Then the
surgeon——”
“You probably didn’t notice it,” the other interrupted, “but the man
who officiated as the surgeon was disguised. The disguise was put on by
one of our men, an expert in that line.”
“I noticed it, and it was a good job,” Cole remarked. “I couldn’t see
why it was necessary, though.”
“The disguise was put on, not to hoodwink you, but for its effect on
Reeves.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But you will when I tell you that the disguise gave the officiating
surgeon a superficial, but fairly convincing, resemblance to Doctor
Dickson Latham.”
“Clever, I’ll say!” exclaimed Cole who could appreciate ingenuity even
in men who had caused him the most agonizing moments in his life. He
recalled Reeves’ intense agitation while the preparations were in
progress. At the time he had not known what it meant, but he remembered
that the surgeon had watched Reeves very closely, and this had given
Cole his chance to snatch up the knife from the table.
“There is no doubt that Reeves thought he was seeing the man who had
performed the operation upon him,” the spokesman went on. “One of us
was watching the scene through a small opening in the wall, and it was
quite evident that the surgeon’s resemblance to Doctor Latham gave
Reeves a profound shock. Our suspicions have been confirmed, but as yet
we have no legal proof. We want you, Mr. Cole, to go out and get the
evidence against Doctor Latham.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You are a detective, a very good one, though the fact
isn’t generally known. If you find that Latham is guilty you will
be more inclined to credit our statements and think favorably of
the proposition we shall make you. You will leave here as you came,
blindfolded and under guard. Until we understand each other better we
don’t want you to learn too much about us. You will wish to sleep late
in the morning, but to-morrow afternoon you can attack the Carmody case
from a new angle.”
“And my clients?” asked Cole.
“You will be all the better able to serve them because of your
connection with us. As soon as you have found your evidence against
Latham, or learned enough to convince you that we are trustworthy, you
will come here again and report. We shall find a way of communicating
with you in due time. What do you say to the idea?”
Cole pondered. He tried to analyze the situation, but all he could
see were contradictions and perplexities. His only clear thought was
that he had nothing to lose and perhaps much to gain by adopting the
suggestion. His glance swept the circle of masked faces, all of them
turned expectantly in his direction.
“The idea is good,” he finally declared. “I shall pay my respects to
Doctor Latham to-morrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER VI
DOCTOR LATHAM
The sun was several hours high the following morning when Kingdon Cole
jumped out of bed and, from force of habit, turned toward his bathroom.
A glance into the mirror on the white-tiled wall made him start.
A man, even though he have nerves of steel and a constitution hard as
armor, can’t pass through a siege of intense mental torture without
showing traces of it. The nerve-racking agony, which Cole had undergone
while lying on the cot, had left marks which seven hours of sound
sleep had not removed. There was a suspicion of pallor beneath the
bronze of his face. The usual brightness of his eyes was dimmed by
a smoldering flicker which hinted at a long glimpse into infernal
horrors. His face was drawn, and there were telltale lines and furrows.
A twenty-four-hour growth of beard did not improve his appearance.
“Nerves a bit on edge,” he told himself, turning away from the mirror.
“Look as if I hadn’t slept a wink in a week. My landlady would tell me
I need a doctor, but a shower and a shave will make me as chipper as a
colt.”
Whistling, he stepped into the tub and turned on the water. A few
minutes of wriggling and writhing under the icy shower would remove all
signs of his adventure. He thrilled to the first cold splash, and then
Cole drew back from beneath the shower. His lips twisted slowly.
“Guess I’ll try a doctor instead,” he decided. “I’m really in pretty
bad shape. Nervous symptoms are not to be trifled with. I’ll see what
Doctor Dickson Latham has to say about my condition.”
Reluctantly he turned off the cold current and resigned himself
to a lukewarm bath that did not refresh him in the least. Not too
graciously, for habit becomes an exalted thing with men who live alone,
he also decided to forgo his regular morning shave. It was best, he
whimsically reflected, that Doctor Latham should see him at his worst.
He dressed with less than his usual care, took in the bottle of milk
and the newspaper that were always left at his door, and, before
starting to prepare his own simple breakfast, poured out a saucerful of
milk for “Toots.”
Toots was a white-and-yellow cat who had slipped into his rooms one
morning and made herself at home. Cole hadn’t had a word to say about
the arrangement. He had been helpless before Toots’ firmness, and the
cat had made herself a fixture in his establishment. With a languid
indifference and an occasional feline shrug she permitted herself
to be waited on by Cole, who at times wondered whether the cat was
patronizing him. When Toots selected his softest pillow to sleep on and
sunned herself on his writing desk beside the window Cole felt that the
sanctity of his bachelor existence was being violated, but the cat’s
blandly tyrannizing ways left him without a word of protest.
After breakfast he called up Doctor Latham’s office and made an
appointment for half past two. Then he sat down with his newspaper
and pipe, the latter a smelly affair with a bowl shaped into the
resemblance of a monkey’s face. It was an odd conceit, and it had
been given him in lieu of his fee by an impecunious client. Only
once had Cole had words with his landlady, and that was when the
well-intentioned woman had undertaken to scrape out the bowl of his
favorite pipe with a potato peeler. Cole smoked a weird mixture,
compounded by himself of several domestic brands and spiced with a dash
of perique. The strong concoction was a stimulant to mental effort, but
at first he had hesitated to smoke such pungent stuff in the presence
of the dainty Toots. The cat had not seemed to mind, however.
He turned the pages of his newspaper, but found nothing that interested
him. At length he threw the paper aside and refilled his pipe. Toots
was sprawled out on the unfinished manuscript of an article on criminal
tendencies which he was preparing for a psychological review. He gave
the cat a reproachful glance, but said nothing. There were times when
Toots seemed to go too far.
He looked out into the warm sunlight that bathed Gramercy Park, but
his thoughts were flitting in and out of a maze of rooms on the top
floor of a skyscraper, located somewhere in the financial center. His
recollections of the previous night were a queer medley of horror
and mystery, of things that were terribly vivid and others that were
dim and disconnected like a dream. Now, as he sat in the sunlight,
leisurely smoking his pipe, he tried to picture the mystic circle in
the dimly lighted room. He could not quite focus his mental vision on
the scene; it was too shadowy and unreal. The seven masked faces melted
into a blur, then faded away completely. It was no use trying to guess
who those seven men were, or what their amazing conduct might mean.
Perhaps his interview with Doctor Latham would suggest a solution to
the mystery.
The idea of approaching the doctor in the rôle of a patient had been
something of an inspiration, but he had made no plans beyond that.
The mock consultation would give him a chance to take the physician’s
mental and physical measure and see what manner of man he was. Cole
was a good judge of faces and a keen observer of human nature. To him
the slightest gesture and the most casually spoken word had a meaning
all their own. His first aim was to find out whether Latham was the
kind of man who might commit such an atrocious crime as the operation
on Malcolm Reeves; after that he would let his actions be guided by
developments.
Before starting for his appointment he thought it might be well to
gather a few facts about the physician. He consulted his copy of “Who’s
Who.” Dickson Latham was a specialist in nervous disorders, a graduate
of several universities, a member of several learned societies, and his
claim to distinction rested on his having written a number of treatises
on cerebral surgery. The last fact seemed significant to Cole. He
closed the book, gave Toots another mildly reproachful look, and went
out to lunch.
A few minutes before half past two he rang the doorbell of the old
brownstone house in the Sixties, just east of Fifth Avenue, in which
Doctor Latham resided and had his office. A young woman in the
reception room handed him a magazine six months old and asked him to
wait. Cole sat down and glanced about him out of the tail of an eye,
while he pretended to look at the pictures in the periodical. It was
a commonplace room, stuffily crowded with upholstered furniture. Two
bookcases were filled with ponderous volumes in drab bindings. It was
the typical reception room of a fairly thriving physician who derives
most of his patronage from the neurotic and dyspeptic individuals of
the upper middle class.
After a brief wait Cole was facing the physician across a mahogany desk
in the inner office.
“What seems to be the matter?” asked Doctor Latham in a brisk, cheerful
voice.
“Nerves,” said Cole, making a lugubrious face. “No appetite. Can’t
sleep nights. Always tired and out of sorts.”
“Well, well, that’s too bad. You do look a bit run down, Mr. Stone. Let
me see your tongue.”
“Stone” was the name Cole had given over the telephone. It had seemed
an unnecessary precaution, since Kingdon Cole was known to only a few
people. His name seldom if ever appeared in connection with his work
as a criminal investigator, but Cole always practiced discretion to a
fault.
While Doctor Latham looked at his tongue and felt his pulse Cole
studied the physician closely, without appearing to do so. His first
glance gave him a deep respect for the skill with which the surgeon
of the night before had been made up. Doctor Latham was an inch or so
taller, also a trifle thinner, and his black beard had the vitalic
sheen that is not easily imitated; otherwise the resemblance was quite
impressive.
“Let me test your heart,” said the doctor, reaching for his stethoscope.
Cole bared his chest. He was already beginning to suspect that he
was chasing a fool’s errand. Doctor Latham did not seem capable of
deliberate wrongdoing, to say nothing of a fiendish crime. In vain Cole
searched his face for the faintest trace of duplicity. The physician
had the perennial optimism and the bristling cheerfulness that, in
cases of nervous disorders, are far more efficacious than pills and
extracts. The very tone of his voice, together with his hearty laugh,
acted as a stimulant on jaded nerves.
“There isn’t anything the matter with you, Mr. Stone,” he declared when
the examination was finished. “I can give you a tonic if you wish, but
a couple of days’ rest will do you more good.”
Cole buttoned up his shirt and replaced his collar. He felt certain now
that his visit to the doctor’s office had been in vain. Latham’s kindly
smile would have disarmed any suspicions remaining in his mind. It was
a charming smile, a flash of white teeth against a setting of black
beard, and it gave the final magnetic touch to a compelling personality.
Cole chided himself for wasting valuable time, but he wished to make
doubly sure before leaving the office. He wondered what would be the
effect on the doctor if he should suddenly mention the name of Malcolm
Reeves. None at all, very likely, he told himself; yet he felt an
itching desire to make the test.
He took out his pocketbook and looked questioningly at the doctor,
meanwhile wondering how he might mention Reeves’ name in a casual, and
yet sufficiently abrupt, manner to make the test conclusive.
“Sit down, Mr. Stone,” said Doctor Latham, waving him to a chair. “You
interest me. What is your profession?”
“Author,” said Cole, recalling that he had two volumes on criminology
to his credit.
“Ah! And what do you write?”
“Trifling things,” said Cole modestly. “You probably never saw any of
them. Such frivolous reading matter wouldn’t interest you.”
“I read very little. The medical journals and a glance at the
newspapers are about all I find time for. Do you know, Mr. Stone, that
you puzzle me considerably?”
“Indeed!” said Cole absently, still wondering how he might precipitate
Malcolm Reeves’ name into the conversation.
Doctor Latham smiled genially. A question kept teasing Cole’s mind.
What would be the effect on that beaming countenance if he should
suddenly speak Malcolm Reeves’ name? Probably none whatever, he once
more told himself; but the thought continued to tantalize him.
“There is a type of neurasthenic that is known to every medical
practitioner,” the doctor went on. “Their symptoms are quite well
defined. Their ailments are mostly imaginary. On the slightest pretext
they will run to a physician with a long tale of woe. The physician
in most instances, gives them a little sympathetic advice, a harmless
tablet made up of sugar and dough, and pockets his fee. There’s nothing
else to do. If told that their troubles exist only in their imagination
they get offended and run to another doctor. Personally I don’t care
for that kind of patients. Now, Mr. Stone, you don’t belong to that
type. You are not a neurasthenic, far from it. I wish I had your
nerves.”
Cole regarded him with a questioning look.
Doctor Latham laughed pleasantly. “You’re in perfect condition, Mr.
Stone. Perhaps you have smoked too much, or taken too much strong
coffee in the last few days, resulting in one or two sleepless nights,
but there is nothing else the matter with you. Ordinarily you would
have shaken off the effects with a cold shower, or a hike in the
country. I dare say you haven’t consulted a physician more than two or
three times since you grew up. Under the circumstances I am somewhat
curious to know why you came to me.”
Cole gave him a sharp glance, but the affably smiling face instantly
quieted the misgivings which the doctor’s statement had aroused.
“What I don’t see,” Latham went on, “is why you went to a doctor at
all, and why to me in particular. We never saw each other until to-day.
I don’t flatter myself by thinking that you knew me by reputation.
People who have no regular physician usually go to some one recommended
to them by friends. They don’t like to consult a doctor who is an utter
stranger to them. Perhaps among my patients there is a friend of yours
who mentioned me to you?”
“That’s it exactly,” said Cole, thrilling inwardly as he saw his chance
to pitch Reeves’ name into the conversation. “Only the other day I was
complaining to a friend of not feeling well, and he suggested I go to
you. His name——”
“Ah,” asked Doctor Latham, speaking in very soft tones. “I wonder if
you are referring to Malcolm Reeves?”
For a moment Cole looked as if he had received a blow between the
eyes. He gathered himself in an instant, but not before the doctor had
noticed his surprise. The physician was still smiling, but now the
smile was different. It was frosty and pale. “I see I guessed right,”
he murmured.
“Is Reeves one of your patients?” Cole managed to ask.
The doctor leaned back in the chair, crossed his long legs, and gazed
toward the ceiling. Cole became conscious of a distinct chill in the
air, and he felt irritated at himself for having stumbled into the same
trap he had set for the physician. Doctor Latham, he was beginning to
perceive, was a man whose mental thrust was as quick and sure as his
own.
“Frankness is an excellent policy, Mr. Stone,” observed the physician
coldly. “We shall make better progress if you will put all your cards
on the table. You did not come here to consult me about your health.
May I ask why you are honoring me with this visit?”
“You have not yet answered my own question,” observed Cole, quickly
rallying to the verbal fencing match. “Is Reeves a patient of yours?”
The doctor lowered his gaze. His piercing eyes searched Cole’s face. A
faint flash of white teeth showed between the bearded lips.
“I believe that question has a point to it,” he observed. “You ought to
know, Mr. Stone, that a physician never discusses his patients. It is
a very good rule, especially in the present instance. It affords me a
good excuse for not answering your question.”
“Then you admit you found the question embarrassing?”
“A discreet man never admits anything, Mr. Stone. I may point out,
however, that questions are never embarrassing, although answers
sometimes are. I believe Wilde says something to that effect in one of
his plays.”
“Then you positively decline to answer?”
“In order to spare us mutual embarrassment, yes. You see, Mr. Stone,
there are circumstances in which a truthful answer may convey an
erroneous impression. Now, won’t you tell me to what I owe the honor of
this visit?”
“Is that a candid question, Doctor Latham?”
“By no means, my friend. I knew the answer before I spoke the question.
I was merely curious to see whether you would reply truthfully.”
Cole smiled. It was evident that Doctor Latham was a past master in the
art of dueling with words. The man’s frankness amazed him. In admitting
that he knew the purpose of Cole’s visit he had also admitted that he
knew something about Malcolm Reeves’ condition. But he had turned his
phrases so adroitly that nothing of a tangible nature could be fastened
on him.
“Will you tell me how you knew, doctor?”
“Through a process of elimination. I knew at first glance that your
concern over your physical condition was only a subterfuge. That
narrowed the range of speculation down considerably. In fact, it left
only one possible theory in regard to the object of your visit.”
“Why only one? Isn’t it conceivable, for instance, that I came here to
see if your office contains anything worth stealing?”
Doctor Latham shook his head. “You don’t look the part, Mr. Stone.”
“Well, suppose I am an officer of the law and came here to see if you
are prescribing illegal amounts of intoxicating liquor or habit-forming
drugs?”
“You didn’t go about it the right way.”
“Couldn’t I be a long-lost friend or relative?”
“I haven’t either. You came here for one specific purpose, Mr. Stone,
and I know what that purpose is.”
Cole regarded him narrowly. “Knowledge sometimes implies guilt,” he
remarked in casual tones.
“But not always. You think that, because I know the object of your
visit, I have guilty knowledge of a certain matter that you are
interested in. That’s a very loose inference, Mr. Stone.”
Cole thought for a few moments. The other’s indirect frankness amazed
him, yet Doctor Latham was entirely too slippery to permit himself to
be pinned down to hard facts.
“Each of us seems to have come to stalemate,” observed the physician
after a pause. “Shall we call the game a draw? Both of us have gained
something. You think you have verified a suspicion, while I have
learned to be on my guard against a new source of possible danger. Why
not leave well enough alone?”
“It’s a good suggestion,” said Cole, smiling. “Thanks for a very
interesting half hour, doctor. Good day.” He bowed and moved toward the
door, but the doctor’s voice made him turn back.
“Just one moment, Mr. Stone. I think you have forgotten something. My
fee is ten dollars. Ah, thank you!”
CHAPTER VII
COLE RECEIVES A WARNING
He left the physician’s office a poorer, but a wiser, man. The half
hour had been well spent even though the interview had yielded little
in the way of tangible results. Cole had met an interesting personality
and come in contact with a fine-edged mind. The doctor, with his
subtleties and his evasions, had proven a fascinating character. His
depth and elusiveness carried a teasing appeal to Cole’s imagination.
Cole was not yet through with Doctor Latham.
He walked to the corner, turned into a tobacconist’s shop, and bought
a package of cigarettes, then stood at the curb and smoked one, while
he glanced now and then at the physician’s house. The drab brownstone
façade seemed as mocking and tantalizing as the man who dwelt within.
It was as baffling and impenetrable as the doctor himself. Cole tried
to analyze his impressions, but it was a hard task. The physician had
admitted nothing except by implication. He had thrown out certain bold
hints, and then he had practically challenged Cole to make the most of
them.
Cole did not like to draw hasty conclusions, but, after he had sifted
down his impressions, there remained in his mind a picture of a
polished and very artful rogue who performed his machinations with an
adroit touch and a high degree of finesse. The picture was blurred
in spots, and he had to use his imagination to touch up the obscure
parts. It was significant, however, that the surgeon’s make-up should
have exerted such a startling effect on Malcolm Reeves the night
before. Beyond doubt Reeves had thought that he recognized the man who
was responsible for his pitiful state. This proved inferentially Doctor
Latham was the man who——
But Cole did not like to deal in inferences. They were treacherous
things, as he had observed on numerous occasions. He must have more
facts before he began building up theories on the flimsy foundation
which Doctor Latham’s oily innuendos had created in his mind. Meanwhile
it was interesting to note that the clew which he had brought with him
from the circular table appeared to be a substantial one. He had not
convinced himself of Doctor Latham’s guilt, but he had at least found
a promising lead. Reluctantly, for his experience of the night before
still rankled, he was forced to admit that there was a modicum of truth
in what the spokesman had told him.
He finished his cigarette and was about to turn away, but just then a
figure, rounding the opposite corner, claimed his attention. With a
little start he recognized Professor Carmody. Bending over a stout cane
the professor walked with a jerky gait and the plopping sound of shoes
several sizes too large. He wore a sun-bleached silk hat and, despite
the balmy autumn weather, a long overcoat covered his gaunt form.
Cole nodded in a knowing way as he saw the professor turn into Doctor
Latham’s house.
Thoughtfully he walked away. His suspicions and speculations were
assuming tangible form. Professor Carmody’s visit to Latham’s house
in broad daylight suggested several things. Viewed in connection with
certain other circumstances, it hinted strongly at a bond of interest
between the two men. In view of what Cole already knew it seemed not
so very far-fetched to suppose that they were associates in some
enterprise that was more or less closely related to Malcolm Reeves’
fate. That Carmody should openly call on the doctor seemed to indicate
that the conspirators felt that they had covered their tracks so
carefully that ordinary precautions could be thrown to the wind.
Cole cut through a corner of the park, and gradually his perplexities
dissipated themselves in the soft autumnal haze that hung over the
greenery. He knew how to loaf as well as to work, and he possessed the
happy knack of forgetting his problems in contemplation of rippling
waters, or an azure sky. It was thus he conserved his energies and kept
in touch with the softer aspects of life.
He rested for half an hour, and then he remembered he had a duty to
perform. It was not a pleasant task, but it must be done. Now that
he had learned something definite about Malcolm Reeves’ fate, it was
necessary that he should report progress to his clients. As he retraced
his steps across the park and turned north on Fifth Avenue he wondered
how much it would be advisable to tell. To go into details in regard
to his adventures of the previous night would be impossible, for Cole
himself did not know what they meant.
Ascending the steps of a square-cornered house of gloomy aspect he rang
the doorbell. There was a tomblike air about the residence of Hector
Englebreth that gave Cole a chill each time he visited the house. Out
of deference to the whims of the invalid who occupied it the window
shades were nearly always lowered. Doors turned without the faintest
sound on well-oiled hinges. Heavy carpets muffled the footfalls of
inmates and visitors. The heavily shaded lamps threw a subdued light on
massive and somberly upholstered furniture that seemed to belong to a
remote past.
A tight-lipped manservant ushered Cole into the library. Englebreth
was seated in a wheel chair before a desk of black walnut. Despite the
infirmity, which an acute case of inflammatory rheumatism had brought
him, his long and triangular face gave an impression of wiry strength.
His shoulders, as he sat hunched in the wheel chair, seemed uncommonly
broad. His face was bloodless; his short-cropped, upstanding hair was
almost white. Except when he spoke, the long, thin lips were tightly
compressed, making him look as though he were constantly exerting his
will power to hide the signs of his suffering.
“Any news, Mr. Cole?” he inquired in a low, toneless voice.
“I have made some progress,” replied Cole, also speaking in subdued
tones. In that dim, somber room it seemed natural to speak softly. “I
have reason to believe that your brother-in-law is still alive.”
Englebreth had been tapping the desk with a pencil. Suddenly the
tapping stopped. He gazed fixedly at the detective. “How much reason?”
he asked.
“I know it to be a fact,” said Cole, weighing his words, “that Mr.
Reeves was alive last night.”
“So,” mumbled the other in tones scarcely above a whisper. “Professor
Carmody hasn’t done away with him, then. I feared that he might——” He
broke off, then raised his voice a little. “How do you know this, Mr.
Cole? How can you be so positive that my brother-in-law was alive last
night? You don’t mean to say that you have seen him?”
The last sentence was spoken in tense and vibrant tones, so unlike
Englebreth’s usually colorless voice.
“Before I answer that question,” said Cole, “I want to ask you one.
What makes you so positive that Professor Carmody has had a hand in
your brother-in-law’s disappearance?”
“Have you learned something that has brought you to a contrary view?”
“Please answer my question.”
A scowl darkened Englebreth’s face. He resumed his slow tapping with
the pencil. “We know that my brother-in-law had frequent and secret
meetings with Carmody. We have established definitely that he had an
appointment with the professor on the night of his disappearance.
One of the servants in his house heard him make the appointment over
the telephone. You yourself learned, from the delicatessen keeper
across the street from Carmody’s place, that a man answering Malcolm’s
description entered the house on that particular night. Fairly
conclusive, I should say.”
Cole eyed him levelly. “You are holding something back, Mr. Englebreth.
You have not stated your principal reason for suspecting Carmody in
connection with Mr. Reeves’ disappearance.”
The tapping became a furious tattoo. “Why do you say that, sir?”
Cole fumbled for words, then laughed. “I’ll be hanged if I know! It’s
nothing but a hunch. From the first I had a feeling that you were not
telling me all, but I admit I had no sound reason for thinking so.”
Englebreth, seemingly mollified, smiled. “You detectives are suspicious
of everybody. I suppose that’s a part of your stock in trade. However,
I don’t mind admitting that, in this instance, you were partly right.
I have told you everything that can be of any help to you in your
search for Malcolm; yet there are certain trifling details that, for
private reasons and out of regard for the family, I have not confided
to you. You would not be interested in them, and they couldn’t be of
any possible use to you. It was because of these private and delicate
matters that I took the case to you instead of the police. Now will you
answer my question? Have you seen Malcolm?”
“I have, Mr. Englebreth. I saw him last night.”
“Where?” The invalid strained forward in his chair. “In Professor
Carmody’s house?”
“No; I have not yet seen the inside of the professor’s residence.”
“Then where did you see him?” The tapping had ceased again, and
Englebreth was waiting breathlessly for the answer.
“That’s the queer part of it.” Cole gave a little baffled laugh. “I
have seen your brother-in-law, but I can’t tell you where.”
“You can’t?”
“Because I don’t know.”
A threatening look crossed Englebreth’s face. “This is no occasion
for jests, Mr. Cole. Even if you have no feelings of your own in the
matter, you ought to respect the sentiments of other people. My wife is
deeply shocked over the uncertainty regarding her brother’s fate.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Englebreth. I laughed, but it was only out of sheer
bewilderment. I had an experience last night that was so unbelievable
that I shan’t try to describe it. I feel dazed whenever I look back
upon it. All I can tell you is that I saw Mr. Reeves alive.”
“And well?” questioned Englebreth sharply.
“He seemed to have been through a trying experience.”
“You are quibbling. I want the truth.”
“Perhaps I shall be able to give it to you some time within the next
twenty-four hours. For the present I fear you will have to be satisfied
with what I have told you. My impressions of what I saw and heard last
night are not very clear. You will understand the reason when I give
you a full report.”
“This is strange talk, Mr. Cole.”
“Not half so strange as some of the things that happened to me last
night.”
Englebreth sat erect in his chair, regarding the detective with a
piercing gaze. Evidently he was far from satisfied, and Cole could not
blame him. Silence fell between them; then a soft tinkling was heard.
Even the telephone seemed to utter its summons in whispers in that
house of subdued sounds.
The invalid wheeled his chair a little closer to the desk and put the
receiver to his ear. A conversation ensued, and gradually Englebreth’s
face underwent a transformation. Cole could not interpret the new look
that came into his countenance, but he watched it in wonder. In a few
minutes the invalid hung up, and the puzzling expression left his face
as suddenly as it had come. He was smiling when he turned to Cole.
“On the whole I find your report quite satisfactory,” he said in
conciliating tones. “I appreciate the difficulties you have to deal
with. Don’t mind me if I seem impatient. May I expect to hear from you
soon again?”
“To-morrow, I hope.” Cole was still marveling at the change he had
witnessed in his client. He wondered whether the telephone conversation
had brought it about. From Englebreth’s part in it he had been unable
to make out its nature, but he imagined that his client had received
news of a startling kind. After an exchange of a few casual remarks he
got up and moved toward the door.
“Just one thing more, Mr. Cole,” said Englebreth as he placed his hand
on the knob. “Please be careful.”
“What?” Cole turned and looked back at the invalid. The tone, rather
than the words, had given him an odd sensation. Englebreth’s white face
was wreathed in smiles, but Cole sensed a hidden barb somewhere.
“Just be careful,” said the invalid. “That’s all, Mr. Cole.”
Cole went out, but echoes of Englebreth’s voice pursued him through
the door and out on the street. The words had sounded as though they
contained a veiled threat of some kind. What could he have meant? He
turned the question over in his mind, time and again. Was it possible
that Englebreth, in some strange and devious way, had learned of the
attempt that had been made to persuade Cole to betray his client?
The theory seemed grossly improbable, but, as he walked along, he
could think of no other solution. The more he thought of it the more
likely it seemed that his client had, in some mysterious manner, got
an inkling of last night’s happenings. He remembered the agitation he
had shown at the telephone. And later, when he gave Cole that peculiar
warning, his voice had sounded as though he meant to convey a threat of
terrible punishment if the detective should go back on his duty.
Cole had not walked far when his step began to lag. He paused at a
corner and glanced at his watch. He pursed his lips, then he scowled a
little, and a look of weighty responsibility came into his face.
It was time to go home and feed Toots.
CHAPTER VIII
THE UNKNOWN SEVEN
All evening Cole had felt a presentiment that his telephone was to
ring. When it finally did ring, shortly after eleven o’clock, he knew,
even before he lifted the receiver from the hook, that he was about to
receive a message from the mysterious seven.
His “hello” was answered by the rich soprano voice of the woman who
called herself Miss Brown, but somehow it sounded different. The
frolicsome undertone, which he had noticed the previous evening, was
gone. In place of it there was a faint tremor that hinted of keen
anxiety.
“I am calling from a public booth near Madison Square,” she told
him. “At exactly twelve o’clock I shall be waiting in my car, on the
southeast corner of Broadway and Twenty-third Street.”
“I’ll be there,” said Cole firmly. During the late afternoon and
evening he had made up his mind that, if a summons should come from the
mysterious seven, he would obey it.
“But be careful,” she went on, and the last word had an oddly familiar
sound in Cole’s ears. “An attempt will be made to follow you.”
“I know,” said Cole lightly. “I’ve been watched ever since I went out
to dinner this evening. I believe somebody is looking up at my windows
this very moment. Have no fear. I’ll shake him off.”
Again requesting him to be careful, Miss Brown rang off. For a moment,
after the connection had been severed, he stood smiling into the
transmitter. Then he stepped to the window and looked out into Gramercy
Park. The sky was partly overcast, and a haze of moonlight and shadows
hovered over the trees. Almost directly below his window stood a gaunt
individual whose eyes were slanting up at him beneath the brim of a
dark felt hat.
Cole examined his pistol before he put it in his pocket, donned hat and
light overcoat, and went out. On the stoop he paused for a moment and
stuck a cigarette between his lips. Then he swung down the steps and
sauntered up to the watcher at the curb.
“Pardon,” he said urbanely. “Could I trouble you for a match?”
The watcher searched his vest pocket and handed him one. Cole caught
a full view of the fellow’s face as he kindled his cigarette. The man
was a stranger to him. Murmuring profuse thanks for the accommodation
Cole walked away. Twenty minutes later, after a devious journey by
foot, subway, and surface cars, he plunged into the traffic jam in the
theatrical district. For a little while he darted in and out among
surging streams of humanity. Then, certain that he had thrown the
pursuer off his tracks, he boarded a southbound car. A tower clock was
signaling the midnight hour just as he reached the appointed corner in
Madison Square.
“You are very prompt,” observed Miss Brown, as he stepped into the
limousine in which his adventure had begun, exactly twenty-four hours
ago. “You are sure you haven’t been followed?”
“Only a short distance.” Cole sat down beside her, having a weird
feeling that ages had passed since he last touched those cushions. “I
shook off the fellow quite easily.”
The car was gliding swiftly toward the south, but soon it began to turn
and twist in all directions. The windows were shaded, and Cole could
only guess which way they were going.
“You’re an audacious person,” murmured the girl. “After what happened
last night I wasn’t sure you would come with me a second time.”
Cole smiled. “Audacious isn’t quite the word.”
“No, I suppose not. You’re not the kind of man who indulges in foolish
bravado. Your decision to come with me to-night was the result of long
and careful thinking, after you left Doctor Latham’s office. Your
interview with the doctor convinced you that our acquaintance might
be worth cultivating, despite the rough treatment you were given last
night. Am I right?”
“In the main. You know, then, that I called on Doctor Latham?”
“Of course. You have been under constant surveillance since you left
our establishment early this morning.”
“How flattering! But you puzzle me, Miss Brown. I have been conscious
of being watched only since dinner time.”
She gave an amused laugh. “One is never conscious of our brand of
espionage. We have men on our staff who have reduced shadowing to a
fine art. They are not so easily shaken off as was the simpleton who
stood outside your windows this evening. By the way, Mr. Cole, aren’t
you harboring a little resentment against me for my part in last
night’s affair?”
“Perhaps,” said Cole dryly, “but curiosity is a stronger motive than
resentment.”
“You are not at all gallant. Lots of other men would have replied to
that question with a flowery compliment.”
“They would have been fools. You would have secretly despised them for
it.”
A little pause. “Thank you,” she whispered, but the words sounded so
faint that Cole was not sure he was expected to hear them.
The car had ceased its zigzagging course and was traveling in a
straight line. Presently Miss Brown produced the scarf with which she
had covered his eyes the previous night.
“I hope this is the last time I shall have to blindfold you,” she
murmured, as she folded the cloth into a bandage and covered the upper
portion of his face. “Perhaps the next time——”
She did not finish the sentence. Just then the car stopped, and she
guided him across the sidewalk and up the stone steps. In a few moments
they were darting upward in the elevator. Again the wall opened at Miss
Brown’s touch on a hidden spring. As it closed behind them Cole had
a hazy feeling of being shut off from the world. They walked a short
distance down the corridor. Then a door opened, and once more he found
himself in the room with the circular table. The girl vanished, and a
voice bade him step forward.
He walked up to the table. The masked men seated around it looked gray
and ghostly in the dusk. He scanned the veiled faces closely as his
eyes responded to the dim light. The black beard was not there; yet he
counted seven faces. Evidently the surgeon was not wearing his disguise
to-night.
“Very glad to see you, Mr. Cole,” said a voice which he recognized.
“The fact that you have returned is additional proof that we were not
mistaken in you. Sit down.”
Cole seated himself at the spokesman’s side. His ears were keyed to
catch any suspicious sound, while his eyes cautiously explored the dusk
about him. His right hand hung loosely over the side of the chair, but
it was ready to reach for his pistol at the slightest sign of danger.
He was far from certain in regard to the intentions of the seven men,
and he was determined not to be caught off his guard.
“Perhaps it will give you some satisfaction to know,” the spokesman
went on, “that you sent one of our men to the hospital last night.”
Cole smiled faintly as he recalled the fight in the dark. His knuckles
still showed bruises from the blows he had showered on his opponent
before he was overwhelmed by superior numbers.
“He is a big, husky chap, and he knows how to put a lot of steam into
his punch,” the spokesman continued. “You pounded his face to a jelly.
I don’t think Sam will ever get over the humiliation. His mortification
ought to soften the bitterness you naturally feel toward us. By the
way, you called on Doctor Latham, as I suggested. Did the interview
prove satisfactory?”
“It wasn’t conclusive,” said Cole guardedly.
“We didn’t expect that. The doctor is too wily to permit himself to
be caught so easily. But didn’t your talk with him leave a strong
presumption of guilt in your mind?”
“It convinced me that Doctor Latham knows something of what happened to
Mr. Reeves.”
“And to that extent it modified your skepticism in regard to us?”
“I am here,” said Cole with a shrug. “Isn’t that answer enough?”
“It is. You wouldn’t have come back to-night unless something had
happened to counteract the bad impression which you derived from your
first visit. No doubt the balance is still against us, but you are
willing to listen to what we have to say. Will you pay close attention
while I state a hypothetical case?”
“My ears are wide open.”
“Very well, then. First let me state a general principle. It must have
occurred to you, Mr. Cole, that there is something radically wrong with
the enforcement of our laws and the administration of justice. The
jails are doing a thriving business, and many criminals are convicted
every day in the year. With rare exceptions, however, they are the
smaller fry. Too often the big rascals go unpunished, while the little
fellows get it in the neck. The agencies of law and order are often
powerless when dealing with criminals who perpetrate their malefactions
on a large scale. Are you with me so far?”
“Go on,” said Cole.
“The cause of this deplorable situation is obvious. The big rascal
evades the law and goes scot-free, while the little fellow breaks the
law and lands in jail. Or else the big rascal violates the law in such
a clever manner that conviction is impossible. He has the best legal
talent on his side. Brilliant and unscrupulous lawyers lie awake nights
scheming how a powerful client might commit crimes with impunity. Often
the big rogue has unlimited resources at his command. If he is in
danger of getting caught a substantial bribe frequently lets him out,
or he uses political or social influence to get clear of the danger.
True, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately it is,” said Cole, “but I don’t see what all this——”
“Just a moment. I am getting to the point as fast as I can. You
must have noticed that the police and other agencies are seriously
handicapped in trying to cope with crime on a large scale. They are
hampered by a number of things, inefficiency, corruption, political
patronage, sometimes indifference on the part of the public. There are
many honest and capable men among them, but their number is too small.
Besides, the machinery of justice is too ponderous and cumbersome. In
its competition with crime it has the same handicap as a truck trying
to compete with a roadster. But that isn’t the worst of it.”
“You’re painting a gloomy picture,” Cole observed.
“But you know as well as I do that it is true to life. The most serious
phase of the situation is the fact that the law, in effect if not
in theory, is punitive rather than preventive. Our administrators
of justice are too often content with locking the stable after the
horse is gone. It may be a satisfaction to you, when your pocketbook
is stolen and the money squandered, to see the thief go to jail, but
it isn’t doing you any material good. It may be gratifying to you to
know that that particular thief won’t steal any more pocketbooks for a
while, but that isn’t going to compensate you for your loss. The time
to stop the crook is before the damage is done, and that’s exactly
where our police system falls down on the job.”
“True enough,” Cole admitted. “But what are you going to do about it?”
He fancied the spokesman was smiling, but he could not be sure. The
others at the table had not spoken a word.
“There is the Carmody case, for instance,” the other went on, without
answering Cole’s question directly. “It shouldn’t be called that, for
the professor is only a puppet, a dwarf in comparison with the men who
are pulling the strings. You have barely scratched the surface of the
case, so, no doubt, you are amazed at what I say. The so-called Carmody
case is in reality one of the biggest swindles ever projected. It is
being engineered by a group of brilliant and very powerful men who have
enormous resources in brains and cash at the tips of their fingers.
They are working in the dark, with the utmost secrecy and astounding
cleverness. If the authorities at Washington knew what was going on,
there would be a panic all along Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Why doesn’t some one tell them?”
The spokesman chuckled deprecatingly. “If I should go to them with the
story to-morrow they would demand proof, and I haven’t any. That is,
nothing that is tangible. I am positive of my facts, but proving them
is another matter. In a case like this the proof can’t be produced
until the damage is already done. Having no evidence, I should probably
be met with indifference or skepticism. Even if an investigation were
made, it would be purely perfunctory. The investigators would kick up
just enough dust to blind themselves and tip the conspirators off to
their danger.”
