"What is this germ?" asked a hollow voice from the doorway.
We looked, startled. There stood Saratovsky, more like a ghost than
a living being. Kennedy sprang forward and caught him as he swayed,
and I moved up an armchair for him.
It is the spirillum Obermeieri," said Kennedy, "the germ of the
relapsing fever, but of the most virulent Asiatic strain. Obermeyer,
who discovered it, caught the disease and died of it, a martyr to
science."
A shriek of consternation rang forth from Samarova. The rest of us
paled, but repressed our feelings.
One moment," added Kennedy hastily. "Don't be unnecessarily alarmed.
I have something more to say. Be calm for a moment longer."
He unrolled a blue-print and placed it on the table.
"This," he continued, "is the photographic copy of a message which,
I suppose, is now on its way to the Russian minister to France in
Paris. Some one in this room besides Mr. Jameson and myself has
seen this letter before. I will hold it up as I pass around and
let each one see it.
In intense silence Kennedy passed before each of us, holding up the
blue-print and searchingly scanning the faces. No one betrayed by
any sign that he recognised it. At last it came to Revalenko
himself.
"The checkerboard, the checkerboard!" he cried, his eyes half
starting from their sockets as he gazed at it.
"Yes," said Kennedy in a low tone, "the checkerboard. It took me
some time to figure it out. It is a cipher that would have baffled
Poe. In fact, there is no means of deciphering it unless you chance
to know its secret. I happened to have heard of it a long time ago
abroad, yet my recollection was vague, and I had to reconstruct it
with much difficulty. It took me all night to do it. It is a cipher,
however, that is well known among the official classes of Russia.
"Fortunately I remember the crucial point, without which I should
still be puzzling over it. It is that a perfectly innocent message,
on its face, may be used to carry a secret, hidden message. The
letters which compose the words, instead of being written
continuously along, as we ordinarily write, have, as you will
observe if you look twice, breaks, here and there. These breaks in
the letters stand for numbers.
"Thus the first words are 'Many thanks.' The first break is at the
end of the letter 'n,' between it and the 'y.' There are three
letters before this break. That stands for the number 3.
"When you come to the end of a word, if the stroke is down at the
end of the last letter, that means no break; if it is up, it means
a break. The stroke at the end of the 'y' is plainly down. Therefore
there is no break until after the 't.' That gives us the number 2.
So we get 1 next, and again 1, and still again 1; then 5; then 5;
then 1; and so on.
"Now, take these numbers in pairs, thus 3 - 2; 1 - 1; 1 - 5; 5 - 1.
By consulting this table you can arrive at the hidden message.
He held up a cardboard bearing the following arrangement of the
letters of the alphabet:
_____________________________________
|_________1_____2_____3_____4_____5___|
|___1_____A_____B_____C_____D_____E___|
|___2_____F_____G_____H_____IJ____K___|
|___3_____L_____M_____N_____O_____P___|
|___4_____Q_____R_____S_____T_____U___|
|___5_____V_____W_____X_____Y_____Z___|
"Thus," he continued, "3 - 2 means the third column and second line.
That is 'H.' Then 1 - 1 is 'A'; 1 - 5 is 'V'; 5 - 1 is 'E' - and
we get the word 'Have.'"
Not a soul stirred as Kennedy unfolded the cipher. What was the
terrible secret in that scientific essay I had puzzled so
unsuccessfully over, the night before?
"Even this can be complicated by choosing a series of fixed numbers
to be added to the real numbers over and over again, Or the order of
the alphabet can be changed. However, we have the straight cipher
only to deal with here."
"And what for Heaven's sake does it reveal?" asked Saratovsky,
leaning forward, forgetful of the fever that was consuming him.
Kennedy pulled out a piece of paper on which he had written the
hidden message and read:
"Have successfully inoculated S. with fever. Public opinion America
would condemn violence. Think best death should appear natural.
Samarova infected also. Cook unfortunately took dose in food
intended Kharkoff. Now have three cases. Shall stop there at
present. Dangerous excite further suspicion health authorities."
Rapidly I eliminated in my mind the persons mentioned, as Craig read.
Saratovsky of course was not guilty, for the plot had centred about
him. Nor was little Samarova, nor Dr. Kharkoff. I noted Revalenko
and Kazanovitch glaring at each other and hastily tried to decide
which I more strongly suspected.
