THE DEATH CHAMBER.
Before the men had gone many steps a grating sound reached their ears
from the direction of the skylight. They looked up and saw sliding
steel shutters slowly and ponderously close, like grim jaws; and
suddenly they felt themselves cut off from the outside world.
Sturgis, taking up his lighted candle, made his way to the door of the
subterranean passage and tried in vain to open it; the heavy iron bolt
remained immovable in its socket. Inch by inch he scrutinized the door
with growing anxiety. At last he abandoned the search, and returned in
the direction of the square chamber.
"That explains why he wanted to shut me in here when I was in his
office," he muttered under his breath.
"What is the matter?" asked Sprague.
"We are caught like rats in a trap," replied Sturgis. Then with
feeling he added: "I do not know how this will end, old man. I have
bungled and I fear the game is lost. If our lives are the forfeit, you
will owe your death to my stupidity."
Sprague looked at his friend, as if surprised to hear him apparently
abandon the fight.
"Don't worry about me," he said kindly; "I came here of my own free
will. But," he added, as a vision of Agnes Murdock flashed upon his
mind, "I have no intention to die just yet, if I can help it. Are we
not both able-bodied men and armed? What can one man do against two?"
"It is not an open fight," said Sturgis, "but I am glad to see your
spirit. I do not give up; but I want you to realize that we are in a
critical situation, with the odds enormously against us."
"Why, what can Murdock do?"
"Perhaps what he did to Chatham. It will probably not be long before we
discover what that was."
"But there must be some way of opening that door from the inside," said
Sprague.
"There evidently is none," replied Sturgis; "he probably controls these
doors from the outside by electrical connection."
The men were back in the square chamber. Sturgis's eyes were roving
restlessly over the walls, ceiling and floor in search of a loophole of
escape.
"There is no chance to reach the skylight without a ladder; and even
if we could reach it, we should be no further advanced, as it would be
impossible to make any impression on the steel shutters. That leaves
the register and the speaking-tube. While I examine the register,
suppose you try the tube. If it connects with the Manhattan Chemical
Company's office, there is a bare chance that we may attract the
attention of the detectives whom we left there."
"As we were saying, Mr. Sturgis----"
The words came in Murdock's mocking tones.
Sturgis quickly held the lighted candle above his head and peered in
the direction whence came the sound. A panel of the door at the head of
the stairs had been pushed up, revealing a small opening covered by a
strong and closely woven wire netting.
"As we were saying, 'murder will out!' Nevertheless, it is sometimes
easier to weld a chain, even of circumstantial evidence, than it is to
predict who will be bound in it."
Sturgis and Sprague stood in the glimmering light of the candle,
silently watching the glowing eyes behind the screen.
"Mr. Sturgis, you are a clever man," continued Murdock, "an uncommonly
clever man. I frankly admit that I had underrated your ability. But
then we are all fallible, after all. I made my share of blunders, as
you seem to have discovered; but you will doubtless now concede that
your own course has not been entirely free from errors. And now that
we have reached the conclusion of this interesting game, I have the
honor to announce, 'mate in one move!' Perhaps you are surprised that
I should take the trouble to explain the situation to you so clearly.
I do so in recognition of your superior intelligence. I see in you a
peer. If matters could have been so arranged, I should have been proud
to work in harmony with such a man as you; and indeed, when, a short
time ago, I invited you to my laboratory, it was my intention to offer
you a compromise which I hoped I might be able to persuade you to
accept. I felt that you would prove an ally who could be trusted. But,
alas, that is impossible now, on account of your friend's presence.
With all due respect to Mr. Sprague, as an amiable man of the world
and a prince of good fellows, it may be said that he is not one of us.
Much to my sorrow, therefore, I am left no alternative to the course I
am about to adopt. The fault, if anybody's, is your own, after all, Mr.
Sprague. There is a homely but expressive adage concerning the danger
of 'monkeying' with a buzz saw. Why, my dear friend, did you 'monkey'
with Mr. Sturgis's buzz saw, instead of sticking to your palette and
maulstick.
