“Well, Mr. Shirley, your coming here was a Godsend! I don't know what
to do now. The newspapers will get this surely. I depended on Cronin: he
must have been drinking.”
Shirley shook his head, as he explained, “I know Cronin's reputation,
for I was a police reporter. He is a sterling man. There's foul work
here which extends beyond your father's case. But we are wasting time.
Why don't you introduce me to your physician? Just tell him about
Cronin, and that you have confided in me completely.”
Van Cleft went upstairs without a word. Unused to any worry, always able
to pay others for the execution of necessary details, this young man was
a victim of the system which had engulfed his unfortunate sire in the
maelstrom of reckless pleasure.
By his ingenuous adroitness, it may be seen, Shirley was inveigling
himself into the heart of the affair, in his favorite disguise as that
of the “innocent bystander.” His innate dramatic ability assisted him
in maintaining his friendly and almost impersonal role, with a success
which had in the past kept the secret of his system from even the
evildoers themselves.
“A little investigation of the telephone exchanges during the next day
or two will not be wasted time,” he mused. “I'll get Sam Grindle, their
assistant advertising manager to show me the way the wheels go 'round.
No man can ride a Magic Carpet of Bagdad over the skyscrapers in these
days of shattered folklore.”
Howard Van Cleft returned with the famous surgeon, Professor MacDonald.
He was elderly, with the broad high forehead, dignity of poise, and
sharpness of glance which bespeaks the successful scientist. His face,
to-night, was chalky and the firm, full mouth twitched with nervousness.
He greeted Shirley abstractedly. The criminologist's manner was that of
friendly anxiety.
“You are here, sir, as a friend of the family?”
“Yes. Howard has told me of the terrible mystery of this case. As an
ex-newspaper man I imagine that my influence and friendships may keep
the unpleasant details from the press.”
“That is good,” sighed the doctor, with relief. “How soon will you do
it?”
“Now, using this telephone. No, for certain reasons, I had better use an
outside instrument. I will call up men I know on each paper, as though
this were a 'scoop,' so that knowing me, they will be confident that
I tell them the truth as a favor. Such deceit is excusable under the
circumstances. It may eventually bring the murderer to justice.”
Professor MacDonald winced at the word. He turned toward Van Cleft, on
sudden thought, remarking: “Howard your mother and sister may need the
comfort of your presence. I will chat with your friend until the Coroner
comes.”
The physician sank into a library chair. The criminologist quietly
awaited his cue. He lit a cigarette and the minutes drifted past with no
word between them. The doctor's gaze lowered to the vellum-bound books
on the carven table, then to the gorgeous pattern of the Kermansha at
his feet. Once more he studied the face of his companion, with the keen,
soul-gripping scrutiny of the skilled physician. As last he arrived at a
definite conclusion. He cleared his throat, and fumbled in his waistcoat
pocket for a cigar. A swiftly struck match in Monty's hand was held
up so promptly to the end of the cigar, that the doctor's lips had not
closed about it. This deftness, simple in itself, did not escape the
observation of the scientist. He smiled for the first time during their
interview.
“Your reflex nerves are very wide awake for a quiet man. I believe I can
depend upon those nerves, and your quietude. May I ask what occupation
you follow, if any? Most of Howard's friends follow butterflies.”
“I am one of them, then. Some opera, more theatricals, much art gallery
touring. A little regular reading in my rooms, and there you are! My
great grandfather was too poor a trader to succeed in pelts, so he
invested a little money in rocky pastures around upper Manhattan: this
has kept the clerks of the family bankers busy ever since. I am an
optimistic vagabond, enjoying life in the observation of the rather
ludicrous busyness of other folk. In short, Doctor, I am a corpulent
Hamlet, essentially modern in my cultivation of a joy in life, debating
the eternal question with myself, but lazily leaving it to others to
solve. Therein I am true to my type.”
“Pardon my bluntness,” observed MacDonald, watching him through
partially closed eyes. “You are not telling the truth. You are a busy
man, with definite work, but that is no affair of mine. I recognize in
you a different calibre from that of these rich young idlers in Howard's
class. I am going to take you into my confidence, for you understand the
need for secrecy, and will surely help in every way--noblesse oblige.
This man Cronin, the detective, was rather crude.”
“He is honest and dependable,” replied Shirley, loyally.
“Yes, but I wonder why professional detectives are so primitive. They
wear their calling cards and their business shingles on their figures
and faces. Surely the crooks must know them all personally. I read
detective stories, in rest moments, and every one of the sleuths lives
in some well-known apartment, or on a prominent street. Some day we
may read of one who is truly in secret service, but not until after his
death notice. But there, I am talking to quiet my own nerves a bit,--now
we will get to cases.”
The doctor dropped his cigar into the bronze tray on the table, leaning
forward with intense earnestness, as he continued.
“This, Mr. Shirley, is the third murder of the sort within a week.
Wellington Serral, the wealthy broker, came to a sudden death in a
private dining room last Monday, in the company of a young show girl.
He was a patient of mine, and I signed the death certificate as
heart failure, to save the honorable family name for his two orphaned
daughters.