"Will get K.," continued Kennedy. "Think bomb perhaps all right.
K. case different from S. No public sentiment."
"So Kharkoff had been marked for slaughter," I thought. Or was "K."
Kazanovitch? I regarded Revalenko more closely. He was suspiciously
sullen.
"Must have more money. Cable ten thousand rubles at once Russian
consul-general. Will advise you plot against Czar as details
perfected here. Expect break up New York band with death of S."
If Kennedy himself had thrown a bomb or scattered broadcast the
contents of the test-tubes, the effect could not have been more
startling than his last quiet sentence - and sentence it was in two
senses.
"Signed," he said, folding the paper up deliberately, "Ekaterina
Nevsky."
It was as if a cable had snapped and a weight had fallen. Revalenko
sprang up and grasped Kazanovitch by the hand. "Forgive me, comrade,
for ever suspecting you," he cried.
"And forgive me for suspecting you," replied Kazanovitch, "but how
did you come to shadow Kharkoff?"
"I ordered him to follow Kharkoff secretly and protect him,"
explained Saratovsky.
Olga and Ekaterina faced each other fiercely. Olga was trembling
with emotion. Nevsky stood coldly, defiantly. If ever there was
a consummate actress it was she, who had put the bomb at her own
door and had rushed off to start Kennedy on a blind trail.
"You traitress," cried Olga passionately, forgetting all in her
outraged love. "You won his affections from me by your false beauty
- yet all the time you would have killed him like a dog for the
Czar's gold. At last you are unmasked - you Azeff in skirts. False
friend - you would have killed us all - Saratovsky, Kharkoff
"Be still, little fool," exclaimed Nevsky contemptuously. "The
spirilla fever has affected your brains. Bah! I will not stay with
those who are so ready to suspect an old comrade on the mere word
of a charlatan. Boris Kazanovitch, do you stand there silent and
let this insult be heaped upon
me?"
For answer, Kazanovitch deliberately turned his back on his lover
of a moment ago and crossed the room. "Olga," he pleaded, "I have
been a fool. Some day I may be worthy of your love. Fever or not,
I must beg your forgiveness."
With a cry of delight the actress flung her arms about Boris, as he
imprinted a penitent kiss on her warm lips.
"Simpleton," hissed Nevsky with curling lips. "Now you, too, will
die."
"One moment, Ekaterina Nevsky," interposed Kennedy, as he picked
up some vacuum tubes full of a golden-yellow powder, that lay on the
table. "The spirilla, as scientists now know, belong to the same
family as those which cause what we call, euphemistically, the
'black plague.' It is the same species as that of the African
sleeping sickness and the Philippine yaws. Last year a famous
doctor whose photograph I see in the next room, Dr. Ehrlich of
Frankfort, discovered a cure for all these diseases. It will rid
the blood of your victims of the Asiatic relapsing fever germs in
forty-eight hours. In these tubes I have the now famous salvarsan."
With a piercing shriek of rage at seeing her deadly work so quickly
and completely undone, Nevsky flung herself into the little
laboratory behind her and bolted the door.
Her face still wore the same cold, contemptuous smile, as Kennedy
gently withdrew a sharp scalpel from her breast.
"Perhaps it is best this way, after all," he said simply.
IV
THE FIREBUG
A big, powerful, red touring-car, with a shining brass bell on the
front of it, was standing at the curb before our apartment late one
afternoon as I entered. It was such a machine as one frequently
sees threading its reckless course in and out among the trucks and
street-cars, breaking all rules and regulations, stopping at nothing,
the bell clanging with excitement, policemen holding back traffic
instead of trying to arrest the driver - in other words, a Fire
Department automobile.
I regarded it curiously for a moment, for everything connected with
modern fire-fighting is interesting. Then I forgot about it as I
was whisked up in the elevator, only to have it recalled sharply by
the sight of a strongly built, grizzled man in a blue uniform with
red lining. He was leaning forward, earnestly pouring forth a story
into Kennedy's ear.
"And back of the whole thing, sir," I heard him say as he brought
his large fist down on the table, "is a firebug - mark my words."
Before I could close the door, Craig caught my eye, and I read in
his look that he had a new case - one that interested him greatly.
"Walter," he cried, "this is Fire Marshal McCormick. It's all
right, McCormick. Mr. Jameson is an accessory both before and after
the fact in my detective cases."
