It soon rendered you unconscious, and that would have been all, if the
person had been satisfied. A little bit would have been harmless
enough. But the person was not satisfied. The intention was not to
overcome, but to kill. The stream of gas was kept up until the room was
full of it.
"Only my return saved you, for the gas was escaping very slowly. Even
then, you had been under it so long that we had to resort to the
wonderful little pulmotor after trying both the Sylvester and Schaefer
methods and all other manual means to induce respiration. At any rate
we managed to undo the work of this fiend."
I looked at him in surprise, I, who didn't think I had an enemy in the
world.
"But who could it have been?" I asked.
"We are pretty close to that criminal," was the only reply he would
give, "providing we do not spread the net in sight of the quarry."
"Why should he have wanted to get me?" I repeated.
"Don't flatter yourself," replied Craig. "He wanted me, too. There
wasn't any light in the laboratory last night. There was a light in our
apartment. What more natural than to think that we were both there? You
were caught in the trap intended for both of us."
I looked at him, startled. Surely this was a most desperate criminal.
To cover up one murder--perhaps two--he did not hesitate to attempt a
third, a double murder. The attack had been really aimed at Kennedy. It
had struck me alone. But it had miscarried and Craig had saved my life.
As I reflected bitterly, I had but one satisfaction. Wretched as I
felt, I knew that it had spared Craig from slowing up on the case at
just the time when he was needed.
The news of the attempt spread quickly, for it was a police case and
got into the papers.
It was not half an hour after I reached the laboratory that the door
was pushed open by Inez Mendoza, followed by a boy spilling with fruit
and flowers like a cornucopia.
"I drove to the apartment," she cried, greatly excited and sympathetic,
"but they told me you had gone out. Oh, I was glad to hear it. Then I
knew it wasn't so serious. For, somehow, I feel guilty about it. It
never would have happened if you hadn't met me."
"I'm sure it's worth more than it cost," I replied gallantly.
She turned toward Kennedy. "I'm positively frightened," she exclaimed.
"First they direct their attacks against my father--then against
me--now against you. What will it be next? Oh--it is that curse--it is
that curse!"
"Never fear," encouraged Kennedy, "we'll get you out--we'll get all of
us out, now, I should say. It's just because they are so desperate that
we have these things. As long as there is nothing to fear a criminal
will lie low. When he gets scared he does things. And it's when he does
things that he begins to betray himself."
She shuddered. "I feel as though I was surrounded by enemies," she
murmured. "It is as if an unseen evil power was watching over me all
the time--and mocking me--striking down those I love and trust. Where
will it end?"
Kennedy tried his best to soothe her, but it was evident that the
attack on us could not have had more effect, if it had been levelled
direct at her.
"Please, Senorita," he pleaded, "stand firm. We are going to win. Don't
give in. The Mendozas are not the kind to stop defeated."
She looked at him, her eyes filled with tears.
"It was my father's way," she choked back her emotion. "How could you,
a stranger, know?"
"I didn't know," returned Kennedy. "I gathered it from his face. It is
also his daughter's way."
"Yes," she said, straightening up and the fire flashing from her eyes,
"we are a proud, old, unbending race. Good-bye. I must not interrupt
your work any longer. We are also a race that never forgets a friend."
A moment later she was gone.
"A wonderful woman," repeated Kennedy absently.
Then he turned again to his table of chemicals.
The telephone had begun to tinkle almost continuously by this time, as
one after another of our friends called us up to know how we were
getting on and be assured of our safety. In fact I didn't know that it
was possible to resuscitate so many of them with a pulmotor.
"By George, I'm glad it wasn't any more serious," came Norton's voice
from the doorway a moment later. "I didn't see a paper this morning.
The curator of the Museum just told me. How did it happen?"
Kennedy tried to pass it off lightly, and I did the same, for as I was
up longer I really did feel better.
Norton shook his head gravely, however.
"No," he said, "there were four of us got warnings. They are a
desperate, revengeful people."
I looked at him quickly. Did he mean the de Moches?
XXI
THE TELESCRIBE
I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and that I had
better go slow that day and regain my strength, a fortunate decision,
as it turned out.
Kennedy, also, spent most of the time in the laboratory, so that, after
all, I did not feel that I was missing very much.
It was along in the afternoon that the telephone began acting
strangely, as it will do sometimes when a long distance connection is
being made. Twice Kennedy answered, without getting any response.
