Patsy Garvan’s disappointment was as deep and bitter as one could
imagine. He scarce could contain it, in fact, and his first impulse was
to bolt from his concealment and demand of the chauffeur where he had
left Doctor David Devoll.
Brief reflection, however, convinced Patsy that that would be a fatal
mistake, that the chauffeur might be in league with the physician,
after all, and that this stranger who had unexpectedly alighted from
the motor car might also be one of Doctor Devoll’s confederates,
sent by him to his road house on a mission which he had thought it
indiscreet to personally undertake.
“I’ll hold my horses,” thought Patsy, with hopes reviving. “There may
be something doing, after all, that will set me right. I’ll wait and
see. He seems to be giving that driver important instructions.”
The two men had been talking quietly in the driveway, too low for
Patsy to hear so much as a single word, but the elderly man now turned
abruptly up the steps and peered into the hall for a moment, and then
entered the house.
The chauffeur closed the door of the car, then turned and shot a
searching glance in each direction, causing Patsy to crouch lower in
his concealment.
Presently, approaching the corner, the driver gazed toward the rear
of the house, then started abruptly and walked completely around it,
returning to the same corner and taking a position from which he could
continue to watch the side windows, also the driveway leading to the
stable yard, on that side of the house nearest to Patsy.
It was a situation that now precluded any move on Patsy’s part.
To approach any of the windows, or even to steal away and seek an
advantage elsewhere, was out of the question. Detection would be
inevitable. He had no alternative but to lie low.
Minutes passed, and the chauffeur continued to wait and watch, scarcely
stirring from his position--all of which convinced Patsy that his
suspicions were correct, that the elderly man was holding a conference
with some one and that the chauffeur was guarding against spies outside.
That he was right appeared in what occurred when the elderly man
entered the house. He met no one in the hall, save an aged black cat,
and he quickly entered a side room, in which a solitary man was waiting
with an empty whisky glass on the table near which he was seated.
He was a tall man, close upon forty, very well clad, having dark
eyes and complexion, but a rather weak cast of features. He was
smooth-shaven. A combination false mustache and beard had been removed
and was lying on the table. He looked up when the other entered, saying
a bit irritably:
“Well, you’re here, Graff, at last. What kept you? I’ve been waiting
half an hour.”
“But not idle!”
Graff spoke with a fiery gleam leaping up in his eyes. He was the same
Professor Graff, chemist, with an office and a laboratory in the
Waldmere Chambers, who had appeared in the corridor soon after the
corpse of Gaston Todd was found, and who had blandly asserted, when
questioned by Nick Carter, that he was not a physician and that his
opinion regarding the fatality would be worthless.
There was no blandness in his low voice just then, however, nor any
such quality.
“But not idle!” he repeated, with a fierce, sibilant hiss, pointing to
the whisky glass and then dashing it to atoms in the fireplace. “You
cut that out, Dorson, while doing business with me. Booze is a damned
bad partner. It has brought you where you are and made you my tool. Cut
it out--entirely! Obey me, Dorson, or--God help you!”
A resentful scowl appeared on Dorson’s face, which was not without
signs of past dissipation, but the frown vanished quickly under the
fiery rebuke of his companion. He pulled himself up, nevertheless, and
said sullenly:
“I’m not so sure, Graff, that I’ll consent to be your tool.”
“Not consent?” Professor Graff sneered icily. “What are you saying? You
have consented.”
“I can revoke----”
“Not with me!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”
“I am.” Graff’s voice was cold, but his eyes were like balls of fire.
“There will be no revocation. You will not withdraw from our compact.”
“What’s to prevent me?”
“Fear. If not fear--this.”
Professor Graff thrust his hand into his pocket and drew a singular
weapon. It resembled an automatic revolver, with a cylinderlike device
attached to the barrel. There was no trigger, however, but only a
small, round button, on which the finger of the chemist lightly rested.
He displayed the weapon in his hand, his lips parting with a mocking
smile, while Dorson started slightly and gazed at it incredulously.
“This will, if necessary, be our arbiter,” Graff sneered. “I can end
you with it in the hundredth part of a second.”
“You would not dare,” gasped Dorson. “You would bring Leary and the
bartender. You would be caught red-handed.”
“There would be no red hand, no bloodshed, no sound,” Graff retorted.
“It makes no noise, discharges no bullet. But the effect is no less
deadly. I could leave you here as if you had fallen lifeless from your
chair, or as if--perdition! Are you still doubtful? You shall see.”