A firebug! - one of the most dangerous of criminals. The word
excited my imagination at once, for the newspapers had lately been
making much of the strange and appalling succession of apparently
incendiary fires that had terrorised the business section of the
city.
"Just what makes you think that there is a firebug - one firebug,
I mean - back of this curious epidemic of fires?" asked Kennedy,
leaning back in his morris-chair with his finger-tips together and
his eyes half closed as if expecting a revelation from some
subconscious train of thought while the fire marshal presented
his case.
"Well, usually there is no rhyme or reason about the firebug,"
replied McCormick, measuring his words, "but this time I think there
is some method in his madness. You know the Stacey department-stores
and their allied dry-goods and garment-trade interests?
Craig nodded. Of course we knew of the gigantic dry-goods
combination. It had been the talk of the press at the time of its
formation, a few months ago, especially as it included among its
organisers one very clever business woman, Miss Rebecca Wend. There
had been considerable opposition to the combination in the trade, but Stacey
had shattered it by the sheer force of his personality. McCormick
leaned forward and, shaking his forefinger to emphasise his point,
replied slowly, "Practically every one of these fires has been
directed against a Stacey subsidiary or a corporation controlled
by them."
"But if it has gone as far as that," put in Kennedy, "surely the
regular police ought to be of more assistance to you than I."
"I have called in the police," answered McCormick wearily, "but they
haven't even made up their minds whether it is a single firebug or
a gang. And in the meantime, my God, Kennedy, the firebug may start
a fire that will get beyond control!"
"You say the police haven't a single clue to any one who might be
responsible for the fires?" I asked, hoping that perhaps the
marshal might talk more freely of his suspicions to us than he had
already expressed himself in the newspaper interviews I had read.
"Absolutely not a clue - except such as are ridiculous," replied
McCormick, twisting his cap viciously.
No one spoke. We were waiting for McCormick to go on.
"The first fire," he began, repeating his story for my benefit,
although Craig listened quite as attentively as if he had not heard
it already, "was at the big store of Jones, Green & Co., the
clothiers. The place was heavily insured. Warren, the manager and
real head of the firm, was out of town at the time."
The marshal paused as if to check off the strange facts in his mind
as he went along.
"The next day another puzzling fire occurred. It was at the
Quadrangle Cloak and Suit Co., on Fifth Avenue. There had been some
trouble, I believe, with the employees, and the company had
discharged a number of them. Several of the leaders have been
arrested, but I can't say we have anything against any of them.
Still, Max Bloom, the manager of this company, insists that the fire
was set for revenge, and indeed it looks as much like a fire for
revenge as the Jones-Green fire does" - here he lowered his voice
confidentially - "for the purpose of collecting insurance.
"Then came the fire in the Slawson Building, a new loft-building
that had been erected just off Fourth Avenue. Other than the fact
that the Stacey interests put up the money for financing this
building there seemed to be no reason for that fire at all. The
building was reputed to be earning a good return on the investment,
and I was at a loss to account for the fire. I have made no
arrests for it - just set it down as the work of a pure pyromaniac,
a man who burns buildings for fun, a man with an inordinate desire
to hear the fire-engines screech through the streets and perhaps
get a chance to show a little heroism in 'rescuing' tenants.
However, the adjuster for the insurance company, Lazard, and the
adjuster for the insured, Hartstein, have reached an agreement,
and I believe the insurance is to be paid."
"But," interposed Kennedy, "I see no evidence of organised arson
so far."
"Wait," replied the fire marshal. "That was only the beginning,
you understand. A little later came a fire that looked quite like
an attempt to mask a robbery by burning the building afterward.
That was in a silk-house near Spring Street. But after a
controversy the adjusters have reached an agreement on that case.
I mention these fires because they show practically all the types
of work of the various kinds of firebug - insurance, revenge,
robbery, and plain insanity. But since the Spring Street fire, the
character of the fires has been more uniform. They have all been
in business places, or nearly all."
Here the fire marshal launched forth into a catalogue of fires of
suspected incendiary origin, at least eight in all. I took them
down hastily, intending to use the list some time in a box head
with an article in the Star. When he had finished his list I
hastily counted up the number of killed. There were six, two of
them firemen, and four employees. The money loss ranged into the
millions.