"Confound that central," he muttered. "What do you suppose is the
matter?"
Again the bell rang.
"Hello," shouted Kennedy, exasperated. "Who's this?"
There was a pause. "Just a minute," he replied.
Quickly he jammed the receiver down on a little metal base which he had
placed near the instrument. Three prongs reaching upward from the base
engaged the receiver tightly, fitting closely about it.
Then he took up a watch-case receiver to listen through in place of the
regular receiver.
"Who is it?" he answered.
Apparently the voice at the other end of the wire replied rather
peevishly, for Kennedy endeavoured to smooth over the delay. I wondered
what was going on, why he was so careful. His face showed that,
whatever it was, it was most important.
As he restored the telephone to its normal condition, he looked at me
puzzled.
"I wonder whether that was a frame-up!" he exclaimed, pulling a little
cylinder off the instrument into which he had inserted the telephone
receiver. "I thought it might be and I have preserved the voice. This
is what is known as the telescribe--a recent invention of Edison which
records on a specially prepared phonograph cylinder all that is
said--both ways--over a telephone wire."
"What was it about?" I asked eagerly.
He shoved the cylinder on a phonograph and started the instrument.
"Professor Kennedy?" called an unfamiliar voice.
"Yes," answered a voice that I recognized as Craig's.
"This is the detective agency employed by Mr. Whitney. He has
instructed us to inform you that he has obtained the Peruvian dagger
for which you have been searching. That's all. Good-bye."
I looked at Kennedy in blank surprise.
"They rang off before I could ask them a question," said Craig.
"Central tells me it was a pay station call. There doesn't seem to be
any way of tracing it. But, at least I have a record of the voice."
"What are you going to do?" I queried. "It may be a fake."
"Yes, but I'm going to investigate it. Do you feel strong enough to go
down to Whitney's with me?"
The startling news had been like a tonic. "Of course," I replied,
seizing my hat.
Kennedy paused only long enough to call Norton. The archaeologist was
out, and we hurried on downtown to Whitney's.
Whitney was not there and his clerk was just about to close the office.
All the books were put away in the safe and the desks were closed. Now
and then there echoed up the hall the clang of an elevator door.
"Where is Mr. Whitney?" demanded Craig of the clerk.
"I can't say. He went out a couple of hours ago."
"Did he have a visit from one of his detectives?" shot out Craig
suddenly.
The clerk looked up suspiciously at us.
"No," he replied defiantly.
"Walter--stand by that door," shouted Craig. "Let no one in until they
break it down."
His blue-steel automatic gleamed a cold menace at the clerk. A downtown
office after office hours is not exactly the place to which one can get
assistance quickly. The clerk started back.
"Did he have a visit from one of his detectives?"
"Yes."
"What was it about?"
The clerk winced. "I don't know," he replied, "honest--I don't."
Craig waved the gun for emphasis. "Open the safe," he said.
Reluctantly the clerk obeyed. Under the point of the gun he searched
every compartment and drawer of the big chrome steel strong-box which
Whitney had pointed out as the safest place for the dagger on our first
visit to him. But there was absolutely no trace of it. Had we been
hoaxed and was all this risk in vain?
"Where did Mr. Whitney go?" demanded Craig, as he directed the clerk to
shut the door and lock the safe again, baffled.
"If I should try to tell you," returned the man, very much frightened,
"I would be lying. You would soon find out. Mr. Whitney doesn't make a
confidant of me, you know."
It was useless. If he had the dagger, at least we knew that it was not
at the office. We had learned only one thing. He had had a visit from
one of his detectives.
As fast as the uptown trend of automobiles and surface cars during the
rush hour would permit, Kennedy and I hurried in a taxicab to the
Prince Edward Albert in the hope of surprising him there.
"It's no use to inquire for him," decided Craig as we entered the
hotel. "I still have the key to that room, 827, next to his. We'll ride
right up in the elevator boldly and get in."
No one said anything to us, as we let ourselves into the room next to
Whitney's. A new lock had been placed on the door between the suites,
but, aside from the additional time it took to force it, it presented
no great difficulty.
"He wouldn't leave the dagger here, of course," remarked Kennedy, as at
last we stepped into Whitney's suite. "But we may as well satisfy
ourselves. Hello--what's this?"
The room was all upset, as though some one had already gone through it.