“But, if things are as bad as you say, something should be done.”
“Something is being done, Mr. Cole, and that brings me to the
hypothetical case I was about to state. Imagine a group of wealthy
and public-spirited citizens, men of brains, aggressiveness, and
imagination, who have banded themselves together for the purpose of
correcting the condition I have just described. Let us say they have
built up a small, compact and marvelously efficient organization, in
comparison with which the government’s ponderous machinery is like
the truck trying to out-distance the roadster. This organization,
unhampered by graft, political patronage, and red tape, and having
unlimited resources at its command, becomes the secret ally of the
police, the department of justice, and similar agencies. Its existence
is practically unknown to all but its own members. Like the criminal
whom it is endeavoring to combat, it works in the dark and silently.
This in itself gives it a tremendous advantage. You are beginning to
understand?”
Cole nodded.
“This organization has a corps of brilliant operatives, each one tested
and tried and found one hundred per cent honest and efficient. At its
head is an executive of exceptional ability. All the resources of the
organization are placed at his disposal. He is paid a salary so large
that it should render him immune to all sorts of corruption and amply
compensate him for the fact that his achievements never become known to
the outside world.”
“For a time all goes well. Now and then the police, or the authorities
at Washington, receive a package from an anonymous source. They open
it and dazedly peruse the contents. It is evidence gathered by some of
the shrewdest detectives in the country and put into shape by the best
lawyers obtainable. It is so thoroughly prepared that it will stand
every legal test. All the authorities have to do is to hale the culprit
into court and read the evidence to the jury. In all cases but one the
verdict has been guilty.”
“The exception,” the spokesman went on in gritty tones, “was due to
the dereliction of the executive at the head of the corps. Contrary to
expectations and despite all the incentives which he had for remaining
loyal to the organization, the man was corrupted by the other side. No
doubt he sold his honor for a fortune. At all events he disappeared,
and the case collapsed. It was necessary to find some one to take
his place. This time the men at the head of the organization were
determined to make no mistake. The next executive must be not only
efficient and fearless, but incorruptible as well. For once the leaders
decided to let the ends justify the means and go the limit in testing
their candidate. Well, they did go the limit. They tried him in acid,
and he assayed twenty-four carats.”
Murmurs of approval went around the circle. Every face was leveled
intently in Cole’s direction. For several minutes he had anticipated
the trend of the spokesman’s remarks, yet he started a little at the
last sentence.
“Now you understand,” the other continued. “For some time we have been
satisfied in regard to your ability. Our secret investigation left
us in no doubt on that point. Last night we learned that you could
resist three of the most powerful forms of temptation imaginable—fear,
greed, and a charming woman’s tears. And not only that, but you also
proved your superiority in a physical encounter, in addition to showing
presence of mind and quickness of wit in a most terrifying situation.
You scored one hundred per cent on every point. I am only sorry the
test had to be so severe.”
Cole sat silent for a time; then he shook the spokesman’s outreached
hand. “It’s worth a lot to me to know that I am a twenty-four-carat
man,” he declared.
“Then you accept?”
Cole pondered while his glance swept the masked faces.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We call ourselves The Unknown Seven. The name fits because nobody, not
even our best friends, know us in our capacity of secret allies of the
authorities. It’s possible you have seen some of us before.”
He raised his arm, and each man at the table made a sudden motion
with his hand. In an instant the seven masks had been removed. Then a
glaring light shattered the dusk, and Cole looked in astonishment at
the unveiled faces. Several of them were familiar to him from pictures
that had appeared in the newspapers, in connection with weighty
national or municipal affairs. He blinked his eyes in bewilderment and
was about to say something when the door suddenly opened.
Miss Brown entered in great haste. She was pale and breathless, and
Cole could see that something of a startling nature had happened. The
seven men rose and bowed as she came up to the table.
“What is it?” asked the spokesman.
For a moment the girl’s eyes rested on Cole’s face. There was a
mingling of questioning, suspicion, and reproach in them that
bewildered him. Then she turned to the spokesman. “The red light is
flashing on the indicator!” she breathlessly declared. “Some one is
coming up the elevator!”
For a moment each man in the room stood rigidly still. Then came a
shuffling of feet and scraping of chairs. Now and then an ominous
mutter was heard. Then, with one accord, all glances turned
threateningly in the direction where Cole stood.
CHAPTER IX
THE RED LIGHT
For a time no one in the room moved. Cole was both amused and puzzled
by the hostile glances leveled in his direction. The attitude of The
Unknown Seven had changed from friendliness to suspicion, with an
abruptness that was almost ludicrous. Miss Brown’s reference to a red
light seemed to have turned them against him in a twinkling.
He could not understand. He looked at the spokesman as if expecting an
explanation. Now, with the lights on and the mask removed, Cole thought
there was something familiar about his face. It was hewn on rather
rough lines, suggestive of a man of great strength and determination.
The iron-gray hair curled a little. The mouth was firm and gave a trace
of harshness to the face. The eyes, arched by upslanting brows, were
clear and cold.
Just now those eyes were gazing fixedly at Cole. There was the faintest
suspicion of a threat in them, he thought. He pondered for a moment,
arranged a few scattered recollections, and then the man’s name came to
him. He was Grover Carlin, a criminal lawyer of high standing and great
ability. Cole had once heard him make a masterly address to a jury.
Only a few moments had passed since Miss Brown had made her breathless
announcement. Now one of the seven men sprang toward the door, and the
others followed. Cole and Carlin, walking side by side, brought up the
rear. The foremost of the procession opened a door across the hall, and
the others tumbled in after him. It was a large room, filled with desks
and filing cases, but the first thing that caught Cole’s eye was a
globe of glass in which a red light was flashing at intervals of a few
seconds.
“What does it mean?” he asked Carlin.
The lawyer gave him a sharp glance. “It means that a stranger is coming
up the elevator,” he announced shortly.
“Why a stranger? Couldn’t it be one of your own men?”
“No. When our own men enter the private elevator they always throw a
lever which prevents the light from flashing. The red light is a danger
signal. The elevator is an automatic one, and it is impossible for a
stranger to operate it unless he is acquainted with the mechanism. Our
visitor must have got the hang of it, somehow. Mr. Cole, you are the
only outsider who has been inside this establishment in weeks.”
“Am I to infer that I am under suspicion?”
“Well, it looks rather queer.”
Smiling, Cole watched the flickering red in the glass globe. “But you
admitted yourself that I am a twenty-four-carat man.”
The other nodded. “Yes, I know, but——”
“Perhaps you suspect I arranged to have myself followed here this
evening?”
“Such a thing is conceivable.”
“But the rest isn’t very practicable. I never saw the elevator, much
less learned how to operate it. I was blindfolded both times I came up
in it.”
“True, but you are a very clever man, Mr. Cole. Your performance of
last night proved that. And the fact remains that you are the only
stranger who has been inside this establishment in a long time.”
The red flashes had ceased. Cole looked about him. Several of the men
were glowering at him, while Miss Brown regarded him with a look of
doubt and vague disappointment.
“What about the former executive you mentioned, the man who betrayed
you?” he asked. “Isn’t it possible that he is up to deviltry of some
kind?”
Carlin shook his head. “The mechanism has been changed since he left
us. Besides, he would know enough to turn the lever to prevent the
light from flashing. It will be interesting to see whether our visitor
knows how to operate the sliding panel in the wall. If he does, you
will presently see a green light in the indicator.”
It was evident that the lawyer was trying to be fair and withhold
judgment, but Cole could see he was an object of grave doubt. The
others in the room were intently watching the indicator, but now and
then they glanced darkly at Cole. Several of them seemed loath to
suspect him, and among them was Miss Brown; but apparently they could
think of no other explanation for the mysterious intrusion than that he
had played false with them.
Like the others he fell to watching the glass globe. The ceasing of
the red flashes seemed to indicate that the intruder had reached the
top floor. Perhaps at this very moment he was searching for the hidden
spring that controlled the panel in the wall. Cole felt a tingling
suspense as he waited to see whether a green light would appear in the
indicator.
“What can the fellow hope to gain by coming here?” he asked Carlin.
The lawyer gave him a searching glance, as if not quite sure that the
question had been asked sincerely. “A lot,” he said dryly. “There
are papers in our files, evidence in the form of memoranda and legal
documents, that certain parties would be willing to pay a great price
for.”
“But doesn’t he realize that you won’t give them up without a fight?”
“Usually only the watchmen are here as late as this.” The lawyer gave
Cole another dubious glance out of his cold eyes. “To-night and last
night we have been holding special sessions on your account. Probably
our unbidden visitor doesn’t know that. If he is hoping that he will
have only a couple of watchmen to deal with, there will be a surprise
waiting for him as soon as he gets through the wall, if he does get
through.”
Evidently the intruder was having difficulties. For several minutes the
indicator had been blank, but the glances of those in the room were
drawn to it as to a magnet.
Cole’s eyes traveled over the oddly assorted company. A few feet in
front of him stood a retired financier, a multimillionaire, who had
once been a power in Wall Street, and whose money was being used
unsparingly to fight corruption and vice. A little to one side was a
philanthropist whose annual benefactions mounted into eight figures.
Three or four of them were strangers to him, and among these was the
surgeon, whose tall figure Cole easily recognized despite the fact that
he had worn a disguise on the other occasions.
His mind was active while he studied the faces about him. Would the
green light flash on the indicator? Who was the intruder, and was
Carlin right in the surmise that the documents in the filing cases
were the object of the mysterious visit? For a thief to sneak into an
establishment of this kind looked like a piece of foolhardy daring
to Cole. There were nine of them in the room, including Miss Brown
and himself, and no doubt agents and operatives of The Unknown Seven
were within calling distance. There was a lively tussle ahead of the
prowler, if he should succeed in getting through the wall.
Ten minutes had passed since the red flashes stopped. Cole was
beginning to think that the intruder had met insuperable obstacles.
Perhaps he had in some manner learned how to operate the elevator, but
had failed to familiarize himself with the mechanism that controlled
the sliding panel in the wall. All the while, as these speculations ran
through Cole’s mind, he felt that Carlin was watching him out of the
tail of an eye.
“Aren’t you a bit hasty in turning to me with your suspicions?” he
asked good-naturedly. “I may be a twenty-four-carat man, but I am not a
worker of miracles, and I’d have to be one in order to ferret out your
secrets on such short acquaintance. What about your hired agents?”
“I trust them as I trust myself. They have been tested and found true.”
Cole smiled engagingly. “Your experience with the renegade executive,
whom you told me about, should have warned you that tests aren’t always
conclusive. Human nature is about as uncertain as April weather.”
Carlin gave an assenting nod, but the argument did not seem to
influence him greatly.
“How will you dispose of the rascal if he gets through?” was Cole’s
next question.
“That’s a problem. Our success so far has been due largely to the
secrecy with which we have surrounded ourselves. We have nothing to
fear, and no great harm would be done if we should be found out, but we
prefer to continue to work in the dark. So far our absconding executive
seems to have kept his mouth closed, for nothing has leaked out about
us. No doubt he is so busy spending his thirty pieces of silver that
he has no time for gabbling. Besides, the scoundrel has a wholesome
respect for us. He knows that The Unknown Seven has a long arm and a
sturdy fist. If this fellow,” with another glance at the indicator,
“should get through the wall, we shall have to take measures to protect
our privacy. If we find that he has the right stuff in him we may even
invite him to join us.”
Another five minutes passed. Some in the group showed signs of
restiveness. One of them suggested going out and collaring the
prowler, but Carlin vetoed the idea, declaring it would be better to
give the fellow a chance to show his hand.
The group resumed its silent waiting. A question occurred to Cole, one
that he had been on the point of asking when Miss Brown’s entrance
interrupted the conversation in the other room.
“How is Mr. Reeves?” he inquired.
Carlin waited for several moments before he answered. “There has been
no change in his condition in the past twenty-four hours,” he finally
announced.
“He is still here?”
The lawyer nodded. He did not seem very communicative on that subject.
“You know, of course,” Cole went on, “that it isn’t in strict
accordance with the law for you to keep him here?”
A thin smile twisted Carlin’s lips, but his only response was a shrug.
“My duty to my clients gives me an interest in the matter,” Cole
pointed out. “You are keeping Mr. Reeves a prisoner.”
“By no means. Mr. Reeves is our guest, and so far he has not voiced
any objections.” He gave a grim chuckle. “Furthermore he is infinitely
better off here than where we found him. He would probably have been
dead by this time if we hadn’t taken him away.”
“From where?”
The lawyer’s wintry gaze rested for an instant on his face. “From the
residence of Professor Carmody, as you probably either know or can
readily guess.”
“You kidnaped him?”
“Call it that if you like. We saved Mr. Reeves from certain death.
Professor Carmody is the only one who has cause for feeling aggrieved
at what we have done.”
Cole nodded thoughtfully. He had kept Carmody under observation for
some time, and of late he had noticed a change in him. He understood
now why the professor had seemed excited and ill at ease the last few
days. His comings and goings had been more frequent and there had been
several signs of something unusual on foot about the house on Bleecker
Street.
“So that you may feel quite reassured in the matter,” Carlin went on,
“let me tell you that Mr. Reeves is under excellent care. A specialist
is studying his condition, and there’s a chance, though a very remote
one, that he may recover his mental faculties, wholly or in part. If he
does, I fancy he will have a very entertaining story to tell.”
He looked sharply at Cole just then, as if trying to measure the effect
of his words, but Cole’s face showed nothing but deep thought. He had
obtained a glimpse into the working methods of The Unknown Seven, and
he had found fresh proof of the efficiency and the resources of the
organization. A splitter of hairs might not have found its methods
strictly legal, but there was such a thing as the end justifying
the means. Quite likely Carlin was right in saying that Reeves had
been rescued from certain death at the hands of Professor Carmody.
Probably, too, a great deal more could be accomplished by this informal
course of procedure than by strict adherence to the letter of the law.
Cole was so deeply impressed that for the moment he forgot that he was
under suspicion.
“If Reeves ever tells his story, I’d like to be there,” he declared.
“You may have an opportunity to do so,” dryly remarked the lawyer.
“Until we have satisfied ourselves on one or two little points we shall
have to ask you to remain here as our guest. In the meantime——”
A medley of mutters and hushed exclamations interrupted him.
Instinctively Cole glanced at the indicator. A tongue of green flame
was shooting up and down in the glass globe. Fascinated, he watched the
darting flashes.
“Get back!” ordered Carlin, waving a hand at the men who stood huddled
into a knot before the indicator. In his other hand gleamed the barrel
of a pistol. Cole admired the ease and coolness with which he was
taking charge of the situation. Following the direction of his pointing
finger, the men crowded into a corner of the room. Miss Brown followed
them, and, as she crossed the floor, she gave Cole a glance that
stabbed within him.
Carlin touched a button; the room went dark. Keeping Cole close at his
side he took up a position a few feet in front of the others. “I must
warn you not to move,” he whispered in Cole’s ear.
“Have no fear,” Cole whispered back. “I’m as anxious to see this
through as you can possibly be.”
The lawyer’s strategy was simple. If the intruder’s aim was to get
hold of some of the documents in the filing cases he would probably
come straight to this room. The fact that he had mastered the mechanism
of the elevator and the hidden door seemed to indicate that he was
fairly well familiar with the lay of the establishment. Evidently the
lawyer’s plan was to catch him red-handed and take him by surprise.
Cole was conscious of a growing disquietude as he stood beside the
lawyer, looking in the direction of the door through which the intruder
must pass. He had a hazy feeling that Carlin’s plan was too simple, but
he could not tell exactly what was wrong with it. Not a sound was heard
in the room. The door had been left open a crack, and a narrow wedge of
light filtered in, but most of the room was an impenetrable blur.
A minute passed. In vain Cole strained his ears to catch the sound of
approaching footsteps. His uneasiness grew, but he could not understand
why. As if his misgivings had been communicated to the lawyer, the
latter mumbled something under his breath. The moments flew, and still
no sound was heard in the corridor. Either the intruder’s footfalls
were thoroughly muffled, or else——
Cole did not finish the thought. A vagrant suspicion held his senses
spellbound. For a moment longer he listened for footfalls that did not
come, and then his vague apprehensions crystallized in a flash. He
gripped the lawyer’s arm so violently that Carlin gasped.
“You were wrong!” he whispered hoarsely. “The fellow isn’t after any
papers. He came here to get Reeves.”
Cole, with his hand tightly gripping Carlin’s arm, felt a sudden shock
shooting through the man at his side. In a twinkling the lawyer seemed
to have grasped his meaning. Now, muttering something, he sprang
forward. In an instant the lights were on again, and Carlin was running
toward the door. Cole followed, but in a moment the two men came to a
dead stop.
A short, piercing cry sounded. It died abruptly, leaving a curious
emptiness in the air. The two men stared at each other, and Cole saw a
gray film creep over the lawyer’s face.
“Too late!” he exclaimed.
CHAPTER X
PURSUIT
The scream had ended with a certain grim abruptness that to the
listeners could mean only one thing. It had seemed to stop in the
middle; yet it had been punctuated with an ominous finality. It was as
if death itself had stepped in and placed an exclamation point after an
unfinished cry.
Then came utter silence. It seemed as though every sound and every
breath of life had been sucked out of the air. Carlin, his lips drawn
apart at one side, looked fixedly at the door. His head, shoulders and
chest were straining forward; he appeared to be maintaining his balance
by sheer mental tension. A few moments passed, and then Cole shook
himself free of the insidious horror that attacks even the strongest.
Less than thirty seconds had elapsed since the cry sounded.
“Where is he?” he asked, shaking the lawyer’s arm.
“He?” Carlin seemed to be trying to shake off a spell. “Oh, Reeves, you
mean. Back there.” He pointed indefinitely toward the corridor.
“Brace up, man!” Cole shouted. “Go to him. Maybe something can be done.
Hurry!”
He bounded to the door and out in the hall. His words had voiced a hope
that he did not feel. The cry had told him only too eloquently that
Reeves was beyond help. But there might still be time to catch the
murderer, if he made haste. Heedless of Carlin’s belated shout to him
to stop, he hurried down the long and dimly-lighted corridor. Confused
cries and scurrying footfalls sounded behind him, signifying that the
others had come out of their temporary stupor.
Cole shut his ears to the bedlam. All he saw and heard was a shadow
darting toward the end of the hall and a patter of swift feet. At the
farther end of the corridor, at the point where Miss Brown and himself
had entered the headquarters of The Unknown Seven, was an opening. He
came up to it just in time to see the fleeing shadow slip through.
“Stop, or I’ll wing you!” he cried, jerking his pistol out of his hip
pocket, but the fugitive paid no heed. Crouching low, he ran with
zigzagging motions across the open space toward the elevator shaft.
Cole aimed low and pulled the trigger. The bullet thudded against the
flagged flooring, and through the smoke he saw the fugitive spring into
the cage. Already the door was clanking shut. He plunged forward and
kicked his foot into the opening, just in time to stop the sliding door
from closing. He caught a glimpse of a stiff felt hat, a sallow face
with a mocking grin, a lean and slightly hunchbacked figure, and then
the cage shot downward.
Cole, standing with his right foot caught between the door and the
steel jamb, muttered a malediction, but it was aimed mostly at himself.
The little hunchback had eluded him with an agility that aroused his
admiration, even while it made him grit his teeth. He flung the
door wide open. Only a few moments had passed since the cage started
downward, and it had not got far. There was something tantalizing about
the swiftness with which it increased the distance between himself and
the fleeing man.
For a moment Cole gauged his chances. He gazed at two sets of cables
that glided up and down inside the shaft. His next move would have
seemed foolhardy to an onlooker, but Cole had carefully measured the
risk. It was one of those tense moments in which the mind leaps quickly
to decisions. The time it took him to determine what to do was only a
matter of seconds.
He flexed his muscles and then he leaped. For an instant his form
hurtled through space, then his hands closed tightly around the
downward gliding cable. He wound his legs about it and clamped it
between his feet. The swift descent made him feel as if he were sucking
ice-cold air into his lungs. The cage, some twenty-five or thirty feet
below, was dropping like a rock, but now Cole was following at an equal
rate of progress.
Ten floors slipped past, then fifteen, finally twenty. Cole’s hands
were raw and bleeding. Hot and cold flashes were chasing up and down
his back. His lungs were straining, and a treacherous numbness was
creeping into his limbs. He looked down at the roof of the cage and
smiled. No doubt the fleeing man felt that his escape was already as
good as accomplished.
The cage stopped so suddenly that the vibration of the cable almost
made Cole lose his hold. He slipped a little farther down, then
checked his descent opposite the level of the second floor. The shaft
was narrow, and he could easily reach the door with one hand, while he
clung to the cable with the other. Installed for private and secret
use the elevator equipment lacked several safety devices that would
have acted as a hindrance to Cole. As it was the door slid open easily.
Seizing the jamb with one hand he swung free of the cable and landed on
the floor.
He felt a trifle dizzy, but the thrill of pursuit acted as a stimulant.
Just around the shaft was a stairway, and he hurried down. Only a few
moments ago a metallic clanking had signified that the fugitive was
getting out of the cage. As Cole reached the lower steps he saw a long
open space in front of him, and at its farther end he caught a glimpse
of the hunchback, slipping out through the door. His ears caught
the sound of throbbing motors, warning him that a car was waiting
outside to speed the fugitive to safety. Conscious of nothing but the
exhilaration of the hunter he bounded to the door and emerged on the
sidewalk, just as a tail light gave him a mocking wink and disappeared
around the corner.
There was a fine mist in the air. On all sides the tops of the tall
office buildings reared their heads in a translucent haze. The streets,
which in the daytime swarmed with humanity, were now deserted. Cole
guessed that it must be about two o’clock, but he did not take time to
look at his watch. The taunt of the tail light egged him on. He threw
his head back and his chest out and broke into a sprint. Rounding the
corner at full speed he once more caught a glimpse of the jeering tail
light. But it was only a glimpse, for a moment later it was out of
sight.
Cole tried to run faster, but he realized that, unless something
unforeseen happened, he was running a losing race. The car had the
advantage in speed and endurance. With scarcely a stop, save for the
possible interference of a traffic officer, it might travel all the way
from one end of Manhattan to the other. He kept up the pursuit only
because he hated to cry quits. Besides, as long as he could continue
the chase, there was always the possibility that chance might come to
his aid.
Once more he caught sight of the tail light, this time quite a distance
ahead. Letting out the final ounce of energy he succeeded in quickening
his speed a little. He ran and ran, but his breathing became alarmingly
heavy. It would not be long before his wind gave out, but at least he
would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had done his best. His
gait was growing wabbly when the unexpected occurrence for which he had
been hoping came along.
Not even a village street is quite so dead as is the financial section
of New York in the small hours. Skyscrapers, towering in a jungle of
silence and dim lights, give a majestic touch to a stillness that is
seldom broken, save by the footfalls of policemen and private watchmen.
To Cole, therefore, it seemed nothing but a stroke of luck that a
taxicab should come along at that moment. He hailed the driver.
“See that car?” He pointed at the tail light twinkling in the distance.
“Can you overtake it?”
“I’ll try,” said the chauffeur, peering at him from beneath the visor
of his cap. “This is a pretty good old boat, though she ain’t much on
looks. Good for a fine if I get pinched?”
“Sure,” said Cole easily, though not altogether unmindful of the
slender roll in his pocket. He stepped in, and the cab jumped forward.
It rattled and lurched and creaked in the joints, as if in imminent
danger of falling to pieces, but he noticed with satisfaction that it
had a surprising capacity for speed. It swerved and slithered at a
giddy rate, at times almost jogging him out of his seat.
Pursued and pursuer wound their way out of the maze of chopped-up and
tangled streets to the south of Washington Square. The car ahead swung
into Fifth Avenue, at a slightly reduced speed, and the taxicab slowed
down accordingly. From now on it was not only easier to keep up with
the larger car, but there was also less danger of the fugitive becoming
aware of pursuit, for, even at that hour, there was a sprinkling of
traffic on the avenue.
It suddenly dawned on Cole that he was in a unique position. The
capture of the hunchback now seemed certain, but what was he to do with
the man after he had caught him? If he turned him over to the police,
which seemed the proper and regular thing to do, he would be compelled
to tell things which, in a sense, he was pledged not to reveal. Despite
all that had happened and notwithstanding the harsh treatment inflicted
on him, he had come away with a rather high opinion of The Unknown
Seven. They had trusted him, at least for a time, until the coming of
the hunchback turned their suspicions against him, and Cole was not
inclined to violate a trust.
Now, that he came to think of it, there was really very little he could
tell, even if he were disposed to divulge what he knew. In a strict
sense he did not know that the hunchback had murdered Reeves. For
that matter he did not know that Reeves was dead. Though personally
convinced on both points he could not tell a convincing story to the
police, for he had neither witnessed the commission of the crime nor
seen Reeves’ dead body.
Still another thought came to him as he bobbed up and down and from
side to side in the cab. He gave a short, dazed laugh. Even if he had
witnessed the deed and seen the body he would have been unable to
direct the police to the scene of the crime. His dizzying descent in
the elevator shaft had left him a trifle giddy. He had rushed away in
great haste, his whole mind fixed on the one idea that the hunchback
must not be permitted to get away. In his hurry he had given no thought
to the location of the building. He had strained every nerve and muscle
in his efforts to keep the car in sight, and there had been no time to
notice street signs. Like many a New Yorker, he had seldom had occasion
to visit the financial section, and many of the streets in that
district were nothing but names to him.
Though there was ample extenuation, Cole chided himself for a
blunderer. He had missed his chance to learn where the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven was situated. The general boundaries of the
neighborhood were a shade more clearly defined in his mind, but he
knew scarcely more than he had known before. The rendezvous of the
organization could be in any one of half a hundred buildings. Even
if he should stumble upon the right one he doubted whether he would
recognize it.
In the midst of his musings the cab stopped with a suddenness that
jerked him out of his seat. He glanced out and saw that the hunchback’s
car had halted two blocks ahead. They were somewhere in the Sixties,
and to the west were the black masses of the park. The hunchback was
getting out and turning down the side street, but car and driver were
proceeding north.
A suspicion was dawning in Cole’s mind as he stepped out of the
taxicab. It was rather odd that the chase should have ended at this
particular point. He paid the chauffeur, adding a generous tip to the
fare. He hurried to the corner where the car had stopped and swung into
the side street, just in time to see the hunchback disappear in the
shadow of a house. Cole hastened after him, stopping before a dark and
somber house with a brownstone front.
His hazy suspicion was confirmed. It was odd how the scattered pieces
of the mystery were beginning to dovetail. His pursuit of the hunchback
had led him to the house of Doctor Dickson Latham.
CHAPTER XI
BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR
The moon was shining through a silver-gray mist, giving the row of
buildings a shadowy appearance. A fresh fragrance drifted out from the
park, on the scarcely perceptible breeze. A milk cart rattled down the
block; otherwise the street was deserted.
Cole peered sharply into the dark basement entrance. He suspected the
hunchback had entered the doctor’s house that way. Down the steps he
went and tried the knob, but the door was locked. The two windows on
each side were protected by iron bars. He hesitated for a moment, and
then he mounted the steps to the main entrance and rang the bell. There
seemed to be nothing else he could do, and the shifty-tongued doctor
interested him strangely. Latham’s evasions would be entertaining, if
nothing else.
He waited patiently, for he had many things to consider. Just what
trend the forthcoming interview was to take he did not know. That
the hunchback should have taken refuge in the physician’s house was
significant, especially since there were good reasons for supposing
that Latham was responsible for the wrecking of Reeves’ mind. That he
had also instigated the murder of the maniac seemed only a reasonable
sequence of the first supposition. In this connection Professor
Carmody’s visit to the doctor’s house yesterday was a highly
interesting circumstance. Perhaps the two rogues had planned the murder
then.
Cole rang again. At the same time he brushed all hasty inferences and
surmises from his mind. He came back to the point that, as far as hard
facts were concerned, he knew next to nothing. He did not even have a
good reason for placing the hunchback under arrest. If he turned the
fellow over to the police he would probably be only laughed at for his
trouble. The hunchback would brazen out of it, and Cole would not have
a leg to stand on. As for Doctor Latham——
He rang again more emphatically this time. Then he listened to the
queer noises which the reverberations stirred up within the dark house.
As for Doctor Latham, Cole could hope to do no more than draw the
doctor out by deftly aimed questions. It was scarcely to be expected
that such a slippery individual as Dickson Latham would betray himself,
yet something might come of the interview. The doctor might get
careless, or Cole might succeed in confusing him.
Once more he reached for the button, but just then a step sounded in
the hall. The door came open. It was the doctor himself who admitted
his early caller. It was dark where they stood, and Cole could see
little else than a black beard and a long dressing gown, but he fancied
there were signs of repressed irritation about the doctor, as he
recognized his visitor.
“Ah, it’s you, Mr. Stone. Please step in.”
The voice was affable enough. Cole followed him through the hall, the
reception room, and into the physician’s office. When they faced each
other across the desk, Latham seemed to have recovered his usual ease
of manners. “Nerves again, Mr. Stone?” he asked pleasantly.
“No; only a slight headache,” said Cole.
“And you wish me to prescribe something?”
“Yes, but it isn’t drugs I want. I came here hoping you would
cure my headache by removing the cause. I have an acute case of
flabbergastation.”
Doctor Latham’s bearded lips parted in a thin flash of very white
teeth. Cole thought there was something Machiavellian about the smile.
The physician reached out an arm and passed a box of cigars across the
desk. A startled gleam flashed into Cole’s eyes. The movement of the
doctor’s arm had wrinkled the sleeve of the dressing gown and exposed
a narrow rim of the cuff of his pajama jacket. The cuff was pale blue,
and just above the rim was a stain.
“I can recommend these perfectos,” said Latham genially.
Cole, easily hiding his surprise, accepted one. The doctor struck a
match, and the stain became visible once more, as he helped Cole to a
light. It was a fresh blot of a dark tinge, probably not more than an
hour old.
“What is it that flabbergasts you, Mr. Stone?” inquired the physician,
after each man had pulled appreciatively at his cigar. The question was
accompanied with a slight and seemingly casual glance at a door in the
rear of the office.
The glance had not escaped Cole. He picked his words carefully.
“Fifteen or twenty minutes ago,” he began, “a man entered your house.”
“Yes?” asked the physician in a toneless voice.
“A hunchback,” Cole went on, guessing that the doctor had carefully
hidden the fellow, while Cole had been kept waiting outside the door.
“He entered your basement, unless I’m mistaken. Odd time for a call,
doctor.”
“A physician, as you undoubtedly know, receives callers at all hours.
Nothing unusual in that.”
“But you will admit that this fellow’s mode of entrance was rather
irregular? A physician’s patients do not usually sneak in the basement
way.”
“Very true, but please come to the point, Mr. Stone. You must grant
that I have a right to receive visitors any way I choose, even through
the chimney, if it pleases my fancy. You tell me that a hunchback
entered my house by the basement door. I neither deny nor affirm it,
but, without wishing to seem rude, may I ask what it is to you?”
“Suppose the fellow were a criminal?”
“I never inquire into the moral character of my patients. Their
physical welfare is all that concerns me.”
“But suppose this individual had committed a murder? You would not care
to harbor a murderer in your house, would you?”
A slight flicker of uneasiness showed in the doctor’s eyes. “A
murderer? Aren’t you carrying your suppositions rather too far, Mr.
Stone?”
Again he cast a sidelong glance at the inner door. Cole sensed a hidden
significance in the doctor’s attention to that door. It puzzled him
almost as much as did the stain on the cuff. He thought quickly,
estimating how much he stood to gain or lose by a direct attack.
“I’m not supposing,” he declared bluntly. “I know there is a murderer
in your house.”
“Oh!” The doctor’s tone was tense and very low. “Whom did he murder?”
“Malcolm Reeves.”
“Mal—Malcolm Reeves?” In an instant the physician had kicked back his
chair and was on his feet. With the cigar tightly clamped between his
bearded lips he stared hard at Cole. His eyes were bright as metal, but
there was a glint of grave concern in their depths. In that moment Cole
would have been ready to swear that Latham’s consternation was genuine.
“Is Reeves dead?” asked the doctor hoarsely.
Cole gave him a level glance. “He was murdered less than two hours ago,
and the murderer is in your house.”
The physician stared for a moment longer. An indistinct mutter came
from his lips. Cole wondered whether his face was not pale under the
glossy black beard. Despite his bewilderment and his feeling that the
doctor’s emotions were sincere, he glowed inwardly with satisfaction.
At last Latham’s superb composure had been shattered; now he must
pursue his advantage before the doctor could rally his mental forces
and ply him with unanswerable questions.
“Doctor Latham,” he asked quickly, “do you deny that there is a
hunchbacked fellow in the house?”
The doctor sat down again. “I don’t feel called upon either to deny or
affirm it,” he declared.
Cole leaned forward across the desk. “How did that stain get on your
cuff, doctor?”
The physician’s arm was stretched out flat on the table, and Cole
pointed to the soiled cuff. Latham looked down; for an instant, as he
saw the blot, his eyes widened in astonishment.
“Oh, that!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I had a simple surgical case
a while ago. It wasn’t serious enough to take to a hospital, so I
performed it in my own office.”
“I didn’t know physicians ever performed operations in their pajamas.
No accounting for eccentricities, though. Will you do me a favor,
doctor?”
“That depends. What is it?”
Cole pointed carelessly to the door at which the doctor had been
covertly glancing from time to time.
“I would like to see what is behind that door, if you don’t mind,” he
remarked languidly.
Again a gleam of uneasiness crept into the doctor’s eyes. He regarded
Cole intently, as if trying to ferret out the reason for the request.
Cole, a thin smile on his lips, was puffing leisurely at his cigar.
“Why?” demanded the doctor.
“Just a fancy. You have no objection, I hope?”
The doctor drew himself up. He sat stiffly erect in his chair. A mask
seemed to fall from his face. Dropping all pretense of geniality, his
features took on a threatening look. “I don’t care to humor your fancy,
Mr. Stone,” he declared coldly.
With excessive care Cole ashed his cigar. Then he got up and, with a
slow, but firm, tread, walked toward the door in the rear. His fingers
closed around the knob.
“Stop!” cried the doctor sharply.
Cole turned and gave him an amused glance.
“You are a detective, I suppose?” said Latham.
“In a way,” admitted Cole modestly.
“Have you a search warrant?”
Cole shook his head.
“Then I must regard you as a trespasser. Mr. Stone, the moment you open
that door you will be a dead man.”
He reached into a pocket of his dressing gown. In the next instant a
small pistol glittered banefully in his hand. He raised it till Cole
could gaze straight into the muzzle. His eyes, as he looked ominously
at him, emitted the same cold, metallic gleam as the barrel of the
weapon.
Cole gave him a long, searching look, and he was a keen judge of faces.
At the end of the inspection he shrugged. “Doctor Latham,” he said
evenly, “you haven’t the nerve to kill me.” He turned the knob and
walked in.
CHAPTER XII
IN FOUR ROUNDS
In stony silence Doctor Latham watched the bold move. As Cole opened
the door, a diffident look came into his face. He toyed awkwardly with
the pistol, looked dubiously at the barrel, finally put the weapon back
in his pocket. “It seems you win this round,” he muttered.
The room which Cole had entered was dark. His hand fumbled along the
wall till he found a knob. At his pressure a light appeared, and it
revealed a man sprawled out in a chair. Except that the coat had been
removed he was fully dressed, and it seemed to Cole that he was sound
asleep.
He recognized the sallow face of the hunchback, having caught a brief
glimpse of it just as the elevator started. It was not a pleasant face.
The twisted lips looked as though the teeth had been bared in a snarl
just before the man fell asleep. Cole thought he might be a thug or
professional gunman. He looked away and saw Latham in the doorway.
“You’re a cool one,” murmured the physician, a trace of admiration in
his tone. “Didn’t you know I was ready to shoot you?”
“You didn’t,” was the laconic answer.
Latham came closer. He was once more suave and genial. Cole fancied
his astute brain was at work on a scheme of some sort. “Have you seen
enough to repay you for the risk you took?” he inquired. “Is this the
man you are looking for?”
Cole nodded. “He’s the one who murdered Reeves. Tough-looking customer!
What have you done to him, doctor?”
The Machiavellian smile came back. “He was in a bad way. I had to give
him a hypodermic. That’s why his crime, if he committed one, doesn’t
seem to weigh very heavily on his conscience. What are your intentions
in regard to my patient, Mr. Stone?”
Cole stepped closer to the recumbent man. The fellow looked indeed as
though he were deep in drug-induced sleep. Cole raised the arm nearest
him and turned back the shirt sleeve. A little below the elbow there
was a small puncture. He dropped the limp arm and turned away. His
head was full of perplexities and contradictions. A little while ago
certain phases of the mystery had seemed to dovetail to perfection, but
now things were taking an incongruous turn. He felt the physician was
inwardly laughing at his bewilderment.
“Well, Mr. Stone?” he inquired softly.
Cole was in a quandary, but he tried hard not to show it. For the
present the wily doctor had several strategical advantages, and
evidently he knew how to use them. It would not be easy to take the
unconscious man away. Even if it could be done, Cole would not know
where to take him. On the other hand, it would not do to let him get
away, as he undoubtedly would as soon as he recovered from the effects
of the drug.