"But I fear I am growing garrulous, gentlemen. If I had time, I
should like to explain to Mr. Sturgis the details of some of the more
important, and, in my humble opinion, more brilliant schemes of which I
have been the----ah----the promoter; for I dislike to be judged by the
bungling operations which have so nearly caused me to lose this latest
little game. But this cannot be. I shall have to continue to confide
to the pages of my journal, as I have done for years, the interesting
events of, if I may say so, a somewhat remarkable career, which I
hope will some day, after my death, find their way in print to public
favor. My dream has always been that some such man as Mr. Sturgis might
ultimately edit these memoirs; but, alas, the fondest of human dreams
are seldom destined to be realized.
"Now then, gentlemen, before finally parting with you, I wish to
honorably carry out the terms of my wager with Mr. Sturgis. I concede
the fact that, to all intents and purposes, he has won the bet, and
I authorize you, Mr. Sprague, as stakeholder, to pay him the amount
I deposited with you. As I have already suggested, he has made some
perhaps excusable mistakes; but then, as he himself stated the other
night, 'a detective has a lifetime in which to correct a blunder.' A
lifetime! It is not in accordance with Mr. Sturgis's usual practice to
use so vague a term. A lifetime is not necessarily a very long time,
Mr. Sturgis."
During this tirade Sturgis and Sprague had remained standing with their
eyes fixed upon the gleaming carbuncles which peered at them from
behind the grated peephole at the top of the stairs. The artist seemed
to realize that the fight was lost. His attitude was that of a brave
man accepting, with calm despair, an unpleasant but inevitable doom.
The reporter had drawn his revolver at the first sound of Murdock's
voice, but had immediately returned it to his pocket upon realizing
that the chemist was protected by a bullet-proof grating. Now, pale and
collected, he remained inscrutable. It was impossible, even for the
sharp eyes of Murdock, to determine whether he was at last resigned
to his fate, or whether his active mind was still on the alert for a
loophole of escape.
The bit of candle which he held in his hand had burned so low that at
last he was unable to hold it without risk of burning his fingers.
Whereupon he coolly set it down upon the stone floor, where presently
the wick fell over into a pool of molten paraffine, and the flame
spluttered noisily, sending fitful gleams through the darkness.
"Well," continued Murdock's voice, "it is at any rate a great
satisfaction to play a game with an adversary worthy of one's steel.
You have played well, Mr. Sturgis. I think you would have won modestly;
and you are losing as I would myself have lost, had our positions been
reversed. Good-bye."
The gleaming eyes disappeared from the grating, and the sliding panel
closed with a metallic click.
"Now then," said Sturgis to his companion, "the last chance lies in
the speaking-tube. But first help me move this box."
"What do you want to do with the box?" asked Sprague, who, however, did
as he was bid.
"It may help us to gain a little time. Put it down here."
Sturgis struck a match and pointed out the spot.
"On the hot-air register?"
"On what looks like a hot-air register. Did you ever see a hot-air
register with no apparent means of shutting off the heat?"
Sprague, who stood almost over the register, suddenly threw back his
head and gasped for breath.
"You have discovered the secret of this death trap," said Sturgis,
observing him.
"Gas!" spluttered the artist.
"Yes, he is going to asphyxiate us. Now, quick, to the speaking-tube!
The box will somewhat retard the rush of gas; but, at the best, it is
only a question of minutes before the air becomes so charged as to
render respiration impossible."
Sprague rushed to the speaking-tube and whistled long and loud, after
which he placed his ear to the mouthpiece.
"I hear some one walking," he suddenly exclaimed.
The two men listened in breathless silence for an answering call.
"Well, gentlemen; what can I do for you?"
The words came in Murdock's voice.
Sprague's eyes met those of the reporter and saw that the last faint
glimmer of hope was gone. In that swift and silent interchange of
thought there was resignation to the inevitable doom and the final
farewell of two brave hearts.
The spluttering candle gave its last flicker and went out, leaving the
prisoners in utter darkness.
The room was rapidly filling with gas, and they were beginning to feel
its effects.
"We can at least complete our task before we die," said Sturgis with
grim determination.
"Our task!"
"Yes, and insure Murdock's conviction for our murder."
"What chance is there that any one will ever discover our bodies, since
they are destined for Murdock's oblivion tank?"
"Give me your hand," Sturgis replied; "there is a box of matches. I
place it here, between us, within easy reach. I want to write a few
words to the superintendent of police to explain matters. By that time
there will be enough gas in the room to produce a terrific explosion,
when we strike a match. We can thus succeed in wrecking this place and
calling attention to it. If I should succumb before you do, do not fail
to light the match."