For a moment I thought we had been forestalled.
"Packed a grip hastily," Craig remarked, pointing to the marks on the
bedspread where it had rested while he must literally have thrown
things into it.
We made a hasty search ourselves, but we knew it was hopeless. Two
things we had learned. Whitney had had a visit from his detectives, and
he had gone away hurriedly. An anonymous telephone message had been
sent to Kennedy. Had it been for the purpose of throwing us off the
track?
The room telephone rang. Quickly Craig jumped to it and took down the
receiver.
"Hello," he called. "Yes, this is Mr. Whitney."
A silence ensued during which, of course, I could not gather any idea
of what was going on over the wire.
"The deuce!" exclaimed Kennedy, working the hook up and down but
receiving no response. "The fellow caught on. Something must have
happened to Norton, too."
"How's that?" I asked.
"Why," he replied, "some one just called up Whitney and said that
Norton had got away from him."
"Perhaps they're trying to keep him out of the way just as they are
with us," I suggested. "I think the thing is a plant."
Down the hall, Kennedy stopped and tapped lightly at the door of 810,
the de Moche suite. I think he was surprised when the Senora's maid
opened it.
"Tell Senora de Moche it is Professor Kennedy," he said quickly, "and
that I must see her."
The maid admitted us into the sitting-room where we had had our first
interview with her and a moment later she appeared. She was evidently
not dressed for dinner, although it was almost time, and I saw
Kennedy's eye travel from her to a chair in the corner over which was
draped a linen automobile coat and a heavy veil. Had she been preparing
to go somewhere, too? The door to Alfonso's room was open and he
clearly was not there. What did it all mean?
"Have you heard anything of a report that the dagger has been found?"
demanded Kennedy abruptly.
"Why--no," she replied, greatly surprised, apparently.
"You were going out?" asked Kennedy with a significant glance at the
coat and veil.
"Only for a little ride with Alfonso, who has gone to hire a car," she
answered quickly.
I felt sure that she had heard something about the dagger.
We had no further excuse for staying and on the way out, now that he
had satisfied himself that Whitney was not there, Craig inquired at the
office for him. They could tell us nothing of his whereabouts, except
that he had left in his car late in the afternoon in a great hurry.
Kennedy stepped into a telephone booth and called up Lockwood, but no
one answered. Inquiry in the garages in the neighbourhood finally
located that at which Lockwood kept his car. There, all that they could
tell us was that the car had been filled with gas and oil as if for a
trip. Lockwood was gone, too.
Kennedy hastily ordered a touring car himself and placed it at a corner
of the Prince Edward Albert where he could watch two of the entrances,
while I waited on the next corner where I could see the entrance on the
other street.
For some time we waited and still she did not come out. Had she
telephoned to Alfonso and had he gone alone? Perhaps she had already
been out and had taken this method of detaining us, knowing that we
would wait to watch her.
It must have been a mixture of both motives, for at length I was
rewarded by seeing her come cautiously out of the rear entrance of the
hotel alone and start to walk hurriedly up the street. I signalled to
Craig who shot down and picked me up.
By this time the Senora had reached a public cab stand and had engaged
a hack.
Sinking back in the shadows of the top, which was up, Craig directed
our driver to follow the hack cautiously, keeping a couple of blocks
behind. There was some satisfaction, though slight, in it, at least. We
felt the possibility of the trail leading somewhere, now.
On uptown the hack went, while we kept discreetly in the rear. We had
reached a part of the city where it was sparsely populated, when the
hack suddenly turned and doubled back on us.
There was not time for us to turn and we trusted that by shrinking back
in the shadow we might not be observed.
As the hack passed us, however, the Senora leaned out until it was
perfectly evident that she must recognize us. She said nothing but I
fancied I saw a smile of satisfaction as she settled back into the
cushions. She was deliberately going back along the very road by which
she had led us out. It had been an elaborate means of wasting our time.
She did not have the satisfaction, however, of shaking us off, for we
followed all the way back to the hotel and saw her go in. Then Kennedy
placed the car where we had it before and left the driver with
instructions to follow her regardless of time if she should come out
again.
Surely, I reasoned, there must be something very queer going on, if
they were all in it to eliminate us and Norton. What had happened to him?
Kennedy hastened back to the campus, late as it was, there to start
anew. Norton was not in his quarters and, on the chance that he might
have sought to elude Whitney's detectives by doing the unexpected and
going to the Museum, Kennedy walked over that way.