McCormick passed his hand over his forehead to brush off the
perspiration. "I guess this thing has got on my nerves," he
muttered hoarsely. " Everywhere I go they talk about nothing else.
If I drop into the restaurant for lunch, my waiter talks of it.
If I meet a newspaper man, he talks of it. My barber talks of it
- everybody. Sometimes I dream of it; other times I lie awake
thinking about it. I tell you, gentlemen, I've sweated blood over
this problem."
"But," insisted Kennedy, "I still can't see why you link all these
fires as due to one firebug. I admit there is an epidemic of fires.
But what makes you so positive that it is all the work of one man?"
"I was coming to that. For one thing, he isn't like the usual
firebug at all. Ordinarily they start their fires with excelsior
and petroleum, or they smear the wood with paraffin or they use
gasoline, benzine, or something of that sort. This fellow
apparently scorns such crude methods. I can't say how he starts
his fires, but in every case I have mentioned we have found the
remains of a wire. It has something to do with electricity - but
what, I don't know. That's one reason why I think these fires are
all connected. Here's another."
McCormick pulled a dirty note out of his pocket and laid it on the
table. We read it eagerly:
Hello, Chief! Haven't found the firebug yet, have you? You
will know who he is only when I am dead and the fires stop.
I don't suppose you even realise that the firebug talks with
you almost every day about catching the firebug. That's me.
I am the real firebug, that is writing this letter. I am
going to tell you why I am starting these fires. There's
money in it - an easy living. They never caught me in or
anywhere, so you might as well quit looking for me and take
your medicine.
A. SPARK.
"Humph!" ejaculated Kennedy, "he has a sense of humour, anyhow - A.
Spark!"
"Queer sense of humour," growled McCormick, gritting his teeth.
"Here's another I got to-day:
Say, Chief: We are going to get busy again and fire a big
department-store next. How does that suit Your Majesty?
till the fun begins when the firebug gets to work again.
A. SPARK.
"Well, sir, when I got that letter," cried McCormick, "I was almost
ready to ring in a double-nine alarm at once - they have me that
bluffed out. But I said to myself, 'There's only one thing to do
- see this man Kennedy.' So here I am. You see what I am driving
at? I believe that firebug is an artist at the thing, does it for
the mere fun of it and the ready money in it. But more than that,
there must be some one back of him. Who is the man higher up - we
must catch him. See?"
"A big department-store," mused Kennedy.
"That's definite - there are only a score or so of them, and the
Stacey interests control several. Mac, I'll tell you what I'll do.
Let me sit up with you to-night at headquarters until we get an
alarm. By George, I'll see this case through to a finish!
The fire marshal leaped to his feet and bounded over to where
Kennedy was seated. With one hand on Craig's shoulder and the other
grasping Craig's hand, he started to speak, but his voice choked.
"Thanks," he blurted out huskily at last. "My reputation in the
department is at stake, my promotion, my position itself, my - my
family - er - er - "
"Not a word, sir," said Kennedy, his features working sympathetically.
"To-night at eight I will go on watch with you. By the way, leave me
those A. Spark notes."
McCormick had so far regained his composure as to say a hearty
farewell. He left the room as if ten years had been lifted off his
shoulders. A moment later he stuck his head in the door again.
"I'll have one of the Department machines call for you, gentlemen,"
he said.
After the marshal had gone, we sat for several minutes in silence.
Kennedy was reading and rereading the notes, scowling to himself as
if they presented a particularly perplexing problem. I said nothing,
though my mind was teeming with speculations. At length he placed
the notes very decisively on the table and snapped out the remark,
"Yes, it must be so."
"What?" I queried, still drumming away at my typewriter, copying the
list of incendiary fires against the moment when the case should be
complete and the story released for publication, as it were.
"This note," he explained, picking up the first one and speaking
slowly, "was written by a woman."
I swung around in my chair quickly. "Get out!" I exclaimed
sceptically. "No woman ever used such phrases.
"I didn't say composed by a woman - I said written by a woman," he
replied.
"Oh," I said, rather chagrined.
"It is possible to determine sex from handwriting in perhaps eighty
cases out of a hundred," Kennedy went on, enjoying my discomfiture.