While he was speaking, the reporter had taken from his pocket a pad and
a pencil, and had begun to write as rapidly as he could in the darkness.
Sprague's head was beginning to swim and his ears were ringing, but the
thought of Agnes Murdock was uppermost in his mind.
"An explosion!" he exclaimed; "no, no; that must not be. What of Agnes?
She may be hurt?"
Sturgis continued writing.
"It is the only chance there is of bringing Murdock to justice," he
said, firmly.
"But Agnes is innocent of his crimes," urged the artist, in a thick
voice. His tongue clove to his palate; he felt his consciousness
ebbing. "Why should she suffer? I am going, old man----I cannot
hold out any longer----Promise me that you----that you will
not----strike----the match----"
He staggered and fell against the reporter, who caught him in his arms.
His own senses were reeling.
"Promise----" pleaded the half-unconscious man.
"I promise," answered Sturgis, after an instant's hesitation.
It struck a chill to his heart to see his friend dying in the prime of
youth, strength and happiness.
Suddenly a thought flashed upon him.
"Brace up, old fellow. All is not yet over. The speaking-tube leads to
fresh air. Here, put your lips to it, and breathe through your mouth."
The artist heard the words and made an effort to obey these directions.
With Sturgis's assistance he managed to place his lips to the
mouthpiece of the speaking-tube. A few whiffs of comparatively fresh
air sent the sluggish blood coursing through his veins, and gave him a
new hold on life. With renewed vigor came the animal instinct to fight
to the last for existence.
As the shadows of death which had been closing in upon him receded, he
became conscious of Sturgis's voice beating upon his ears in broken and
scarcely audible tones.
"It is----the last chance----Stick----to the tube----When he
comes----surprise him----your revolver----shoot----before----"
The reporter was clinging unsteadily to his friend's shoulder. Sprague
suddenly realized that Sturgis in his turn was succumbing to the
effects of the gas. He sprang back in time to catch the staggering man
in his arms.
"Selfish brute that I am!" he exclaimed. "Here; it is your turn to
breathe!" And he pushed the reporter toward the tube.
"No, no," said Sturgis, struggling faintly; "it cannot be both----and
you----have----everything----to live for."
But the artist was now the stronger, and he succeeded in forcing
his friend to inhale enough fresh air to restore his departing
consciousness.
At length Sturgis, with returning strength, was about to renew the
generous struggle with Sprague, when suddenly the place was ablaze with
the glare of an electric light.
"He wants to see if his work is done," whispered Sturgis to his
companion.
Then, observing that Sprague was again on the verge of asphyxiation, he
continued hurriedly:
"Fill your lungs with air, quick!----quick, I tell you. Now drop and
feign death. Do as I do."
Suiting the action to the word, Sturgis threw himself upon the stone
floor, face downward, and lay motionless, his right hand grasping a
revolver concealed beneath his body. Sprague, after a short breathing
spell at the tube, followed his companion's example.
After a short interval there came a metallic click, which Sturgis
recognized as the sound made by the opening of the slide in the panel
of the door at the head of the stairs.
A moment--which seemed an eternity of suspense--followed, during which
the prisoners felt, without being able to see, the cold gleam of the
steely eyes of Murdock at the grating.
Would he enter? Would he suspect the ruse? Would the two men retain
their grasp of consciousness and their strength long enough to make a
last fight for life?
These thoughts crowded upon the reporter's brain as he lay simulating
death and making a desperate effort to control his reeling senses.
If Murdock were coming he would have to shut off the gas and to
ventilate the room. What was he waiting for?
"Come in!"
The words were Murdock's as he turned away from the grating and closed
the sliding panel.
"An interruption which probably means death to us," whispered Sturgis
to his companion; "take another breath of fresh air, old fellow; we
must hold out a little longer."
Sprague, however, lay motionless and unresponsive. The reporter shook
him violently and turned him over upon his back. The artist's body was
limp and inert; his eyes half closed; his face livid.
The reporter himself felt sick and faint. But, with a mighty effort,
he succeeded in raising his friend in his arms, and dragging him
toward the speaking-tube. There, of a sudden, his strength failed him.
His head swam; his muscles relaxed; he felt Sprague's limp form slip
from his grasp, tottered, reeled, threw his arms wildly about him
for support, and fell, as the last elusive ray of consciousness was
slipping away from him.