“Herbert de Cleyster, the railroad magnate, died similarly in a taxicab
on Thursday. He was also one of my patients. There, too, was concerned
another of these wretched chorus girls. To-night the fatal number of the
triad was consummated in this cycle of crime. To maintain my loyalty
to my patients I have risked my professional reputation. Have I done
wrong?”
“No! The criminal shall be brought to justice,” replied Shirley in a
voice vibrant with a profound determination which was not lost upon his
companion.
“Are you powerful enough to bring this about, without disgracing me
or betraying this sordid tragedy to the morbid scandal-rakers of the
papers?”
“I will devote every waking hour to it. But, like you, my efforts must
remain entirely secret. I vow to find this man before I sleep again!”
“You are determined--yet it cannot be one single man. It must be an
organized gang, for all the crimes have been so strangely similar,
occurring to three men who are friends, and entrez nous, notorious for
their peccadilloes. The girls must be in the vicious circle, and ably
assisted. But there is one thing I forgot to tell you, which you forgot
to ask.”
“And this is?”
“How they died. It was by some curious method of sudden arterial
stoppage. Old as they were, some fiendish trick was employed so
skilfully that the result was actual heart failure. There was no trace
of drugs in lungs or blood. On each man's breast, beneath the sternum
bone I found a dull, barely discernible bruise mark, which I later
removed by a simple massage of the spot!”
Shirley closed his eyes, and passed his hand over his own chest--along
the armpits--behind his ears--he seemed to be mentally enumerating some
list of nerve centers. The physician observed him curiously.
“I have it, doctor! The sen-si-yao!”
“What do you mean?”
“The most powerful and secret of all the death-strokes of the Japanese
art of jiu-jitsu fighting. I paid two thousand dollars to learn the
course from a visiting instructor when I was in college. It was worth it
for this one occasion.”
Shirley arose to his feet, and approached the other, touching his
shoulder.
“Stand up, if you please. Let me ask if this was the location of the
mark?”
The physician, interested in this new professional phase, readily
obeyed. One quick movement of Shirley's muscular hand, the thumb oddly
twisted and stiffened, and a sudden jab in the doctor's abdomen made
that gentleman gasp with pain. Shirley's expression was triumphant, but
the professor regarded him with an expression of terror.
“Oh! Ugh!--What-did-you-do-to me?” he murmured thickly, when he was at
last able to speak.
“Merely demonstrated the beginning of the death punch which I named.
That pressure if continued for half a minute would have been fatal.”
“I wish you would teach me that,” was the physician's natural request,
as he nodded with a wry face.
“Impossible, my dear sir, for I learned it, according to the Oriental
custom under the most sacred obligations of secrecy. One must advance
through the whole course, by initiatory degrees, before learning the
final mysteries of the samurais. Now, we have a working hypothesis. The
girls could never have accomplished this. One man and one alone must
have killed the three, although doubtless with confederates. Yamashino
assured me that there were only six men in this country who knew it
beside myself. We must find an Orientalist!”
Shirley paced the floor, but his meditations were interrupted by the
arrival of the Coroner and his physician. Van Cleft hurried into the
room with them, to present the doctor, who exchanged a formal greeting
with the men he had met twice before that week.
“A sad affair, Professor,” observed the Coroner nervously, drinking in
with profound respect the magnificent surroundings which symbolized
the great wealth of which he secretly hoped to gain a tithing. “I trust
that, as usual, in such cases, I may suggest an undertaker?”
“Why--talk about that at once, sir?” asked Howard with a shudder.
The physician, familiar with the subtleties of coroners, gently placed
an arm about the young man's shoulder. He nodded, understandingly, to
the Coroner, as he turned toward Shirley.
“I must be going now,” the latter interposed. “Just a word with you,
Howard, that I may send a message to your mother and sister.”
The physician led away the two officials as Shirley continued: “I must
go to see Cronin--deserted there like a run-over mongrel on the street.
Can I leave this house by the rear, so that none shall know of my
assistance in the case, or follow me to the hospital? If you can secure
an old hat and coat, I will leave my own, with my stick, to get them
some other time.”
“I will get some from the butler, if you wait just a moment. You can
leave by the rear yard, if you don't mind climbing a high board fence.”
Van Cleft hurried downstairs, in a few minutes, bearing a weather-beaten
overcoat and an English cap, which Shirley drew down over his ears. With
the coat on, he looked very unlike the well-groomed club man who had
entered. Unseen by Van Cleft he shifted an automatic revolver into the
coat pocket from the discarded garment.
“Now, Mr. Shirley, come this way. Follow the rear area-way, across to
the next yard, where after another climb you find a vacant lot where the
Schuylers are preparing to erect their new city house. Will you attend
to everything?”
“Everything. I'll start sooner than you expect.”
