The visitor turned out to be a stout, middle-aged Italian, rather
furtive-looking; a stranger to me, but evidently not unfamiliar to
Chief of Police Meigs, who moved towards him the moment he entered the
room.
"Oh, hello, Antonio!" the Chief accosted him. "When did you get out
of the bastile? You've shaved off your mustache. Trying to disguise
yourself?"
"I am no crook," the Italian retorted. "I come to see de lady of de
house."
"Oh, that explains your visit, eh?" the Chief said. Then he turned to
Mrs. LaRauche. "Do you know this man?"
"Yes," she replied. "He's our former, and particularly objectionable,
neighbor, who got ninety days in jail for mistreating the animals he
was training."
"Excuse, ma'am," the Italian said, wriggling uncomfortably, "but dat is
not true."
"No matter," she rejoined. "I dare say it never struck you, Mr.
Ranzetti, that I was made very uneasy and unhappy by members of your
menagerie roaming at large on our place."
There was no reply to this, I felt. By that time, I had the visitor all
straightened out in my mind.
"At any rate, why have you come to see me?" Mrs. LaRauche continued.
"I don' know what to doa about it, lady," the Italian stammered; "dat's
why I coma to you."
"About what?" she asked, her eyes twinkling good-humoredly.
"About--Peter," the man faltered; and then, to our great surprise, the
tears began to roll down his prison-pale, furrowed, cheeks.
"What do you suppose is the matter with the poor fellow?" Mrs. LaRauche
asked, turning to Chief Meigs.
The Chief shook his head, and then tapped the visitor on the shoulder.
"What's on your mind, Antonio?" he inquired.
The Italian swallowed hard, then clutched the Chief by the arm. "Maybe
you can helpa me, Meester Policesamans," he wailed. "I search every
place since I got out of de jug, for my poor Peter. In the zoo, I find
my bears, my seals, my monkeys, but no Peter."
"One of your animals missing? Is that it?" the officer inquired.
"I no can finda Peter," the animal trainer replied, unshed tears
glistening in his eyes. "Maybe, he escape in de night, after de cops
tooka me away."
"And when was that?" I interrogated.
The reply to my question came from Mrs. LaRauche. "I happen to know,"
she said. "Strangely enough, Mr. Ranzetti was arrested on the very
night Rene made his flight into the sub-stratosphere, transmitted that
spurious message from Mars, and afterwards dropped the rocket near your
beach. He was arrested, and taken to jail, early in the evening."
I caught my breath, rose, and made straight for the visitor. "Who was
this--Peter?" I asked. "A chimpanzee?"
"I tought he was a chimpanzee, Meester, when I boughta him, as a
baby, in East Africa," the Italian replied, "but he got bigger and
bigger, and he done t'ings no chimpanzee never has done. Sometimes,
Meester, he looka and acta so mucha lika de biga, reala man, I t'ink
I snuffa da coke. I traina him in secret. Teacha him de grand tricks.
I mean, someday, to maka de great sensation with my Peter. He maka my
fortune. But, now, poor Peter, he gone! I no finda him. I looka every
place--every place."
My eyes wandered to McGinity, and he read my thoughts. He jumped from
his chair, and moved to the side of the tearful trainer. He handed him
a cigarette; even lit it for him.
"T'anka you, Meester," the Italian breathed fervently.
"That's better, now,--what?" McGinity said, patting him on the
shoulder. "Well, I think I can tell you what happened to Peter," he
went on, "but first you must tell me what tricks you taught him."
The Italian brightened perceptibly. "Oh, Meester!" he exclaimed,
proudly, "I teacha Peter to act lika de gentlemans, to sit at de table,
and eata and smoka de cigarettes, like de big millionaire, and never to
maka de spit on de floor. I teacha him to sleep in de bed, to look at
de picture books, to ride de bike, and lock and unlock de door of his
cage."
"Was Peter always tractable? I mean by that--did you find it easy to
teach him these tricks!"
The Italian shrugged his shoulders. "Peter, he was a funny fellow.
Sometimes, he doa whata I say, and, sometimes, Meester, he doa nothing
at all. He go hide in de closet, or under de bed. He act veery bad."
"Lapses, eh? He did things you didn't want him to do?" McGinity
interrogated further.
"Once, Meester, he go nuts--clean nuts. He maka de fight wid de pillow.
He tried to smother me--killa me! What doa you say for dat? Killa me!
For two days, I lock him up in de dark closet, den he hammer on de
door, lika I teacha him to doa, and cry to git out--cry lika a leetle
boy cry for his spaghetti."
"Oh! He liked spaghetti, did he?"
"Did my Peter lika de spaghetti?" the Italian echoed rather
explosively. "And he lika de good wine too; he drinka plenty, and no
git sloused. And, spaghetti--why, Peter, he lika de spaghetti so much
he learn to speaka de name. Maybe, you don' believe a big champanzee
speaka de Anglish word, spaghetti. Well, Meester, I swear--" he
hesitated a moment and reverently crossed himself--"I swear he speaka
dat word jist as good as you or me, only, Peter, he say--'spaghet!'"