"Once I examined several hundred specimens of writing to decide that
point to my satisfaction. Just to test my conclusions I submitted
the specimens to two professional graphologists. I found that our
results were slightly different, but I averaged the thing up to four
cases out of five correct. The so-called sex signs are found to be
largely influenced by the amount of writing done, by age, and to a
certain extent by practice and professional requirements, as in the
conventional writing of teachers and the rapid hand of bookkeepers.
Now in this case the person who wrote the first note was only an
indifferent writer. Therefore the sex signs are pretty likely to be
accurate. Yes, I'm ready to go on the stand and swear that this
note was written by a woman and the second by a man."
"Then there's a woman in the case, and she wrote the first note for
the firebug - is that what you mean?" I asked.
"Exactly. There nearly always is a woman in the case, somehow or
other. This woman is closely connected with the firebug. As for
the firebug, whoever it may be, he performs his crimes with cold
premeditation and, as De Quincey said, in a spirit of pure artistry.
The lust of fire propels him, and he uses his art to secure wealth.
The man may be a tool in the hands of others, however. It's unsafe
to generalise on the meagre facts we now have. Oh, well, there is
nothing we can do just yet. Let's take a walk, get an early dinner,
and be back here before the automobile arrives."
Not a word more did Kennedy say about the case during our stroll or
even on the way downtown to fire headquarters.
We found McCormick anxiously waiting for us. High up in the
sandstone tower at headquarters, we sat with him in the maze of
delicate machinery with which the fire game is played in New York.
In great glass cases were glistening brass and nickel machines with
discs and levers and bells, tickers, sheets of paper, and
annunciators without number. This was the fire-alarm telegraph, the
"roulette-wheel of the fire demon," as some one has aptly called it.
"All the alarms for fire from all the boroughs, both from the regular
alarm-boxes and the auxiliary systems, come here first over the
network of three thousand miles or more of wire nerves that stretch
out through the city," McCormick was explaining to us.
A buzzer hissed.
"Here's an alarm now," he exclaimed, all attention.
"Three," "six," "seven," the numbers appeared on the annunciator.
The clerks in the office moved as if they were part of the mechanism.
Twice the alarm was repeated, being sent out all over the city.
McCormick relapsed from his air of attention.
"That alarm was not in the shopping district," he explained, much
relieved. "Now the fire-houses in the particular district where
that fire is=20have received the alarm instantly. Four engines, two
hook-and-ladders, a water-tower, the battalion chief, and a deputy
are hurrying to that fire. Hello, here comes another."
Again the buzzer sounded. "One," "four," "five" showed in the
annunciator.
Even before the clerks could respond, McCormick had dragged us to
the door. In another instant we were wildly speeding uptown, the
bell on the front of the automobile clanging like a fire-engine,
the siren horn going continuously, the engine of the machine
throbbing with energy until the water boiled in the radiator.
"Let her out, Frank," called McCormick to his chauffeur, as we
rounded into a broad and now almost deserted thoroughfare.
Like a red streak in the night we flew up that avenue, turned into
Fourteenth Street on two wheels, and at last were on Sixth Avenue.
With a jerk and a skid we stopped. There were the engines, the
hose-carts, the hook-and-ladders, the salvage corps, the police
establishing fire lines-everything. But where was the fire?
The crowd indicated where it ought to be - it was Stacey's. Firemen
and policemen were entering the huge building. McCormick shouldered
in after them, and we followed.
"Who turned in the alarm?" he asked as we mounted the stairs with
the others.
"I did," replied a night watchman on the third landing. "Saw a
light in the office on the third floor back - something blazing.
But it seems to be out now."
We had at last come to the office. It was dark and deserted, yet
with the lanterns we could see the floor of the largest room littered
with torn books and ledgers.
Kennedy caught his foot in something. It was a loose wire on the
floor. He followed it. It led to an electric-light socket, where
it was attached.
"Can't you turn on the lights?" shouted McCormick to the watchman.
"Not here. They're turned on from downstairs, and they're off for
the night. I'll go down if you want me to and -"
"No," roared Kennedy. "Stay where you are until I follow the wire
to the other end."
At last we came to a little office partitioned off from the main
room. Kennedy carefully opened the door. One whiff of the air from
it was sufficient. He banged the door shut again.
"Stand back with those lanterns, boys," he ordered.
I sniffed, expecting to smell illuminating-gas. Instead, a peculiar,
sweetish odour pervaded the air. For a moment it made me think of
a hospital operating-room.