There was something even more terrible in the aspect of this man at
that moment than in his threatening words. He swung around quickly and
quietly opened the door. The black cat he had seen in the hall still
was there. He stepped out and seized the animal, then returned and
tossed him to a corner of the room, closing the door.
The black cat was gazing with dilated yellow eyes at the lowering
chemist, as if surprised at such extraordinary treatment.
“Watch!” Graff snapped fiercely, with one swift glance at his horrified
companion.
He extended his right hand and the strange weapon. His piercing gaze
leaped over the glistening barrel. His finger pressed the round button
in the cylinder. There was a quick, explosive puff, yet hardly audible,
but the black cat dropped in a crumpled heap, with his yellow eyes gone
dim and glassy. The animal was dead, as crimp and shriveled as if the
hot breath of a withering blight had passed over him.
Dorson caught his breath convulsively and tried to speak, but his voice
seemed to die in his throat.
Professor Graff kicked the lifeless cat farther into the corner, then
sat down directly opposite his ghastly companion, as unconcerned as
if nothing had transpired. He replaced the mysterious weapon in his
pocket, saying coldly, yet pointedly:
“It is a very handy thing to have when circumstances make it necessary.”
“It is devilish!” Dorson found his voice, shuddering, and wiped the
sweat from his brow. “It is fiendish!”
“But convincing?” queried Graff, with searching scrutiny.
“Convincing--yes!” Dorson shuddered again. “Enough has been done and
said, but I wish I never had seen you, never conspired with you.”
“But, having done so, there can be no revocation, no retreat,” Graff
said sternly. “I have seen signs of it, Dorson, and I have to convince
you.”
“Enough has been done and said,” Dorson repeated, pulling himself
together.
“Besides, there are other reasons,” Graff added. “We are up against a
tough proposition, one that is hourly becoming more threatening; but of
that a little later. We’ll get right down to business.”
“The windows----”
“Fear nothing. Toby Monk is watching them.”
“The door----”
“None can approach it unheard. I have the ears of a rat.”
“Be quick, then,” said Dorson more calmly. “The sooner we leave here,
Graff, the better.”
“Your identity has not been discovered?” questioned the chemist quickly.
“No, no, nothing of that kind. It is not even suspected.”
“Nor will I be seen,” Graff said confidently. “I’ll make sure of that,
and have guarded against other contingencies. Toby is disguised. His
car bears a false number. None will learn of our rendezvous, nor even
suspect it. Now, Dorson, have you brought the invitations?”
“Yes, two of them,” said Dorson, producing two sealed envelopes and
placing them on the table.
“Good!” Graff seized them and put them in his pocket. “From whom did
you get them?”
“I stole them from those with which my aunt, Mrs. Thurlow, was supplied
to dispose of,” replied Dorson. “She is one of the sponsors for the
affair, and that was the only way to get them without disclosing the
names of the persons who are to use them. No one will be admitted
without a card bearing his name. It’s an exclusive affair. Fictitious
names can be inscribed on these.”
“Capital!” Graff nodded, smiling maliciously. “What if your aunt misses
them?”
“She will think she mislaid them, and can easily explain to the
managers. Her word is good.”
“None better,” Graff dryly admitted.
“What more must be done?” Dorson questioned.
“Take my final instructions.” Professor Graff drew nearer the table
and fixed his penetrating eyes on those of his confederate. “You are
in the social swim, Dorson, and can execute them without incurring the
slightest suspicion.”
“That was the agreement. You promised that no harm should come to me.”
“None will. Remember, too, that I promised you ten thousand dollars for
your share of the plunder. That will more than pay your debts and set
you on your feet. It’s not a bad reward, Dorson, for a mere bit of safe
and important work.”
“That’s the only inducement.” Dorson’s face was haggard and clouded.
“I’ll chuck everything, honor and self-respect, in order to square
myself. But what is this safe and important work? What must I do?”
Professor Graff took from his pocket a small celluloid box with a
close-fitting cover. He caressed it fondly for a moment, with an
abnormal gleam and glitter in his narrow eyes, then leaned forward and
said impulsively:
“Listen! You are to take this, but do not for your life venture to open
it before the fateful moment arrives. The box is air-tight, but its
cover can be easily removed. It contains only a lady’s handkerchief.”
“What am I to do with it?” Dorson asked, gazing curiously at the smooth
white box.