The word, as the Italian pronounced it, or rather hissed it, with
emphasis on the last syllable, brought Henry instantly to his feet, out
of a sort of dozy quietude.
"You think it's possible?" he gasped, his gaze fixed on the reporter.
"I think so," McGinity replied.
The word, indeed, carried such convincing evidence that it was
impossible to think otherwise than that Mr. Zzyx was no other than
Peter, Antonio Ranzetti's missing chimpanzee.
McGinity began to walk up and down the room, hands in pockets, while I
explained to Mrs. LaRauche, and Chief Meigs, the new evidence we had
just succeeded in getting from the Italian animal trainer.
"Oh, Mr. McGinity!" exclaimed Mrs. LaRauche in astonishment. "Is it
possible that you've solved the mystery of Mr. Zzyx? What is your
theory? Tell us, quickly, what you think happened?"
"Well," said McGinity, after a pause, "Antonio has just given us some
important information, but whether it'll clear up matters, I can't say.
Anyhow, here it is:
"Now, we've got to guess what happened. In my opinion, Peter, the
missing chimpanzee, answers Mr. Zzyx's description in every detail.
He probably got out of his cage--he knew how to operate a lock--and
escaped from his keeper's house after Antonio had been arrested. He
roams about in the dark, finally reaching LaRauche's flying field.
Somehow, he gets into the hangar. Nosing about curiously, he climbs
up on the rocket. Finding the door into the projectile open, he
creeps inside, curls up, and goes to sleep. According to Antonio, the
chimpanzee was accustomed to doing things like that, hiding in queer,
dark places, like a closet, or under the bed.
"Now, he's still fast asleep when LaRauche returns from his
sub-stratosphere flight," McGinity continued. "No doubt LaRauche had
inspected the interior of the rocket, and placed the box containing
the scroll inside, earlier in the evening. It was all ready to be
hooked on to the plane; the only thing left to be done was to seal it.
This LaRauche could accomplish in a few minutes, using a torch-blower
to fuse the metal-catch that secured the door. If the noise awakened
Peter, well, it was just too bad! He couldn't get out, and he couldn't
make himself heard.
"How he ever survived the concussion, when the rocket was dropped from
the plane to the beach, or escaped suffocation during the night, is
something beyond me. But he did survive, and he had strength and sense
enough to attract outside attention by hammering against the metal
sides of the rocket. This trick of hammering, when he wanted to get
out of a dark place, like a closet, he had been taught by his master,
Antonio."
McGinity's summing-up brought matters towards a conclusion. We had
come to the end of this drama of mystery, which, in its twisted course,
involved the loss of three lives--perhaps four, for LaRauche was still
to be accounted for.
The interview had no sooner ended when McGinity became very restless,
and wanted to get back to the castle. A state of nerves which I could
not but regard as possessing a certain significance. He was anxious to
get back to Pat.
* * * * *
The next day we learned how Orkins had met his death, showing both
McGinity and I, and Police Chief Meigs, were wrong in our idea that
he had been shot in the back by LaRauche as he ran up the stairs. The
autopsy disclosed that he had shot himself.
There was a fight between the two men, that was sure, after LaRauche
had surprised his manservant at the telephone, in the act of betraying
his master to the police for a price, in connection with the theft of
the rocket. Maybe there was murder in the mad scientist's eye; maybe
he tried to down Orkins and strangle him to death. He must have put a
terrible fear in his servant's heart.
But it's pretty hard to kill a strong and active man like Orkins,
unarmed. The powder marks on his chest showed the bullet had been fired
at close range. Still, there was no sign of a revolver.
It was a fat-headed policeman, assigned by Chief Meigs to guard the
house for the night, after our interview with Mrs. LaRauche, who found
something in the bottom of the antique grandfather's clock which stood
on the first landing of the stairs. He called up the Chief, and said:
"Looks like this is what we're after."
It was, Chief Meigs discovered. A little plated revolver bearing the
monogram "O," which Orkins no doubt kept safely hidden away on his
person. The implication was that after he had run away from LaRauche
and dashed up the stairs, he had stopped on the landing, where, seized
with sudden remorse for his act of betrayal, he had shot himself
through the heart.
It is easy to imagine the small revolver slipping from his grasp as he
fell backwards, his body plunging down the stairs, and being flung with
such force that it hurtled across the landing and fell in the bottom of
the clock. There was no glass in the door of the clock, so it must have
worked that way.
* * * * *
Rene LaRauche was never seen again. In my opinion the poor old man,
terrified at the sudden turn of events, and rational enough to realize
that he would be involved in the death of Orkins, made his reckless
escape by plane. No one will ever know, I dare say, and it doesn't
matter now.
A week after he had winged his way into the night, portions of his
plane were washed ashore at Cape Henry, in Virginia. He had set out on
his night flight, apparently purposeless, and had perished at sea. All
very sad and regrettable, but out of his tragedy, buried deep in the
dark waters of the Atlantic, his fame survived, and rose transcendently
to heights he had never attained while alive.
Henry knew how to take advantage of his opportunities. Immediately
he founded and sponsored a nation-wide movement among scientists to
glorify and immortalize the name of Rene LaRauche. Thus, strange as it
may seem, the perpetration of the greatest hoax known within living
memory became the crowning achievement of the scientist's career.