“This man is my patient,” continued the doctor, “and I strongly advise
against disturbing him for the present. I believe a physician’s advice
is usually heeded in such cases.”
“Your patient seemed to be in excellent health a little while ago,”
observed Cole.
“Really, you must permit me to be the judge as to his physical
condition.”
Cole eyed him levelly. “You are a very clever man, Doctor Latham. I
believe you deliberately drugged this so-called patient of yours so
that he couldn’t be removed. It was a fairly ingenious stroke.”
Latham gave him a curious glance. “That’s a very odd way of looking at
the situation,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I wonder if you aren’t a bit
disingenuous. However, it doesn’t matter. This seems to be my round.”
His faintly gloating tone nettled Cole. As far as he could see he was
outmaneuvered on every point. Hopeless as the situation seemed to be,
he was determined not to leave the house a defeated man. He rekindled
his cigar, then gazed with mild reproach at the glowing tip. A cigar
never gave him the mental stimulus that he derived from his musty
old pipe at home. Besides, the doctor’s slyly amused glances were
disconcerting. Cole’s thoughts would not travel in a straight line,
and he grew more uncomfortable as he noticed that his helplessness was
beginning to impress the doctor as queer.
He turned, placed the half-smoked cigar on a tray, and glanced through
the open door leading into the office. The nickel trimmings of a
telephone gleamed under the electric drop light over the desk. The
sight of the instrument seemed to give Cole an idea. Deliberately he
walked into the other room and picked up the directory.
“May I ask what you intend doing?” inquired the physician, following
him.
“I know a doctor who lives not far from here,” said Cole absently,
while he hastily turned the pages of the book. “I’m going to call him
in for a consultation over your patient. If the fellow is in a bad way,
two doctors are better than one. If there’s nothing wrong with him, I
want to know it. Ah!” his index finger halted in the center of a page.
“Plaza 28826.”
A faint mutter of dismay escaped the doctor. He stood at Cole’s back,
while the detective put the receiver to his ear.
“A consultation is quite unnecessary, I assure you,” declared Latham.
Cole grinned into the transmitter. He suspected Latham would agree to
bring his “patient” back to consciousness rather than have another
physician called in. A thousand slight murmurs sounded on the wire, and
then came the operator’s brisk “Number, please.”
Cole spoke the number distinctly. He expected Latham would yield rather
than suffer a blow to his professional reputation, but the physician’s
cunning rendered the matter uncertain. And, even if his ruse succeeded,
Cole would score only a temporary advantage. He was not yet sure what
his next move was to be. While waiting for the connection he glanced
over his shoulder. Latham, hands clasped at his back, was walking back
and forth.
Suddenly Cole’s face went blank. A jarring noise sounded in his ears.
In the next instant he knew he was holding a dead instrument in his
hand. All sounds had abruptly ceased. He heard Latham’s triumphant
chuckle as he hung up the receiver.
“It appears the third round is also mine,” murmured Latham, his bearded
lips parting in a gratified smile. In his right hand he held a pair of
steel nippers.
Cole gritted his teeth, but smiled complacently. “I would call it a
draw,” he said. “Your act of cutting the wire was a confession, doctor;
a confession that you are up to deviltry. I knew it all along, of
course, but I’m glad you showed your hand so plainly. It’s an advantage
to me to know that you have something to fear.”
“I hope you derive a lot of satisfaction from it,” declared Latham
easily. “I fail to see how it is going to do you any practical good,
though.”
Cole himself was not quite clear on that point. It was a moral
advantage rather than a physical one. He gazed steadily at the
physician, studying the triangular outlines of the black, neatly
trimmed beard. It was a bit tantalizing to consider how many shifting
expressions that glossy appendage might conceal. It acted as a mask,
and he was permitted to see through it only when the bearded lips
parted in a flash of teeth. Just now the face told him nothing. It
merely gave him an impression of a man of unfathomable secrets and a
deeply plotting mind. Cole felt at once baffled and fascinated.
“I am curious to know what you will try next,” said Latham after a long
pause. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable, but I’m getting deucedly
sleepy.” He yawned ostentatiously. “If you have nothing further to
propose——” He looked significantly at the door.
Cole considered for a moment longer, then he selected the most
comfortable chair in the room and sat down. With a languid air he
stretched out his legs and leaned back. “I am worried about your
patient,” he declared, with a sly wink at the room in the rear. “If you
have no objection, I’ll hang around till he comes to. This is a very
comfortable chair. Could I trouble you for another of those excellent
cigars?”
The doctor stood in front of him, and Cole fancied there was a frown
beneath the beard. “You are going too far,” said Latham severely.
“Suppose I should throw you out?”
“That would be very rude, doctor. Besides, it couldn’t be done.”
Latham came a step closer. Slowly his crafty eyes moved up and down
Cole’s figure. Evidently he concluded that the languid appearance of
the man in the chair was deceptive.
“I might summon help,” he suggested.
“You might, but I hardly think you will. Being a prudent man, you
realize it wouldn’t do to stir up things. It’s far preferable, from
your point of view, to confine this interview to ourselves. What about
another of those cigars, doctor?”
Latham did not move. His eyelids narrowed a trifle as he continued to
gaze at Cole. “You puzzle me,” he declared. “You come here representing
yourself to be a detective, but your conduct is very peculiar. You say
the hunchback in the other room is a murderer, but you have made no
move toward arresting him.”
“I am naturally lazy,” confessed Cole blandly, “and it would be too
much of an exertion to carry the fellow out of here on my back.”
“Have you a warrant for his arrest?”
“None is needed,” said Cole easily, though he perceived that the
conversation was taking a dangerous turn. “It is enough that I have
reasonable cause for believing that the man has committed a felony.”
His tone faltered slightly on the word “reasonable.” In his imagination
he could picture the faces of the police officials, if he should
undertake to tell them what had happened.
Latham continued his piercing scrutiny for a few moments longer. “You
looked to me like an impostor,” he declared. “I’ll wager you haven’t
even so much as a pair of handcuffs on your person.”
Cole jerked himself up straight in the chair. His twinkling eyes
bespoke an inspiration. From his pocket he drew a small pair of steel
links. “Small, but substantial,” he said musingly. “A friend gave them
to me once. I have so little use for them that I wouldn’t carry them
around except for the fact that they are so light and take so little
space in the pocket. Once, in an unexpected pinch, they proved handy,
and I have been carrying them ever since.”
He got up and briskly walked into the room in the rear. A muffled
exclamation escaped the doctor, as Cole fastened one of the links
around the hunchback’s wrist. Then, with surprising ease, he lifted the
man out of the chair and carried him to an operating table in a corner
of the room.
“What are you doing?” inquired Latham sharply, too amazed at Cole’s
conduct to be able to interfere.
A short laugh was Cole’s only answer. He stretched the unconscious man
out on the operating table.
“Are you crazy?” spluttered the doctor. “What——” He stopped short as he
saw Cole’s intention, but now it was too late to act. Cole had placed
the limp figure in such a way that the arm, from which the steel links
dangled, was hanging down along the side of the table. In a twinkling
he had fastened the other link around one of the iron legs. The
unconscious man was now securely chained to the table.
Cole turned and regarded the physician with a good-humored expression.
“My round, and it’s as good as a knock-out,” he observed.
Latham stared dumfoundedly. He saw what had happened, but he appeared
at a loss to grasp the meaning of it. “What do you hope to gain by such
tomfoolery?” he demanded.
“A lot,” said Cole softly. “Your patient can’t get away unless he
takes the table with him, and that would attract attention. A fleeing
murderer is under quite a handicap when he is chained to an operating
table. I notice it is all iron and strongly built. The legs are
soldered to the top, so it won’t be easy to take it apart. A skilled
craftsman could do it, but I believe you have a strong aversion against
calling in outsiders.”
The cold gleam in Latham’s eyes told that he understood. His gaze was
fixed in a speculative way on the two steel links.
“They could be filed off,” admitted Cole, guessing his thoughts, “but
it would take a long time to get through the chilled steel of which
they are made. An expert might be able to unlock them, but there again
you are hampered by your prejudice against outsiders. You can’t slip
the link off the iron leg, for the braces down below prevent that.
Barring accidents, I think my man will stay here till I’m ready to come
and get him.”
Doctor Latham seemed a trifle dazed. He ran his fingers awkwardly
through his beard while looking bewilderedly at Cole. “You are an
astounding person,” he declared.
“You are another, doctor.” Cole smiled engagingly. “Sorry to have
interrupted your night’s rest. Are you going to charge me for this
visit? I believe it was ten dollars last time.”
“Go to blazes!” said Doctor Latham. He stood motionless beside the
unconscious man, while Cole walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MORNING’S MAIL
Just as the clock struck eleven, the following morning, Kingdon Cole
emerged in a tingle and glow from his cold shower. He had retired
shortly before dawn, so he had considered himself entitled to sleep
till a late hour, and now he felt the exuberant strength and freshness
that make a man eager for work.
He stepped to the window, raised the shade, and looked out upon a gray
and drizzly world. He scowled a little. Like all highly sensitized
persons, he was easily susceptible to the weather. When the sky was
clouded, his face was apt to wear a frown. When the sun shone, his face
shone with it. A glance in the evening at the weather forecast could
have told him what mood he was to be in the next day, granting that
weather predictions were always accurate.
He turned from the window as Toots, with a plaintive “meow,” rubbed her
curled back against his leg. “Hungry?” inquired Cole, looking at the
cat with an expression of grave responsibility.
Toots held her tail erect and seemed to think the question wholly
superfluous. With a dutiful air Cole brought in the milk bottle, also
two letters which he found outside his door. After a glance at the
handwriting he tossed them on the table and proceeded to appease Toots’
hunger. He went about it with all the awkwardness of an overgrown boy,
spilling a part of the milk beside the saucer, then stood aside and
watched Toots lick it up.
Over his coffee and toast, a few minutes later, he started to read
his mail. One of the letters was addressed in a strange feminine
handwriting, and he opened it first. He suddenly stopped eating and
took in the contents at a glance. The note read:
“Come back. I trust you. +Miss B.+”
Beneath the signature was a row of X’s. Cole counted seven of them;
they were the insignia of The Unknown Seven, of course. It was
gratifying to know that the mysterious Miss Brown still had faith in
him, despite the suspicions of the other members of the organization,
but her frankness puzzled him. If the others thought him guilty of
duplicity, why did she not think likewise? She had seen and heard
precisely the same things that the others had seen and heard. As far as
he knew, she had no facts on which her favorable opinion of him could
have been based. What, then, was the reason for her attitude?
“Woman’s intuition, I suppose,” mused Cole with a glance at Toots.
“That probably accounts for it. But how does the charming Miss Brown
expect me to find my way back to the headquarters of The Unknown Seven?
To locate the building would be about as ticklish a job as finding
a needle in a haystack. I don’t see why she—— Yes, I do! She has
naturally taken it for granted that I had sense enough to make a mental
note of the street and number when I made my hasty exit last night. She
doesn’t know what a half-cocked idiot I am. Shucks!”
Cole made a wry face. Somehow he must manage to find the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven. Unless he answered Miss Brown’s summons, she
would naturally suppose that her faith in him had been misplaced and
that he was remaining away because of a sense of guilt. Cole resolved
he would canvass every block in lower Manhattan before permitting such
a thing to happen. How to go about it was another matter, however. A
systematic search would eventually lead him to the building, but that
would mean a waste of valuable time. He must find the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven without delay, not only because Miss Brown had
faith in him, but also for the more practical reason that he would not
know what to do with the hunchback until he had positive knowledge of
Malcolm Reeves’ death.
He had no fear that his prisoner would escape from Doctor Latham’s
house. He had left the hunchback in a predicament from which the
astute physician would not be able to release him without a great deal
of difficulty; but Cole did not depend on that alone. Tony Pinto, a
ragged urchin whose habitat was the picturesquely squalid section
around Chatham Square, was watching the doctor’s residence. Cole, who
had earned the lad’s everlasting gratitude by once doing him a small
service, had instructed him to keep a sharp eye on the place. Tony
had the wits of a fox and the legs of a deer, and a great ambition
to become a detective. If an attempt should be made to spirit the
hunchback away, Tony would find it out and report to Cole instantly.
Finishing his breakfast he lighted his pipe and composed himself
for hard thinking. The tobacco smoke grew so thick in the room that
Toots blinked at him reproachfully. Suddenly an idea came to him. He
recalled having heard Grover Carlin say that a number of the members
of The Unknown Seven had offices in the building. Cole had recognized
several of the members, the previous evening, from photographs that had
appeared from time to time in the newspapers, in connection with their
social and financial activities. Right here was a clew to the location
of the headquarters.
He picked up the telephone directory and found the name of Vincent
de Witte, one of the men whom he had recognized. He glanced at the
financier’s office address, and he saw his clew slipping out of his
fingers. The address was somewhere in Union Square, much too far north
to be anywhere near the building he was searching for. Next he looked
up the address of Stephen Aldrich, but with no more success. The
philanthropist’s offices, according to the directory, were in the Times
Square district.
Cole tried two other names, then tossed the book away in disgust.
It came to him that men like De Witte and Aldrich were engaged in
multifarious enterprises and probably had two or more suites of
offices in different sections of the city. Likely as not the business
enterprises which they were conducting in the headquarters building
were under corporate names, not generally known to the public. It was
not to be expected that men so shrewd as The Unknown Seven had proven
themselves to be would leave even the remotest clew to the location of
their rendezvous. Cole saw he must try something else.
He gazed hard into the monkey’s face graven into the bowl of his pipe.
What with the drizzle outside and the chaotic condition of his mind,
he scowled into the tobacco haze that surrounded him. Why the deuce
hadn’t Miss Brown telephoned him instead of mailing him a letter?
Why was it that women of her type were so prone either to underrate
or overrate the intelligence of the sterner sex? They never accepted
men at their true valuation, but their opinions were always colored
by bias of one kind or another. Cole squinted at Toots while these
thoughts ran through his mind. He had a distinct impression that that
dainty specimen of femininity always regarded him with a sort of lofty
tolerance. Miss Brown, on the other hand——
Suddenly he remembered the other letter. At first glance he had
recognized the cramped hand of Hector Englebreth’s secretary. He
snipped off the margin of the envelope. Without doubt the letter
contained a sharp reminder that Cole had promised to give his client a
supplementary report on the condition of Malcolm Reeves. He anticipated
a crisply phrased note as he drew out the inclosure. Then a surprise
came to him. The envelope contained not only a letter, but a check
besides. It was for a generous amount. Evidently his client had sent
him something on account. Thoughtful of Englebreth! Cole put the check
aside and glanced at the note, and then he received a second surprise.
He read:
“+Dear Sir+: Mr. Englebreth desires me to notify you that he no longer
requires your services. Inclosed please find check for services
rendered to date.”
Cole stared hard at the few typewritten lines. The stiffly worded
communication was signed by Hector Englebreth’s secretary. The prim
type and the severe plainness of the engraved name and address in the
upper left-hand corner seemed to convey a breath of the heavy, tomblike
atmosphere that pervaded the Englebreth house.
He chuckled lightly as he flung the letter aside. It was not the first
time that his independent conduct had lost him a client, and the fact
that he was now cut off from all official contact with the Reeves
mystery did not worry him in the least. There was nothing to prevent
him from attacking the problem on his own account. The curt dismissal
puzzled him, however. He wondered what he had done to displease
Englebreth. His client’s warning, spoken just as Cole was leaving the
somber old house the other day, flashed across his mind.
“Be careful,” Englebreth had said.
The words had had a cryptic sound. Cole had wondered at their meaning
then, and he wondered now. Had Englebreth dismissed him because of
his failure to heed a warning which he had not understood? Once
before it had occurred to him that perhaps his client had learned,
in some mysterious manner, of his relations with The Unknown Seven.
Was that what had been in Englebreth’s mind when he uttered that
strange warning? Did his client suspect that Cole was betraying him by
conducting secret negotiations with an enemy? The idea did not seem
very plausible, but he could think of no other solution. On the whole
he felt Englebreth had treated him rather shabbily. He had worked
hard and loyally on the case. The abrupt dismissal was, in reality, a
reflection on his honesty. In his resentment he resolved to demand an
explanation of his former client.
He glanced dubiously at the telephone, recalling that on several
occasions Englebreth had expressed a dislike to holding conversations
over the wire, and he decided that an interview, face to face, would be
more satisfactory. He poured out another saucerful of milk for Toots,
and half an hour later he was ringing the doorbell of the Englebreth
house on Fifth Avenue.
The drizzle and the leaden sky conferred an added touch of melancholy
upon the dismal mansion. The chill, which he always felt on entering
the house, had a keener edge this time. The rooms, with the window
shades lowered as always, seemed darker and more oppressively silent
than usual. The manservant who admitted him regarded him with an air of
thinly veiled suspicion.
“I’ll see if Mr. Englebreth is at home, sir,” he announced. His feet
made no sound as he crossed the thickly carpeted floor and passed
through a door that turned silently on its hinges. In a few moments he
was back. “Mr. Englebreth is not at home,” he declared, dropping the
habitual “sir.”
Cole got up from his chair and gave the servant a playful poke in the
ribs. It was a grotesque piece of levity in that house of frigid
dignity, but he could not resist the temptation.
“You’re a cheerful liar,” he told the man. Then, while the servant
gaped after him in a scandalized way, he strode to the door of the
library and pushed it open. In his wheel chair, beside the black walnut
table, sat Hector Englebreth. A faint color tinged his white face as he
saw the detective.
“Good morning, Mr. Englebreth,” said Cole genially, and he drew up
a chair and sat down. “I know that ‘not at home’ is a polite way of
saying ‘get out,’ and so I walked right in. Hope you don’t mind.”
Englebreth leaned forward in the chair and scowled forbiddingly. His
long white fingers beat a restless tattoo on the table. “Why have you
come?” he demanded. “Did you not receive my letter?”
“I did, and the check, too. Many thanks. The check was quite
satisfactory, but the letter left too many things unsaid. I am here to
ask you why I am being fired off the job.”
Englebreth glanced meaningly at the door. Instead of the long dressing
gown which he usually wore, he was dressed in a suit of plain gray.
“I shall be going out in a few minutes,” he declared stiffly.
“It won’t take you long to answer my question. Don’t you think I am
entitled to an explanation?”
“Of course, if you insist. I instructed my secretary to write you after
I had consulted my wife about the matter. Since it is her brother’s
life that is at stake, she is more vitally concerned than I am, so I
thought it only proper that she should have her say. After I had placed
certain facts before her, she agreed with me that your usefulness to us
is past.”
“Certain facts? What were they?”
“I think you know,” said Englebreth in a hard, dry tone. His deep-set
eyes, oddly brilliant in contrast to his pale face, regarded Cole
accusingly. “I am disappointed in you, Mr. Cole. You impressed me as an
upright, honest man, and I had hoped for better things from you. One of
the harshest experiences in life is the discovery that one has placed
his trust in a person who isn’t worthy of it.”
Cole’s face hardened, and there was an ominous gleam in his eye. “I
think you had better explain that statement, Mr. Englebreth,” he said
with slow emphasis.
Englebreth shrugged. “You are not candid with me. You know quite well
what I mean, so why pretend? For instance, can you look me straight in
the eyes and tell me that you gave a full and truthful report when you
were here the other day?”
“It was truthful,” said Cole, “and as complete as I could make it under
the circumstances. If I did not tell quite all I knew, it was because I
was uncertain in regard to some of the facts.”
A wraith of a smile twisted Englebreth’s thin lips. “And what about the
warning I gave you? I hoped it would serve as a hint that I was aware
of certain mysterious movements on your part. Why did you disregard it?”
A long silence ensued. Each man gazed sharply into the other’s eyes.
There was a glint of steel in Cole’s, a look of stern reproach in
Englebreth’s.
“Well?” said the invalid. The pale, mirthless smile was still hovering
about his lips. “What have you to say, Mr. Cole?”
“You have been spying on me evidently?”
“You are using an unpleasant word. I have merely verified certain
suspicions that concern you. I have also discovered certain facts which
you have seen fit to conceal from me, facts which have a direct bearing
on the fate of my brother-in-law. I don’t think there is anything
further to be said.”
Cole got up. He could not understand where, or by what means, the
invalid had obtained his information, but it was evident that
Englebreth’s mind was made up, and that no amount of argument could
make him change his views.
“You are wrong, Mr. Englebreth,” he said evenly. “A lot of queer things
have happened, things I don’t understand myself. But, believe it or
not, I have played fair with you from beginning to end. Some time
before long I hope to prove it to you.”
“Indeed!” said Englebreth. “I am sure it will be interesting.”
His tone and the smile that accompanied the words made Cole
instinctively clench his fists. Then he turned away, before his anger
should get the better of him, and hurried from the house. Out in the
drizzle and under the gray sky he shook off his resentment and laughed
at himself. It was ridiculous that a peevish old invalid should make
him lose his temper. Some day, when he had probed the Reeves affair to
the bottom, he would make Englebreth eat his words. Just now he had
more important things to consider than the aspersions of an infirm old
man.
He crossed the street and was about to board a bus when he chanced
to look back and saw a large car draw up in front of the house. A
moment later the massive front door opened, and two servants appeared,
carrying Englebreth between them. They assisted him into the car, and
Cole gazed speculatively after the vehicle, as it glided away down
Fifth Avenue. It was a rare thing for Englebreth to venture beyond
the gloomy confines of his house, and Cole wondered where he might
be going. Perhaps he was about to get into touch with his mysterious
source of information. In that case Cole might learn a great deal by
following him.
“Taxi, sir,” said a voice, and a cab slowed down at the corner where he
stood. Cole’s hesitation lasted only a moment longer.
“Follow that green car over there,” he directed. The chauffeur nodded,
and Cole jumped in. The pursuit proved long and devious; again and
again Cole chided himself for wasting valuable time. Then the green car
stopped in front of an office building, and the chauffeur went inside.
Cole dismissed the taxi and took up a position across the street. From
where he stood he could catch an occasional glimpse of Englebreth
through the partly shaded window of the car.
“Guess I’m chasing a wild goose,” he glumly told himself.
Englebreth’s chauffeur reappeared, accompanied by another man, and
the two lifted the invalid from the car and carried him inside the
building. Slowly Cole started to cross the street. The man assisting
the chauffeur seemed to carry his part of the burden awkwardly, and
Cole could hear the infirm man’s peevish protests. The two men entered
an elevator with their load, and the cage started upward, just as Cole
stepped inside the building.
A strange, unaccountable feeling came over him as he gazed after the
disappearing lift. He was conscious of a faint tingling from head
to foot. With an abstracted look in his eyes he gazed upward, then
to the sides. He moved about along the row of elevators, and even
his footfalls had a curious sound, a sound that he seemed to vaguely
recognize. The elevator starter approached and inquired what he was
looking for, but Cole only shook his head in a preoccupied way.
Suddenly he laughed aloud. In a twinkling all his confused impressions
clarified. Once more he glanced upward. He knew, though he could not
tell why or how, that far overhead was the rendezvous of The Unknown
Seven.
CHAPTER XIV
COLE’S RUSE
Cole’s conviction that he had found the building occupied by The
Unknown Seven was a matter of instinct rather than reason. He felt that
once before, and not so long ago, his feet had trod the squares of
stone that composed the floor. The surroundings had a remotely familiar
appearance; perhaps he had subconsciously caught a glimpse of them as
he rushed out in pursuit of the hunchback. Along the wall opposite the
elevators was a row of small shops, a cigar store, a haberdashery, a
news stand, and, on the corner, the office of a broker. Cole glanced at
the signs, and they stirred hazy recollections in the back of his mind.
There could be no doubt of it; chance and Mr. Englebreth had led him to
the very place he had been most anxious to find.
On the wall in the back was a directory of the tenants. “Security
Building” it said at the top, and the very name smacked of
conservatism, stability, and decorum. It spelled efficiency and prose
and left the imagination untouched. It hinted of things far removed
from the secret activities of the group of strange men who occupied
the top floor. He ran his eyes down the names of corporations and
individuals, but there was none that interested him. Among the former
were probably several in which members of The Unknown Seven were
concerned, but he had no means of identifying them.
He turned away and grinned sheepishly, as he noticed that the elevator
starter was squinting at him in a suspicious way. There were five
elevators, but, after he had seen them all come up and down, he knew
that none of them was the automatic one used privately by the members
of the organization. For a time he was puzzled. At the farther side
of the shaft was a door marked “Private,” and beyond this a flight of
stairs. No doubt they were the same stairs he had rushed down the night
before, after stopping his dizzy descent at the second floor.
But it was the door between the stairs and the shaft that claimed his
interest. The single word, “Private,” stenciled in black letters on a
golden-brown surface, piqued his curiosity. It was plainly a hint to
strangers to keep out. Signs of that kind had held a strong fascination
for Cole ever since he was a boy. It was just as if some one had dared
him to pass through the forbidden door. He tried it furtively, though
well aware of the starter’s oblique scrutiny. It was locked, as he
had expected, but the word, “Private,” continued to tantalize him.
What could be on the other side of the locked door? The office of the
superintendent of the building, perhaps. Or, maybe, the establishment
of a mail-order concern that did not care for personal relations with
its customers. On the other hand it might be only a storeroom where the
scrub women kept their mops and brooms and buckets. All these guesses
seemed plausible enough, but Cole strongly suspected something entirely
different. Unless he were greatly mistaken, the door was the entrance
to the private elevator.
Wishing to verify his surmise, he walked up to the starter and, in a
tone which might have signified that he was an agent for the building
department or the inspector of an insurance company, inquired by whom
the private door was being used.
“A bunch of nuts,” said the starter, moved to loquacity by Cole’s
official air. “They come an’ go at all hours. They’s some big bugs
among ’em, too. Guess they belong to wunna them secret societies.”
Cole tried to learn more, but the man became suddenly tight-lipped
and referred him to the superintendent of the building for further
information. “It’s agin’ my orders to talk about the tenants,” he added.
Cole nodded understandingly and stepped aside. The locked door seemed
to bar further progress for the present. Just then he remembered his
original errand. He had almost forgotten Englebreth. The cage into
which he had seen the invalid carried had just reached the ground
floor and was disgorging passengers. Cole waited till it was ready to
make another trip, then stepped in and slipped a small bill into the
operator’s hand.
“You carried up a crippled person some ten or fifteen minutes ago,” he
said in an undertone. “Where did he go?”
“Oh, him!” The operator grinned as he stuffed the bill into a pocket.
“He comes here every now and then. You’ll find him in 2512, sir. It’s
the top floor.”
Cole got out on the twenty-fifth floor. To all outward appearances
it was, indeed, the top floor of the building. The elevator shaft
terminated in a blank ceiling, and the stairs in the back extended no
higher. It was somewhat tantalizing to know that directly above him,
and yet completely out of reach, was the rendezvous of The Unknown
Seven.
Cole paused outside the door numbered 2512, but he did not knock.
He could think of no pretext for seeking another interview with
Englebreth. The office, as was indicated by the sign on the frosted
glass, was occupied by the Bureau of Civil Research, and he made a
mental note of the fact. He could see no particular significance in
Englebreth’s visit to a place of that kind. No doubt the Bureau of
Civic Research was one of the numerous activities that his former
client cultivated as a hobby. As far as his original purpose was
concerned it looked as though Cole had wasted his time, but there was
consolation in the fact that he had incidentally found the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven. For the moment, however, he did not see how he
was to profit by his discovery.
He descended, cast a mildly baffled glance at the private door, and
went out to lunch. It seemed as if there was nothing for him to do but
loiter in the vicinity of the building and wait for one of the members
to appear. Idleness irked him, however, and he disliked the thought
that such a small thing as a locked door was standing in his way. He
cudgeled his brain for an idea, as he strolled out of the restaurant.
Suddenly he found one, and he walked two blocks and ducked into a
subway entrance. Soon he was aboard an uptown train, bound for Doctor
Latham’s residence. He suspected that in the pockets of the hunchback
he would find a key that would unlock the door. If his guess had been
correct, and the door opened into the elevator used by The Unknown
Seven, then the hunchback must have passed through that very door the
previous night. He could not have done so unless he had a duplicate
key. He might have thrown it away, of course, but the chances were that
it was still in his possession.
Cole looked sharply about him as he walked down the block in which the
doctor resided. He knew Tony was lurking somewhere in the neighborhood,
but the youngster had a surprising knack at making himself
inconspicuous when the occasion demanded it. He rang the doctor’s
doorbell and was told by the white-capped attendant who admitted him
that the physician was engaged with a patient. Cole waited in the
reception room. Evidently Latham did not permit his other enterprises
to interfere with his practice, for several patients were waiting to
consult him.
Presently the door opened, and the doctor arched his brows as he saw
Cole in the waiting group. After a moment’s hesitancy he motioned him
to enter the consulting room.
“How is the patient, doctor?” inquired Cole briskly, glancing at the
door in the rear.
Latham stroked his glossy beard. “As well as can be expected,
considering the awkward position you left him in. He has difficulty
getting about.”
“Then you have not yet succeeded in extricating him from his
embarrassing predicament?”
“Oh, no!” said the doctor with a dry laugh. “I haven’t even tried. I
just removed him to one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. He was in the
way down here. You wish to have a talk with him, I suppose? I fear it
is impossible. He grew hysterical a while ago, and I had to give him a
sedative.”
“It doesn’t matter. I just want to look at him.”
Latham gave him a queer glance, then he smiled knowingly. “I see,” he
murmured. “You wish to make sure that he hasn’t escaped, despite the
handicap you imposed on him. This way.”
He opened a door and preceded Cole up a flight of stairs. They entered
a room, and Cole saw the hunchback stretched out on the operating table
and sound asleep. The physician watched him narrowly as Cole stepped
up to the recumbent man and began to explore his pockets. A blank look
came into the doctor’s eyes when Cole, with a murmur of satisfaction,
extracted a key.
“As I observed once before,” said Latham, “you are a most astounding
person. I wonder what the significance of that key might be.”
“Every key has a mission, doctor, and that is to unlock some door.”
The physician regarded him thoughtfully. “I don’t understand you at
all. You do such unexpected things. I am still wondering what your
intentions are with respect to my patient.”
“For the present my only concern is that he shan’t get away.”
The doctor pondered for a few moments longer, then he shrugged his
shoulders, and the two men walked down the stairs in silence. As they
reached the consultation office and were about to pass into the outer
room, Latham paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Would it surprise
you very much,” he asked in slow, incisive accents, “if I were to tell
you that I am just as anxious as you can possibly be that the fellow
upstairs shan’t get away?”
Cole’s eyes opened wide. “No, it wouldn’t surprise me. I would simply
be unable to follow you. You are a deep one, doctor; nothing that you
could say or do would startle me.”
Latham’s face relaxed in a smile. “I construe that as a compliment.
Please appease my curiosity on one point. You have taken extraordinary
precautions against my patient escaping, but what about myself? Aren’t
you afraid that I might run away?”
“I am not,” said Cole emphatically. “You are not the kind that runs
away. You work by subtler means than that. Where men of coarser
mentality would kill an undesirable person, you merely render him
harmless. If, later on, it should prove absolutely necessary to remove
him, you hire another man to perform the nasty job. Your sensitive soul
shrinks from vulgar tactics and sordid actions. For the same reason you
don’t run away from danger. Instead, you plan your moves so carefully
in advance that the risk is reduced to the lowest possible minimum, and
flight becomes unnecessary.”
It was a rather blunt speech, and Cole had spoken so plainly only
because he wished to watch the effect on the doctor. In the end he
was disappointed. The expansive beard concealed all outward signs of
emotion; the face was no more expressive than a wooden image. For just
a moment the eyes shone with a cold gleam, but that was all. When Cole
had finished, the bearded lips parted in a pleased smile.
“Thanks,” murmured Latham. “Too bad we appear to be enemies. I like you
immensely—I really do.”
He held the door open and Cole went out. As he walked toward the subway
he was almost inclined to share the doctor’s regret that they were
enemies. There was something at once attractive and repellent about
Latham. His subtleties, his cool audacity, and his flashing wits made
him a charming personality, and there was a certain fascination even
about his cold cynicism and conscienceless manner. Cole came away from
the doctor’s house with a spell hanging over him. But, aside from these
things, there were phases of Latham’s character that he could not
understand. Stray remarks, which the doctor had dropped, and certain
telltale gestures and mannerisms lingered in his memory while he rode
downtown.
“A fascinating riddle and a highly accomplished villain,” was his way
of summing up the doctor’s many-sided personality, as he got out of the
subway and turned toward the Security Building.
He entered and, key in hand, walked direct to the private door. The
elevator starter gave him an astonished glance, but did not interfere.
The key fitted easily. Cole opened the door and stepped in, then
quickly closed it behind him. He was in a narrow cage, with a small
electric bulb at the top. He looked about him in bewilderment, for
there was no sign of any apparatus by which the elevator could be
started. Carlin had told him that there was a peculiar mechanism that
could be operated only by the initiated, but all Cole saw was a dial
with figures along the rim and a knob in the center. It looked like the
combination lock of a safe.
He twirled the knob back and forth, but without result. He tried
several different combinations on the dial, but the elevator refused
to budge. With ingrained stubbornness he persisted in his efforts, but
in the end he was forced to confess that the task was beyond him. He
was on the point of getting out when a key grated in the lock. A moment
later the door came open, and Miss Brown entered the cage.
She started slightly as she saw him. Cole looked at her, and his frown
melted. She was simply, but charmingly, attired in a tailor-made suit
of some soft, gray material the name of which was not included in
Cole’s vocabulary.
“Oh, you came!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, but I didn’t get very far.” Cole regarded her with a half
humorous, half reproachful glance. Her plain little hat set off
to perfection the lily-white complexion and the hair like ruffled
sunshine. “How did you expect me to manipulate the contraption?”
“I didn’t really expect you to,” she told him, while she whirled the
knob back and forth a number of times. “In fact, I was sure it would
stump you, but the others had their doubts on that point.”
“I see,” said Cole dryly, as the cage rocketed upward. “If I had
shown that I knew how to operate the mechanism I would have convicted
myself of duplicity, and the suspicions of the others would have been
confirmed. But don’t you see that a man who is clever enough to ferret
out secrets while blindfolded would not betray himself so flagrantly?”
There was a twinkle of mirth in her deep-blue eyes. “Clever men are
often vain. You might have construed my note as a challenge to your
dexterity. It wasn’t that, of course. It was only a test of your
honesty.”
“And now you are convinced?”
“I was practically convinced before, but the others needed proof.”
“What convinced you?”
The blue eyes regarded him shrewdly, almost impersonally. Cole was
reminded of a biologist watching a controlled experiment.
“I am seldom mistaken in matters of that kind,” she said simply.
The cage stopped. As they got out, Cole abruptly asked the question
that had been uppermost in his mind all the time. “What about Reeves?”
“Dead, stabbed through the heart. He was breathing his last when we
found him.”
Cole nodded grimly. Miss Brown’s words had merely confirmed something
of which he had been practically certain. They had gone through the
hidden door in the wall by this time and were now in the corridor. They
passed several men who bowed respectfully to Miss Brown and cast hard
glances at Cole. The woman opened a door, and they entered the large
room with the filing cabinets and the glass globe, the room in which
Cole had been the night before.
At a desk, with iron-gray head bent over a stack of papers, sat Grover
Carlin. The lawyer looked up as they entered, and a faint smile flitted
across his rugged face and tempered the cold gleam in his eyes. “Glad
to see you, Mr. Cole,” he said in measured tones. “I am also pleasantly
surprised. Your abrupt departure, just after the murder last night,
looked pretty bad.”
“I was rather surprised that you didn’t try to stop me.”
Carlin grinned apologetically. “No one thought of doing so until it was
too late. Everybody, including myself, were stricken senseless by the
murder. We couldn’t realize that such a thing had happened right here
in our midst. It seemed unbelievable. All we could think was that you
were——”
“In cahoots with the murderer,” suggested Cole when the lawyer paused.
“Well, I admit it looked strange. That murder was about as nervy a
piece of rascality as I ever heard of. The fellow came here determined
to carry out his purpose or die in the attempt. Doesn’t his reckless
audacity and the ease with which he got into your establishment suggest
something to your mind, Mr. Carlin?”
“Oh, yes a number of things. It suggests that he had powerful
influences behind him. The motive isn’t far to seek. The men
responsible for the murder feared that Reeves might recover from the
effects of the operation and divulge certain facts which would be to
their detriment. They decided to prevent that by silencing him forever.”
“What else?” asked Cole, eying the lawyer steadily.
Carlin gave him a quizzical glance.
“How do you suppose the fellow got in?” Cole went on. “Where did he
get the duplicate key to the elevator door? How did he get hold of
the combination that controls the mechanism? Who told him how to get
through the wall? How do you explain that, after entering, he walked
straight to the room where Reeves was? As you probably remember, we
heard the cry only a few moments after the green light had flashed,
showing that the murderer knew his way thoroughly.”
Carlin gazed at him hard and long. “Well?” he asked at length.
“Perhaps you still suspect me?” asked Cole lightly.
“No.” The word came a little uncertainly. “I never really suspected
you. I only had certain doubts about you, doubts which were natural
under the circumstances. Your return here this afternoon speaks
volumes. You would scarcely have come back if you had been playing us
false. I feel I owe you an apology.”
“It’s accepted,” said Cole with a laugh. “But apologies aren’t going to
remedy matters. Mr. Carlin, there’s a traitor among you.”