“Take it to the reception,” Graff directed. “You are familiar with the
ballroom and its surroundings, with the row of French windows that open
upon the west balcony roof near the porte-cochère.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Dorson said impatiently. “I know all that.”
“Note me, then,” Graff continued. “I will be at the ball to give you a
signal. We must not be seen together, however, nor in any way betray
that we are acquainted.”
“Well?”
“Upon getting my signal, which you will receive at an opportune moment
when she is alone, you must immediately join Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, at
the same time stealthily opening the box and removing the handkerchief.”
“And then?”
“Give it to her at once, without a moment’s delay, and remark she
dropped it,” said Graff. “She will infer that it is her own. If not,
she will at least raise it toward her face to examine it. Step back
a little, meantime, covering your nostrils, that you may inhale
no appreciable quantity of that with which the handkerchief is
impregnated.”
“What’s the stuff?” growled Dorson, brows knitting.
“Do not be curious.” Professor Graff spoke with a frown. “I
have confederates, but to none do I confide my secrets. Take my
instructions--and obey them.”
“Well, what more?”
“Watch the woman,” Graff continued. “Only her eyes will change
perceptibly. A fixed expression will immediately appear, and her pupils
will contract to mere pin points. Take her arm, then, and lead her out
through the nearest French window.”
“Suppose she refuses to go, or----”
“She will not refuse or do anything else,” Graff interrupted. “She
will go willingly and without a word or a subsequent recollection of
what occurs. Place her in the nearest chair on the balcony. Get the
handkerchief and return it to the box, then hasten to the ballroom
and go after a glass of water. You can afterward assert that she sent
you for it and said she felt faint. She will admit it, for she will
remember nothing and cannot consistently deny it.”
“But the pearls?” Dorson questioned, eyes glowing. “What of the rope of
pearls?”
“There will be no rope of pearls.” Graff’s teeth met with a vicious
snap. “All that must be done can be done in a single minute. When help
comes, when you return, when the woman revives, though all occurs
within a minute, there will be no rope of pearls. It will have been
stolen--mysteriously stolen.”
“But I may be suspected,” argued Dorson.
“Absurd! You could not possibly steal and dispose of it under the
seeming conditions. The woman will believe she was faint only for a
moment. She will not be sure it was then that she lost the pearls. She
is your aunt, moreover, and would refuse to suspect you.”
“But your infernal stuff may fail to work,” Dorson suggested.
“It will not fail. It cannot fail.” Graff spoke with convincing
assurance. “I have tested it upon no less than four subjects, Dorson,
to make sure of success in this undertaking. There is nothing for you
to fear, absolutely nothing.”
“I’ll tackle it, then, and take the chance.” Dorson abruptly declared,
thrusting the celluloid box into his pocket. “Is there anything more?”
Professor Graff hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, nothing for us to discuss,” he replied.
“But you mentioned a tough proposition that you would speak of
presently. What did you mean by that?” Dorson demanded suspiciously.
“Only that an unexpected force is at work against us, one that many
would fear, and with which few could successfully cope.” Graff’s voice
took on a more virulent intensity. “But I do not fear. I can oppose and
overcome it. My agents are already at work. I have given warning, too,
as I have warned you, and if pressed too hard, if threats prove futile,
if the peril becomes really alarming--well, you see! You have seen for
yourself, Dorson, how I can overcome it. There is always a way--always
a way.”
Graff had swung around in his chair and was pointing to the lifeless
black form in the corner.
Dorson gazed at him, at his extended hand and quivering fingers, at his
drawn, bearded face, indescribably malevolent, and with that terrible
abnormal gleam and glitter in his frowning eyes, and Dorson felt, with
blood chilled and flesh gone cold and clammy, that he was gazing at a
madman or a devil incarnate.
“Yes, yes, I have seen enough, Graff, more than enough,” he said
hoarsely, lips twitching. “What more need be said?”
“Nothing more.” Professor Graff turned coldly calm again. “You have my
instructions. I know you will obey them. We must not meet again until
after the trick has been turned, and then only secretly.”
“That suits me. Let’s be moving.”
“How did you come out here?”
“In a trolley car.”
“You may return part way with me. I’ll drop you before entering town.
Resume your disguise, then see whether the hall and veranda are
deserted.”
Dorson arose and hastened to obey. He returned in a few seconds, saying
quietly:
“Come on. There’s no one around.”
There was one still around, nevertheless, still lying low amid the rank
grass and shrubbery that had served to conceal him.