There was nothing to indicate that anybody had been at the Museum, but,
as we passed our laboratory, we could hear the telephone ringing
inside, as though some one had been trying to get us for a long time.
Kennedy opened the door and switched on the lights. Waiting only long
enough to jam the receiver down into place on the telescribe, he
answered the call.
"The deuce you will!" I heard him exclaim, then apparently whoever was
talking rang off and he could not get them back.
"Another of those confounded telephone messages," he said, turning to
me and taking the cylinder off. "It looks as though the ready-letter
writer who used to send warnings had learned his lesson and taken to
the telephone as leaving fewer clues than handwriting."
He placed the record on the phonograph so that I could hear it. It was
brief and to the point, as had been the first.
"Hello, is that you, Kennedy? We've got Norton. Next we'll get you.
Good-bye."
Kennedy repeated the first message. It was evident that both had been
spoken by the same voice.
"Whose is it?" I asked blankly. "What does it mean?"
Before Craig could answer there was a knock at our door and he sprang
to open it.
XXII
THE VANISHER
It was Juanita, Inez Mendoza's maid, frantic and almost speechless.
"Why, Juanita," encouraged Kennedy, "what's the matter?"
"The Senorita!" she gasped, breaking down now and sobbing over and over
again. "The Senorita!"
"Yes, yes," repeated Kennedy, "but what about her? Is there anything
wrong?"
"Oh, Mr. Kennedy," sobbed the poor girl, "I don't know. She is gone. I
have had no word from her since this afternoon."
"Gone!" we exclaimed together. "Where was Burke--that man that the
police sent up to protect her?"
"He is gone, too--now," replied Juanita in her best English, sadly
broken by the excitement.
Kennedy and I looked at each other aghast. This was the hardest blow of
all. We had thought that, at least, Inez would be safe with a man like
Burke, whom we could trust, detailed to watch her.
"Tell me," urged Kennedy, "how did it happen? Did they carry her
off--as they tried to do the other time?"
"No, no," sobbed Juanita. "I do not know. I do not know even whether
she is gone. She went out this afternoon for a little walk. But she did
not come back. After it grew dark, I was frightened. I remembered that
you were here and called up, but you were out. Then I saw that
policeman. I told him. He has others working with him now. But I could
not find you--until now I saw a light here. Oh, my poor, little girl,
what has become of her? Where have they taken her? Oh, MADRE DE DIOS,
it is terrible!"
Had that been the purpose for which we had been sent on wild-goose
chases? Was Inez really kidnapped this time? I knew not what to think.
It seemed hardly possible that all of them could have joined in it.
If she were kidnapped, it must have been on the street in broad
daylight. Such things had happened. It would not be the first
disappearance of the kind.
Quickly Kennedy called up Deputy O'Connor. It was only too true. Burke
had reported that she had disappeared and the police, especially those
at the stations and ferries and in the suburbs had been notified to
look for her. All this seemed to have taken place in those hours when
the mysterious telephone calls had sent us on the wrong trail.
Kennedy said nothing, but I could see that he was doing some keen
thinking.
Just then the telephone rang again. It was from the man whom we had
left at the Prince Edward Albert. Senora de Moche had gone out and
driven rapidly to the Grand Central. He had not been able to find out
what ticket she bought, but the train was just leaving.
Kennedy paced up and down, muttering to himself. "Whitney first--then
Lockwood--and Alfonso. The Senora takes a train. Suppose the first
message were true? Gas and oil for a trip."
He seized the telephone book and hastily turned the pages over. At last
his finger rested on a name in the suburban section. I read: "Whitney,
Stuart. Res. 174-J Rockledge."
Quickly he gave central the number, then shoved the receiver again into
the telescribe.
"Hello, is Mr. Whitney there?" I heard later as he placed the record
again in the phonograph for repetition.
"No--who is this?"
"His head clerk. Tell him I must see him. Kennedy has been to the
office and--"
"Say--get off the line. We had that story once."
"That's it!" exclaimed Craig. "Don't you see--they've all gone up to
Whitney's country place. That clerk was faking. He has already
telephoned. And listen. Do you see anything peculiar?"
He was running all three records which we had on the telescribe. As he
did so, I saw unmistakably that it was the same voice on all three.