Miss Brown, seated near by, caught her breath. The lawyer thrust his
head forward a little. “Impossible,” he said. “There was a traitor
among us, as I explained to you, but we got rid of him. For all I know
he may be dead by this time. I am ready to swear to the reliability of
every man on our staff.”
Cole seemed inclined to argue the point, but he desisted. His eyes
twinkled a little, and he looked as though he were content to let
developments prove the truth of what he had said.
“There is one thing you haven’t explained, Mr. Cole,” said Miss Brown.
“I am curious to know how you got into the elevator a little while ago.
Where did you get the key?”
“Oh, the key,” said Cole lightly. “Why, I found it in the murderer’s
pocket.”
Carlin and Miss Brown looked at him in speechless astonishment.
“I seem to be telling things backward,” Cole went on. “After I left
here early this morning I gave the fellow a chase and caught him. He’s
a hunchbacked, dried-up wisp of a man, and as evil looking a specimen
of humanity as I ever saw.”
Carlin blinked his eyes bewilderedly and looked at Cole, as if he had
just discovered some new quality in him.
“And you—you caught him?” asked Miss Brown. “Where—how?”
Cole explained, but only very briefly. There was a gleam of sly humor
in his eye. Toward the end of his recital he did a strange thing. He
finished it off with an embellishing touch that was not in strict
accordance with the truth.
“The best part of it all,” he said in casual tones, “is that I have
the fellow’s confession in black and white. Like most of his kind he
showed the yellow streak when he saw the game was up. Just how complete
the confession is I can’t say, but it contains several interesting
facts.”
“Where is it?” said Carlin excitedly. “Have you got it with you?” He
half rose from his chair, then sat down again.
“No; it isn’t wise to carry such things on one’s person. No telling
when you’re going to get knocked down and have your pockets picked. The
confession is in a safe place. In due time I shall show it to you.”
Carlin seemed inclined to ask questions, but Cole’s face showed plainly
that he had said all that he intended to say for the present. The
lawyer got up, walked around the desk and gave the other’s shoulder
a vigorous slap. “You belong here with us,” he declared with blunt
emphasis. “You’re just the man for the job. I was sure of it before;
now I’m doubly certain. You’ve proven your fitness in forty different
ways. Will you accept?”
Cole’s eyes gleamed wistfully. His smile showed that the proposition
appealed to him. “You aren’t offering me the position just because I
wormed a confession out of the hunchback?” he asked guardedly.
“By no means. We were ready to offer you the place a week ago, while
you were sniffing around the edges of what you called the Carmody case.
We need you, Cole. Think it over carefully. Consider the opportunities.”
“I have considered them. I am strongly tempted to accept, especially
since I am out of a job.” Cole gave a whimsical little laugh. “I
forgot to tell you that Englebreth gave me my walking papers this
morning. Do you care to take on a man who was fired by his last
employer?”
“You just bet we do!” Carlin extended his hand, and Cole gripped it
vigorously. “This evening your appointment will be confirmed by the
full board, and afterward we’ll introduce you to the members of the
staff. There’s one matter that’s got to be settled immediately though.
You’ve got a ticklish problem to solve right at the start, Cole.
Something must be done about the body of Reeves.”
Cole had already thought of that. He realized what a delicate position
The Unknown Seven were in. The murder could not be reported to the
police without jeopardizing the secrecy that, to a great extent, had
been responsible for the organization’s success. Neither would it be
easy to turn the body over to the proper authorities without imperiling
the society’s seclusion. It was a knotty problem, and Cole considered
it from all angles, while Carlin and Miss Brown showed him over the
premises.
Cole’s eyes grew wider and wider as he was conducted from room to
room. On one side of the hall were the offices with their steel filing
cases, huge nickel-plated safes, desks, typewriters, and even a
rogues’ gallery, which Cole inspected with avid interest. One room was
devoted to finger prints and the Bertillon system of identification.
Adjoining it was a laboratory in which, as Carlin explained, the
latest scientific discoveries were adapted to the requirements of the
detective profession.
They crossed the hall, and it seemed to Cole that he was entering
a different world. This part of the establishment was given over to
clubrooms, but they were more magnificent than any Cole had ever seen.
There was a well-appointed gymnasium; a swimming pool in which clear
water gleamed invitingly in a huge tank of marble; a library containing
all the latest fiction and belles-lettres; a dining room, an art
gallery, a pool and billiard parlor, and various cozy little nooks for
the members.
“You see, Mr. Cole, we believe in combining pleasure and comfort with
work,” explained Carlin, when the tour of inspection was finished and
they were back in the office from which they had started. “By the way,
dinner will be served at six-thirty. You must stay and dine with us.”
Cole agreed after a moment’s hesitation. His glance fell on the
telephone at Carlin’s desk, and suddenly he seemed to remember
something.
“Perhaps you would like to use the telephone,” the lawyer suggested.
“The switchboard is in an office on the tenth floor, and all incoming
and outgoing calls are relayed through it. No chance of a call being
traced, you see.”
Cole picked up the telephone and gave the operator the number of his
landlady. Carlin and Miss Brown started to withdraw, but Cole assured
them there was nothing personal about the call and asked them to stay.
“That you, Mrs. Armstrong?” he asked when he had got his connection.
“Mr. Cole speaking. I may not be home till late this evening, and
I wonder if you’d mind running up and giving Toots her milk. Yes,
Toots—T-o-o-t-s. The cat, you know. Very good of you. Will you do it
right away, Mrs. Armstrong? I’ll hold the wire till you come back.
Toots wasn’t looking well this morning. Acted as if she had a headache
or something. I’m anxious to know how she is.”
With the receiver at his ear, Cole waited. Carlin stroked his chin
reflectively. From time to time he gazed in an odd way at the man who
was to direct the activities of The Unknown Seven, and whose sole
concern just now appeared to be an ailing cat. Miss Brown was amused
and took no pains to conceal it.
Cole was kept waiting a long time. At last he pricked up his ears in a
startled way, as if some surprising news was being told him. He uttered
a few short exclamations, then hung up the receiver and glanced at his
watch.
“Mr. Carlin,” he said gravely, in a tone so low that the other two
could scarcely hear, “two hours ago I sat in this chair and told you
a lie.” He made a silencing signal with his hand as Miss Brown and
Carlin started to interrupt. “Yes, a lie. What I said about having
wrung a confession from the hunchback wasn’t true, though all the
rest was in strict accordance with the facts. As you may remember, I
mentioned having put the confession in a safe place. From that you
might have inferred that I had hidden it at my home, or placed it in a
safe-deposit box.”
He was speaking in whispers, as if afraid that an eavesdropper might be
lurking somewhere in the room. The faces of his two listeners showed
stark bewilderment.
“That was two hours ago,” he went on, “and just now my landlady told me
that when she went up to my rooms to feed the cat she found everything
thrown topsy-turvy. The place looked as if a cyclone had struck it.”
Miss Brown gave a little gasp. Carlin’s pupils contracted in
astonishment. He stared hard at Cole, while a cloud overspread his
face. One arm was stretched out on the desk, and his fingers clenched
and unclenched spasmodically.
“They didn’t lose any time,” he muttered. “I don’t understand, but you
were right, Cole. There’s a traitor among us.”
CHAPTER XV
THE TRAITOR UNMASKED
With his fingers across his lips, Cole enjoined silence. His glance
darted quickly over the floor, the ceiling and the walls. He moved
hither and thither, looking behind desks and filing cases. Finally he
stepped behind Carlin’s desk and gazed speculatively at a panel of
grille work in the wall. He held his hand before it and felt a strong
draft of fresh air. It was obviously a ventilating shaft, and the force
of the current suggested that air was driven into it by fans.
He whirled round and whispered to Carlin and the girl. “Talk,” he said,
“talk on any subject but the one you’re thinking on. Be as natural as
you can.”
Carlin showed plainly that he did not understand, but he nodded
obediently. Cole tiptoed to a typewriter desk in the rear, and in one
of the drawers he found a box containing a number of small tools.
Selecting a screw driver, he went back to the air shaft and loosened
several of the screws that held the grilled panel. In a few moments he
could bend it outward, and now he inserted his hand and ran it up and
down the sides of the shaft.
“Any more of that sauterne left?” he heard Carlin ask the girl.
“About a dozen bottles, I think.”
“We’ll instruct the chef to have it served after the fish course. Just
to celebrate the occasion, you know. Afterward——”
The lawyer ran on with the dogged air of a soldier obeying orders that
he doesn’t understand; but Cole heard no more. A sudden tensing of his
body hinted that he had verified a suspicion. He had found a small
metal disk attached to the opposite side of the air shaft, and to it
was affixed a wire that extended upward. A serio-comic smile twisted
his lips as he rejoined Carlin and Miss Brown. “Guess what I found,” he
said in a whisper.
The other two stared.
“An amplifying disk and a wire that seems to run out on the roof. A
dictaphone in other words. There may be others scattered throughout the
place. My little ruse has shown that these walls have ears.”
The lawyer was too astounded for words. Miss Brown looked fixedly at
Cole, her lips trembling a little at the corners.
“Did I hear you say something about sauterne?” asked Cole in his usual
speaking voice, at the same time motioning them to step farther away
from the shaft in which the disk was hidden. “Favorite drink of mine,
though I take only an occasional drop of such things.” Again he lowered
his voice. “To-night I shall get out on the roof and see where the wire
runs to. Carlin, this is additional proof that there is a renegade
in our midst. The man who posted the hunchback on how to get in here
probably installed the dictaphone. It isn’t safe for us to make a
single move until we have singled him out and rendered him harmless.
We must attend to that even before we consider what is to be done with
the body of Reeves.”
Carlin still seemed a trifle dazed. “You are right, of course,” he
said. “We must get rid of the blackguard at once. It is startling to
think that any one in our organization may be the traitor. How are we
going to find him?”
“Leave that to me.” Cole’s narrowing gaze slanted upward, as if his
thoughts were on the track of an idea. “I have noticed that a man of
that kind nearly always has a flaw in him of some sort. Generally that
flaw is cowardice. That gives us an advantage over him, right at the
start. We’ll play on his cowardice and make him betray himself.”
The lawyer looked somewhat dubious. “How?” he asked.
“I haven’t studied out the details yet,” said Cole, but the slow
twinkle in his eye told that the idea was assuming shape. “You sowed
the seed of a plan in my mind when you mentioned sauterne. But don’t
expect anything spectacular. Sometimes simple measures work best. Can
you arrange to have the whole organization here for dinner?”
The lawyer fingered his chin in a bewildered way. “It could be managed.
Most of them have planned to attend, anyway.”
“Splendid! Now, Carlin, since I am to take charge of the work here,
it would seem only fitting that everybody should drink my health in
sauterne, wouldn’t it?”
“Cer—certainly,” stammered Carlin.
“You could propose the toast yourself. I know you will do it
charmingly. And I want you to see to it that everybody is invited to
drink, including the waiters and the kitchen help. You could explain
that the toast is to be a sort of pledge of allegiance.”
The lawyer looked blinkingly at Cole, searching his face in vain for a
sign that he was jesting.
“I’m not sure there is enough sauterne to go around,” observed Miss
Brown, who evidently shared Carlin’s stupefaction.
“Then use smaller glasses,” suggested Cole. “Besides, in an emergency
the wine can be thinned out. I think you said there were a dozen
bottles. That ought to be enough for one round. I can almost taste
that sauterne already.” He smacked his lips as he consulted his watch.
“Carlin, I wonder if you would mind telephoning my landlady, Gramercy
0099, to see if any messages have been received for me. The bright
youngster who is watching Doctor Latham’s house may have been trying to
reach me. In the meantime, Miss Brown, I am going to ask you to come
with me to the dining room. I want to get a general idea of the seating
arrangement.”
With a long, wondering glance at Cole, the girl conducted him from the
office, while Carlin cleared his husky throat in preparation for the
task assigned him.
“You are a very deep person, Mr. Cole,” the girl observed, as she led
him into the dining room, where tables were set in horseshoe formation.
“I have a suspicion that you are keeping a perfectly gorgeous scheme
all to yourself.”
Cole smiled thinly, while his glance roved over snow-white napery and
brightly polished silver. At times Miss Brown had a naïveté about her
that he found rather alluring.
“I’ll take you into the secret in a few moments,” he promised. “One
confidence deserves another, however. How much longer must I go on
calling you Miss Brown?”
“Don’t you like the name?”
“I do not. I suspect you invented it on the spur of the moment the
other night. It served well enough for a temporary acquaintanceship,
but now its usefulness is past.”
“True,” she admitted. “It was an awkward alias, anyhow. How do you like
Merle Brownell?”
“Much better. One syllable more or less makes a lot of difference at
times. I take it you are the high priestess of The Unknown Seven?”
“Oh, no! I’m only an odd-job expert. My father, who died three years
ago, was the founder of the organization. I have hung around, more
or less, ever since. Most of the time I suspect I am in the way, but
occasionally I manage to make myself useful.”
Cole regarded her with a look that seemed to say, “You’ll pass.”
“You promised to take me into your secret,” she reminded him. “Aren’t
you afraid? How do you know that I’m not the traitor, or traitoress?”
“I know,” said Cole firmly, “but don’t ask me how I know. By the way,
Miss Brownell,” and Cole lowered his voice several octaves, “I see the
wineglasses haven’t been placed yet. Don’t you think you had better
speak to the chef about the sauterne?”
She gave him a puzzled look, then a roguish smile illuminated her
face. “I’m beginning to think the sauterne is the chief ingredient in
that brilliant idea of yours,” she declared, as she left the room. A
few moments later Cole followed, turning toward the laboratory which
Carlin had so proudly shown him. At one wall were several shelves on
which bottles were placed in long rows. After studying the labels, Cole
selected one of the bottles and put it in his pocket.
Miss Brownell was supervising the placing of the wineglasses when he
returned to the dining room. He stood aside and watched silently until
the task was finished and the waiter had left the room. Then he took
the bottle from his pocket and stepped to the table.
“Please guard the door,” he told Miss Brownell, speaking in very low
tones. “If any one wants to enter, keep him out on any pretext you
like.”
She watched him in astonishment while he went to work. The bottle
contained a colorless liquid, and with great care he poured a few drops
into each wineglass.
“Are you going to poison us?” she asked. There was a secretive air
about Cole that seemed to prohibit talking aloud.
“No, the stuff’s harmless. Nothing but spirits of hartshorn. It will
mix with the wine, but only a person with a very sensitive tongue will
notice the queer taste. Such a person, if there should be one among us
this evening, will notice that the wine has an odd flavor, but that’s
all. He won’t be able to identify the added ingredient. The quantity is
too slight.”
“That makes everything very clear of course,” remarked Miss Brownell.
“About as clear as mud.”
Cole went calmly on with his work. “I suppose it has often occurred
to you, Miss Brownell, that the imagination is a great aid to one’s
senses. Tell a person there’s a fire in the next room, and he will
instantly smell smoke, even though he may not have noticed it before.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with what you are doing.”
“A very great deal. When these glasses have been filled with wine, a
person, taking a casual sip of the concoction, will not notice the
queer taste. If he is told, after the second or third sip, that he
has drunk poisoned wine, the peculiar taste will become noticeable at
once. Without stopping to try to identify the queer flavor, he will
instantly become convinced that he has been poisoned, especially if the
circumstances are such that he already has reason to fear that some
such thing is going to happen to him. That’s what imagination does to a
person.”
“Is this some kind of psychological experiment?”
“In a way.” Cole had reached the last glass and was now putting the
bottle in his pocket. “Incidentally it is interesting to note that a
person with an uneasy conscience always has a lively imagination. Not
only can he spot real dangers a mile off, but his guilty conscience
is constantly surrounding him with imaginary ones. It’s a lucky
thing, too. If it wasn’t for such frailties in the human make-up,
we detectives would lose our reputation for achieving brilliant
deductions.”
Miss Brownell smiled soberly as they walked out. “I think we are
going to have a most interesting dinner,” she murmured. “I hope your
psychological experiment will succeed, Mr. Cole. I must run off now and
powder my nose.”
Cole slipped back to the laboratory and replaced the bottle. A few
moments later he met Carlin in the corridor. The lawyer told him that
he had called up Cole’s landlady, but no messages had been received for
him.
“That means Doctor Latham has made no move yet,” said Cole
thoughtfully. “He plays a slow and sure hand.”
The lawyer nodded. “Your landlady seemed quite distracted over the
robbery,” he announced.
“She isn’t the only one. I bet Toots is the most distracted female in
the world, just now.” Cole gazed gloomily into space, and then a tall,
broad-shouldered man approached with an easy swagger. Cole’s lips
twisted into a reminiscent smile, as he recognized the surgeon.
“Hello, Ballinger,” said the lawyer. “Shake hands with Kingdon Cole if
you dare. I wouldn’t blame him if he were to shoot you on sight, but he
has a forgiving disposition. Cole has just agreed to become one of us.”
“Splendid!” ejaculated the doctor, and the two men shook hands. As
their fingers touched, Cole experienced that indescribable something
that comes from contact with a man of strong personal magnetism.
Ballinger’s grip could not have been called energetic, but it
transmitted a subtle electric current.
“You are tackling a man-size job,” remarked the doctor after Carlin
had withdrawn. “You will have a chance to match your wits against the
infernal cleverness of the astutest rogue in the country. I suppose
Carlin has explained the situation to you?”
“He has only given me a few hints. There hasn’t been time for detailed
explanations. All I know is that a colossal project of some sort is on
foot, and that The Unknown Seven is trying to put a crimp in it.”
Ballinger took his arm and led him to the smoking room. He extended
his cigar case, and Cole noticed that his fingers were long, slim,
and finely tapering, the fingers of one having a deft touch, a strong
imagination, and a lively dramatic instinct. Again Cole saw that
Ballinger’s resemblance to Doctor Latham was very slight, extending
only to outward physique. It was the disguise, and the black beard in
particular that had produced the likeness.
“Too bad about poor Reeves,” murmured Ballinger, as he held a lighted
match in his cupped hands. “His life, however, would have been only a
burden to himself and others, so in one sense it is just as well that
he was shuffled off. For professional reasons I regret his death very
keenly. I had hopes of being able to restore his brain to some degree
of normal functioning. If I had succeeded I think he would have told us
a most interesting story, and that, of course, was just what the other
side feared. However, his actions told us a great deal the other night.”
“When he seemed to recognize Doctor Latham in you?”
“Exactly. To that extent the experiment was a complete success. It was
Carlin’s idea, and the credit belongs to him. I merely carried out his
suggestions, and I didn’t particularly relish the task.” He chuckled
apologetically. “Well, the murder of Reeves is additional proof of
the fact that we are fighting a crowd of very ingenious and utterly
conscienceless scoundrels. Evidently they are directed by a master
mind, a genius of the kind we often read about, but seldom meet. You
will admit there’s a great deal of fascination about a rascal of that
type, Cole?”
Cole did not answer, but he remembered the magnetic tug he had felt in
Doctor Latham’s presence.
“I almost envy you the exciting times you will have tracking this
master mind to his lair,” Ballinger went on. “We know some of the
smaller fry in the crowd, Professor Carmody, for instance, but our
efforts won’t lead anywhere until we have found the directing genius.
And when we have found him, Cole, we will be face to face with an
interesting character. Brilliant, resourceful, unscrupulous, and full
of bewildering subtleties, the kind that kills without hesitation the
moment his plans are interfered with. I dare say you have already
suspected who he is?”
Ballinger’s eyes shone with a fine glow of enthusiasm, but it was the
unimpassioned enthusiasm of a scientist who dissects and analyzes.
“Perhaps,” said Cole guardedly. “Haven’t you?”
Ballinger smiled queerly, but the opening of the door and the
announcement that dinner was served forestalled a reply. In the
corridor they were parted by a stream of people, and Cole found an
opportunity to speak a few words in Carlin’s ear. The lawyer nodded
bewilderedly, like one receiving instructions which he does not
understand. He knew Cole had a plan of some sort, but he could not make
even a guess as to what it was.
There were some twenty-five or thirty at the table. Cole found himself
seated between Miss Brownell and Carlin. Inwardly he felt a tingling
sensation, as he contemplated the bombshell he was about to explode
among the diners, but his face showed no sign of it. Now and then he
stole a glance down the two wings of the table. He liked the faces of
the men with whom he was to work. They were an alert, keen-eyed lot,
the kind of men Cole himself would have selected.
“You are a judge of faces,” whispered Miss Brownell, leaning slightly
toward him. “Who is the traitor?”
Cole shook his head. That very question had already occurred to him.
There was not one in the gathering who by his looks could be singled
out as the traitor.
“Whom would you pick?” he whispered back.
Her glance ran quickly up and down the table. He could see that her
woman’s intuition was at work. A queer gleam came into her eyes; her
face hardened for a moment. He tried to trace her glance, but it was
too late.
“It wouldn’t be fair to tell, would it?” she said evasively. “I may be
wrong, you know.”
Cole only smiled. As nearly as he had been able to tell, her glance had
rested for an instant somewhere near the center of the left wing of the
table. He scanned the faces of the men seated there, but none of them
impressed him unfavorably, and he wondered what Miss Brownell could
have based her guess on.
The dinner progressed by easy stages, and the scene which Cole had been
rehearsing in his mind was drawing near. Carlin, seated at his right,
looked nervous, and Miss Brownell’s usually vivacious manner seemed
somewhat dampened. Finally the sauterne was opened and the waiters
filled the glasses. Carlin cleared his throat.
Noisy applause greeted the lawyer’s announcement that Cole had
accepted the management of The Unknown Seven’s activities. Then Carlin
proposed a toast, and it was drunk standing. Cole watched the faces
of the men as they quaffed their wine. In several of them he saw a
vaguely wondering look, telling him that their senses had registered
an impression so faint that as yet their minds had not grasped it. He
sipped his own wine, and he wondered whether he would have been able to
taste the foreign substance if he had not known it was there.
When Carlin finished, Cole got to his feet amid renewed handclapping.
Somewhat bluntly he thanked them for the ovation, and then he veered
sharply to the subject uppermost in his mind.
“I wonder,” he said, “how many of you can look me straight in the eye
and tell me that you are loyal to this organization.”
A breathless hush followed. His very quiet tones had created a profound
impression. In the next instant every pair of eyes in the room was
leveled at him without wavering.
“It seems to be unanimous,” he observed dryly. “One can lie, however,
with his eyes as well as with his tongue, and I know that one among you
is a liar.”
Another period of silence followed, and then came a scraping of feet
and exclamations of incredulity. Cole held up a silencing hand. His
eyes were everywhere, noting each shifting expression in the startled
faces before him.
“One of you has proven false to the organization,” he declared in
short-clipped accents. “I discovered it only a little while ago. I
found positive proof, not only of the treachery, but of the traitor’s
identity as well. He is at this table. He was one of those who only a
few moments ago looked me straight in the eyes. What shall we do with
him?”
Once more came an electric hush. Cole had spoken quietly, but with an
emphasis that carried conviction. He smiled faintly, as he met the
startled glances of the diners. A slight trace of the foreign substance
in the wine was still lingering on his tongue.
“What shall we do with him?” he asked again.
“There’s only one thing to do with a traitor,” muttered some one at
the farther end of the table, and the suggestion was followed by a
chorus of approval.
“And that thing has already been done,” declared Cole with grim
emphasis. “So that it may serve as a warning to others who may be
tempted to betray us, the traitor will die right before our eyes.
Inside one minute the poison that was put into his glass will begin to
take effect.”
Cole pretended to look at his watch, but his glance was gliding swiftly
over the two long rows of faces. He had spoken rapidly, and yet with a
quiet insistence, putting his astounding announcement into the fewest
possible words. The effect he hoped to produce depended upon a quick
assault on the guilty person’s mental faculties, shocking him off
his balance before he had time to digest the statement. In the acute
tension of the moment, the vague impression that he had received while
sipping his wine would suddenly crystallize, and then, with the fear of
death upon him, he could not help betraying himself.
At least such was the psychological effect Cole had intended, and he
had been reasonably sure that the test would succeed. Moments passed
while he stood, watch in hand, glancing out of the tail of an eye
at the faces around the table. Sixty seconds passed, and a look of
diffidence crossed his features. Here and there an impatient mutter was
heard. Carlin was looking up at him with an expression of thinly veiled
disappointment. At length Cole snapped the watch shut. He smiled rather
sheepishly.
“The trick didn’t work,” he said disgustedly. “Yes, I might as well
admit it was only a trick. The traitor was too clever to betray
himself.” With that he sat down, well aware that he had made an
unfavorable impression.
“It was too thin, Cole,” whispered Carlin in his ear. “Too bad you
didn’t consult me beforehand.”
Cole nodded dejectedly. Then he felt Miss Brownell’s gaze on his face.
He turned and saw a knowing twinkle in her eyes.
“It was very clever, Mr. Cole,” she whispered. But for all that her
face indicated she might have given him only a consoling platitude.
“You saw, of course?”
“Yes, I saw enough.” The sheepish grin still lingered on Cole’s lips.
“And you guessed right. The traitor is sitting near the center of the
left wing of the table. Doctor Ballinger is a very astute rascal. It
took him only a fraction of a second to see through my little bluff. He
is smiling behind his palm this very moment. We’ll just let him keep on
smiling for a while, eh, Miss Brownell?”
CHAPTER XVI
GOLD
After dinner Cole looked the picture of a man whose faith in himself
has received a staggering blow. He seemed to take the outcome of his
ruse very much to heart. He moved gloomily among the members of the
organization, getting personally acquainted with a number of the men
on his staff, and all the while he appeared to be making valiant, but
not very successful, efforts to shake off his depression. Carlin did
his best to gloss over the apparent frustration of the scheme, but Cole
proved a hard man to console.
Doctor Ballinger approached him after he had retired into a corner,
and gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard,
old man,” he said cheerily. “Know just exactly how you feel. It’s
embarrassing to turn up a flivver right at the start, but don’t you
mind. Better luck next time. Have a smoke.”
“Thanks,” said Cole dejectedly, as he helped himself to a cigar from
the doctor’s case. “What hurts me most is that I know I was right.
Nothing is so humiliating to a man as to be sure of his facts and not
be able to prove them. I know positively that there’s a black sheep in
this fold. If I had worked the scheme properly——”
“Tut, tut!” interrupted Ballinger. “Your scheme was all right in
principle. You were simply out of luck, that’s all. The traitor, if
you’re right in the assumption that there is such a creature among us,
is probably a very slick customer. No doubt you had him scared stiff
for a moment, but his emotional reaction didn’t last long enough for
him to betray himself. He assumed that you were only bluffing. At any
rate he saw that, having already drained his glass, nothing could be
gained by making a show of himself. In other words his mind outstripped
his emotions, and that’s where your psychology fell down. No matter!
You’ll get him next time.”
Cole walked away, a faint twitching at the corners of his lips. In
the main Doctor Ballinger’s analysis had been correct. He had only
forgotten to mention one little detail. Just as the traitor’s mind
had outstripped his emotions, so had Cole’s alert glance outstripped
both. For just an instant Ballinger had shown all the symptoms of acute
terror. He had shaken them off with superb self-control, but not before
Cole’s eye had registered his momentary confusion.
The revelation that Ballinger was the traitor had given Cole a shock
at first. The doctor was one of the last men in the organization whom
he would have suspected of treachery. Having found him out, Cole saw
no reason for apprising the doctor of the fact. He preferred to let
Ballinger lull himself into a false security until he should show his
hand more plainly. Neither did it seem advisable to Cole to take the
other members into his confidence in regard to his discovery. It would
be hard to keep a secret among so many, and the more hotheaded ones
among them would probably demand drastic action.
As inconspicuously as he could, Cole left the others and withdrew to
the room that had been pointed out to him as his private office. It was
small and comfortable and devoid of the drabness that characterizes
the workroom of the average executive. There was a vase containing red
roses on the desk, and he noticed that the pictures on the wall had
been carefully chosen. He stretched himself out in the swivel chair and
rocked in an experimental way. His glance fell on three white buttons
affixed to the side of the desk. He pushed the one nearest him, just to
see what would happen.
The door opened, and in strode the biggest negro Cole has ever seen.
“Who are you?” he inquired.
“Sambo, sah.”
“And what’s your job, Sambo?”
“Just now mah bussiness is to answer dese heay bells, sah. Dat ain’t
mah reg’lar job, though, but Rufus is done laid up in the hosspittle,
and I’se takin’ his place.”
“What happened to Rufus? Sick?”
“Yas, sah. Mighty sick, sah.” Sambo grinned expansively. “You ought to
know, boss, ’cause you made him sick yusself. Dat was an a’ful wallop
you handed Rufus, sah.”
Cole smiled reminiscently, as he recalled one of the numerous
experiences that had enlivened his first visit to the establishment of
The Unknown Seven.
“Too bad about Rufus,” he remarked. “Now, Sambo, I want you to find
Mr. McKendrick and ask him to come here at once.”
“Yas, sah.” With a profound bow Sambo waddled out.
McKendrick, one of the young operatives with whom Cole had chatted
since the dinner, appeared after a brief wait. He had a clear eye, a
whimsical expression about the mouth that had appealed to Cole on first
sight, and a firmly molded chin.
“Go into the main office,” Cole directed. “You will find a dictaphone
in the ventilator shaft. The wire apparently runs out on the roof.
Trace it to the other end, then report to me.”
“Very well, sir.” As McKendrick walked out, Cole noticed with approval
the easy swing to his shoulders. Once more he touched the nearest
button, and Sambo appeared almost instantly.
“Find Sloane and tell him I want him,” Cole directed.
Sloane entered in a few moments. With his keen intellectual features
and shell-rimmed spectacles he looked a good deal like a college
professor.
“Sloane,” began Cole, “I want you to go to the block in which Doctor
Latham resides. Somewhere in the neighborhood, in a basement entrance
across the street, perhaps, you’ll find a young chap of dilapidated
appearance who answers to the name of Tony Pinto. He’s been watching
the doctor’s house for the past twenty-four hours and must be sadly in
need of food and sleep. Tell him I have sent you to relieve him.”
“I understand perfectly, sir.”
Cole gave him a few more instructions, and then Sloane withdrew. Again
Cole pressed the button, this time to summon a man whom he instructed
to make a thorough search all over the establishment for hidden disks
and wires. When the man had gone, Cole leaned back in his chair and
pondered. He had set the machinery in motion, but the hardest task he
had reserved for himself. Something had to be done very soon about the
body of Reeves. What to do with it was a problem that would demand all
his resourcefulness. Too, a watch must be kept over Doctor Ballinger,
and Cole did not like to delegate that business to any one else. He
expected to learn a great deal from the unsuspecting doctor’s movements
during the next twenty-four hours.
He was deep in thought when a knock sounded on the door. In response to
his rather brusque “Come in,” Miss Brownell entered.
“I’ve been thinking,” she announced.
“So I see,” said Cole, placing a chair for her. Miss Brownell, he
observed, was one of the few women whom he had met who could wear a
thoughtful frown becomingly. Where another woman’s forehead would have
wrinkled, hers merely rippled.
“You have been doing a lot of thinking yourself,” she remarked,
regarding him with that curious impersonal glance of hers.
“Yes, but mostly in the dark,” Cole admitted. “I’m pretty much in the
same fix as the man who walks into a theater in the middle of the
second act. The only thing that’s clear so far is that the principal
actors in this drama seem to be doctors.”
“You refer to Latham and Ballinger, of course. There is still another
doctor involved.”
“Still another? Who is he?”
“In a sense he is the real instigator of the plot, although he died one
hundred and thirty-eight years ago.”
Cole blinked bewilderedly. “Sounds rather ghostly.”
“His name was James Price, an English physician of high repute, who
discovered a method of transforming baser metals into gold. You can
read up on him in history or the biographical encyclopedias, if you
like. He wrote a book entitled ‘An Account of Some Experiments,’ but
it has been out of print a long time and copies are hard to obtain.
Professor Carmody owns one of the few still in existence.”
“Oh!” said Cole, elevating his brows. “So that’s what the mystery is
about? But you don’t mean to tell me that sane men like Latham and
Ballinger are dabbling in the exploded myth of alchemy?”
“I do. And that myth, by the way, seems to die very hard, Mr. Cole.
It’s been exploded and reëxploded since the dawn of history, and yet it
keeps bobbing up every now and then.”
Cole gave a little impatient shrug. “It’s rubbish,” he declared. “I
have managed to forget most of the things I learned at school, but I
seem to recall that modern science has absolutely established the fact
that one element cannot be transformed into another.”
She looked at him amusedly. “We women always smile when you men speak
of absolute facts. The phrase is so delightfully characteristic of
the sterner sex. And the world has moved since you went to school,
Mr. Cole. Science has hedged and quibbled and reversed itself a good
many times on the subject of the transformation of metals. It wasn’t
so very long ago that some one discovered that radium can be produced
from helium, or was it the other way round? Anyway, right there is an
instance of the transformation of one element into another.”
Cole opened his lips to speak, but seemed unable to find the right
words.
“I was telling you about James Price,” Miss Brownell went on. “He
claimed to have discovered a method whereby he could transform sixty
parts of mercury into one part of gold. He was rather secretive about
his discovery and hedged it about with a lot of mystic hocus-pocus.
About all that is definitely known is that a mysterious red powder
figured prominently in the process. The red powder was mixed with
mercury and fluid borax, and the concoction was then put in a crucible
and stirred with an iron rod. The result was gold.”
“The iron rod must have been a magic scepter,” suggested Cole dryly.
“Perhaps; anyway the Royal Society of England got interested in Price’s
experiments and made an investigation. A committee of England’s
foremost scientists went to his laboratory, firmly expecting to expose
Price as a faker or lunatic. I can imagine the long, bewhiskered faces
of those learned old fogies when they put the gold through an assaying
process and found that it proved genuine in every respect.”
Cole’s pupils dilated a trifle, but he looked still dubious.
“What I have told you is a matter of history, amply documented and
supported by incontrovertible evidence,” declared Miss Brownell. “There
can be no doubt but that Price produced a form of gold that proved
genuine on assay. I am now coming to the strangest part of the story.
Having solved this problem, that has tantalized scientific minds since
the beginning of history, Price turned a sort of mental somersault.
Just what happened to him has never become definitely known. Some
still insist that he was a faker, despite the tests that were made.
Others believe that his mind collapsed under the strain, and that he
went insane. That seems to be nature’s way of punishing those who peep
behind the curtain of the unknown, and Price was neither the first nor
the last to go mad on the subject of gold. Still others think that
gold became an obsession with him, a sort of monomania, and that he
could not endure the thought of sharing his discovery with others. Then
there are those who cling to the theory that his production of gold was
nothing but an accident.”
“What happened?” asked Cole.
“The committee of scientists wanted to learn Price’s formula and asked
him to repeat the experiment in their presence. Price refused on the
pretext that his supply of red powders was exhausted. Shortly afterward
he committed suicide by drinking laurel water. It has been generally
supposed that his secret died with him. His book is somewhat vague
in regard to the composition of the red powders. Repeated attempts
have been made to learn exactly what they consisted of, but without
success. Last year, however, Professor Carmody returned from abroad
after browsing in the libraries of the Old World for many months. He
brought back with him a number of faded and forgotten manuscripts, said
to be in Doctor Price’s handwriting. Where he found them, and how he
got possession of them we don’t know, but we do know that they gave him
a clew to the secret which Price guarded so jealously.”
“How do you know?” demanded Cole.
“Our organization has eyes and ears everywhere. However, it was mostly
through accident that we learned what was on foot. I shan’t bore you
with the details. Carmody saw a chance to become enormously rich by
manufacturing gold on a large scale, using Doctor Price’s formula. But
he needed money to swing the enterprise, and so he guardedly approached
a number of wealthy men with a scheme for multiplying their fortunes
many times. Besides he knew that he lacked the executive ability
required to engineer a project of such magnitude. He talked to Malcolm
Reeves so engagingly that Reeves was smitten with the gold fever and
supplied a great portion of the cash that he needed. No doubt he
enlisted the assistance of other rich men in a similar manner. The lure
of gold is a terrible thing, Mr. Cole.”
“A curse,” said Cole. “But what about Latham?”
“Latham is an extremely clever and very versatile man. Though he
practices medicine he has dabbled in various sciences. Perhaps
Carmody needed his assistance in solving some of the problems that he
encountered in working out Price’s formula. However that may be, we
know he has been very close to Professor Carmody for several weeks.”
“Then you think Carmody is the moving spirit in the enterprise?”
“No; Carmody merely supplied the formula and his scientific knowledge.
He is a small man, physically and mentally, with a sharp, but narrow,
intellect, and he is deficient in the qualities required to direct an
enterprise of this sort. Knowing his shortcomings, he was willing to
put the management of the project into stronger hands than his own.”
“Latham’s, for instance?” asked Cole.
“Or Ballinger’s. Both are very shrewd and energetic men, though I
hadn’t thought of Ballinger in that connection until to-night. It is
your job to find the master mind that is directing the operations of
this gold-mad crowd, Mr. Cole. We know that they are already producing
gold, or a substitute for gold, on a very large scale.”
“Where?” inquired Cole quickly.
“That’s another thing for you to find out. In some secluded spot in New
York City or its environs there is a large and fully equipped plant.
From snatches of conversation which we have overheard we know that it
exists, but we haven’t been able to locate it. We also know that the
conspirators feel confident that their product will stand every test,
that it resembles natural gold in every respect. In order to eliminate
all risk, however, they have decided to hold the gold in storage until
the desired quantity has been manufactured. You can imagine what will
happen when a golden flood is suddenly released and poured out over the
country.”
“A few men will become enormously rich over night, and the monetary
system will be utterly disorganized. I suppose the ultimate result will
be the worst panic the world has ever seen.”