Truly he did! For no sooner had he descended the second fence into the
empty lot than a stinging blow sent him at full length on the rocky
ground, where the excavations were already being started. Two men
pounced upon him in a twinkling--only his great strength, acquired
through the football years, saved him from immediate defeat. His
head throbbed, and he was dizzy as he caught the wrist of the nearest
assailant with a quick twist which resulted in a sudden, sickening
crunch. The man groaned in agony, but his companion kicked with
heavy-shod feet at the prostrate man. Shirley's left hand duplicated
the vice-like grip upon the ankle of the standing assailant, and his
deftness caused another tendon strain! Both men toppled to the ground,
now, and before they realized it Shirley had reversed the advantage.
His automatic emphasized his superiority of tactics. He understood their
silence, broken only by muted groans: they feared the police, even as
did he, although for different reasons. He “frisked” the man nearest him
upon the ground, and captured deftly the rascal's weapon: then he sprang
up covering the twain.
“Get up! Youse guys is poachin' in de wrong district--dis belongs to de
Muggins gang. I'll fix youse guys fer buttin' in. Up, dere!” His hands
went into his coat pockets, but the men knew that they were still
pointing at them, the gunman's “cover” as it is called. They staggered
sullenly to their feet. He beckoned with his head, toward the front of
the lot. They followed the silent instructions, one limping while his
mate wrung the injured wrist in agony.
Directly before the lot stood a throbbing, empty automobile. Shirley
decided to take another car--he could not guard them and drive at the
same time.
“Down to Fift' Avnoo,” he ordered. “I got two guns--not a woid
from youse!” His erstwhile amiable physiognomy, now gnarled into an
unrecognizable mask of low villainy bespoke his desperate earnestness.
The men obeyed. This was apparently a gangster, of gangsters--their fear
of the dire vengeance of a rival organization of cut-throats instilled
an obedience more humble than any other threats.
Toward the Park side they advance, one leaning heavily upon the other.
Shirley, his broad shoulders hunched up; with the collar drawn high
about his neck, the murderous looking cap down over his eyes, followed
them doggedly.
A big limousine was speeding down the Avenue from some homing theater
party. Shirley hailed it with an authoritive yell which caused the
chauffeur to put on a quick brake.
“Git out dere,--no gun play. Up inter dat car!” he added, as they
approached the machine.
“Say, what you drivin' at?” cried the driver, queruously. “Is this a
hold-up?” It was a puzzling moment, but the criminologist's calm bravado
saved the situation: as luck would have it no policemen were in sight,
to spoil the maneuver.
“No,” and he assumed a more natural voice and dialect. “I'm a detective.
These men were just house-breaking, and I got them. There's twenty-five
dollars in it for you, if you take us down to the Holland Detective
Agency, in ten minutes.”
“He's kiddin' ye, feller,” snapped out one man.
“Don't fall fen him, yen boob!” sung out the other.
But Shirley's automatic now appeared outside the coat pocket. The
chauffeur realized that here was serious gaming. With his left hand
Shirley jerked out the ever ready police card and fire badge, which
seemed official enough to satisfy the driver.
“Quick now, or I'll run you in, too, for refusing to obey an officer.
You men climb into that back seat. Driver, beat it now to Thirty-nine
West Forty Street, if you need that twenty-five dollars. I'll sit with
them. I don't want any interference so I can come back and nab the rest
of their gang.”
His authoritative manner convinced this new ally, and he climbed into
the car, facing his prisoners, with the two weapons held down below the
level of the windows. Pedestrians and other motorists little recked what
strange cargo was borne as the car raced down the broad thoroughfare.
In nine minutes they drew up before the Holland Agency, a darkened,
brown front house of ancient architecture. The chauffeur sprang out to
swing back the door.
“Go up the steps, and tell the doorman that Captain Cronin wants two men
to bring down their guns and handcuffs and get two prisoners. Quick!”
The street was not empty, even at this hour. Yet the passersby did not
realize the grim drama enacted inside the waiting machine. Hours seemed
to pass before Cronin's men returned with the driver, as much surprised
by the three strange faces within the machine, as he had been.
“You take these men upstairs and keep them locked up,” bluntly commanded
the criminologist. “They're nabbed on the new case of the Captain's
which started to-night, I'm going over to Bellevue to see him.” His
voice was still disguised, his features twisted even yet.
The men gave him a curious glance, and then obeyed. As they disappeared
behind the heavy wooden door, Shirley stepped into a dark hallway, close
by. He lit a wax match to give him light for the choosing of the right
amount, from the roll of bills which he drew forth. The chauffeur
whistled with surprise at the size of the denominations. The twenty-five
were handed over.
“Thanks very much, my friend,” and the face unsnarled itself, into the
amiable lines of the normal. The voice was agreeable and smooth, which
surprised the man the more. “You took me out of a ticklish situation
tonight. I don't want any mere policemen to spoil my little game. Please
oil up your forgettery with these, and then--forget!”
“Say, gov'nor,” retorted the driver, as he put the money into the band
of his leather cap. “I ain't seen so much real change since my boss got
stung on the war. I ain't so certain but what you was the gink robbin'
that house, at that. But that's them guys funeral if you beat 'em to
it. Good-night--much obliged. But I got to slip it to you, gov'nor--you
ain't none of them Central Office flat-feet, sure 'nuff! If you are a
detective, you're some fly cop!”