Whitney must have had a servant do the telephoning for him.
"Don't fret, Juanita," reassured Kennedy. "We shall find your mistress
for you. She will be all right. You had better go back to the apartment
and wait. Walter look up the next train to Rockledge while I telephone
O'Connor."
We had an hour to wait before the next train left and in the meantime
we drove Juanita back to the Mendoza apartment.
It was a short run to Rockledge by railroad, but it seemed to me that
it took hours. Kennedy sat in silence most of the time, his eyes
closed, as if he were trying to place himself in the position of the
others and figure out what they would do.
At last we arrived, the only passengers to get off at the little old
station. Which way to turn we had not the slightest idea. We looked
about. Even the ticket office was closed. It looked as though we might
almost as well have stayed in New York.
Down the railroad we could see that a great piece of engineering was in
progress, raising the level of the tracks and building a steel viaduct,
as well as a new station, and at the same time not interrupting the
through traffic, which was heavy.
"Surely there must be some one down there," observed Kennedy, as we
picked our way across the steel girders, piles of rails, and around
huge machines for mixing concrete.
We came at last to a little construction house, a sort of general
machine-and work-shop, in which seemed to be everything from a file to
a pneumatic riveter.
"Hello!" shouted Craig.
There came a sound from a far corner of a pile of ties and a moment
later a night-watchman advanced suspiciously swinging his lantern.
"Hello yourself," he growled.
"Which way to Stuart Whitney's estate?" asked Craig.
My heart sank as he gave the directions. It seemed miles away.
Just then the blinding lights of a car flashed on us as it came down
the road parallel to the tracks. He waved his light and the car
stopped. It was empty, except for a chauffeur evidently returning from
a joy ride.
"Take these gentlemen as far as Smith's corner, will you?" asked the
watchman. "Then show 'em the turn up to Whitney's."
The chauffeur was an obliging chap, especially as it cost him nothing
to earn a substantial tip with his master's car. However, we were glad
enough to ride in anything on wheels, and not over-particular at that
hour about the ownership.
"Mr. Whitney hasn't been out here much lately," he volunteered as he
sped along the beautiful oiled road, and the lights cast shadows on the
trees that made driving as easy as in daylight.
"No, he has been very busy," returned Craig glad to turn to account the
opportunity to talk with a chauffeur, for it is the chauffeur in the
country who is the purveyor of all knowledge and gossip.
"His car passed us when I was driving up from the city. My boss won't
let me speed or I wouldn't have taken his dust. Gee, but he does wear
out the engines in his cars, Whitney."
"Was he alone?" asked Craig.
"Yes--and then I saw him driving back again when I went down, to the
station for some new shoes we had expressed up. Just a flying trip, I
guess--or does he expect you?"
"I don't think he does," returned Craig truthfully.
"I saw a couple of other cars go up there. House party?"
"Maybe you'd call it that," returned Craig with a twinkle of the eye.
"Did you see any ladies?"
"No," returned the chauffeur. "Just a man driving his own car and
another with a driver."
"There wasn't a lady with Mr. Whitney?" asked Craig, now rather anxious.
"Neither time."
I saw what he was driving at. The Senora might have got up there in any
fashion without being noticed. But for Inez not to be with Whitney, nor
with the two who must evidently have been Lockwood and Alfonso, was
indeed strange. Could it be that we were only half right--that they had
gathered here but that Inez had really disappeared?
The young man set us down at Smith's Corner and it proved to be only
about an eighth of a mile up the road and up-hill when Whitney's house
burst in sight, silhouetted against the sky.
There were lights there and it was evident that several people had
gathered for some purpose.
We made our way up the path and paused a moment to look through the
window before springing the little surprise. There we could see
Lockwood, Alfonso, and Senora de Moche, who had arrived, after all and
probably been met at the station by her son. They seemed like anything
but a happy party. Never on the best of terms, they could not be
expected to be happy. But now, if ever, one would have thought they
might do more than tolerate each other, assuming that some common
purpose had brought them here.
Kennedy rang the bell and we could see that all looked surprised, for
they had heard no car approach. A servant opened the door and before he
knew it, Kennedy had pushed past him, taking no chances at a rebuff
after the experience over the wire.
"Kennedy!" exclaimed Lockwood and Alfonso together.
"Where is Inez Mendoza?" demanded Craig, without returning the greeting.