“That’s exactly what Mr. Carlin and the others think,” declared Miss
Brownell.
They sat silent for a time, neither looking at the other. Their minds
were stunned by the contemplation of the golden havoc which their
imagination pictured. Cole recalled the look of insane ecstasy which
he had seen in Malcolm Reeves’ face. The words, “Pretty yellow,” which
the insane man mumbled, suddenly assumed a vivid significance. He shook
himself a little.
“I suppose Reeves had a falling out with the others,” he remarked.
“That’s why they first destroyed his mind and afterward killed him.”
“Presumably.” Her eyes looked a little dim, as if they had gazed too
long upon a dazzling vision. “It was about Reeves I was thinking
just before I walked in here and disturbed you. I was wondering why
Ballinger didn’t commit the murder. He had free access to the place and
nobody had any suspicions against him. Why was it necessary to have the
hunchback sneak in here and do it?”
“I think the answer to that question is fairly clear.” Cole’s smile
seemed to say that women, even the cleverest of them, were rather
simple-minded at times. “The job had to be done by an outsider in
order to conceal the fact that the conspirators had an associate in
your midst.”
“But they didn’t conceal it. The ease with which the hunchback got in
and out proved clearly that he was assisted by some one on the inside.”
“That’s so,” admitted Cole, somewhat abashed. “Well, then it’s quite
likely that Ballinger balked at the job. Murder is pretty nasty
business. It is a coarser crime than depriving a man of his reason.
Many criminals of the intellectual type shrink from it.”
“Maybe that was the way of it. There’s another thing that has been
troubling me lately. Who do you think performed the operation on
Reeves?”
Cole stared at her for an instant. “It seems to be pretty well
established that Doctor Latham was the man.”
“Yes, I know that’s what they all seem to think. Their reason is that
Reeves seemed to recognize Ballinger when he was made up to resemble
Latham.”
“It was more than recognition. The sight of Ballinger made up as Latham
fairly terrified the poor man. I’ll never forget how he looked.”
“But isn’t that a flimsy reason for supposing that Latham performed the
operation?”
Cole leaned out of his chair and regarded her closely, as if wondering
whether her intuition was once more at work. “Can you imagine any other
explanation for the way Reeves acted that night?”
“Yes; can’t you?”
Cole shook his head ponderously.
“Just think about it,” she said, smiling faintly; then she rose and
walked out of the room.
For a long time Cole sat very still, with a thoughtful pucker across
his forehead. Once, from force of habit, he reached for his pipe,
frowning when he realized it wasn’t there. Now and then he bent a
quizzical gaze on the chair which Miss Brownell had vacated.
“What the deuce did she mean?” he mumbled. “What else is there to——”
With a jerky motion he sat erect in his chair. He gave the desk in
front of him a vigorous thump.
“By Jove, she wins!” he declared. “There is another explanation. It’s
beginning to look as though——” He checked himself, scowling. “But that
only muddles the situation. What’s the good of an explanation that
doesn’t explain. But I suppose a woman can’t see it that way. They’re
all alike, from Toots down.”
He shrugged as if to banish unprofitable speculations. He suddenly
remembered that there had been weighty things on his mind when Miss
Brownell interrupted his thoughts. He had given several orders to the
men, and he had been studying what to do with the body of Reeves, and
how he might make the most of his discovery that Doctor Ballinger was
the traitor. He jumped from the chair as the physician’s name ran
through his mind. For half an hour or more he had given not a single
thought to Ballinger. He hurried from the office and crossed the
corridor, but a glance into the smoking room reassured him. Ballinger
was sprawled out leisurely in an armchair, evidently in the midst of
an anecdote which he seemed to be relating with great gusto to his
companion.
Cole went farther down the corridor and rapped on the door to Miss
Brownell’s private room. “Wish you would keep an eye on Ballinger for a
while,” he whispered when she opened. She lifted her brows in a knowing
way and nodded. In the main office he found Carlin bent over a stack of
papers. The man seemed a veritable dynamo of energy.
“I’ve been thinking about Reeves,” he said.
Carlin looked up and took an obese cigar from his mouth. “What do you
suggest?”
“That we obey the spirit of the law and blink the letter. The ends of
justice will be met if the murderer is convicted and punished. It won’t
be necessary to drag all the embarrassing details into light.”
“How can it be avoided?”
“I have a plan, but, before I go any farther, I would like to see the
body.”
The lawyer got up. “I would have shown it to you when I took you over
the place, but Miss Brownell was with us then, and you know how women
are about such things.”
He led the way from the room, and they went to the end of the corridor.
There Carlin opened a door, and they stepped in. It was dark, and Cole
could see nothing. He heard a slight scraping sound, as the lawyer ran
his hand over the wall in search of a switch. Then a light flashed on.
Carlin raised an arm and pointed.
“There,” he said a trifle thickly, indicating a shape spread out on a
cot at the farther side of the room.
Cole walked up to the cot and looked down at the dead man. He jerked
back a little as his glance fell on the lifeless face. Then he bent
over the body and gazed fixedly into the rigid features. Finally he
stood up and turned to Carlin, who had remained behind.
“When did you last see the body?” he inquired, and his voice sounded a
trifle husky.
“Why, I think it was this morning. Yes, that was it, about ten o’clock
this morning. Why do you ask?”
“Because—— But see for yourself.”
With a wondering glance at the detective, Carlin crossed the floor. He
looked down at the motionless figure, and suddenly he shrank back a
step. A husky exclamation sounded in his throat, then he slowly raised
his eyes, and for a long moment the two men stared blankly at each
other.
“It—it isn’t Reeves!” stammered the lawyer.
“No—it isn’t Reeves!” echoed Cole.
CHAPTER XVII
IN ROOM 2512
Cole had recognized the dead man at a glance.
It was McKendrick, the young operative whom he had instructed to trace
down the dictaphone wire. That had been only an hour ago, and already
death had blotted out the whimsical expression about the mouth that had
attracted Cole to him from the first.
“Shot through the head,” muttered Cole, noticing a crimson stain just
above the left temple. “He hasn’t been dead more than fifteen or twenty
minutes.”
He turned and looked out through the crack of the open door. A laugh
sounded in the direction of the smoking room. Perhaps Doctor Ballinger
had just told another funny story. Cole closed the door.
“This shows there are no limits to the rascality of those blackguards,”
said the lawyer. “But I don’t see why they should kill McKendrick.”
Cole explained the errand on which he had dispatched the young
detective. “No doubt McKendrick made an important discovery of some
kind,” he added. “That’s probably why he was killed. He must have been
overpowered, either while getting his facts or on his way back here to
report. Probably the latter; that would explain why the body was taken
here. The murderer wanted to conceal his crime as long as possible, and
for a temporary hiding place this room served as well as any other. We
must find out whether Ballinger has been absent from the smoking room
during the last hour or so.”
The lawyer seemed dazed. “But the other body? What happened to it?”
“You are sure it was here this morning?”
“Positive.”
“Could any one have taken it down the private elevator without being
seen?”
“Impossible. Even if such a thing could be done, which is unthinkable,
it is a ticklish job to transport a body through the streets. It is not
yet midnight.”
“Is there any other exit?”
“Only the stairs leading to the roof.”
“Then it is a safe bet that the body of Reeves was taken out that way.
From the roof it could have been slipped down a fire escape in the
rear, and from there—Heaven only knows!”
“But why should such a thing be done? What object could any one have in
doing it?”
“I don’t know, Carlin. I can only make a hazy guess. Being a lawyer
you know better than I do that, with the body missing, it will be
hard to prove the murder of Reeves. I believe the law covering murder
cases provides that, when the _corpus delicti_ cannot be proven,
the commission of the crime must be established by direct, not
circumstantial, evidence. Isn’t that correct?”
“Substantially, yes.”
“And, as I understand it, nobody saw the crime committed. Consequently
there can be no direct testimony in regard to the murder. It appears
that the men we are fighting are playing a very shrewd game.”
The lawyer tried to pull himself together. “But isn’t it your idea that
the men who instigated the murder of Reeves are also responsible for
McKendrick’s death?”
“Presumably?”
“Then why, after going to all that trouble to cover up the first crime,
did they leave the evidence of the second murder in plain sight?”
“Looks a bit contradictory, doesn’t it?” Cole squinted abstractedly at
the form on the cot. It seemed as though the murderers of McKendrick,
in placing the body in the identical spot where that of Reeves had
lain, had gone out of their way to add a spectacular touch to their
crime. “But you may be sure of one thing,” he added. “They had good
reasons for doing what they did. There isn’t any doubt——”
He stopped short, and Carlin gave him a puzzled look.
“Yes, that must be it,” Cole went on in an undertone. “The reason for
what they did is to be found in the one thing that differentiates the
murder of Reeves from that of McKendrick.”
“And what’s that?”
“Reeves was operated upon before he was murdered; McKendrick was not.”
Carlin seemed unable to follow this line of reasoning.
“If there should be an autopsy,” Cole explained, “it might be
discovered that an atrocious operation had been performed on Reeves
before his death. Such an operation could have been performed only by a
skilled surgeon. It would be deduced that the operation and the murder
were perpetrated by the same parties. That would reduce the range of
suspicion down to one class of individuals, surgeons. So, you see, the
body of Reeves constituted a clew to the identity of his murderers.”
Carlin gave him an admiring glance. “First rate!” he applauded. “I’m
glad you are doing the heavy thinking for us.”
“You would have seen it yourself if you hadn’t been upset to-night,”
said Cole modestly. “By the way, it’s just as well not to let the news
of this fresh outrage get out among the men at present. Wish you would
show me the stairs to the roof.”
They left the room, and the lawyer locked the door. A short distance
down the corridor they met Miss Brownell, and Cole recalled that he had
asked her to keep an eye on the physician. Her lips tightened as he
briefly whispered what had happened.
“Do you know whether Ballinger was absent from the smoking room for any
length of time during the last hour and a half?” he added.
“He went out for cigars,” said Miss Brownell. “He explained that his
case was empty, and he smokes only his special brand. When he returned
he accounted for his long absence by saying that most of the cigar
stores in the neighborhood were closed.”
“That explanation is worthy of the doctor,” said Cole. “It’s plausible
and yet simple. A more involved one might have got him into
difficulties, if he should have been checked up on it afterward. Please
watch him, Miss Brownell. If by any chance he should leave, have one of
the men follow him. Now, Carlin.”
The lawyer and Cole stepped into the main office. Suddenly Cole seemed
to recall something. He went to the ventilator shaft which contained
the dictaphone that had cost McKendrick his life. He touched the disk,
and a low mutter escaped him as he found that the wire had been cut.
About a foot and a half of it was dangling from the disk. He turned and
told Carlin what he had discovered.
“Something made them suspicious,” he added. “They cut the wire so we
wouldn’t be able to trace it.”
“They did that after murdering McKendrick,” suggested the lawyer.
“Without a doubt. McKendrick, if he were alive, could probably tell us
where the wire terminated. Now we will have a look at the roof.”
But the door opened just then, and the man who entered was the
operative whom Cole had instructed to search the establishment for
hidden dictaphones. He reported that he had found four in as many
different rooms, but in each instance the wires had been cut. Cole
thanked him and dismissed him.
“It’s a safe bet that all those wires were cut within the last hour or
so,” he told the lawyer.
Carlin led him to the farther end of the office. There he opened a door
and indicated a steep flight of stairs. He was about to proceed up the
stairs, but Cole held him back.
“Wait, Carlin.” Cole took an electric flash light from his pocket and
turned the gleam on the steps. They looked as if they had not been
swept in a long while. He stooped low to examine a number of marks in
the thick layer of dust. Drawing a magnifying lens from his pocket
and slowly moving the electric torch up and down, he made a careful
inspection of the lower steps.
“Two sets of footprints,” he declared. “One set is fairly large and
broad-toed, a number nine and a half shoe, I should say. The other
is a size and a half smaller, also narrower. This tends to show that
McKendrick was followed when he came down from the roof.”
“Why do you suppose he was permitted to leave the roof?” inquired the
lawyer.
“Because the murderer couldn’t aim in the dark. He wanted to make a
sure job of it. Probably McKendrick didn’t know he was followed down
the stairs. Likely as not the shot wasn’t fired until he got down to
the main office. It’s even possible the murder wasn’t committed until
he was out in the corridor. That would explain why the murderer chose
the room at the end of the hall as a temporary hiding place for the
body. If the shooting took place in the corridor, he had to drag or
carry it only a few steps.”
Cole pocketed his flash and lens, and they started up the stairs.
“But wouldn’t the shot have been heard?” asked Carlin.
“Not if the weapon was equipped with a silencer. The smell of the
burned powder was probably sucked up very quickly by the automatic
ventilators.”
Carlin opened a trapdoor overhead, and they stepped out on the roof. Up
there all was wind and gloom. Their footsteps creaked dismally against
the gritty surface. All around them loomed the ghostly shapes of tall
buildings. Masses of clouds hung scowling over their heads, and there
was a suspicion of moisture in the air.
Cole stepped to the fire escape in the rear, the lawyer following. They
looked down over the parapet into a wide court flanked by murky walls.
“Yes,” said Carlin, more to himself than to his companion, “the body of
Reeves was probably carried down this fire escape. It could have been
done.”
Cole nodded. “I wonder,” he said abstractedly, “how far down it was
carried?”
“Have you any reason for supposing that it wasn’t carried clear down to
the ground?”
“No, only a hunch, and most hunches are ridiculous. They go contrary to
facts and logic. But just now I am more interested in what happened to
McKendrick. He must have discovered something very important to warrant
the scoundrels killing him. I wonder what it could have been.”
“The other end of the wire, of course.”
“Something more than that, I think.” Cole gazed down the long stretch
of flights and landings that composed the fire escape. “Criminals of
that type never kill without good cause. Not because they shrink from
murder on moral or humanitarian grounds, but because it is dangerous
and inexpedient. McKendrick must have discovered something that—— By
the way, Carlin, I suppose The Unknown Seven controls the renting of
offices in this building? You told me once that it is property of the
organization.”
“It is, but the members individually have nothing to do with the
management of the building. That is handled through a separate
corporation. Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason. Those infernal hunches are bothering me more
than usual to-night. Suppose you wait here while I investigate.”
Before the lawyer could answer, Cole had flung himself over the parapet
and was gliding down the fire escape with the agility of a chimpanzee.
On the first landing he stopped and once more took out his electric
flash and magnifying lens. Then he turned to the window and carefully
examined the frame in the neighborhood of the fastenings. Tiny marks,
that had a fresh appearance, told him they had been tampered with not
so long ago. McKendrick, following the winding course of the dictaphone
wire, had probably passed through this same window.
In a few moments Cole was inside. Before him stretched a long hall with
doors on either side; but the one to his left was the only one that
interested him. He looked for a moment at the numerals 2512 and the
lettering on the frosted pane. Once before in the past twelve hours the
same sign had confronted him. While tracing Englebreth’s movements in
the early afternoon Cole had come to this same door, and then he had
turned back in the belief that nothing could be gained by going farther.
“Bureau of Civic Research,” he read, wondering whether McKendrick had
followed the course of the wire through this same door. Cole had no
particular reason for thinking so, for at least twenty other doors
opened into the same hall. Yet, in view of Englebreth’s apparent
familiarity with Cole’s movements during the past few days, he could
not help wondering. If the dictaphone wire had extended into suite
2512, then the source of Englebreth’s information was clear.
But the theory explained nothing else, and Cole had no proof that the
wire had entered the office of the Bureau of Civic Research. His only
clew was the scratches on the window frame, and they merely indicated
that McKendrick had been on this floor. For all Cole knew, the young
operative might have continued his search farther down.
Yet the door continued to tantalize him. With a glance over his
shoulder to see if perchance a watchman was near, he tried the knob.
As he had expected, the door was locked, but he stooped and looked
closely at the little circle of brass that formed the outer portion
of the spring lock. The hall light was dim, so he once more took out
his electric flash. Close to the center of the circle, just beside
the keyhole, he saw a slight scratch. It was almost certain now that
McKendrick had picked the lock and passed through the door.
From his pocket Cole drew a bunch of carefully selected keys. Soon the
door was open, and he walked in and quickly closed it behind him. Then
he took out his flash, not thinking it safe to turn on the light, and
made a swift inspection of the premises.
There were two rooms, a larger and a smaller one. After a glance over
the floor and walls, Cole’s face fell. The thing which he had vaguely
and without much reason expected to find was not there. It was just
an ordinary suite of offices, containing the ordinary set of office
furniture. A glance into the filing cabinets left him in no doubt as to
the bona-fide character of the Bureau of Civic Research.
On one of the desks in the inner office were several typewritten
letters. At the top of each sheet were printed the name of the concern
and a list of its officers, and he noticed that Englebreth was
mentioned as one of the honorary vice presidents. The letters had, in
fact, been dictated by Englebreth, for in the lower left-hand corner
of each one were the initials HE-MS. No doubt he had dictated them
that afternoon and expected to sign them later. A glance told Cole
that they pertained to political matters and dealt in detail with the
availability of a certain candidate for alderman.
He put the letters down. They confirmed a theory that he had formed
that afternoon that the Bureau of Civic Research was a hobby of
Englebreth’s. Like many another rich man, his former client presumably
felt the need of justifying his existence in some way. Cole felt
satisfied on that point, but there were other doubts in his mind.
It was just possible that the rooms of the bureau were being used
clandestinely by persons who were in the habit of sneaking in there
at night. Being close to the fire escape they were within easy
reach of the headquarters of The Unknown Seven. The guess was rather
far-fetched, but it seemed to explain several things.
Knowing that Carlin was waiting for him on the roof, and seeing that
his quest was unavailing, Cole put out his flash and moved toward the
door. He had advanced only a few steps when something prompted him to
halt. A vague impression that some one had stopped outside the door
came to him. He tiptoed to a corner of the room and waited. Presently
he heard a key grate in the lock, and then the door came open. It was
beginning to look as though his suspicions had been correct, that
persons other than the regular tenants were visiting the offices at
night.
A light appeared in the outer room. Next he heard some one move across
the floor. From his position, in the corner of the inner office, Cole
could not see who the newcomer was, and he did not care to make his own
presence known just yet.
The footsteps were coming toward him, and Cole pressed close to the
corner, as a figure appeared in the doorway. The footfalls gave him a
queer sensation. He thought he recognized the plopping little sounds,
suggestive of a walker who, instead of putting most of his weight on
his heels, places his entire foot on the ground at once.
While still within the doorway the newcomer reached out a hand and
touched a switch on the inner wall. In the light that suddenly
appeared, Cole saw that he had identified the footfalls accurately. The
man was Professor Carmody, and Cole’s eyes narrowed as he recognized
him. The scientist wore a faded silk hat and a long overcoat, just
as Cole had seen him when he walked into Doctor Latham’s house the
day before, and under his arm he carried a large umbrella. He walked
straight to the middle of the office before he saw Cole, and then he
stopped so abruptly that it seemed as if his gaunt form would topple
over.
“Hello,” he said, staring out of his small, mouse-colored eyes. His
long nose, much too large for symmetry, was turned up, and his parted
lips showed two rows of yellow teeth. He was plainly embarrassed, and
to conceal the fact he grinned ostentatiously.
“Good evening, professor,” said Cole, stepping forward. Though this was
their first meeting at close quarters, he had reason to believe that
Carmody knew who he was. Miss Brownell, he recalled, had told him that
the professor was well aware that Cole had been watching him from a
distance for some time.
“Are you connected with the Bureau of Civic Research, professor?” Cole
went on.
“In a way, yes,” said Carmody. He had a very thin voice that had a
habit of rising to a shrill pitch, or falling to a faint murmur,
without regard to what he was saying. He peered at Cole in an
apologetic way. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you
before.”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Carmody wagged his head. “I can’t say that I do.”
“Too bad, professor. I was in hopes that you would remember me. One
doesn’t like to ask favors of strangers.”
“Favors?” Carmody’s face took on a forbidding frown. “You wish to ask a
favor of me?”
“Just a slight one. There is a book in your library that is very hard
to obtain, and I am very anxious to read it. The author is one James
Price.”
The professor looked at him hard and long. “You are mistaken,” he said
finally in a very low tone. “The author whom you mention is not in my
collection. May I ask what led you to think that I own the book in
question?”
“A little bird told me.”
“You take your information from curious sources.”
“One has to, sometimes. By the way, professor, aren’t you keeping
rather queer office hours? It is, let me see, a quarter past one.”
“I might ask the same question of yourself.”
“That’s so; you might.”
“I might also ask what you are doing here. It is my impression that you
do not belong on the premises.”
“Hope I am not in the way. Please go ahead and attend to whatever
business brought you here.”
But Carmody seemed in no hurry. Cole could not know whether it was
because he had abundant leisure on his hands, or because he did not
care to attend to his business in another man’s presence, but it was
evident that the professor was not disposed to gratify his curiosity.
Now and then his mousey little eyes moved furtively about the room,
and once they rested in a designing way on one of the flat-top desks.
Cole, following his glance, was vaguely puzzled.
“Pardon me, but aren’t you trespassing?” inquired Carmody after a pause.
Cole folded his arms and smiled genially. “You are not going to order
me out, I hope?”
“Suppose I should do that?”
“I would overlook your rudeness and refuse to take the hint. If you
insisted, I might invite you to try to put me out. If you should make
such an attempt and fail at it, I would suggest calling the police to
your assistance. But I don’t think you will go that far, professor. You
might be called upon to explain your own presence here, and that would
prove embarrassing.”
There was a calculating gleam in Carmody’s eyes. Cole, with a picture
in his mind of Carlin waiting for him impatiently on the roof, was
anxious to bring the interview to a climax. He had no intention of
leaving until he had learned the object of the professor’s visit.
Once more Carmody looked stealthily about the room, and again his
glance rested on the desk. Cole’s lids narrowed, as he perceived that
the desk, which seemed to be the object of the professor’s interest,
was the one on which lay Englebreth’s unfinished letters. There
were three other desks in the room, so it seemed odd that Carmody
should center his attention on this particular one. Cole had already
discovered that the drawers were empty, and that the desk contained
nothing except the papers lying on top. Strange though it seemed, it
looked as though the scientist’s visit to the office at this late hour
was in some way concerned with the letters Englebreth had dictated that
afternoon.
The theory seemed rather far-fetched, so Cole decided to test it. He
moved leisurely about the room a few times, then stopped before the
desk at which the professor’s sly glances had been directed. In a
casual manner he picked up the letters, looked hastily at two or three,
then folded them across the middle and stuck them into his pocket.
He knew, even before the letters reached his pocket, that his suspicion
had been well founded. Carmody had watched his every move with growing
excitement. His expression had changed from bewilderment to dismay, and
finally his face took on a look of sullen determination.
“What are you doing with those letters?” he demanded.
“Taking them home,” said Cole easily, at the same time moving toward
the door.
“Wait!” said the professor sternly.
Cole turned around and watched him with amusement. “What’s the matter?”
he asked innocently. “What are these letters to you?”
“You shall not leave this office with them. Give them to me at once.”
He reached out a hand, and Cole saw that it trembled. Evidently he
was desperately intent upon obtaining possession of the letters. Cole
was at a loss to understand, for he knew that the epistles dealt with
political affairs that could be of no vital concern to a man like the
professor.
“Don’t excite yourself,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing in these
letters that would interest you. They contain nothing but dry political
rot. What do you care about that sort of thing?”
“Are you going to surrender them?” demanded Carmody, and the words
sounded like an ultimatum.
“I’ll promise to consider it if you will tell me why you want them.”
The professor regarded him queerly. A look of bewilderment crossed his
sullenly determined face. His crafty little eyes seemed to be trying to
read Cole’s hidden thoughts. “Why pretend you don’t know?” he asked;
then, in wheedling tones: “Come now! The joke has gone far enough. I
know you are only trying to tease an old man. The letters, please.”
Cole shook his head. Carmody’s very insistence upon obtaining the
letters was reason enough why Cole should not give them up. Once more
he started for the door, but a sharp “Wait!” interrupted his progress.
Cole turned slowly and looked into the barrel of a pistol in Carmody’s
hand.
“My dear friend,” said the professor in his softest, lowest tones,
“please do not force me to take drastic measures. It would grieve me
exceedingly to have to deal harshly with you. The letters, please!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
Cole’s only response to Professor Carmody’s soft-spoken ultimatum was a
smile. He knew that the scientist was the kind of foe who is the most
dangerous when he uses his gentlest tones. It struck him as droll that
he was risking his life for the sake of a few letters which, as far as
he could see, he could put to no earthly use. He would not know what
to do with them even if he should be able to depart with them safely.
It was only Carmody’s earnestness in the matter that convinced him the
letters must have a hidden significance.
“Well, professor,” he said easily, “it looks like a deadlock. I don’t
want to give up the letters, and you seem in no hurry to shoot.”
The professor smiled still more blandly and took a tighter grip on the
pistol. Cole believed he would shoot rather than see him depart with
the letters. There was a certain grimness about the gaunt form and the
sallow face which warned him that Carmody was playing a desperate game
for high stakes. As often happens in tense moments, his mind turned to
trivial things. He pictured Carlin waiting peevishly on the roof. He
imagined Ballinger in the midst of another humorous yarn. A ludicrous
vision of the hunchback, chained to the operating table in Doctor
Latham’s house, flitted through his mind.
But the pistol in Carmody’s hand baffled him. He felt no fear, but
neither did he care to throw his life away needlessly. Once before in
the past forty-eight hours he had looked into the muzzle of a pistol,
but that one had been in Doctor Latham’s hand. He had laughed then
and dared the physician to shoot, knowing that Latham, whatever other
villainies he might be guilty of, was not the type that can shoot down
a defenseless man in cold blood. He was too proud and high-spirited for
that. With Carmody it was different. The professor was made of coarser
stuff. He was not hampered by considerations of chivalry and fair play.
He would shoot as soon as Cole’s back was turned.
And so he restrained the impulse to laugh in the professor’s face and
walk away. He preferred to bide his chance and watch for a sign of
wavering in the hand that held the pistol. Growing tired of waiting, he
decided to try a little stratagem that he had found successful in the
past. It was a simple trick and based on one of the many queer antics
of the human mind.
He looked away from the pistol and began to gaze fixedly at a point on
the opposite wall. Moments passed and grew into minutes, and still he
stared rigidly, not a muscle in his face moving. His eyes were slanting
upward, at a level of about a foot and a half above the professor’s
head. The latter could not see what he was looking at, for he dared
not turn his head, knowing that Cole would jump the moment he did
so. At first he was mildly puzzled. Then his face showed signs of
bewilderment. His curiosity changed into nervous concern.
By and by he seemed plainly worried. It was evident that Cole’s fixed
and silent scrutiny of something which the professor could not see was
seriously affecting his nerves.
Cole’s rapt expression did not change in the slightest degree. He just
looked and looked at that blank point somewhere behind the professor’s
back and just above his head. Carmody grew more and more disconcerted.
A tension, which he was doing his best to check, was taking hold of
him. He shifted from one foot to the other. A sense of something weird
and unaccountable was stealing over him, despite his scientific poise
of mind.
At last came the chance for which Cole had waited. It was merely an
uneasy flicker in Carmody’s eyes, accompanied by a slight turn of
the head. It was not much, but Cole knew that, for the moment, the
professor’s mind was diverted from the pistol. It was risky, but he
might not get another chance. He flexed his muscles, and leaped, first
to one side, then straight at Carmody, wrenching the pistol from his
hand.
A squeallike cry broke from the professor’s lips. Cole chuckled as he
ran. The scientist started in pursuit, but Cole slammed the door in
his face. In another instant, putting the pistol in his pocket, he was
climbing through the window. Soon he was hurrying up the fire escape. A
dark figure, with coat tails flapping in the wind, hastened toward him,
as he swung over the parapet and landed on the roof.
“Where on earth have you been?” asked Carlin reproachfully. “I was just
on the point of going down to look for you.”
“Is there a man on the staff who understands ciphers?” inquired Cole,
taking the lawyer’s arm and hurrying him down from the roof.
“Ciphers? Why, yes. Findlay Abbott is one of the best cipher experts in
the country. What do you want of him?”
“Find him and send him to my office,” said Cole hurriedly. Leaving the
bewildered lawyer several paces behind, he ran down the corridor and
entered his office. He had been there only a few moments when Abbott, a
fat and pink-faced little man, trundled in. Behind him walked Carlin.
Cole took the letters from his pocket and handed them to the expert.
“See if you can make anything out of these, Abbott,” he directed. “All
I know about them is that they are so important to one man that he was
ready to shoot me on account of them. They may be in code.”
Abbott looked as though he relished the task. He sat down, wiped his
spectacles, and fell to work. In the meantime Cole told the lawyer of
the episode in room 2512.
Carlin’s eyes popped as he listened. He glanced with keen interest
at the papers under Abbott’s nose. “You don’t think the offices of
the Bureau of Civic Research are the headquarters of the gang we are
fighting?”
“No,” said Cole thoughtfully. “In the morning you might inquire of
your agent how long the bureau has been located there. From what I
saw, though, it looked as though the concern was on the square. It’s
more likely that certain parties are using the offices as a listening
post, because of their close proximity to this establishment. Knowing
that we are fighting them, those fellows naturally want to find out how
much we know and what our plans are. I have a strong suspicion that the
dictaphone wires ran into the rooms below. What do you make of those
letters, Abbott?”
But Abbott was too deeply engrossed in his task to hear the question.
The other two watched him in silence for a time. His puckered brow told
that the letters presented a knotty problem. Finally he looked up.
“No code here,” he declared. “These are just ordinary letters.”
“Sure of that?” demanded Cole sharply.
“As sure as one can be of anything. I’ll wager my salary for the next
ten years that these are just plain letters.”
“Then why did Carmody——” Cole suddenly gave the desk a resounding
thwack. A light of comprehension dawned in his eyes. “I take my hat
off to the professor. He is a slick little trickster. He wanted to get
me away from there, having private business to attend to, and so he
pulled the wool over my eyes and made me think that these letters were
a matter of life or death. Carlin, I’m a boob!”
He bounded from the office, leaving the lawyer and Abbott to stare
at each other. He was angry, but only with himself. For the crafty
professor he felt an unwilling admiration, but he was also determined
not to let Carmody have the last laugh.
The discovery that Englebreth’s letters were genuine had given him a
sharp mental jolt. A suspicion had been gradually assuming shape and
clarity in his mind, but the cipher expert’s report had uprooted it
completely. All that those letters now meant to Cole was a wasted hour
and a sense of humiliation.
He hurried up to the roof, then down the fire escape, and soon he
stood once more outside the door of room 2512. Carmody had had ample
time to dispose of whatever business had brought him there, but it was
just possible that he had not yet left, so Cole entered as quietly as
he could. The moment he closed the door behind him he knew he was too
late. The light that appeared at his touch on the button revealed two
empty rooms.
Cole moved forward, looking sharply over walls and behind furniture.
Perhaps Carmody had accidentally left some clew to his mysterious
errand. It was even possible that Cole might get an inkling as to the
discovery that had cost McKendrick his life. He searched carefully, but
at first with no results. There were fresh, but very faint, footprints
on the floor, and he could easily locate the spot where he and Carmody
had stood, while the professor was pointing the pistol at him. Which
way had Carmody turned after Cole left the offices? The footprints
reached to the door and then back into the inner office. Evidently
Carmody had locked himself in before attending to his errand. With some
difficulty Cole traced the faint marks across the floor, muttering a
short exclamation when he found that they led straight to the safe,
standing in a corner of the room.
Cole had given the safe only a cursory glance on his previous visit
to the office. Carmody’s entrance had prevented him from making a
more careful examination. Now he saw that the safe was one of the best
and latest makes. There was a look of freshness about the blue steel
surface and the bright nickel trimmings which suggested it had not
been there long. He remembered that this particular brand of safe, in
addition to its other advertised merits, was supposed to be air-tight
and absolutely burglar proof. It seemed rather large for a concern
whose affairs were transacted in two small rooms, but, perhaps, it had
been selected with a view to growing needs.
The course of the footprints made it plain that Carmody’s errand had
been related to the safe in some way, but that was as far as Cole’s
deductions reached. Whether the professor had removed something from
the steel box, or put something in, he had no means of knowing, and the
locked door prevented him from gratifying his curiosity on that point.
It did not stop him from exercising his imagination, however. With a
grim nod and a tightening of the lips he made a guess in regard to
Carmody’s business with the safe.
There was nothing more he could do for the present, so he made his
way back to the headquarters of The Unknown Seven. In the hall he met
Carlin.
“Well?” asked the lawyer. “Found out anything?”
“The more I find out about this case the less I know,” confessed Cole.
“All the same, I think I know what it was McKendrick saw that cost him
his life.”
Carlin’s brows came up.
“But I’m not going to tell you what it was,” Cole added quickly. “I may
be mistaken, you see, and I don’t propose to jeopardize my reputation
with you. By the way, there’s a new safe in number 2512, as nifty an
article of that kind as I ever saw. Pretty good size, too. Big enough
for a man of your dimensions to sit down in, Carlin.”
“You’re not going to ask me to crawl into it, I hope?”
“No, nothing like that. I just have a hunch that in the morning that
safe is going to be taken out of 2512.”
“Anything unusual in that?”
“Nothing at all, and that’s just what certain parties are counting
on, I think. There are times when it is expedient to do the unusual
thing under cover of the usual. I want you to detail a man to see what
happens to that safe, Carlin.”
The lawyer nodded, but in the next instant his eyes opened wide in
astonishment. “You don’t think that——”
“As I said before,” Cole interrupted, “I don’t care to risk my
reputation on a guess that may prove unfounded. Seen anything of
Ballinger lately?”
“Not for half an hour or so. Been busy in the main office.”
Cole gave him a keen glance. “What’s the matter, Carlin? You look
worried.”
The lawyer forced a smile. “It’s just a—a premonition. I guess that’s
what you would call it. I have a feeling that the gang knows we are
closing in around them, and that they are getting ready to cash in. We
must strike quickly, or it will be too late.”
“I don’t know but what you are right. I’ve felt something of the same
kind myself. We must not only strike quickly, but with both fists.” As
if he had meant it literally, Cole looked down at his clenched hands.
“But where, Cole? Where are we going to strike? We don’t know who the
leader of the gang is. That is, we can’t be sure. We don’t know where
the plant is located. We don’t even know——”
“You make me dizzy,” said Cole with a chuckle, and then he turned
abruptly and walked into his private office. There he pressed a button,
and in a few moments Sambo entered.
“Ask Miss Brownell to step in here,” Cole told the big negro.
Sambo’s eyes opened wide, showing a generous expanse of white. “Why,
she done lef’ a hour ago, sah. She went out in a mighty rush, too.”
“Sure of that, Sambo?”
“Course I’s sure. I seed her mahself. It was just after Doc Ballinger
lef’, sah.”
“Doctor Ballinger?”
“Yes, sah. The doc looked lahk he was wurried. The wurriedest man I
eveh seed, sah. He tried not to let on, but he didn’t fool mah a-tall,
sah.”
“And you say Miss Brownell left shortly afterward?”
“Yes, sah. Not more’n a minute, sah.”
Cole jumped up from his chair. For a moment he stared at the gigantic
negro, then waved a hand in dismissal. He had instructed Miss Brownell
to put one of the men on Ballinger’s trail, in case the physician
should go out. Now it seemed evident that the girl herself had started
out to shadow the doctor. Cole could only hope that her audacity would
not lead her into trouble. His acquaintance with women had been only
casual, and he had an impression that they either fainted in a crisis,
or else burst into tears. Miss Brownell was, of course, a variant from
the usual type, but just the same——
Cole sat down again. After all, he could do nothing for the present,
and Miss Brownell seemed to have a surprising capacity for taking care
of herself. He would stay close to the telephone, and, in due time,
she would undoubtedly call him up. He waited, but the instrument at
his side remained tantalisingly silent. When at length it shrilled a
summons, he jumped nervously.
But the person calling was not Miss Brownell. Instead, it was Sloane,
the operative whom Cole had detailed to watch Doctor Latham’s
residence. Latham and the hunchback had been far from his mind for
several hours.
“What is it, Sloane?” he asked quietly.
Sloane reported that for the last hour a mysterious light had appeared
at intervals in one of the windows of the doctor’s house. It might mean
anything or nothing, and Sloane did not know what to make of it, so he
was telephoning in for instructions.
“Stay where you are,” Cole told him. “I’ll be with you in a little
while.”
For a few moments longer he sat at the desk, his mind working quickly.
It was just possible that at Latham’s house he would find some clew to
the movements of Ballinger and Miss Brownell. There was a fog in his
mind, the result of too many conflicting developments, but there were a
few things that seemed clear.
Soon he was out on the street. In less than half an hour he reached
the corner nearest Latham’s house and walked east on the opposite side
of the street. He cast sharp glances into the shadows along the row of
buildings. Suddenly he stopped. “Sloane,” he said in a low tone.
The scholarly looking operative stepped out of a gloomy doorway. “Glad
you came, sir,” he whispered. “Things look queer.”
“What about the light you mentioned?”
“It comes and goes, every two minutes or so. Look! There it is!”
He pointed to a window on the second floor of the physician’s
residence. A small, flickering light had just appeared. It wavered
for a few moments, then faded out. The two men waited in silence, and
presently the mysterious light came back. All the other windows were
dark, and the solitary glow had an eerie look.
“Stay here,” said Cole. “Don’t move unless I signal you by whistling
three times from one of the windows.”