In the deviltries of a deranged mind, prompted by his insane jealousy
and hatred of Henry, LaRauche had made the world Mars-conscious to a
degree greater than ever before in its history. Through his original
and astounding conceptions of life and conditions on that planet, he
had brought within the bounds not merely of possibility, but of almost
immediate probability, the establishing of direct radio communication
between Mars and the earth. All this had made a tremendous and lasting
impression on the people.
He had proved almost conclusively that life, as we know it, exists
on Mars. Actually, he had created a new Mars, and brought it within
neighborly distance from the earth. The American people especially were
anxious to preserve the feelings of friendliness and sympathy towards
a kindred race which he had aroused in their hearts by his Martian
revelations, however false. But were they false? Were they not rather
prophetic of the true revelations that are destined to come in time?
Now and then I visit the Museum of Science, to see his portrait bust,
which adorns a special niche in the museum's hall of fame, and to again
survey, with varying emotions, the Martian rocket and the scroll,
reposing under glass.
Only recently I drove along the lonely road that winds through the
desolate hills which encompass his estate. The old house is closed,
doors and windows boarded up, the whole place in utter decay, with a
"For Sale" sign, swinging and creaking in the wind, over the front
gate. Mrs. LaRauche lives in southern France; we hear she is about to
publish a new mystery novel.
* * * * *
Winter has gone, and once again we are ensconced for the summer in the
spooky-like castle at Sands Cliff, with the difference that it is no
longer spooky. Our heritage of privacy and seclusion regained, life
goes on much as before, in peaceful and ordered living.
But still everything is not quite the same. As a family we seem to
have outgrown our weak spots. At least, some good has come out of all
the exciting and horrible events through which we passed. Our arrogant
detachment from the outside world, for one thing, has given way to a
more neighborly feeling. We are trying to think more of others than we
do of ourselves; we are sharing our inherited benefits with those less
fortunately placed, whenever the opportunity presents itself.
Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, no longer exists for the world;
rather, Henry Royce, philanthropist and amateur gardener. It is strange
how Henry took so naturally and intensively to gardening, and he has
covered his tracks as an amateur scientist so completely by his new
hobby that no one would possibly suspect that the white-haired, old
gentleman, wearing overalls, and a healthy sun-bronze, and hoeing
and raking in his garden of herbs, once thrilled the world with his
scientific exploits.
Scientific matters are taboo in his presence; the slightest reference
to Mars, a painful subject; his splendidly equipped observatory
stripped of its astronomical fittings. Nevertheless, after all the
evidence presented, which proved beyond all doubt that the Martian
revelations were a hoax, I have good reasons to believe that deep down
in his inner self, he still clings stoutly to his fanciful theory that
the radio messages, the rocket and even Mr. Zzyx, did actually come
from Mars. I think he still believes that he was right, and the rest of
us all wrong.
And in this secret belief he does not play a lone hand, judging from
the spirited correspondence he carries on with Olinski, who is now in
Russia, employed as a radio engineer by the Soviet Government. After
the bursting of the Martian bubble, Olinski resigned from the National
Radio Corporation; he brooded, and as a result, lost his health. He
was terribly down-at-the-heel when Henry paid his way back to Russia,
by way of the Orient; and in pure justice to the memory of Niki,
commissioned him to find the valet's relatives, in the Philippines, and
turn over to them the full amount of the reward Niki had won by finding
the Martian rocket.
Some months later, Henry received a very sad letter from Niki's old
mother, in the Philippines, expressing her mingled grief and gratitude.
About the same time, he had a cheerful note from Antonio Ranzetti, who
has returned to Italy, to live in ease for the remainder of his life,
on the generous contribution Henry made to the animal trainer, as a
consolation prize for the loss of Peter, his performing chimpanzee,
although Henry would never admit that Mr. Zzyx was really Peter.
Out of the Californian void, into which Prince Matani had disappeared,
there came at last an account of his marriage to a beautiful screen
star of the first magnitude. By this time, I was past wonder and all
power to feel astonishment, but the description of the wedding, as
given in the newspapers, gave me food for speculation.
He was married quite recently, only a month or so ago, and the ceremony
was performed, at the bride's request, on the lot of one of the big
producing corporations, where she was appearing daily in an African
jungle story, the filming of which was being rushed to completion. A
very informal wedding, in a most unique setting. The minister had
just pronounced them man and wife when a fierce, giant gorilla, used
as local color in the picture, escaped from its cage, and turned the
wedding party into a panic.
Before His Highness had time to kiss his bride, according to the
papers--pst!--he passed out, and did not emerge from his strange coma
until the following morning.
This second attack puzzled the family. It was pointless for me to
confess that I knew the reason, never having disclosed what Olinski had
told me in secret, of the Prince's family's hereditary affliction. And
just a day or so ago, came further news that the Princess Matani had
flown to Mexico, to seek a divorce. Fate seems to have done its worst
for the Prince.
None of us really cared much what happened to His Highness, all
interest in him in its bearing on Pat having ceased entirely. Which
brings me to the last remaining piece of news.