Briskly he crossed the street. A bunch of skeleton keys rattled in his
hand, as he vanished from sight in the dark basement entrance.
CHAPTER XIX
A WARNING
Very softly Cole crept up the stairs. On the ground floor he stopped
for a moment and listened. A heavy silence seemed to hover over the
entire house. He stole up another flight of stairs and turned toward a
door in front. The knob turned noiselessly in his hand, but the door
was locked. He stooped and tried to peep through the keyhole, but he
could see nothing.
A few moments passed; then a slight scratching sound, like that
produced when a match is struck, was heard within. At the same time a
faint glow was visible through the keyhole. It lasted for ten seconds
or so, and then all was darkness again. It was evident now that the
intermittent glow which Cole had seen from the sidewalk had been
produced by some one striking a number of matches.
Suddenly he stood erect, listening. For a moment he thought he had
heard a slight sound, coming from somewhere below, but apparently he
had been mistaken. He had entered so quietly that it did not seem
possible Doctor Latham’s sleep could have been disturbed by his
movements. Again he fixed his attention on the door, for once more
a scrrrrch came from the room. Through the keyhole, just before the
fluttering light went out, he caught a glimpse of the hunchback.
Cole was puzzled. What could the hunchback be doing, and what did
the frequent striking of matches mean? He waited, uncertain what to
do, but strongly tempted to open the door with one of his skeleton
keys. Moments passed, and he listened in vain for further repetitions
of the scratching sounds. Instead, he heard what sounded like a
half-suppressed chuckle. Evidently the hunchback had found something
that pleased him. A faint tinkle came through the keyhole, followed by
a louder sound, like that of a heavy object being dragged across the
floor. Then silence.
Cole felt in his pockets for his bunch of keys, but he quickly withdrew
his hand and cast a glance over his shoulders. This time he knew he
was not mistaken. Some one was moving about on the floor below, but
so softly that Cole’s keen ears detected only a faint suspicion of a
sound. His eyes darted to left and right in search of a hiding place,
but the best he could find was the corner back of the stairway railing.
He pressed against the wall and crouched low.
Some one was coming up the stairs. He was determined to learn as much
as he could before he made his presence known. The meager light from
the little electric bulb in the ceiling revealed a sweep of bald
cranium, by which he easily identified Doctor Latham. Perhaps he had
been awakened by the hunchback’s movements, or perhaps Cole’s entrance
had partly aroused him, and he had just now become fully awake.
The doctor swept past him without a glance in his direction and moved
straight toward the room occupied by the hunchback. There he stopped,
took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He pushed it open
and stood in a listening attitude. Even from his remote position in the
rear of the hall, he could hear a lusty snoring. It was strange, since
he knew that the hunchback had been wide awake only a few minutes ago.
Evidently the fellow was up to a ruse of some kind.
Suddenly Latham turned and walked quickly toward the rear. For a moment
Cole thought he had been discovered, but the doctor took only half a
dozen steps down the hall. Standing on the stairway railing he removed
the electric bulb from its socket in the ceiling, then entered the
hunchback’s room. The hall was now dark, and Cole thought it safe to
come forward. He reached the door just as a light appeared within.
Peeping through the crack between the door and the jamb he saw that the
physician had attached the bulb to a wall fixture. Now he was standing
beside the operating table to which the hunchback had been linked for
the past twenty-four hours, leaning over the motionless figure lying on
it.
He mumbled something beneath his breath, then gave the hunchback’s
shoulder a vigorous shaking. The snoring stopped. The fellow sat up
with difficulty and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
“You needn’t pretend,” said Latham. He was arrayed in the same dressing
gown in which Cole had seen him once before. “I know you haven’t been
sleeping. Where did you find these matches?”
He pointed to a litter of charred stubs on the floor. The hunchback
eyed him stolidly and shrugged his misshapen shoulders.
The doctor’s glance went to an old battered safe in a corner of the
room. He stepped up to it and tried the lock.
“Thought you might be tempted to while away the time by investigating
this old safe of mine,” he declared. “I removed the bulb on purpose, so
you wouldn’t make much headway with it. Not that you would have found
much if you had opened it, only a few papers.”
Again he gazed at the charred fragments scattered over the floor. Cole,
looking through the narrow crack, saw a puzzled frown on his bearded
face. The room was small, and the conglomeration of articles in it
suggested it was used in part for storage purposes. The scattered match
stubs perplexed Cole as much as they did the doctor.
“There might have been a box in one of the bureau drawers,” muttered
the physician. “I suppose that’s where you found them. I don’t see,
though, what pleasure you derive from burning up a lot of matches.”
Cole was watching the hunchback’s face. A look of sly satisfaction
lurked in the sallow features. Once the fellow bent a squinting glance
on some object across the floor, but all Cole could see at that
particular point was a dilapidated trunk. His bewilderment grew. The
scene between the physician and the hunchback was not exactly what he
might have suspected. He sensed a hidden element in it. He was aware of
a curious strain and tension in the air.
“I thought I heard you drag the table over the floor,” remarked the
doctor. “You were not doing it just for exercise. What was your idea?”
Again a look of secret elation crossed the hunchback’s face. He jingled
the steel links that held one of his hands to the table.
“Aw, can’t a guy move about a bit if he wants to?” he asked. “Sittin’
still in one place all the time gets on a feller’s nerve. I didn’t do
no harm.”
The physician regarded him searchingly. Evidently he, too, had seen
the furtive smirk in the hunchback’s face. He stepped briskly to the
operating cot and shook the fellow’s arm.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he remarked. “You have been up to some
kind of deviltry, my man. Now——”
The sentence ended in a gasp. In a twinkling the hunchback had wrenched
his arm free of the doctor’s grasp. Cole was amazed at the swift play
of his fingers. He could scarcely see what was happening, but a loop
fell down over the physician’s head and was tightened around his throat
with a quick jerk. He spluttered and choked, while the hunchback
snickered gleefully.
“I got yuh now!” declared the little man, drawing the loop still
tighter. The doctor wriggled and squirmed, but the constriction at his
throat weakened his efforts. The whole scene seemed unreal to Cole.
It took him several moments to realize that Latham was being garroted
by the man who had found refuge in his house after murdering Malcolm
Reeves.
He bounded forward, and a well-aimed blow sent the hunchback reeling
back over the operating table. The garrote, made up of two shoe laces
tied together, had bitten deep into the flesh around the doctor’s
throat. His eyes bulged, and his gaping lips were bloodless. A hoarse
rattle sounded in his throat, as he struggled for breath.
In a short time the noose was undone, and the physician sank into a
chair. While he sucked air into his lungs in great gulps he looked
queerly at Cole. The hunchback lay sullenly silent on the table.
“Your visit was very opportune this time,” murmured Latham, as soon as
he began to breathe more easily. “Where did you come from?”
Cole signified with a shrug that the matter was of no importance.
“What’s gotten into this protégé of yours?” he asked with a glance at
the hunchback. “Did he go crazy all of a sudden?”
“Oh, no; he’s as sane this moment as he ever was or ever will be. I
knew he would kill me if he got a chance, and so I did all I could to
deprive him of the opportunity.”
There was doubt and bewilderment in Cole’s gaze. “But why should he
kill you? I thought——”
“Yes, I think I know what you thought,” interrupted the doctor. “For
a man of keen intellect you have a singular capacity for getting
things twisted. I suppose, however, it isn’t to be wondered at under
the circumstances. Wonder where the fellow got those shoe laces. I
thought I had removed from his reach everything that might serve as an
implement of murder.”
Cole stepped to the trunk at which the hunchback had been squinting
from time to time. He lifted the lid, and the first thing he saw was a
pair of old shoes from which the laces had been removed.
Latham looked at him in surprise. “That trunk was locked this morning,”
he remarked.
“The lock is a very simple one,” Cole observed. “Even a man with only
one arm could pick it without much trouble. With a supply of matches
handy, the removal of the electric bulb didn’t give him much of a
handicap. You seem to lead a very exciting life, doctor.”
The doctor smiled. He felt quite at ease again. He got up from the
chair and strolled over to the table where the hunchback lay.
“You are really very simple,” he declared. “Didn’t you know that
murdering me wouldn’t help you out of your predicament? Why, you would
have starved to death if you had carried out your attempt.”
“Guess again.” The fellow leered insolently. “My pals woulda found me
before long. To-night, maybe.”
“What’s your grudge against the doctor?” inquired Cole. “Why did you
try to kill him?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” retorted the hunchback, wagging his head in
the physician’s direction.
“Our friend doesn’t seem very communicative,” observed Latham. “I don’t
think he will attempt any more mischief to-night. Suppose we go down
and sample one of my cigars?”
Cole assented, but not until he had searched the hunchback and removed
a handful of matches. He believed the doctor knew the motive behind the
murderous attempt. There was a fog in his mind, for the scene he had
just witnessed did not seem to harmonize with his previous observations.
“You are a cool one, doctor,” he remarked when they were down in the
consultation room and the physician had passed his box of cigars.
“Life hardens one. I sometimes wish I hadn’t lost my emotional
susceptibilities. They are the things that give color and tone to life.
Life without thrills is a barren desert.”
Cole suddenly recalled his original errand. He bent forward and looked
the doctor full in the eyes. “There is one question I want to ask. You
may not be able or willing to answer it. Where is Miss Brownell?”
The question acted like an electric shock on the physician, upsetting
his magnificent composure as nothing else could have done. A suspicion
of pallor crept up beneath the black beard.
“What about her?” he demanded sharply. “Has anything happened to her?”
Cole smiled amusedly. “For a man who has lost his emotional
susceptibilities you manage to work up quite a lot of feeling over a
simple question. You know the lady I am referring to?”
“Why—er—slightly.”
Cole gave him a hard, searching glance. He felt the doctor had
deliberately understated the truth. “Miss Brownell disappeared this
evening,” he announced. “I came here in the hope of learning something
of her whereabouts from you.”
“Why from me?” Latham was laboring under a tension that he tried hard
to suppress.
“Several trails seem to point in your direction, doctor. Do you know
what has become of Miss Brownell?”
Latham gripped the arms of his chair. “I swear I haven’t the faintest
idea,” he declared, looking Cole straight in the eyes.
Cole believed him. There was something in the doctor’s tone and
manner that carried conviction. He knew that for once the man was
not shamming. His gaze cut deep into the physician’s bewildering
personality, and he found not a trace of duplicity.
“What is Miss Brownell to you?” he asked bluntly. “Not in love with
her, are you, doctor?”
The bearded lips parted in a faint smile. “I admire her immensely.
Have known her for a long time. Was a friend of her father’s. A very
charming young person indeed. But at my age one hesitates before he
permits himself to fall in love. Besides, Miss Brownell is not likely
to entertain any romantic notions in regard to me.”
Cole nodded thoughtfully. Despite the doctor’s light tone and airy
gestures, the real Dickson Latham stood revealed before him.
“I understand, doctor,” he said meaningly. “I see how it is with you.
As for Miss Brownell, she left a certain place, about an hour and a
half ago, in pursuit of a colleague of yours, Doctor Ballinger.”
A queer little mutter slipped from Latham’s lips. He clenched his hands
convulsively; his face underwent a startling transformation; a mingling
of hate and fear showed in his dark, flashing eyes.
“That hound!” he mumbled under his breath, evidently not intending Cole
to hear. With an inward wrench he steadied himself; in the next moment
he seemed cool and composed. “In that case we must endeavor to find
her,” he added aloud.
“More easily said than done, doctor. Have you any idea where Ballinger
might have taken her; in the event that she should have fallen into his
hands?”
“There is one place he would naturally take her to, but I don’t know
the geographical location of it.”
“In plain words, the headquarters of a certain gang of alchemists and
cutthroats?”
Latham nodded.
“You are mixed up with this gang, aren’t you, doctor?”
“I was.”
“And you performed an operation on Malcolm Reeves?” Cole watched him
closely to observe the effect of his question.
“That is true,” said Latham in a queer tone. He smiled a sad, whimsical
smile. “But you must have observed that truth sometimes covers a
multitude of lies.”
Cole pondered this cryptical statement. “One more question. Why did the
hunchback try to kill you?”
“Some men are willing to do anything for money. But this line of talk
isn’t leading us anywhere. The thing of prime importance is to find
Miss Brownell. From what little I know of the gang, to which you
referred, I should say her life isn’t worth a plugged nickel if she has
fallen into their hands.”
He spoke evenly, but Cole sensed an ache behind the words. “Do you
know the leader of the organization?” was his next question.
“He was never referred to by name in my presence, and I never came in
contact with him. In my dealings with the members I never got higher
than Professor Carmody.”
Again, despite the contradictions and discrepancies that hemmed in the
doctor’s statements, Cole was disposed to believe him. “There is no
cause for alarm just at present,” he declared. “We don’t know that Miss
Brownell is in trouble. She is a capable young woman and——”
“Ah, but you don’t know Ballinger,” interrupted Latham.
Cole reached for the telephone and called the number of The Unknown
Seven. After a brief delay he was connected with Carlin.
“Where are you?” demanded the lawyer excitedly. “Been trying to get
hold of you everywhere.”
“What has happened?” asked Cole evenly, though the lawyer’s agitation
was contagious.
“Happened!” echoed Carlin. “Received an anonymous telephone message a
while ago warning us that, unless we keep hands off, Miss Brownell will
be dead inside twenty-four hours!”
CHAPTER XX
THE VENEER OF INTELLIGENCE
The doctor’s face betrayed his anxiety, as Cole repeated what he had
just heard over the telephone.
“That settles it,” muttered the physician. “We must find Miss Brownell
at once.”
Cole nodded. For several minutes he had been watching the physician
closely. It was as if a veil had been removed from one phase of
Latham’s many-sided character. Cole looked through the contradictions
of his personality, and he knew that on one point, at least, the doctor
was sincere. That was in his attitude toward Miss Brownell.
“There’s no hurry,” he said calmly. “Nothing is going to happen to her
for twenty-four hours.”
“But why delay?”
“Because we can do nothing else. Another reason is that I need sleep.
The third reason is Toots.”
“Toots?” Latham frowned. “Who is Toots?”
“The most distracted cat in the State of New York at the present
moment. My rooms were invaded by prowlers this afternoon, everything
thrown helter-skelter, and Toots just can’t bear fuss of any kind.
She is a very temperamental cat, doctor. You will hear from me in the
morning.”
He left the scowling physician and walked toward the door. There he
stopped and looked back. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We will see Miss
Brownell out of this. There’s something of a plan buzzing around in my
mind. So long, doctor.”
Cole walked out. Despite his cheerful tone he was not altogether free
from worry. The situation, as far as Miss Brownell was concerned,
looked critical enough. With the fate of Reeves and McKendrick in mind,
Cole knew the gang would not stop short of murder, if it suited their
plans. The hope he had tried to instill in Doctor Latham was based on
the advantages which he held over the other side. So far Ballinger
did not know that he was being suspected, and this was an important
point in Cole’s favor. A man who thinks himself safe is apt to make
blunders and become incautious. Another advantage lay in the fact that
the conspirators knew nothing of the deductions Cole had made from
Carmody’s visit to the offices of the Bureau of Civic Research, or of
his suspicions in regard to the big safe standing there.
Cole went home, noticed with approval that Mrs. Armstrong had tidied
up his rooms, and that Toots was sleeping tranquilly on her favorite
cushion. In a few minutes Cole himself was sound asleep. Five hours he
slept, and then he awoke clear-eyed and vigorous. After feeding Toots
and getting his own breakfast, he went to the offices of The Unknown
Seven. On his desk he found a note from Carlin announcing that the
lawyer had, in accordance with Cole’s instructions, detailed one of the
operatives to watch room 2512 and report at once if the safe should be
taken out.
Cole crumpled the note in his fist. It was yet early, and only a few
members of the staff were on duty. He went to the end of the hall and
glanced into the room where the body of McKendrick lay. What to do with
it was a delicate problem in view of the fact that the operations of
The Unknown Seven were being conducted secretly. Perhaps the best way,
was Cole’s reflection, would be to encase it in a plain box and ship
it anonymously to the morgue. Later, in some indirect way, he would
endeavor to see that the hunchback was duly punished.
He locked the door of the little room and went back to his office.
He had been there only a few minutes when Doctor Ballinger, after a
discreet knock, stepped in.
“You are early, doctor,” remarked Cole genially.
Ballinger sat down and crossed his long legs. “I’ve been looking for
Miss Brownell,” he explained. “Seen anything of her?”
“No,” said Cole casually, knowing that the doctor was watching him
keenly. “A bit too early for her, I guess. No doubt she will be
strolling in soon.”
“Making any progress?”
“Rome wasn’t built in one day,” said Cole evasively, knowing that the
question was a subtle feeler. “I’m just taking hold of the job, you
know.”
“Still think there’s a traitor among us?”
“I not only think it, but I am sure of it,” declared Cole testily, as
if reproaching himself for his failure to expose the renegade. He was
on the point of saying more, but just then the telephone rang. It was
Fessenden, the operative who had been detailed to watch room 2512.
“They’re just taking it out, sir,” reported Fessenden, cautiously
hiding the gist of his statement behind the neutral pronoun.
“Well, stay on the job and report developments to me,” said Cole in
tones that seemed to indicate that the matter was of no particular
importance. “You see,” he went on, turning to the doctor, as he hung up
the receiver, “I spilled the beans at dinner. The traitor has had his
warning, and from now on he will be a hard man to catch.”
The doctor agreed with him. They discussed the matter from various
angles and finally the telephone rang again. Fessenden reported that
“it” had been loaded onto a truck.
“Stay with it,” said Cole laconically. “Telephone me when you can.”
He was aware of a questioning gleam in the doctor’s eyes, as he hung
up, but he pretended to have noticed nothing. “Fessenden thinks he has
come across a clew,” he added for Ballinger’s benefit. “Don’t think it
amounts to anything, but it’s just as well to run it down.”
“What sort of clew?”
“It seems to have something to do with the murder of Reeves,” said Cole
indifferently. “Not more than one clew out of twenty ever pans out, and
I haven’t much hope for this one.”
The doctor seemed to have been deceived by his tone. After a few more
remarks he walked out. In spite of what he had told Carlin the night
before, he had been far from certain that the safe would be taken out;
at any rate he had not expected it would be done before another night.
Fessenden’s report had started a long train of thoughts in his mind.
Shortly before noon the lawyer walked in.
“I’ve just made some inquiries about the Bureau of Civic Research,”
he reported, after he had been told that there was no news of Miss
Brownell. “There isn’t the slightest doubt about its genuineness.
Some of the biggest men in town belong to it. It’s a sort of reform
organization; interested in political uplift and that kind of thing.
They’ve occupied the two offices down below ever since the building
opened.”
“That’s interesting,” said Cole, looking as if his trend of thought had
taken a sharp quirk. “By the way, the safe was taken out of room 2512 a
little while ago.”
“Anything startling in that?”
“Well, it’s just possible that, if we can follow the safe to its
destination, we shall find Miss Brownell.”
“How do you make that out? What has the safe to do with Miss Brownell?”
“My reasoning is based on the assumption that certain parties are as
anxious to hide the one as the other. If that is so then it is only
natural to suppose that they will hide both in one place. That safe,
Carlin, represents our only hope of getting Miss Brownell out of
danger.”
The lawyer scratched his head thoughtfully. “I would advise you to move
cautiously. Those blackguards would kill her without the slightest
hesitancy if——”
“Oh, I’ll be careful,” promised Cole. “All the same we must move
quickly. I think your hunch yesterday was right, Carlin. The gang is
getting ready to cash in their chips. They are holding the threat of
death over Miss Brownell in the hope of influencing us through her and
making us let them alone till after the clean-up. The miserable cowards
are hiding behind a woman. The idea makes me mad clean through.”
“You look it,” observed Carlin. Shortly afterward he withdrew, and
a little while later Fessenden telephoned that the safe had been
transferred to a private yacht, moored at the foot of West One Hundred
and Thirtieth Street. Fessenden did not know to whom the craft
belonged. He added that it did not look as though the boat would start
for a while, for the crew were on shore leave. Cole instructed him to
report at once if it should appear that the yacht was about to sail.
“They’ll probably wait till after dark,” he told himself after
Fessenden had finished. “Rather bold of them to put it aboard a yacht
in broad daylight. Really no reason why they shouldn’t, though,” was
his second thought. “As far as they know, nobody suspects anything. It
would look as if the safe was being shipped to a summer home somewhere
along the shore. Many people keep jewelry and other valuables in
such places, and a safe comes in handy. And to transport it by water
on a private yacht is less risky than intrusting it to the express
companies. There’ll be a merry little chase to-night.”
Cole looked as if a whimsical idea had occurred to him. He called up
Latham and inquired if the doctor owned a motor boat. The physician
replied that he did; it was a small affair, he explained, but a demon
for speed. Cole promised that he would learn something interesting if
he would have the boat ready within an hour, at a certain point along
the river. Latham’s imagination seemed to cover the gaps in Cole’s
statement, for he promptly agreed to do as suggested.
After giving several orders Cole left the office. His rendezvous with
Latham was a short distance below the point where the larger craft was
moored. Before boarding the doctor’s boat Cole went cautiously forward
and sought out Fessenden.
“The wind is slack, and the engine seems to be out of order,” explained
the operative. “I believe somebody is tinkering with it.”
“Have you learned who owns the yacht?”
“I’ve made several inquiries, but nobody seems to know. She is
brand-new, as you can see, and this appears to be the first time she
has been anchored here.”
Cole cast a glance at the queenly craft, its fresh coat of paint
gleaming in the pale autumnal sunlight. After telling Fessenden that he
could take the rest of the afternoon off he went back to Doctor Latham.
The physician, looking fresh and crisp in blue coat and creamy flannel
trousers, sat at the tiller.
“When do we start?” he inquired anxiously.
“We’re waiting for the other party to make the first move,” explained
Cole, pointing out the larger boat, easily distinguishable among the
craft of various types that littered the surface of the river.
“Any news of Miss Brownell?”
“Not a word, doctor. Are you in the mood for a little excitement?”
The physician said nothing, but his smile and the squaring of his
shoulders spoke more loudly than words. Cole glanced out over the
horizon. A frieze of clouds was creeping up in the south, and a rising
wind rippled the water.
“I suppose you are armed?” he asked after a while.
The doctor slapped his hip pocket significantly. “Are we likely to have
a scrap?” he inquired in a tone hinting that the prospect appealed to
him hugely.
“Quite likely! The rats are scenting danger and crawling into their
hole. We may have to tackle a whole nest of them.”
The afternoon waned and still they waited. Darkness fell, and a
spanking breeze blew up. At Cole’s suggestion the doctor moved the
motor boat a little closer to the larger craft.
“They are hoisting the sail,” observed Latham, as he brought the boat
to a stop at a point from which they could watch the yacht without
danger of being seen by its crew. Here and there the black ribbon
of water was broken by twinkling lights. An excursion steamer swept
majestically up the Hudson, with a tail of foaming silver in its wake.
Presently the yacht moved. The two men in the motor boat waited a while
to give it headway. Then the doctor flipped the wheel, and, with a
gleeful phut-phut, the little boat darted forward. Like an animated
thing it skipped giddily across the water, darting in and out among
larger vessels. After a little the sprinkling of boats thinned out,
and they hugged the shore closely, in order to avoid being seen by the
yacht’s crew.
“Think you can keep her in sight, doctor?” asked Cole, noticing with
concern that the larger boat was gaining speed.
“Easily,” said the doctor confidently, “unless the motor should start
missing, and there’s little danger of that.”
They were silent for a time. Cole, sitting close by, watched the intent
look on the doctor’s face as he guided the boat along the curving river
bank. The shore line grew more rugged; here and there earth and sky
melted into a blur. Now and then the lights of a town threw a yellow
sheen over the murky water. At intervals the yacht disappeared from
view behind a jutting tongue of land, but it was never out of sight for
long.
“Doctor,” said Cole abruptly, “I don’t quite know what to make of you,
but we seem to have one interest in common. Both of us are concerned
over Miss Brownell. I am partly responsible for whatever happens to
her, while you—— But I think you told me that your emotional self is
dead.”
A queer little chuckle drifted out on the breeze. There was a note of
grim despair in it.
“Anyhow,” Cole went on, “there is a bond of interest between you and
me for the present. Seems we ought to understand each other a little
better. The other night, when I trailed the hunchback to your house and
later found him asleep on the operating table, your conduct was as
mysterious as the deuce. What had happened?”
The doctor, one hand on the tiller, gazed rigidly out over the black
water to where the gray blur of a sail was visible against the darkness.
“The thing which we call human intelligence is only a thin veneer,” he
remarked in whimsical tones. “Sometimes only a slight thrust is needed
to break through it. It is very amusing to watch the antics that a
supposedly sane being will perform when a crisis of some sort comes
along and gives him a jolt. My own part in this affair is an example
of what happens when the veneer of intelligence cracks. You would not
believe me if I were to tell you, so what is the use?”
“You might try,” suggested Cole. The doctor had been a changed man
since he learned that Miss Brownell was in danger. Before that he had
been all subterfuge, evasions, and bewildering subtleties. Now Cole
felt that he was face to face with the man’s real self.
“The hunchback came to my house that night to dispatch me to a better
world,” Latham said.
“He had just performed a similar service for Malcolm Reeves,” Cole
observed.
“He had orders to get me, too. The gang feared both of us, and they had
come to a pass where they couldn’t afford to stand on ceremony. Well,
that night I heard some one getting in the basement way. That’s the
advantage of being a light sleeper. I collared the fellow as he came up
the stairs. Not knowing what to do with him I gave him a hypodermic to
keep him quiet. Then you came and complicated the situation.”
“If the hunchback came to your house to murder you,” said Cole
doubtfully, “why didn’t you turn him over to the police?”
The doctor chuckled softly. “That shows how incongruously we sometimes
act, strutting around like hens with their heads chopped off. Your own
conduct was very peculiar that night. I was wondering why, instead of
handcuffing the culprit to my operating table, you didn’t telephone for
the police wagon.”
“I had a reason.”
“And so did I.” The doctor chuckled again. “At least I thought I had
a sound reason for my conduct. As a matter of fact my reason was at a
standstill; no doubt yours was likewise. At any rate I didn’t dare hand
the fellow over to the police. Certain things had happened that made it
undesirable for me to communicate with the authorities.”
“The operation on Reeves?” Cole suggested.
Again a queer little laugh drifted out on the wind. Cole suddenly
sat erect, gazing hard at the shadowy figure beside him. A shaft
of intuition had suddenly pierced the fog of contradictions and
incongruities in his mind.
“There were two operations, weren’t there?” he asked.
“That’s a very shrewd deduction,” declared the doctor, raising his
voice above the roar of the wind. “There were two. I performed one
of them. I strongly suspect that Ballinger performed the other. The
interesting point about them is that there is an official record of the
first, but none of the second.”
For a moment Cole peered sharply ahead. The yacht was momentarily out
of sight, but he caught a glimpse of it again, as they rounded a curve
in the river bank.
“Go on,” he said. “You were involved with this golden coterie, weren’t
you?”
“For a time. I thought they were engaged in strictly scientific and
legitimate pursuits. I had known Carmody for some time, as a quiet and
scholarly man. It was through him I became connected with the group.
For a time all went well. My specialized training helped them solve two
or three minor technical problems that came up in connection with their
experiments.”
“Then one evening Carmody telephoned me that an accident had occurred
at his house on Bleecker Street. He asked me to come over at once.
When I arrived he told me that Malcolm Reeves, who was visiting him
that evening, had stumbled and fallen down the stairs. My examination
revealed a compound fracture and convinced me that the pressure of the
bones against the brain made an immediate operation necessary.”
“I had Reeves removed to the nearest hospital. It happened to be one of
the smaller private ones. I was assisted by a nurse. She was a little
nervous, and I could see that she was new at the game, but at first I
thought nothing of it, not until I discovered that there was something
wrong with the anæsthetic. She had blundered in administering it. I
shudder whenever I think of the result. Perhaps you can realize
something of what it means to have a patient awake in the midst of an
operation.”
“Did Reeves see you?” asked Cole suddenly.
The tiller wabbled for a moment in Latham’s hand. “He not only saw me,
but he recognized me. I shall never forget the expression on his face.
It was horrible! Well, luckily there were no serious consequences.
After a while Reeves was brought under the anæsthetic again, and the
operation was successfully finished. In due time he was taken to his
home. To this day I don’t know whether Carmody told me the truth and
the injury was accidental, or whether some one deliberately inflicted
it.”
“Couldn’t you tell from the nature of the wound?”
“Not with any degree of positiveness. I suspect some one tried to
murder him that night, but failed. Perhaps the assassin lost his nerve.
Carmody didn’t dare to have Reeves die on his hands, and so he sent for
me. I do know that Reeves had been troublesome toward the last, and
that the other members of the gang were afraid of him. They had ample
reason for wishing him out of the way, or at least rendered harmless.”
“And so they performed a second operation that destroyed his memory?”
guessed Cole.
“Presumably, but that’s only a surmise on my part. Reeves recuperated
very rapidly after the first operation. One evening, shortly after he
became able to move about, he started out on a mysterious errand. He
never returned, and the police found no trace of him. About the same
time I began to grow suspicious in regard to the activities of the
gang. I had no tangible proof, but it was my strong impression that
their aims were not strictly legitimate.”
“Isn’t anybody entitled to make all the gold he wants to, if he’s lucky
enough to know how?”
“That’s just the point. Carmody assured me he had discovered a process
whereby real gold could be produced synthetically. It would not only
look like gold, he told me, but it would assay up to the required
standard when turned over to the government mints. Carmody put it so
convincingly that at the time I believed him, especially when he showed
me samples. Later I began to have grave suspicions. Certain things
led me to doubt that the gang had sufficient faith in its products to
turn it over to the government in the form of bullion. In short, I had
reason to believe that I was involved in a huge counterfeiting project.”
“What!” exclaimed Cole. The doctor’s revelation went beyond what he had
learned from The Unknown Seven.
“To eliminate all risk the gang decided to take a short cut,” Latham
went on. “Instead of taking the gold to Uncle Sam’s mint they set up
a mint of their own. In a short time the country will be flooded with
spurious gold coins that are practically indistinguishable from the
real.”
“And you have kept silent all this time?”
“What did I tell you about the fragile quality of our veneer of
intelligence? I went to Carmody’s house and told him of my suspicions.
The old fox said nothing for a time, but merely smiled that freezing
smile of his. Then he took me to a small room on the second floor.
There sat Reeves, a gibbering maniac. Carmody bluntly accused me of
having performed the operation that deprived him of his reason and
smoothly suggested that it might be well for me to keep my suspicions
to myself.”
“Carmody went on talking, mentioning among other things that it was
on record that I had performed an operation on Reeves’ skull. Call me
a simpleton if you like, but the professor’s words sank in. I guessed
that a second operation had been performed under cover of the original
one, but I had no means of proving it. I could see nothing but ruin
and disaster ahead. The only one who had witnessed my operation was
the nurse, and I could expect no help from her. I argued and argued
with myself, but, in the end, I decided to say nothing, at least for a
time. Sooner or later I suppose I should have spoken, but just then I
played the coward’s part. I was very neatly caught. In what was left of
Reeves’ mind was a picture of myself, as he had seen me when he woke
up in the midst of the operation. Occasionally, when the recollection
came back to him, he would shriek my name. The second operation, on the
other hand, had been performed under circumstances so deftly arranged
that they had left no impression whatever. There, my friend, you have
the whole story. Sounds like a travesty, eh? I shan’t feel at all hurt
if you refuse to believe me.”
Cole had no reason to doubt him. What Latham had told him coincided at
various points of contact with what he had learned at the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven. He could piece out the rest. Agents of The
Unknown Seven had kidnaped Reeves from the Carmody residence and taken
him to headquarters. There he had been placed under Doctor Ballinger’s
care, and Ballinger had gone through with the pretense of trying to
restore Reeves’ mental functions. Only one contradiction remained.
Since Reeves was in the hands of a physician who was friendly to the
gang and could be depended upon to destroy any symptoms of returning
sanity in Reeves, why had it been thought necessary to kill him?
Ballinger himself evidently shrank from such a coarse crime as murder.
He must have had several chances to kill Reeves by safe and subtle
means, and yet the hunchback had been commissioned to do the crime. Why
had Reeves been killed?
For a while the answer to that question eluded Cole. Then he recalled
something Carlin had told him. After Reeves had been under Ballinger’s
care for a time, without showing any signs of improvement, it had been
suggested that he should be removed to a hospital and a consulting
physician called in. Evidently Ballinger had seen a danger to himself
in that suggestion, and so the murder had been decided upon.
“I have no reason to doubt you,” Cole said. “I don’t know but what I
would have acted pretty much the same if I had been in your place. I
think, though, that you have done a lot of needless worrying. Ballinger
is not at all confident of being able to fasten the second operation on
you.”
“How is that?” asked Latham quickly.
“I can’t tell you, but I have every reason to believe that Ballinger
is afraid of what an autopsy on the body might show. Not being a
scientific man I can’t grasp the details. All I know is that Ballinger
is so anxious to prevent an autopsy that he is having the body spirited
away.”
Latham’s hand left the tiller, and the boat lurched dangerously. In a
moment he had regained control of it.
“Unless I am a very poor guesser,” Cole went on, “the body is on the
yacht ahead of us. They are taking it to a place where it can be safely
destroyed. It’s hard to do such things in the city.”
Latham stared at him speechlessly through the dusk. The wind had
increased, and the waves were swishing and churning against the bow of
the little craft.
“It may be Ballinger is suffering from an uneasy conscience,” the
doctor murmured. “That’s one of the things that happen when the veneer
of intelligence cracks. Conscience makes a man do queer things.
However, if your guess is right——”
He stopped short, at the same time peering sharply ahead. Suddenly his
hand went out, and the chugging of the motor ceased.
“The chase is over,” he said.
Cole followed his glance. The yacht, with sails lowered, was turning
into a small inlet.
“And here is where the excitement begins,” he declared.
CHAPTER XXI
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
While Doctor Latham fastened the boat, Cole’s eyes swept the black
masses of wooded hills that slanted upward at a sharp angle from the
river bank. At the apex of the tallest peak a light gleamed, but
otherwise there was no sign of human habitation on this side of the
river. The lights of a town twinkled across the foaming welter of
waves, and they helped Cole to fix their location. They were in one
of the wildest and most rugged sections of Dutchess County. The peak,
on which the solitary light shone, had once been a popular pleasure
resort, and in the old days a cable railway had carried week-end
excursionists to the top. Of late, what with the dry era and the
public’s fickle fancy, the place had lost its popularity, and the
buildings on the peak were falling into decay. The ruggedly romantic
setting seemed an ideal one for the kind of adventure Cole anticipated.
With the doctor at his heels, he moved cautiously toward the point
where the yacht had anchored a short distance ahead. Of a sudden they
stopped. The crack of a pistol rose sharply above the whine of the wind.
“Only a signal, I think,” said Cole, after waiting tensely for a few
moments.
They advanced a little farther, then stopped on a slight elevation from
which they had an unobstructed view of the yacht. In the lights from
the craft they saw a number of men going ashore, and several of them
were carrying a bulky object. Their faces were not recognizable at that
distance, but Cole thought there were about a dozen in all.
“We may have quite a lively tussle,” he observed in an undertone. “I
could have brought a few helpers along, but safety doesn’t always lie
in numbers.”
“I like this better,” said Latham. “If there were more of us there
might not be enough thrills to go around. Where are we?”
“That place, up there in the clouds, where you see the light, is called
Dutchess Point. I believe there is a car coming down. That’s probably
what the pistol shot meant.”
A light was treading its way in a zigzagging course down the side of
the hill. Soon were heard the chugging of motors and the metallic snarl
of brakes. The two men waited until the car reached the group that had
come off the yacht. As soon as the loaded vehicle started to retread
its path up the hill they followed. It proved a hard climb, and they
reached the top a full half hour behind the car.
The apex was composed mostly of huge flat rock, with here and there a
few scrawny trees. There were half a dozen buildings scattered about,
and in the largest one several lights had appeared by the time the two
climbers reached the top. They stood in a dark spot behind a little
cluster of starving hemlocks. No one was in sight, but the sound of
voices drifted out to them through the open windows of the large
building.
“Hear that noise?” whispered Latham. “What do you suppose it is?”
Cole listened. A gentle, rhythmic whirring was heard. He looked down at
his feet, for it seemed to come from underground.
“Machinery,” he said, and suddenly he remembered the words spoken by
Malcolm Reeves in his insane glee: “Yellow—pretty yellow.” The whirring
noise that he heard, as he stood there under the hemlocks, brought them
back to his mind.
“Look!” said Latham suddenly.
Cole, following his pointing finger, glanced upward. The large
building, he now noticed, was equipped with a high tower, and near its
top a light had appeared in the last few moments. At the lighted window
a face was dimly discernible. Cole strained his eyes at the point of
illumination, and suddenly he gripped his companion’s arm.
“It’s a woman, Latham!”
The doctor gasped. “It must be Miss Brownell, then!”
The two men continued staring upward. Their imaginations touched up the
dim and remote picture which they saw with their eyes. The face was
very white, thought Cole, and the eyes held a look of terror. She was
looking downward; their glances met somewhere in mid-air, and yet she
appeared not to see the two watchers below.
“What shall we do?” asked Latham.
“You stay here,” said Cole. “I’m going to look around a bit.”
He slipped away among the trees, avoiding the open space in front
of the building. The tower was in the rear, overlooking the steep
incline, and he moved in that direction. He looked up a sheer wall
to where the light shone. To climb up there was out of the question,
for the blank wall offered no hold for either hands or feet. He moved
cautiously toward the front entrance. For a moment he listened outside
the sagging door, then boldly pushed it open and entered.
He was in a dark corridor. Under one of the doors at the side was a
thin wedge of light. A number of voices issued from it; evidently a
conference of some kind was in progress. Knowing that the stairway
leading to the tower must be in that direction, Cole tiptoed farther
down the hall. A bold and reckless move, he had learned from
experience, was often more effective than a thought-out plan. Before he
could do anything else Miss Brownell must be rescued. His hands were
tied, as long as she was held as a hostage by the gang. Once she was
out of harm’s way he could proceed against them as ruthlessly as he
pleased.
He came to the end of the hall, and there he brought up against another
door. He opened it, almost sure that it must lead to the stairs, but
instead he found himself in a large, square room. A small electric
bulb glowed in the ceiling, and in its light he caught a glimpse of a
forbidding figure guarding a door at the farther side. The sentinel was
thickset and broad-shouldered. His bushy brows seemed top-heavy for his
very small eyes which glared out at Cole in a startled way.
“Stop right where you are!” he commanded, at the same instant reaching
for his hip pocket. As his fingers closed around the handle of an
automatic, Cole lunged forward. His fist landed with explosive force in
the man’s face, and he fell to the ground without a sound.
“Sorry, old top, but it had to be done,” Cole told the insensible man,
as he opened the door which the fellow had been guarding. Before him
was a winding stairway that seemed to extend upward interminably. Very
quickly Cole lifted the man through the door and stretched him out
along the steps, then drew the door to.
He hurried up the stairs. The long ascent would have exhausted a weaker
man, but Cole’s lungs and muscles were in the pink of condition. At
length, panting a little, he reached the top. Before him was a door. He
rapped, and footfalls crossed the floor within.
“Who’s there?” demanded a voice which he recognized as Miss Brownell’s.
It sounded a bit lofty, pathetically so, he thought.
“Cole,” he replied.
“Oh!” The exclamation was more a sigh of relief. “But I can’t let you
in. The door is locked, and I have no key.”
“I might have known it,” muttered Cole. The space between the door
and the wall of the tower was very narrow. Bracing his back against
the wall he placed his feet on the door and shoved steadily. It was
of stout material, but at length it gave with an abruptness that
precipitated him to the floor. Quickly he picked himself up.
The girl rushed toward him. There was an excited flush which
surmounted the white of her face. “I am so glad——” she began.
“You were foolish,” Cole sternly interrupted. “You shouldn’t have
started after Ballinger alone. That’s no job for a woman. What
happened?”
“Ballinger was too clever for me,” she confessed. “The moment I thought
I had him I was shoved into a car, blindfolded, and—— Well, that’s
about all I know. When I opened my eyes the next morning I found myself
here.”
“How have they treated you?”
“Oh, very well, suspiciously well. I have been told that prisoners who
are doomed to die always get the best of everything. Mr. Cole, you have
thrown a full-sized scare into the gang. I heard a couple of the men
talking outside my door this morning. I suppose they felt sure I would
never have a chance to repeat what I heard. They said——”
“Not so loud!” admonished Cole.
“I gathered from what they said,” she went on in a whisper, “that the
leaders of the gang are badly frightened. They seem to think you are
hot on their trail.”
“They’re mistaken,” declared Cole modestly. “I’ve barely got started as
yet.”
“Well, all the same they are very much worried. Their plan, as one of
the men put it, is to make a swift clean-up and a quick get-away. Some
one, whom they called ‘the big chief,’ was to come out here to-night.”
“About a dozen men arrived a little while ago,” Cole informed her. “No
doubt the chief was among them. Do you know who he is?”
“No. He wasn’t referred to by name in the conversation which I
overheard. I am sure, though, that Doctor Latham isn’t the man. In fact
I never really thought so. More of my woman’s intuition, I suppose.”
“What else did the men say?” he asked in a whisper.
“They said there is about half a billion dollars’ worth of gold ready
to be minted. I didn’t quite understand what they meant by that. There
is a complete set of machinery hidden somewhere about the place, and it
is running at full capacity.”
“I should think the comings and goings of the gang would excite the
curiosity of the townspeople across the river.”
“Oh, they’ve managed that part very cleverly by circulating a report
to the effect that the buildings are being renovated and that Dutchess
Point is to be reopened as a pleasure resort next spring. In fact, they
have put a crew of carpenters, roadmakers and gardeners to work on the
place. Just for a blind, of course. It seems they haven’t neglected a
single precaution. Yet they seem to be worried over something.”
“Excellent! When your enemy is worried, you have an advantage over him.
What seems to be the trouble?”
“I couldn’t quite make out. All I heard was a few scattered remarks. It
appears they are having some difficulty with the gold-making process.
There seems to be a minor flaw in the product, due to the absence of
something which they refer as the seventh ingredient. I haven’t the
least idea what it is, but it seems to be related to the experimental
work Doctor Latham conducted before he severed his connection with the
gang. They appear to think that he could solve their difficulty if he
was so inclined.”
“By supplying the formula for the seventh ingredient?”
“Something like that. Anyway, that was the impression I received.
Evidently the missing ingredient isn’t of very great importance, but
they want to make the product as perfect as possible.”
“For the sake of safety in minting and circulating it, I suppose,”
said Cole thoughtfully. “Apparently Latham left them at an inopportune
time from their point of view. Doubtless they would exert any manner
of pressure on him in order to make him divulge the secret of this
so-called seventh ingredient.”
“I doubt if they would succeed.”
“So do I,” said Cole, looking curiously at the girl. “Latham is a
fighter clean through, and he is a match for them. By the way, he came
out with me this evening.”
She caught her breath and fixed her wide, troubled eyes on his face.
“Doctor Latham here?” she murmured. “Did he volunteer to come with you?”
“I invited him to come, and he jumped at the invitation. I foresaw that
he would prove useful, and he was doubly anxious to come when I hinted
that our expedition to-night might reveal your whereabouts. Your
disappearance came as a great shock to him.”
“Then you no longer think he is implicated with these scoundrels?”
“No, I don’t. He was with them until he saw that their aims were
crooked, and then he got out as best he could. Latham has acted
foolishly, but that’s all. The scientific side of these experiments
appealed to the scholar in him. I don’t think he was ever moved by
greed. No, Latham wasn’t to be blamed. Whenever a man is in love he is
apt to make a fool of himself.”
She lowered her eyes. “Doctor Latham is a good man,” she said tensely.
“I wish I could——” A gentle sigh escaped her.
“I understand,” murmured Cole. “Life is a bit of a tangle, isn’t it?
Even the logical mind of a scholar isn’t able to steer clear of the
meshes when a charming woman is involved. One never knows——”
He paused, threw a quick glance at the door, then looked at Miss
Brownell, noting the tensity that had suddenly crept into her face.
In an instant his automatic was in his hand, and he tiptoed softly to
the door. Holding it open a crack, he heard unmistakably the sounds of
footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Stand back!” he ordered curtly. “Some one’s coming!”
But the girl, smiling faintly, signified with a shrug that she intended
to remain where she was.
CHAPTER XXII
A DUEL OF WITS
Cole opened the door a trifle wider. The footfalls, furtive and
hesitant, sounded as if several men were coming up the protesting
stairs. He fancied there were many others below who were ready to jump
into the fight if he should be successful in disposing of the ones now
approaching. His mind worked with lightning speed as he turned away
from the door.
The room, hexagonal in shape, with a tall window at each angle, was
lighted from a tarnished brass fixture at one side. While watching
the light from the outside, Cole had noticed that from the windows to
the ground was a sheer drop of one hundred and fifty feet, so escape
in that direction was impossible. The walls, covered with once gaudy
paper that was now faded and torn, seemed to offer no loophole. The
unswept floor was cluttered with pieces of dilapidated furniture of
a kind which suggested that the room had once served as a rendezvous
for gamblers. The single door was the only exit, and flight in that
direction was cut off by the men now creeping up the stairs. As nearly
as Cole could determine from the sounds, they were as yet only halfway
up. For an instant his thoughts flew to Doctor Latham, and he wondered
if the physician was still waiting for him outside.
He stepped quickly toward the girl. “Talk,” he whispered, “talk about
anything.”
She took her cue with a comprehending nod, and Cole hastened back to
the door.
“But I don’t know, so how can I tell you?” she asked in a tone whose
naturalness instantly won his approval. He was quick to follow up her
lead.
“You have no idea who the leader of these cutthroats is?” he asked in a
slightly nettled tone.
“None whatever.”
He listened for a moment. The footsteps were coming gradually closer.
When he spoke again, he threw his voice so that it sounded as if coming
from the center of the room, a ventriloquial trick he had practiced
when a boy and often found useful.
“You have been here a good many hours,” he pointed out. “I thought you
might have overheard something that gave you a clew.”
“You forget that I have been locked up in this room all the time.”
“That’s so,” Cole admitted, tightening his grip on his automatic. The
footfalls on the stairs had ceased. Evidently the persons who were
approaching had stopped to listen to the conversation. “You haven’t
seen any one who looks as if he might be the boss of the outfit?”
“No one,” she declared convincingly. “So far I have come in contact
only with underlings. The man higher up, whoever he is, has remained in
the background. Of course, I could make a guess.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Doctor Latham.”
Cole smiled. It was an excellent bit of strategy, and he was confident
that the men below had heard. Her cleverly simulated suspicion in
regard to the physician was well calculated to deceive them in regard
to the extent and accuracy of her information.
“You may be right,” he said thoughtfully just as the footsteps began to
move upward again, and once more his voice sounded as if coming from
the interior of the room. “I’ve had my eyes on the doctor myself. He is
a sly bird, but I’m not sure that his cranium is the adequate size for
a job of this kind. However he will bear watching. But we’re wasting
time. The first thing to do is to get you safely out of this nest of
crooks. I think the way is clear, but we must——”
“You’re a little bit slow,” said a voice, and the door came open,
admitting a stocky individual with a leveled automatic. He came
straight forward, stopping bewilderedly as he saw only the girl, and
in that instant Cole reached out behind him, seized him firmly by the
neck and, swinging him backward with a powerful sweep, slammed his head
against the wall. With a fragmentary cry the man went lurching to the
floor, and in almost the same instant Cole whirled round and struck
his companion a vigorous blow with the butt of his pistol. The fellow
dropped like a dead-weight.
“Two of them!” exclaimed Cole, feeling quite elated at the success of
his ruse. “Where’s the third?”
Miss Brownell, breathing rapidly, looked hard at the door. Cole glanced
out, but there was neither sign nor sound of movement on the stairs.
“I thought there were several of them,” he muttered. “Must have been
mistaken. Sounds are deceptive, you know. This may come in handy.”
He stooped, picked up the weapon dropped by his second adversary,
and handed it to Miss Brownell. With an expert air she examined the
mechanism, making sure it was loaded.
“You worked the trick to the queen’s taste, Miss Brownell,” he declared
approvingly. “It was a good piece of work.”
“But you did it all.”
“Far from it! I couldn’t have thrown them off their guard if you hadn’t
helped. Do you know,” peering at her curiously, “I was afraid you would
faint, or something like that.”
She laughed. “You haven’t a very high opinion of our sex, Mr. Cole.”
“It is rising every moment. We must get away before these rascals come
to. Feel strong enough for a walk?”
“Just try me! Your exhibition of fisticuffs was so stimulating that I
am ready for anything.”
“Then let’s start. Latham must be wondering what has become of me.”
With a glance at his fallen foes, Cole started down the stairs, the
girl following. He did not wish to alarm her by voicing his misgivings,
but he was far from certain that they would reach the bottom without
an interruption. Doubtless the others must be aware by this time that
something was amiss. The burly sentinel he had knocked down at the foot
of the stairs had probably either recovered consciousness or been found
by his accomplices. In either event, their path was beset by perils.
Pistol in one hand, Cole proceeded cautiously down the stairs. They
were dark, and the constant winding made progress difficult. He had
discovered that Miss Brownell was brave and resourceful, but he would
breathe more easily when he had got her out of harm’s way.
They reached another turn, and suddenly the girl stumbled and lurched
violently against him.
“Ouch!” she moaned, trying to repress an exclamation of pain. “My
ankle! I think I twisted it.”
Cole cursed softly as he gathered her in his arms. Her figure was
writhing in the throes of physical distress.
“As I told you once before,” she complained mockingly, trying to make
light of the injury, “you are not at all gallant. Almost any other man
would have welcomed the chance.”
Cole muttered something under his breath. A dislocated ankle
complicated a situation that was already critical enough, but the
girl’s superb behavior stirred him to unwilling admiration. His fears
were all for her, not for himself. He was almost at the foot of the
stairs now. If he could only get her safely out of the building and
place her in Doctor Latham’s care. If only——
Abruptly he stopped before a door. With his burden in his arms he had
reached the foot of the stairs. For a moment he stopped and listened,
but all seemed quiet on the other side. An involuntary moan of pain
told that Miss Brownell was suffering intensely. Balancing her on his
shoulder he reached out a hand and pushed the door open.
Instantly he felt a premonition that something was wrong. The sentry,
whom he had left unconscious at the door before ascending to the tower,
was no longer there. He started to draw back, but it was too late. A
shadow leaped swiftly across the path of light in front of the open
door. A hand clutching a bludgeon was raised to strike. Cole, with
the girl on his shoulder, could not dodge the blow. It caught him
squarely on the jaw, and the terrific impact sent him reeling against
the stairs. The girl slipped away from him, and in his last conscious
moment he tried to ease her fall.
“I take it all back,” she whispered in his ear, her bantering tone
edged with pain and anguish. “You—you _are_ gallant, Mr. Cole.”
But Cole heard nothing.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SEVENTH INGREDIENT
When, some thirty or forty minutes later, Cole opened his eyes and
fingered his swollen jaw, he found himself sprawling in a chair in
a strange room. In front of him stood Doctor Latham, a humorously
sympathetic look on his face.
The room, with its faded tawdriness and crumbling decorations, looked
as if it had once been a private dining room. The scratched woodwork
and the liquid stains on the wall paper were reminiscent of hilarious
times. Cole noticed that the two windows were shuttered on the outside.
“How do you feel?” inquired the physician.
“As if I was all jaw,” said Cole, opening his eyes a little wider and
gazing stupidly at the doctor. It took him several minutes to recall
that he was still in the big house on Dutchess Point. A rhythmic
vibration that seemed to come from beneath the floor, accompanied by
the remote humming of machinery, brought him back to the present.
“Why are you here?” he demanded of the physician. “Didn’t I tell you to
stay outside?”
“So you did, and it was excellent advice, my friend. I wish now I had
heeded it. But I grew impatient and proceeded to find out what had
become of you. All I got for my pains was an ungentle tap in the region
of the occipital bone.”
With a serio-comic expression the doctor caressed the back of his
head. His clothing was rumpled and looked as if he had been dragged
over a dusty floor.
Again Cole stroked his jaw. “Where is Miss Brownell?” he suddenly asked.
Latham pointed across the room where, white-faced but smiling, the girl
sat in a chair.
“I’ve justified my existence at last,” he remarked. “I managed to
straighten out Miss Brownell’s ankle. Didn’t have my kit with me, and I
fear I dealt rather roughly with her. How about it, Miss Brownell?”
“I hardly felt it,” she assured him. “For a big man, you are gentleness
itself.”
The physician looked long into her smiling face, and when he turned
away there was a sad, wistful expression in his eyes. Miss Brownell
caught a fleeting glimpse of it, and her face sobered instantly.
“Cheerful place!” murmured Latham, glancing up at the dilapidated
ceiling. “Anyway, we ought to be thankful that the three of us are
together. Wonder what the amiable ruffians plan to do next. What
happened to you after you left me, Cole?”
It took Cole some little time to remember, but at length he gave the
doctor a brief summary of the episode in the tower, ending with the
unexpected attack that had left him with a swollen jaw. The doctor
seemed amused.
“Laid them both out, eh?” he said with a chuckle. “Good work, Cole.
I believe you could manage a massacre all by yourself if you had the
chance.”
“The chance may come sooner than we think,” said Cole dryly, with a
glance at the door. “Miss Brownell told me some of the things she has
learned during her term of imprisonment here. It seems we have one
advantage, doctor.”
“What’s that?”
“The seventh ingredient.”
A thin smile parted the physician’s lips. “That’s so. I’d forgotten
about that. It’s a minor detail I worked out independently. Professor
Carmody made several attempts to make me reveal the secret of it, but
I refused. You see, by that time I had discovered that the scheme was
crooked, and I would have nothing more to do with the gang. However,
the seventh ingredient, as they call it, isn’t of great importance. Its
value is almost nil.”
“But they seem to think otherwise.”
“They are mistaken, and naturally so. I was mistaken myself for
a while. I exaggerated the importance of the so-called seventh
ingredient. Afterward, when I knew better, I saw no reason why I should
put them right.”
“Glad you didn’t, Latham. As long as they are laboring under a
misapprehension, we have an advantage over them.”
“How is that?”
“They think you have something that they want. The fact that they are
mistaken makes no difference. As matters stand at present, you are in a
position to bargain with them.”
“Bargain over what?”
“Oh, several things.” Cole stepped a little closer to him and spoke in
an undertone. “Miss Brownell’s safety, for instance.”
Latham’s brows went up. “Of course!” he murmured. “I’m a bit dull
to-night. Glad you have your thinking cap on, Cole. The amiable
ruffians will be given to understand that I refuse to discuss the
seventh ingredient until Miss Brownell is at a safe distance. After
that nothing will matter. Smoke?”
Cole helped himself to a cigarette from the physician’s case, slanting
a quick glance in the girl’s direction as he lighted it. She looked
both puzzled and amused.
“Were you saying something I was not supposed to hear?” she inquired.
The question remained unanswered, for just then the door opened, and
the gaunt, frock-coated figure of Professor Carmody strutted into the
room. In his hand was an automatic, which he managed very cautiously,
and his shrunken face was all smiles.
“Hello, Cole,” he chirped gleefully. “Good evening, Miss Brownell. How
are you, doctor? Glad to see you all here.” He chuckled wheezily and
rubbed his bony hands with their talonlike fingers. “Too bad you didn’t
follow my advice the other day, Latham. You would have escaped a lot of
trouble if you had been sensible.”
“Go to blazes,” said the doctor contemptuously, advancing a step toward
Carmody.
The pistol came upward in the professor’s hand. “Don’t move,” he
warned. “And it won’t do either of you any good to reach for your
weapons. They were removed while you were—ahem—incapacitated. We object
to rowdyism in this place. Our leader is a peaceful man and does not
like disturbances. Cole, you have caused us a lot of embarrassment,
and see what it has led you to. I believe our last meeting took place
in room 2512, the Security Building.”
Cole made a wry face as he recalled how the professor had tricked him.
“You were a bit too clever for me that time, Carmody,” he admitted.
The professor gave a cackling, complacent laugh. “Even an old man like
me must have his little jokes,” he remarked, still adhering to his
ludicrous habit of raising and dropping his voice on almost every other
word. “I’ll wager you don’t know even now what my object was. Eh, Cole?”
Cole measured him with a cool glance. “I think I do,” he declared
quietly. “The body of Reeves was in the safe. Members of your
illustrious gang had removed it from its former place and put it there.
One of my men learned what the safe contained, and he paid with his
life for his discovery. Later you dropped in to see that everything was
in readiness to sneak the safe and its contents out of town.”
“You are a very shrewd guesser, Mr. Cole. It is a matter of keen regret
to me that one of such fine intellect must be on the wrong side of this
situation. As for the body of Reeves, it will very soon be reduced to a
handful of fine dust. The process will be scientific in every respect.
Nothing coarse or gruesome, you understand. We couldn’t have disposed
of it satisfactorily in the city. It would have been too dangerous.
But that isn’t what I came in here to talk about. Doctor Latham, you
were once a friend of mine, and in the beginning of this enterprise
you gave us several valuable hints. For the last time I ask you to be
reasonable. It is your last chance.”
“And if I refuse?”
The professor screwed his face into a melancholy expression. “In that
event you, too, will soon be only a handful of dust.”
“Even so I will have the advantage over you, professor. When your end
comes there won’t be enough dust to make a thimbleful. I hope I make my
meaning clear?”
“You will not reconsider your decision?”
“No!” declared Latham explosively.
“Not even in order to save the life of this charming young lady?”
Carmody turned his beatifically smiling face toward Miss Brownell.
A pallor crept up under the doctor’s eyes. He stared with a horrified
expression at the professor.
“You mean that——”
“Precisely, my dear doctor. The young lady is dangerous to us.
Under the circumstances the law of self-preservation demands that
she be rendered harmless, and the only effective way of doing that
is to remove her from this sad world. However, in appreciation of
the services you once rendered us, she shall be spared if you will
reconsider your decision.”
The doctor appeared to hesitate. His eyes, full of tenderness, were
fixed on Miss Brownell. Cole could see that he pretended to be
wavering. Then the girl spoke.
“Doctor Latham has decided,” she declared in a clear, calm voice. “He
is not the type of man who bargains with blackguards. I wouldn’t permit
it, even if he were so inclined. Go away!” she added, turning her
eyes, full of cold contempt, on the professor.
Carmody winced beneath her scornful gaze. For a moment he plucked
nervously at the lapel of his coat. Then, with a soft chuckle that
sounded diabolical to the other three in the room, he turned to the
doctor.
“The young lady has spoken,” he remarked. “I’m afraid her pretty head
is full of silly notions. Youth is always like that. You are older and
wiser, Latham. What do you say?”
The doctor regarded him calculatingly. “Just what do you want, Carmody?”
“Ah, that’s better! Getting down to terms, eh? I see I was not mistaken
in relying on your common sense. You know what I want, doctor. It is
something we have discussed before. Miss Brownell and Mr. Cole will not
understand what I mean, but it has something to do with the seventh
ingredient.”
Latham nodded. “Thought so. Very curious on that point, aren’t you,
professor? I used all my spare time during three or four months working
out that interesting angle. It was quite fascinating, I assure you. Do
you know, professor, I sometimes wonder if the late lamented Doctor
Price was not about two hundred years ahead of his time? From the very
beginning of our experiments I suspected that Doctor Price’s secret—the
secret which he never divulged—was a sort of electronic reaction
applied to chemical compounds. When I learned how to use that reaction
in the process we had under way, my problem was solved.”
Carmody regarded him narrowly. “The electron wasn’t known in Doctor
Price’s day.”
“And that’s why I say he was about two centuries ahead of his time.
At any rate, I am satisfied he stumbled upon something which closely
resembles our modern discoveries. Nothing else explains the marvelous
achievement that he took with him to his grave.”
“And you claim to have resurrected his discovery, Latham?”
“I am not in the habit of making claims,” said the doctor modestly,
with an air of mysteriousness that was well calculated to impress
Carmody. “I prefer to let facts speak for themselves.”
Carmody pondered, his sharp, greedy little eyes wandering from one face
in the group to another.
“You made memoranda of your experiments, of course?”
“Naturally.”
“Where are your notes?”
Latham smiled blandly. “In two places. Here,” tapping his head, “I
carry the whole process. My written memoranda are in a safe place, a
place which I shan’t divulge to you until you have given us reasonable
guarantees in regard to our safety.”
Professor Carmody scowled. “You are hardly in a position to dictate
terms.”
“Do as you like,” said Latham with a shrug. “If you reject my
conditions, I shall follow Doctor Price’s example and take my little
secret with me to my grave.”
“And what about Miss Brownell?”
The physician winced, but before he could answer the girl spoke for
herself.
“Don’t mind me,” she said spiritedly. “Doctor Latham, why don’t you
tell the professor that he is beneath contempt?”
Carmody turned his head and regarded her with a look of lofty disdain.
“Haughty little devil!” he muttered under his breath, then faced
the physician again. “Well, Latham, what would you call reasonable
guarantees?”
“Cole and myself will remain here for the present. As far as Miss
Brownell is concerned, I’ll be satisfied when she telephones me from
her home in town that she has arrived there safely. Does that strike
you as reasonable, Cole?”
“Perfectly.”
Carmody scratched his jaw perplexedly. “It is a very difficult
situation. I shall refer it to the leader of our organization.”
With that he backed cautiously toward the door, his automatic gripped
tightly in his thin, gnarled hand. In a moment the door closed behind
him, then came the sound of a heavy bolt turning in the lock, and the
two men and the girl were alone.
CHAPTER XXIV
CORNERED
Cole turned to the window and verified his impression that the
shutters were strong enough to bar their exit in that direction. For
a few moments he stood there, listening to the remote booming of the
waves, the fretful whine of the wind, the creaking and groaning of
timbers in the old house. With these sounds there mingled another, a
faint but ecstatic humming and whirring that seemed to come from some
subterranean crypt.
“Gold!” it seemed to say with a dull, sinister intonation. “Gold!”
Cole shrugged and moved away. Next he hurled himself against the
door, but its solid resistance told him the effort was useless. The
doctor stood in the middle of the room, pulling thoughtfully at his
black beard and now and then sending Miss Brownell a glance out of his
strange, flashing eyes.
“You handled the professor superbly,” Cole told him. “He is guessing
now, and when a man is guessing he is at a distinct disadvantage.”
The doctor smiled musingly. “But don’t build too high hopes on his
state of mind,” he cautioned. “It is best not to underrate the enemy’s
resources.”
“What about that choice morsel you handed him in regard to an
electronic reaction?” Cole wanted to know. “Anything in it?”
“Absolutely nothing. But it sounded impressive enough to give the
professor something to worry about. As for Doctor Price, he wouldn’t
have recognized an electron if he had seen one with the naked eye. I
hardly expected Carmody to swallow it, but he did. When you tell a fib,
it is always best to tell the kind that the other fellow is prepared to
believe.”
Cole laughed; there was something irresistible about the doctor’s
stoicism. “I hope,” he fervently declared, “that the swallowing of that
electron will give the professor a severe attack of cramps. What do you
propose to do next, Latham?”
“Heroics were never in my line,” the doctor asserted in a tone that was
meant to be cynical. “When one is caught, the thing to do is to yield
as gracefully as possible. I suggest we surrender to the enemy. Why
stand on pride when one is headed for a tumble?”
“In other words, you mean to build up a magnificent bluff on the
electron Carmody swallowed?”
“Precisely,” said Latham, casting a sidelong glance at Miss Brownell.
The girl got up, limped uncertainly across the floor, and placed a hand
on the physician’s arm.
“You are a good man, Doctor Latham,” she murmured. “You are quite
transparent, however. You intend to keep up this bluff, as you call it,
until I am at a safe distance. You fail to consider what is going to
happen to you and Mr. Cole when they discover you have tricked them.”
“Oh, we will cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Latham with an
air of profound assurance.
“You aren’t candid with me,” the girl protested. “You know they will
kill you both as soon as they realize they have been imposed upon. You
intend to sacrifice yourself for my sake. I won’t have it!”
“Now, Miss Brownell——”
“I won’t accept such a sacrifice,” she declared vehemently. “That’s
absolutely final.”
Latham gazed at her in an embarrassed way. He tried to smile, but it
was a pathetic effort. “Youth is always that way,” he declared. “Always
butting its head against stone walls. Don’t you see, Miss Brownell,
that——”
“No, I don’t,” she interrupted. “And, so you won’t be tempted to give
it for my sake, let me tell you that I intend to fight this crowd of
cowardly ruffians till the end. Even if you should surrender, I would
not, so your sacrifice would be in vain.”
Latham stroked his beard reflectively. A flippant remark was on the tip
of his tongue, but he seemed unable to utter it. He assisted the girl
back to her chair.
Cole had watched them in silence. Something stirred gently within him
as he witnessed the scene between the doctor and the girl. There was
a touch of the sublime in the physician’s determination to sacrifice
himself for the object of his hopeless devotion. But to Cole it all
seemed very futile. He doubted strongly that the leader of the gang
would accept Latham’s terms. Knowing that she had discovered several
important things in regard to the organization’s activities, they would
not be likely to let the girl out of their clutches. Their logical
move would be an effort to obtain by other means the secret which they
supposed was in Latham’s possession. Nevertheless, the little drama
enacted before his eyes touched him deeply. Now he shrugged off his
hopeless feeling and strode briskly across the floor.
“It isn’t time to sing the funeral hymn just yet,” he declared. “There
is another fight in us still. I propose that we——”
What he had to propose was not made clear, for the door opened, and
with his usual stiff and dignified gait Professor Carmody walked once
more into the room. He had dropped his mock affability and carried
himself with a stern and dignified air.
“I have talked with the chief,” he announced, addressing Doctor Latham.
“The arrangement you suggested is flatly impossible.”
“Just as I thought,” muttered Cole under his breath.
“You can see for yourself how unreasonable it is,” Carmody went
on in an argumentative tone. “Miss Brownell is in possession of
information which, if used against us, might harm us greatly. Under the
circumstances it would be extreme folly on our part to permit her to
leave this place for the present.”
“Then what do you propose?” asked the doctor.
“That you listen to reason. In a few days, a week or two at most, our
present enterprise will be finished, and we shall be in a position
where nothing can hurt us. You, Latham, can hasten developments, if you
wish, by giving us the formula you have worked out. It isn’t essential,
but we prefer to make use of it. The sooner you choose to oblige us,
the sooner you and your friends will be permitted to depart.”
The doctor regarded him with a half-humorous, half-contemptuous gaze.
“Is that all?”
“By no means. If you decide to accommodate us, you shall share in
the golden harvest we soon expect to reap. Think of it, Latham. By
complying with a simple request you will make yourself enormously
wealthy. Never before in the world’s history was such a magnificent
reward offered for a comparatively small service. Never since——”
“You are waxing rhapsodical, professor,” interrupted Latham curtly. “I
am always suspicious of a man who makes flowery promises. Will you tell
me in plain words—the plainer the better—what will happen if I should
reject your magnanimous offer?”
“I do not like to contemplate it,” said Carmody, his face full of
sadness. “Especially in view of Miss Brownell’s connection with the
matter. But you will not do anything so foolish, Latham. Remember
that we are powerful enough to get what we want, and that we do not
hesitate to use extreme measures when necessary. We can bend even such
a stubborn will as yours. I am waiting for your answer. Will you give
us the formula voluntarily, or must we resort to unpleasant forms of
coercion?”
Maintaining a firm hold on his pistol, he struck an expectant attitude.
Cole, who had remained a silent but attentive listener, could see that
Latham’s position in the scientific world, together with the work he
had previously done for the organization, had convinced the professor
that he really possessed a formula that would be of great value to
the gang. Latham, on the other hand, seemed in a quandary as to how
he might best use his precarious advantage. Already it was slipping
away from him, and soon, unless an unforeseen development came to his
rescue, it might be turned against him.
“You are taking a long time,” complained the professor.
“It is a weighty question,” rejoined Latham.
“Perhaps I can help you to arrive at a decision,” said Carmody, a
faint, cruel smile parting his bloodless lips. Suddenly he shifted the
aim of the pistol so that the barrel pointed straight to Miss Brownell.
“I believe you are a man of your word, Latham. I shall count ten.
Unless you give me a favorable reply before I reach ten, Miss Brownell
will go to a better world.”
The sardonic grin that had twisted the doctor’s lips froze into a
ghastly look of horror. Miss Brownell straightened a little in her
chair, her face turned a shade paler, but there was no fear in the
eyes she leveled at the professor. Critical as the moment was, Cole’s
dominant sensation was admiration for her courage.
Carmody began to count in his thin, brassy voice: “One—two—three—four——”
Cole gazed narrowly into his face, as impassive as if carved out of
wood. There seemed to be no doubt but what Carmody meant to carry out
his monstrous threat. He flexed his muscles for a spring while the
professor went on counting.
“——five—six—seven—eight——”
Cole lunged forward, staking everything on the chance of snatching
the murderous weapon from the professor’s hand, but Doctor Latham
acted even more quickly. With a sudden bound he crossed the floor and
placed himself directly in front of the chair in which the girl sat.
For a moment the pistol pointed straight at his midriff; then, with an
exclamation of baffled rage, Carmody lowered the weapon.
“Fool!” he snarled. “Step out of the way this instant, or I’ll kill
both of you.” Once more the pistol rose in his hand.
Very calmly, while Cole marveled at his audacity, Latham took a case
from his pocket and with ostentatious serenity lighted a cigarette.
“Fire away,” he said coolly, folding his arms across his chest and
smoking with an air of perfect content.
Carmody regarded him with a baleful glare, then abruptly changed his
mind and started backing toward the door. He slammed it behind him with
unnecessary vigor, and they heard the bolt slide in the lock. Latham
flung away his cigarette.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “That was fairly exciting. I didn’t like the way
Carmody looked when he left us, though. The old rat has something up
his sleeve.”
Cole nodded, wondering at the meaning of the professor’s hasty exit.
“Our only hope is to spar for time, and we have been fairly successful
so far,” he remarked. “That was a neat maneuver, Latham.”
“It was splendid!” exclaimed the girl, and Cole noted a new expression
in her wide, lustrous eyes as she fixed them on the physician. “But you
mustn’t do it again,” she added firmly. “He might shoot next time.”
“How is the foot?” inquired Latham.
“Better—much better. I think I can step down on it now.”
“You had better not try as yet,” said the physician with a professional
air. “Cole and I may challenge you to a foot race by and by, and you
must preserve your energies.”
She merely smiled at this, and again Cole noted the new, tender
expression in her face. He was about to frame a remark, but just then
the door opened. Two burly, hard-faced men, each with an automatic in
his hand, entered the room.
“The big chief wants to see you,” announced one of them. “This way.” He
pointed toward the open door.
Cole glanced narrowly at the weapon in his hand, then decided that
at the present moment resistance would be worse than useless. There
were other lives besides his own to be considered. Evidently the same
thought had occurred to the doctor. After a moment’s hesitation and an
exchange of glances with Cole, he took the girl in his arms and carried
her out followed by Cole.
One of the armed men, walking at the head of the little procession,
opened the door.
“In there,” he directed. “Step lively!”
He gave Cole an ungentle shove with his automatic, and the three
prisoners walked through the door.
CHAPTER XXV
FACE TO FACE
Cole glanced about the room they had entered. Its sparse furnishings
suggested that it had been arranged in haste. There were a desk and
a telephone, hinting that it served as the executive office of the
gold-mad crowd, also a few chairs, a huge steel safe, and a cot. The
cluttered condition of the desk indicated that some one had recently
been sitting there and would probably soon return. Cole’s gaze rested
longingly on the telephone, the only connecting link with the outside
world.
Very gently Doctor Latham placed the girl in one of the chairs. As she
looked up at him, her eyes were full of trust and gratitude.
The doctor turned to one of the armed guards at the door.
“Where is the benevolent gentleman whom you call the big chief?” he
inquired.
“You’ll see him soon enough,” replied the man surlily.
“Good!” exclaimed Latham. “At last my curiosity shall be satisfied. We
have a pretty good idea what he looks like—eh, Cole?”
“I think we do,” said Cole, a smile tugging at his lips. “Once or twice
before my suspicions turned in the direction of the man I have in mind,
but something threw me off the track. Now I am almost sure.”
Cole’s next words were spoken in an undertone, too low for the girl to
hear. “You realize what you are up against, don’t you, Latham?”
“Against a bunch of cockeyed devils, of course.”
“I had something more specific in mind. Professor Carmody has failed
to bully us, so now the big chief himself is to have a try at it. You
realize, of course, that he wouldn’t allow himself to be seen by us
unless——” He paused and looked gravely at the doctor.
“Yes, I understand,” whispered Latham, throwing an uneasy glance at
Miss Brownell. “He wouldn’t show himself to us if he thought there was
the slightest chance that we would ever tell tales about him. These
scoundrels are planning to murder us, Cole.”
“So it looks, but not until they have made one more effort to make you
reveal the formula for the seventh ingredient.”
There was a look of sad humor in the doctor’s eyes. “And next time they
will try harder. I’ll keep up the bluff as long as I can. The seventh
ingredient!” He chuckled grimly under his breath. “Like most humbugs,
it sounds well.”
Cole glanced expectantly toward the door. “A little while ago, out in
the other room, when you stepped between Carmody’s pistol and Miss
Brownell, did you expect the professor would shoot?”
“I didn’t know what to expect, to tell the truth.”
“Well, I knew he wouldn’t,” said Cole emphatically. “While we are
waiting, you might try to figure out the reason why. When you find it,
file it away in your mind for future reference. It may come in handy.
We must stop this whispering. We are making Miss Brownell nervous.”
A slight sound was heard in the corridor. The two armed guards stood
aside, and then the door opened. A moment later, smiling thinly as he
saw his suspicions confirmed, Cole faced the leader of the alchemists.
“Good evening, Mr. Englebreth,” he said easily.
An attendant pushed the invalid’s wheel chair up to the desk.
Englebreth, his disproportionately broad shoulders slightly hunched,
looked about the room with a rather listless expression. He was as
white-faced as ever, and his pale, washed-out eyes showed little
animation, but a faintly sinister smile played about the long, thin
lips. In his hand was a pistol with which he toyed with apparent
carelessness.
He nodded at Cole, then, with a quick motion of his long, slim fingers,
dismissed his attendant. The door closed, and the two armed guards
stood in front of it. For a while no one spoke. A hush seemed to have
descended over the little group with the invalid’s entrance. Latham
regarded him intently, but without a sign of surprise. For a moment
Englebreth’s pale eyes rested on Miss Brownell, then he glanced at the
doctor, and finally at Cole. His forehead puckered a little.
“You do not seem surprised to see me,” he remarked petulantly, as if
disappointed that his entrance had created no sensation.
“Why should I be?” Cole asked.
“Surely you didn’t suspect until now that I was connected with the
enterprise on foot here?”
“On the contrary,” said Cole, “your entrance has only confirmed the
suspicions that have been running in and out of my head for the past
two days. They began when I saw you enter the offices of the Bureau of
Civic Research. They received a setback when I learned that the letters
you left on the desk were genuine.”
Englebreth seemed mildly amused. “I am a public-spirited man,” he
declared. “The Bureau of Civic Research is one of the numerous
praiseworthy activities I am interested in. Being one of its honorary
vice presidents I have free access to its headquarters, of course. When
I learned, quite by accident, that a certain mysterious organization,
located on the top floor of the building, was resisting my plans, then
this privilege stood me in good stead. You might have guessed, Cole,
that I left those letters for a blind, just to show any casual visitor
that everything was open and aboveboard.”
“I might,” said Cole dryly.
“Yet you have proven yourself a very fair guesser, I must say. You are
a clever fellow, Cole. The Unknown Seven didn’t become really dangerous
to us until you took charge of its activities. Not that you have
accomplished anything,” he added with a dry chuckle. “We are too strong
even for you.”
Cole received the compliment with a shrug. A silence fell between them.
In the stillness the rhythmic humming of machinery was distinctly
heard. In Cole’s ears it sounded like a pæan of gold. He looked deep
into Englebreth’s pale eyes. There was a queer flicker in the depths,
an expression of insatiable greed to which the subterranean whir
and throw was but the audible accompaniment. He had seen the same
expression in Reeves’ burning orbs and also in the eyes of Carmody and
Ballinger. There was something abysmal about it. It suggested one who,
having gazed too long on visions of great wealth, had become enslaved
to a fearful obsession.
“Yes, you are very clever,” Englebreth went on. “It did not occur to me
that any one might suspect what the safe contained, but evidently you
did. You followed the yacht, of course. It was a very ingenious move,
Cole. Without doing so you would never have located our establishment
here. Now that you are here what do you propose to do?”
Cole only smiled. Again he looked deep into Englebreth’s eyes and saw
the smoldering fires of the fever of gold.
“My wife is an admirer of yours, Cole,” the invalid went on. “When her
brother disappeared she insisted that I engage you to find him. Of
course I couldn’t very well refuse. It would have looked suspicious,
and, besides, I supposed you were harmless. When I saw that you were
about to learn too much, through your connection with me, I succeeded
in persuading my wife that you were not worthy of confidence, that it
was best to dismiss you. Again I ask you what you intend to do.”
The words sounded like a taunt. Again Cole slanted a glance at the
telephone. The instrument tantalized him. He noticed that the green
cord attached to its base was of generous length. His mind worked
quickly, but the sight of the three automatics baffled him. A sudden
move would mean instant death, not only for himself, but for his two
companions as well.
“You seem irresolute,” Englebreth observed. “And no wonder, Cole. For
once in your life, you are absolutely helpless. You have been entirely
too meddlesome, and people who meddle in others’ affairs usually get
into trouble. Listen!”
Cole listened. A faint smile played about Englebreth’s lips as the
whirring of machinery sounded clearly in the surrounding silence.
“Know what it means, Cole. It means gold! Gold!” His lips seemed to
caress the word. “Millions and millions and millions, Cole. After you
are gone we shall be turning out gold in unlimited quantities. I and my
associates shall be the richest men in the world. And you, poor worm,
who thought you could stop us, will be reduced to a few grains of dust.”
“Sure of that?” demanded Cole.
His tone, clear and confident, seemed to impress the invalid.
“Why do you ask? Surely you don’t expect to escape from your present
predicament. As it happens, all the members of my organization are here
to-night. A touch of my finger will summon twenty men to my assistance,
if necessary.”
He scanned Cole’s face for a sign of fear, but none came. The other’s
coolness seemed to nettle him.
“So the gang is all here,” said Cole carelessly. “That means, of
course, that Doctor Ballinger is included?”
“Naturally. An excellent man, Ballinger. He has a practical mind, and
he knows on which side his bread is buttered. Why do you ask?”
“I am glad he is here,” said Cole. “I wouldn’t want him to get away
from me, you know.”
The invalid leaned out of the chair and stared. “Get away?” he echoed.
“What do you mean?”
“I have a particular score to settle with Ballinger,” said Cole calmly.
“Naturally I want him present when I hand you and your gang over to the
police.”
“When you——” Englebreth was utterly astounded. “If you think this is a
joking matter——”
“I was never more serious in my life, Englebreth. Before daybreak I
expect to hand every mother’s son of you over to the authorities.”
Englebreth stared for a moment longer; then he laughed hoarsely. Cole
could see that his cool insolence had exerted the intended moral
effect. The invalid, though the advantage was all on his side, felt
just a trifle ill at ease. Cole’s demeanor was well calculated to
suggest that a surprise of some sort was forthcoming. Englebreth would
not have been human if he had failed to be impressed by the airy
assurance of one whom he thought wholly at his mercy.
Finally he shrugged. “You must be mad,” he muttered. Then he faced
Latham, who stood beside the chair in which Miss Brownell sat. “I have
something to say to you, doctor. You did us a service once, and that is
something I never forget. If you will——”
“Save your breath,” interrupted Latham contemptuously. “For a time, a
little while ago, I was tempted to enter into negotiations with you,
but Miss Brownell wouldn’t hear of it. What is a mere man to do when a
woman sets her foot down?”
“Your flippancy is ill-timed,” said Englebreth austerely.
“Hasn’t one a right to joke at one’s own funeral?”
“We shall see.” Englebreth’s lips tightened ominously. “You know what
we want from you, doctor. Only a formula that by right belongs to us,
since you worked it out while you were a member of this organization.
Produce it, and I promise to be lenient with you and Miss Brownell.
Unless my senses deceive me”—and Englebreth smiled craftily—“you are
very anxious that nothing unpleasant shall happen to her.”
Latham hesitated, impressed by the cruel smile on the invalid’s lips,
and the girl answered in his place.
“Doctor Latham’s answer is _no_,” she declared emphatically.
Englebreth regarded her curiously, with an odd mingling of admiration
and malice. “You are a stubborn young person,” he muttered. “For the
last time, doctor, I ask you if you will consent to my terms.”
Again it was Miss Brownell who answered. “Doctor Latham refuses,” she
declared. “He knows that your promises are worthless, that you intend
to kill us regardless of whether or not he grants your request. I don’t
think there is anything further to be said.”
“No?” Englebreth’s thin fingers seemed to tighten around the pistol.
“Perhaps I can convince you——”
He stopped short. A squeallike cry of astonishment escaped him, for
Cole had just done a very unexpected thing. It was so unexpected,
in fact, that it seemed like the act of a person whose reason was
tottering. With arms folded across his chest he had casually approached
the chair in which Miss Brownell sat. For a time he had seemed absorbed
in deep thought, but all the while he had been scheming how he might
divert Englebreth’s attention, even if only for a moment, from the
menacing pistol in his hand. Anything of a startling nature, the more
bizarre and ludicrous the better, would serve his purpose. Now he
turned suddenly and gave the girl a resounding slap on the cheek. He
followed it up with another, then with a third.
A spell seemed to fall over the gathering. They had witnessed an act,
in itself trivial and ridiculous, that staggered their reason by its
sheer fatuity. For a measured moment their minds were at a standstill.
That was exactly what Cole had intended, and a moment was all he
needed. He had acted on a fugitive inspiration at a time when all
seemed lost, when a move of a more rational nature would only have
hastened the inevitable.
The resounding smack of the third blow had scarcely drifted out on the
silence when he leaped at the invalid’s chair. In an instant, while the
minds of Englebreth and the two guards at the door were still dazed
from contemplation of a thing so bizarre, he had snatched the pistol
from the cripple’s hand. A moment later he was crouching low behind
Englebreth’s chair, pressing the muzzle of the weapon against his back.
He thrilled inwardly. Once more his mind had triumphed over a critical
situation. The other time had been when he faced Professor Carmody in
the Bureau of Civic Research. The professor had been thrown off his
mental base by a trick just as simple and effective.
“Tell your men to drop their weapons,” he commanded, the muzzle of the
pistol prodding Englebreth’s back. “I’ll give you exactly ten seconds.
Unless you obey, you will be a dead man.”
Englebreth squirmed in the chair, evidently in a state of great terror.
In a few minutes his agile mind might reassert itself, but just now
he was merely a shivering wreck. His trembling hand went up and made
a signal to his men just as Cole was about to call time. Habitually
obedient to the master will, the men at the door dropped their pistols.
Cole rose from his crouching position behind Englebreth’s chair. Latham
and the girl stared at him bewilderedly, the latter moving her hand
dazedly over the cheek that Cole had struck, both seemingly unable to
realize as yet what had happened. Englebreth was breathing raspingly.
The two guards at the door gazed dully at the erect figure behind the
invalid’s chair.
“Pick up those pistols, Latham,” said Cole quietly. “Pardon my
rudeness, Miss Brownell. It was necessary.”
She smiled uncertainly, evidently beginning to understand. It was
several moments before the physician could shake off his stupefaction.
He moved haltingly over the floor and dazedly took possession of the
pistols.
“It was magnificent, Mr. Cole!” murmured the girl, at last grasping the
psychological stratagem by which Cole had reversed the situation.
“But if I hadn’t seen it happen, I would have sworn it couldn’t be
done,” said Latham.
Cole’s face was grave. His ruse had only averted their immediate
danger. Any moment other members of the organization might pour into
the room, crushing them by superior numbers. Every second counted now.
Holding the pistol in one hand, Cole drew the telephone to him and
spoke a number in the transmitter. Only a few words would be needed to
make Carlin understand the situation, and within an hour reinforcements
would arrive. He wondered, as he waited for his connection, if they
could hold out until then. Impatiently he jigged the hook, muttering
heartfelt imprecations upon the state of the rural telephone service,
and then, in a twinkling, something happened.
He saw the cripple’s weazened hand move stealthily along the side of
the desk, became conscious that a heretofore unnoticed door had burst
open behind him, heard the girl’s quick, startled cry, saw the light
blotted out as if a pall had suddenly dropped over the little room,
felt a stinging blow at the back of the head, and, with Englebreth’s
diabolic chuckles dinning in his ears, fell to the floor.
CHAPTER XXVI
A CRY
“Gold! Gold!” The vibrant murmurs, edged with a triumphant and sinister
note, echoed in Cole’s ears as he opened his eyes. The house was
shivering with a slow, rhythmic tremor, a throbbing pulsation that
instantly began to pierce the fog in his mind.
From his recumbent position on the floor he struggled to a sitting
posture. Lifting his head, he listened to the grimly exultant pæan
rising from the bowels of the earth.
“Feeling better?” asked a voice which he vaguely recognized at Doctor
Latham’s.
Cole did not answer. The subterranean vibrations seemed to cast a spell
over his awakening senses.
“Hear it?” he asked at length.
“Hear what?”
“This infernal hymn of gold. It will drive me crazy if I have to listen
to it much longer.”
“Then don’t listen. Know what time it is?”
Cole shook his head as if to indicate that the matter was of absolutely
no importance.
“Precisely twelve o’clock,” said the doctor, and Cole heard something
resembling the snapping of a watch lid. “You have been unconscious for
something like ten hours. That was the second knock-out in a night,
Cole. Why can’t these scoundrels show a little versatility?”
“What happened?” asked Cole dully.
“As if that mattered now! Englebreth gave a signal of some sort, and
the next thing I knew about half a dozen of his hired thugs swooped
down on us. My recollections cease at that point.”
“Where are we?”
“In the same room we occupied last night, before we were ushered into
Englebreth’s august presence. The windows are just as tightly shuttered
as they were then, and the door is just as impregnable. I wonder if
these hounds mean to let us starve to death.”
Cole looked about him. An electric light was burning dimly over their
heads. Through a narrow rift in one of the shutters came a shaft of
sunlight, gilding the dust in the stale air.
“Where is Miss Brownell?” he asked abruptly.
“Wish I knew,” muttered the doctor. Of a sudden all the levity had died
out of his voice. “You and I were alone in this room when I came to. If
these rats harm a single hair on her head——” The threat died unfinished
in a groan.
With difficulty Cole rose to his feet and leaned against the wall.
“I don’t seem to remember just where we were at,” he mumbled.
“You gave Miss Brownell a slap on the cheek,” the doctor reminded him.
“It was a brilliant idea, Cole.”
“So it was—but it failed, as I remember,” Cole muttered grimly. “What
was the situation just before that?”
“Englebreth was doing his level best to bluff me into revealing the
formula of the mythical seventh ingredient. Perhaps you remember his
sportsman-like proposition. I was to give him the formula in return for
my life.”
“He would promptly kill you the moment you surrendered the formula,”
Cole pointed out.
“Without a doubt. He would kill all three of us. But, as it happens, I
can’t give him the formula, because it doesn’t exist.”
“But as long as he thinks it does, we are holding a trump card in
reserve,” said Cole, regaining his grip on the tangled threads of the
situation.
“If only we knew how to use it!”
“We’ll find a way,” said Cole confidently, dragging himself to a chair
at one side of the room. “Anything about your person that could be used
as a weapon in an emergency?”
“Not a thing. I am plucked clean.”
“So am I,” said Cole after a hasty survey of his pockets. “No, here is
a stick pin. They seem to have overlooked that. The pin is long and
sharp. You could pierce a person’s jugular vein with an implement of
this kind, couldn’t you, doctor?”
“If you knew exactly where to strike.”
“You do, of course, being a doctor. As a weapon it would be useless in
my hand, so I will transfer it to you. I suggest you conceal it under
the lapel of your coat.”
Puzzled, Latham took the ornament and did as Cole had directed. As he
hid it under his lapel, he seemed inclined to ask a question, but Cole
forestalled him.
“I think some one is coming,” he remarked in an undertone.
Latham, listening, heard the sounds which Cole’s keener ears had caught
first. Folding his arms across his chest, he struck a carefree pose and
looked toward the door. It opened, and two armed stalwarts walked in.
They were followed by Englebreth in his wheel chair. Two more guards,
also armed, brought up the rear. With a cautious look to all sides,
the invalid trundled his wheel chair into the center of the room. The
barrel of a small automatic gleamed viciously in the electric light.
“How do you do, gentlemen?” he said in tones of mock geniality. “Wish
I could offer you some breakfast, but it has been my experience that
people are always more reasonable when their stomachs are empty. I have
come to renew our discussion where we left off last night.” He fixed
his bleak and very alert eyes on Doctor Latham.
“Better save your breath,” suggested the physician. “You may need it
before we are through with you.”
Englebreth smiled serenely. “I don’t blame you, doctor, for trying
to bolster up your courage. People usually resort to false bravado
when they are hopelessly situated. Our friend Cole enacted quite a
spectacular scene last night, but he will hardly try anything like that
again. He has learned his lesson. Well, doctor, are you ready to oblige
us?”
“If you will drop that automatic, I’ll oblige you with a smash on the
jaw,” said the physician in unprofessional but impressive language.
“Still stubborn, I see.” His smile took on a sinister quality. “I
suppose you are wondering what has become of Miss Brownell?”
The doctor bit his lip, but his gaze did not waver. “If anything
happens to Miss Brownell,” he muttered hotly, “I’ll choke you to death
with my bare hands.”
“Save your threats, doctor. They don’t interest me in the least. As
yet nothing whatever has happened to Miss Brownell, but something will
unless you adopt a more reasonable attitude. I warn you that it will be
something decidedly unpleasant.” He turned slightly in the chair and
addressed one of his bodyguards. “Ask Doctor Ballinger to step in here.”
The man nodded and left the room. A questioning glance passed between
Latham and Cole, the former looking as if a dread suspicion had
suddenly occurred to him. In a few moments the messenger returned with
Ballinger. The physician strode in with a jaunty air and saluted Cole
and Latham with exaggerated politeness.
“Ah, Ballinger,” said the cripple in an undertone, yet loud enough for
the two prisoners to hear, “I just wished to make certain that you have
made all necessary arrangements for the—ahem—experiment we discussed
last night.”
Cole, casting a sidelong glance at Latham, saw him stiffen suddenly. A
film of pallor spread above the bearded portion of his face.
“Yes, everything is ready,” announced Ballinger.
“The instruments came?”
“Just a little while ago.”
“And the ether?”
“It is here too.”
“Good, Ballinger. Be ready to proceed the moment you hear from me.” He
waved a withered hand in dismissal.
Ballinger, an inscrutable smile playing about his lips, left the room.
An intense silence followed. The cripple’s gelid gaze moved from Latham
to Cole, and then back to Latham.
“You understood?” he asked.
Neither man answered. A harrowing suspicion seemed to have come over
both of them. Latham looked as if his powerful body was racked by an
agonizing dread.
“Ballinger is a very clever man,” murmured the invalid. “You know
what happened to Malcolm Reeves.” He paused, looked stonily at Doctor
Latham, as if waiting for his last words to produce their utmost
effect. “The same thing,” he added slowly, measuring each word, “will
happen to Miss Brownell unless you change your mind, Latham.”
A cry of mingled horror, loathing and hate broke from Latham’s
compressed lips. He sprang toward the cripple, hand raised as if to
strike, but in an instant two of the bodyguards intervened.
“Glad we understand each other, Latham,” said the cripple calmly. “The
operation will start in fifteen minutes unless you submit to my terms.”
Latham stood speechless. The only sound heard in the room was a great
sigh.
“Don’t like the idea, eh, Latham?” the invalid went on in smooth,
dulcet tones. “The spectacle of Miss Brownell reduced to a gibbering
lunatic is a little too much for your imagination to dwell on. You have
a vivid recollection of what happened to Reeves.”
A dull, hoarse groan sounded in the physician’s chest. Cole, watching
him, thought he was about to give way under an overwhelming strain.
“You’re mistaken, Englebreth,” he managed to say. “There is no such
thing as the seventh ingredient. I let you go on thinking so because——”
Englebreth interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I expected you to
say that. It would be your logical evasion. You can’t deceive me with
such nonsense. Only last night you discussed the possibilities of the
seventh ingredient with Professor Carmody. As he explained it to me,
it’s a sort of electronic reaction. Not being a scientific man, I don’t
understand what that means, but it doesn’t matter. I have the utmost
respect for your scientific achievements, doctor. Will you give us the
formula?”
Latham fumbled in vain for a convincing argument. His advantage had not
only slipped away from him, but it had become a deadly boomerang in
Englebreth’s hand.
“I swear I am telling you the truth!” he cried brokenly.
A cold smile curled the cripple’s lips. “Such childish subterfuge
doesn’t go with me,” he said contemptuously. “Either you give me the
formula instantly, or Miss Brownell will be a lunatic inside of an
hour. Take your choice.”
He leaned back in the chair, slowly and playfully twisting the
automatic in his hand. Cole stepped forward.
“Latham has told you the truth,” he declared. “The seventh ingredient
never existed outside of his imagination.”
Englebreth shrugged with an air of utter incredulity. Cole could see
that there was no way of disturbing his firmly rooted belief. And he
knew that, even if the seventh ingredient had been a reality, Latham’s
submission would not have altered their situation.
Englebreth looked at his watch, then summoned one of his bodyguards and
whispered something in his ear. The man left the room. The slamming
of the door sounded like a death knell in the tense silence. Latham’s
chest heaved in a frenzy of suppressed emotions. Minutes passed, and
then hurried footsteps sounded overhead, accompanied by the sound of
a resisting body being dragged over the floor. Latham, with a wild
look in his face, started forward, but one of the guards shoved him
back. Breathing fast and raspingly he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Of a sudden he gave a violent start, then stood as if frozen into
immobility. From the room above came a long cry of terror, uttered in a
woman’s voice.
Latham’s bulging eyes stared upward. There was a look of insanity in
his face.
“Stop it!” he cried hoarsely. “For God’s sake——”
Another cry, more poignant than the others, shrilled through the house.
“Stop it—you fiend!” cried Latham.
“I will, on one condition,” said Englebreth calmly. “There is still
time. They are only making preparations upstairs. She won’t cry when
the real business begins.”
Latham’s hand went to his eyes as if to exclude a hideous vision.
“Careful, Englebreth!” said Cole evenly. “If you go too far, Latham may
lose his mind.”
“And if he does, what then?” demanded the cripple jeeringly.
“A number of things may happen.” Cole gave the physician a level,
significant glance. “For instance, Latham may take it into his head to
kill himself.”
The physician’s head went up. His hands left his face. A look of
dawning comprehension crept into his features. He turned his head and
for an instant his eyes met Cole’s, reading a message there.
“Kill himself?” echoed the cripple, astonished. “What rot, Cole! How
would he do it, and why?”
“Ask him,” said Cole with a careless gesture. “I can only point out to
you that if he kills himself the secret of the seventh ingredient dies
with him. Look! He is——”
He simulated a cry of astonishment and horror. Latham, quickly
interpreting the message he had read in Cole’s eyes, had snatched the
stick pin from under the lapel of his coat.
“Watch me, Englebreth,” he declared in a voice that had suddenly
retrieved all its lost vigor. “Even a stick pin makes quite a
formidable weapon if it’s pointed in the right direction. I am pointing
this one straight at my jugular vein. The moment anybody in this room
makes a move, I drive it in. Where will your seventh ingredient be
then, Englebreth?”
The cripple stared at him in speechless bafflement. He raised a hand,
but it fell limply to his side.
“You—you’re crazy!” he stuttered.
“Maybe,” said Latham coolly.
“Or else you are only bluffing.” There was a trace of doubt in
Englebreth’s tones.
“Why should I be bluffing? I would rather kill myself than be killed by
your bunch of hyenas. I know you meant to kill me, anyway, Englebreth.
One thing is certain. Unless you stop the preparations upstairs within
the next sixty seconds, your last hope of obtaining that formula will
be gone. You can’t get anything out of a dead man.”
Englebreth strained forward in his chair, staring into the physician’s
grim, determined face.
“He means what he says,” Cole declared, smiling despite the tension of
the moment. “You will have to act quickly, Englebreth.”
The cripple considered a moment longer, then bawled an order to one
of the men at the door. The fellow hurried away, and in a moment
they heard him scurrying up the stairs. An exchange of words sounded
overhead, then all was quiet.
Englebreth made an impatient gesture with his hand. The bodyguard
closed in around him, and with petulant motions he wheeled himself out
of the room. At the door he turned his head for a moment, and a little
chill rippled down Cole’s back as he saw the cold, malignant look in
the cripple’s eye.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE WAY OUT
Doctor Latham stroked his beard thoughtfully as the door closed behind
the invalid and his retinue. “It worked like magic,” he remarked.
“It worked,” Cole amplified, “because we were dealing with a logical
mind, one that deals mainly with reason and fails to consider the human
equation. We know that Englebreth means to kill us in the end, and he
knows that we know it. That being the case, it wasn’t hard for him
to put himself in your place a little while ago. He would have done
what you threatened to do, because it was the logical move under the
circumstances. I wonder what deviltry Englebreth will be planning next.”
“A seven-course dinner, I hope,” said the doctor wistfully. “I’m
famished.”
Cole regarded him musingly, marveling at the resiliency of his spirits.
Latham appeared to have shaken off all external cares the moment he saw
that Miss Brownell was no longer in immediate danger.
“You might as well restrain your appetite, doctor,” he murmured. “You
heard what Englebreth said, that a man is most amenable to argument
when he is hungry. At any rate, it is worth something to know that he
doesn’t want you to die just yet. He showed that plainly when you made
that monumental bluff with the stick pin. I saw him turn white as a
ghost.”
“Thanks to the seventh ingredient,” said Latham with a chuckle. “It’s
the best kind of life insurance, but I fear it won’t last long. Any
more tricks in your repertory, Cole?”
“One more, I think.” Cole glanced toward the shadowy corner where he
had stood during Englebreth’s presence in the room. “I understand,” he
went on casually, “that Dutchess Point was once a very gay place.”
“If so, its gayety hasn’t improved with age.”
Cole ignored his flippancy. “I’ve been told it was once a notorious
gambling resort. Places of that kind are usually equipped with
contrivances for making hasty exits—trapdoors, sliding panels and that
sort of thing.”
Latham raised his brows. “What are you getting at?”
But Cole seemed in no hurry to approach his subject. “Ever notice,
Latham, that many people find it very hard to remain motionless when
they are in a state of deep mental concentration? Physical movement
of some sort seems a necessary relief from mental effort. One man I
know is always plucking at his watch chain when he is absorbed in some
mental task. Another taps his desk with a pencil. My own favorite
diversion on such occasions is to beat a tattoo with my knuckles.”
“Highly interesting,” remarked Latham, “but I fail to see the point. It
is either very shallow or very deep.”
“Neither, Latham. A little while ago, while you were enacting that
highly dramatic scene for Englebreth’s benefit, I stood back there in
the corner, with my hands behind my back, tapping the wall with my
knuckles. No one noticed me, for you held the attention of everybody
in the room. I didn’t realize what I was doing myself until suddenly I
became aware that my knuckles were producing a hollow sound.”
Doctor Latham gasped. “You mean that——”
“We shall see,” said Cole; and in an instant he was back in the corner,
crouching low while his knuckles hammered the wall, each tap producing
a dull, hollow sound. The doctor, visibly excited, stood behind him,
watching every move he made. Cole continued the tapping until he had
determined the boundaries of the hollow space, extending about five
feet from the corner, and then he got down on his knees and ran his
hands along the beveled joint between wall and floor. A little cry of
elation escaped him as his fingers encountered a small protuberance.
Almost instantly a portion of the wall turned back as if swinging on a
central pivot. In front of them extended a long, dark hall.
“Great!” exclaimed Latham, his voice shaking a little. “You deserve a
harp and a halo, Cole. Now let’s make the hasty exit you spoke of.”
He pressed forward, but Cole pulled him back. “I don’t want a harp
and a halo just yet,” he declared, “and that’s why we are going to
stay in this room a while longer. You forget that it’s still broad
daylight outside. If we went out now, we would doubtless run into one
of Englebreth’s sluggers. We must wait till dark.”
Latham groaned as Cole closed the opening. He glanced at his watch.
“Only half past three. That means a wait of several hours.”
“I know. That will give us ample time to lay our plans. Don’t forget
that we are both unarmed, and that we’ll cut a sorry figure if we
should be caught. We don’t want to waste the only advantage we have.”
“You are right, of course,” admitted the doctor. “What do you suggest?”
Cole reflected. “It isn’t likely Englebreth knows anything about the
hidden exit. If he did, he would have chosen a different cell for us.
We’ll treat him to a little surprise after dark, Latham. Its exact
nature will be determined by whatever developments come along in the
meantime.”
“Wish they would hurry,” mumbled the doctor, all impatience now that
a way out had been found. He sat down, lighted a cigarette, and made
ostentatious efforts to compose himself for a wait. An hour dragged
by. The beam of light coming through the narrow rift in the shutter
grew thin and pale. Another hour passed, and it disappeared altogether.
Latham got up and began pacing the floor with long, lunging strides.
For a long time not a word had been uttered between the two men.
“Isn’t it about time to make a move?” asked Latham suddenly.
Cole started. The subterranean pulsations, sounding clear and exultant
in the stillness, had cast a spell over his senses. Now he looked at
his watch in the light of the electric bulb overhead.
“Better wait another hour,” he suggested.
Doctor Latham swore under his breath, then lighted another cigarette.
“Queer we haven’t heard from Englebreth,” Cole remarked. “I expected
another call from him before dark.”
“He is probably meditating over his next move. I imagine he is planning
a very brilliant stroke. But we’ll checkmate him, eh, Cole?”
Latham’s impatience was beginning to communicate itself to Cole. He
took his watch from his pocket, and in the same instant a noise sounded
outside the door. In a moment it opened, and two huskies, with leveled
automatics, appeared in the room.
“Miss Brownell wants you,” announced one of them, addressing Doctor
Latham.
The physician, evidently in a quandary, looked questioningly at Cole.
For only a moment Cole hesitated. Doubtless the summons meant that
Englebreth was trying a new mode of attack and that the reference to
Miss Brownell was only a subterfuge.
Cole nodded in response to the physician’s unspoken question. “If Miss
Brownell wants you, you must go to her,” he declared, conscious that
one of the guards was watching him intently. In an undertone he added:
“If you get into a pinch, keep stalling till I show up.”
Latham nodded and walked out, accompanied by the two gangsters. Cole
watched him until the door closed behind him.
“Wonder what Englebreth is up to this time,” he muttered; and then,
moving quickly, he stepped into the corner and, opening the hidden
door, stepped out into the dark hall beyond.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ENEMY STRIKES
Silent as a shadow, Cole hurried down the hall, which seemed to extend
endlessly in an undeviating direction. Believing it had once been used
as an emergency exit he supposed it would eventually lead into the
open. He had made no plans beyond the immediate present, but it was
his intention to join Doctor Latham as soon as possible and, taking
advantage of the sensation his unexpected appearance would create,
make the most of his opportunity. Beyond doubt the physician was in
desperate danger. The murderous glance Englebreth had thrown over his
shoulder as he left them a few hours ago had left an ominous imprint on
Cole’s mind.
Soon he brought up against an obstruction, apparently a blank stretch
of wall. He fumbled with his hands along the surface expecting to find
a contrivance similar to the one at the other end of the wall. Soon
his fingers encountered the little knob at the bottom which told him
his surmise had been correct. Cautiously he pressed outward and the
obstruction gave. A breath of cool night air fanned his face as he
stepped out.
Hugging close to the wall he looked about him. Evidently he was in the
rear of the house, in a wide recess formed by two projecting wings.
Above him and to the sides were several lighted windows, while ahead
of him was a sloping, rock-strewn stretch of landscape. Carefully
picking his way, he stepped along the nearest wall, all his senses
on the alert against an interruption. He reached the corner, looked
around the edge of the wall, and then drew back. A stalwart individual,
evidently one of Englebreth’s lookouts, was coming toward him.
Cole shrank back against the wall, waited until the man rounded the
corner, then swung out with his right hand and landed a smashing blow
on the fellow’s jaw. Without a sound the sentry dropped to the ground,
and Cole dragged him into the shadows along the wall. It took him but a
few moments to undo the man’s shoe laces and secure his hands and feet.
Next he ripped out the lining from his coat, folded it into a narrow
strip, and firmly applied it as a gag. Last of all he extracted an
automatic from the unconscious man’s hip pocket.
“I’m in luck so far,” he told himself, making certain that the weapon
was loaded before he continued his interrupted progress. He breathed
more easily now, for the possession of a firearm had a soothing effect
on his nerves. He crawled forward along the wall, exercising infinite
care, until he reached a window in the wing. It was dark, and no sound
came from within, signifying that this part of the building was not
used by the gang. He placed his elbow against the pane, pressing firmly
until the glass cracked. Dislodging several of the splinters, he pushed
a hand through the opening and released the catch. In a moment he was
inside and began to pick his way cautiously across the floor. At the
farther side he opened a door, traversed another dark and deserted
room, then still another. Soon he found himself in a hall, and after
a glance up and down its length selected a door at random. The moment
he stepped inside voices reached his ears. Along the side, diagonally
across the floor from where he stood, a narrow streak of light showed
the location of the door.
He tiptoed across the floor, placed his hand on the knob, turned it
carefully, and opened the door an infinitesimal crack. In an instant
he recognized the room. It was the office that had been the scene of
his short-lived triumph the night before. Englebreth was seated at
the desk, occupying the same wheel chair in which he had sat while
witnessing Cole’s abortive ruse. The door before which Cole now stood
was the one that had so abruptly opened while he was on the point of
telephoning Carlin. He was vaguely aware that the scene had changed
since last night, but he had no time to observe details. His attention
was instantly engrossed by the little drama taking place before his
eyes.
On a cot placed along the farther side of the room lay Latham, and,
save for an occasional turn of the head, he lay so still that Cole,
although he could not see distinctly, guessed that he must be strapped
to the cot. Over him, bending slightly, with a wicked smile playing
about his bearded lips, stood Doctor Ballinger, and in his hand was a
small object which Cole could not distinguish. The only other occupants
of the room were Englebreth and two of the stalwart bodyguards who
always seemed to be hovering about him.
“Yes, it was clever, Latham,” the cripple was saying. “You played your
cards just right. Whether you were serious or whether you were bluffing
is beside the point. Your death would have been ill-timed from my point
of view. I don’t think you are afraid to die, Latham. There is one
thing you are afraid of, however.”
He stopped. For several moments the room was very still. Ballinger,
straightening his back, looked meditatively at the object in his hand,
which, as Cole now perceived, was a small bottle.
“That one thing is blindness, Latham,” added the cripple impressively.
“Tell him, Ballinger.”
Ballinger held the vial before the recumbent man’s eyes. “One small
particle of this fluid dropped into each of your eyes will blind you
for life,” he announced. “Not a pleasant thing to contemplate, eh,
Latham?”
Cole started as he saw the diabolical form of persuasion that was being
employed by the conspirators to make Latham reveal what he was supposed
to know. It was a threat far more hideous than death itself. He saw
Latham’s chest heave upward as he strained against the fetters that
held him to the cot.
“What do you say, Latham?” asked the cripple, bending slightly out of
his chair.
“I’ll say that you and Ballinger are a pair of scurvy blackguards,” was
the physician’s retort. “I take solemn oath that I will send each of
you to jail with a black eye.”
Ballinger laughed derisively.
“Still stubborn, I see,” Englebreth remarked. “I am warning you for
the last time, Latham. If you think Cole can come to your rescue, you
are mistaken. Between you and me, that infernal meddler will never
leave Dutchess Point alive. With you it is different. You can make
yourself useful to us, and that is why I am offering you terms. But you
must decide quickly.”
“Go to blazes!” said Latham, but there was a catch in his voice,
scarcely audible even to Cole’s keen ears, which told that his courage
was faltering.
“He thinks we are bluffing, Ballinger,” said Englebreth. “We must
convince him that we are serious. Drop a little of the fluid into his
left eye. The result will prove to him that we mean business.”
A muffled groan came from the man on the cot. Ballinger stepped closer
to the light, uncorked the little vial, cautiously inserted a small
syringe through the neck, his brows contracting as he pumped the
requisite amount of fluid into the glass tube. Now he set the bottle
down, replaced the cork, and with the syringe in his hand turned again
toward the man on the cot. A faint grin hovered about his bearded lips,
but he had taken only a step in the direction of the cot when a sharp
command rang out:
“Stop, Ballinger!”
As he spoke, Cole sprang forward and landed a vigorous blow with
his automatic on the right hand of the guard standing nearest to
Englebreth. A pistol dropped from the man’s limp fingers, and with an
instantaneous movement Cole picked it up.
Ballinger jerked up his head, then stopped dead in his tracks, facing
the cot. The cripple whirled round in his swivel chair, a look of utter
consternation flooding his white face as he saw Cole, standing calmly
a foot away, a leveled automatic in each hand. The second guard leaped
forward, but in a moment Cole had him covered.
“Drop that gun!” he ordered, making an ominous gesture with one of his
pistols. “This instant!”
The man’s jaw sagged, and the weapon dropped from his hand. Englebreth,
sitting hunched and shuddering in his chair, stared at the intruder as
if he were seeing a specter.
“You!” he exclaimed in a thin, rasping voice. “You——”
Cole ignored him. His eyes gleamed like points of polished steel.
“Ballinger,” he said in a very calm voice, “I’d rather put a bullet
through your black heart, but I’m going to give you one chance for your
life. See how quickly you can cut Doctor Latham loose. A little speed
may save your life.”
The syringe fell from Ballinger’s trembling fingers. For a moment he
hesitated, then a knife appeared in his hand, and with surprising speed
he slashed the cords around Latham’s hands and feet. A little dazedly
the physician rose from the cot. There was a dull, smoldering fever in
his eyes as he looked at Ballinger. With startling suddenness his right
hand shot out, landing a vicious blow between Ballinger’s eyes.
“There—I promised you that!” he exclaimed grittily. “And you!”
Again his powerful fist darted out, and a splash of crimson spurted
from the region of Englebreth’s nose. With a sigh of vast content he
looked at Cole.
“How in the world did you——”
“Never mind,” Cole interrupted. “Get Carlin on the telephone.” As the
physician started to obey, his cold, narrowing gaze swept each face in
the room. “I’ll shoot the moment any one moves or makes a sound,” he
declared.
His voice had a ruthless ring, and no one moved. Englebreth, breathing
raspingly, was wiping the blood from his face while he squinted at Cole
in a dazed way.
The physician hung up the receiver and stepped away from the telephone.
“I got Carlin out of bed,” he reported. “He will be here in a little
while, and he will bring enough men with him to surround the place.
These human hyenas will soon be where they belong.” He looked about
him with a satisfied expression. “I hope Carlin won’t treat the speed
regulations too tenderly. I’m hungry as the deuce.”
“So am I,” admitted Cole, a trifle absently. The throbbing and pulsing
of machinery sounded remotely in his ears, a muffled hymn of greed
and gold-maddened dreams, soon to be silenced forever. He shrugged,
and a look of fretful responsibility came into his face. “And there
is Toots,” he went on. “I’ve been neglecting Toots lately. Latham,
I’m going to give you a piece of advice, with the compliments of The
Unknown Seven. Keep shy of cats.”
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes:
• Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
• Text enclosed by pluses is in small caps (+small caps+).
• Text enclosed by equals is in bold (=bold=).
• Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
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