thoroughly alarmed, "it's a bloodhound, and our trail is fresh."
Closer it came. Press forward as we might, we could never expect
to beat that dog.
"Oh, for a stream," groaned Kennedy, "but they are all frozen - even
the river.
He stopped short, fumbled in his pocket, and drew out the bottle
of ether.
"Raise your foot, Walter," he ordered.
I did so and he smeared first mine and then his with the ether.
Then we doubled on our trail once or twice and ran again.
"The dog will never be able to pick up the ether as our trail,"
panted Kennedy; "that is, if he is any good and trained not to go
off on wild-goose chases."
On we hurried from the woods to the now dark and silent town. It
was indeed fortunate that the dog had been thrown off our scent,
for the station was closed, and, indeed, if it had been open I am
sure the station agent would have felt more like locking the door
against two such tramps as we were, carrying a tin box and pursued
by a dog, than opening it for us. The best we could do was to
huddle into a corner until we succeeded in jumping a milk-train
that luckily slowed down as it passed Riverwood station.
Neither of us could wait to open the tin box in our apartment, and
instead of going uptown Kennedy decided it would be best to go to
a hotel near the station. Somehow we succeeded in getting a room
without exciting suspicion. Hardly had the bellboy's footsteps
ceased echoing in the corridor than Kennedy was at work wrenching
off the lid of the box with such leverage as the scanty furnishings
of the room afforded.
At last it yielded, and we looked in curiously, expecting to find
fabulous wealth in some form. A few hundred dollars and a rope of
pearls lay in it. It was a good "haul," but where was the vast
spoil the counterfeiters had accumulated? We had missed it. So
far we were completely baffled.
"Perhaps we had better snatch a couple of hours' sleep," was all
that Craig said, stifling his chagrin.
Over and over in my mind I was turning the problem of where they
had hidden the spoil. I dozed off, still thinking about it and
thinking that, even should they be captured, they might have stowed
away perhaps a million dollars to which they could go back after
their sentences were served.
It was still early for New York when Kennedy roused me by talking
over the telephone in the room. In fact, I doubt if he had slept
at all.
Burke was at the other end of the wire. His man had just reported
that something had happened during the night at Riverwood, but he
couldn't give a very clear account. Craig seemed to enjoy the
joke immensely as he told his story to Burke.
The last words I heard were: "All right. Send a man up here to the
station - one who knows all the descriptions of these people. I'm
sure they will have to come into town to-day, and they will have to
come by train, for their car is wrecked. Better watch at the uptown
stations, also."
After a hasty breakfast we met Burke's man and took our places at
the exit from the train platforms. Evidently Kennedy had figured
out that the counterfeiters would have to come into town for some
reason or other. The incoming passengers were passing us in a
steady stream, for a new station was then being built, and there
was only a temporary structure with one large exit.
"Here is where the 'portrait parle' ought to come in, if ever,"
commented Kennedy as he watched eagerly.
And yet neither man nor woman passed us who fitted the description.
Train after train emptied its human freight, yet the pale man with
the concave nose and the peculiar ear, accompanied perhaps by a
lady, did not pass us.
At last the incoming stream began to dwindle down. It was long past
the time when the counterfeiters should have arrived if they had
started on any reasonable train.
"Perhaps they have gone up to Montreal, instead," I ventured.
Kennedy shook his head. "No," he answered. "I have an idea that
I was mistaken about the money being kept at Riverwood. It would
have been too risky. I thought it out on the way back this morning.
They probably kept it in a safe deposit vault here. I had figured
that they would come down and get it and leave New York after last
night's events. We have failed - they have got by us. Neither
the 'portrait parle' nor the ordinary photography nor any other
system will suffice alone against the arch-criminal back of this,
I'm afraid. Walter, I am sore and disgusted. What I should have
done was to accept Burke's offer - surround the house with a posse
if necessary, last night, and catch the counterfeiters by sheer
force. I was too confident. I thought I could do it with
finesse, and I have failed. I'd give anything to know what safe
deposit vault they kept the fake money in."
I said nothing as we strolled away, leaving Burke's man still to
watch, hoping against hope. Kennedy walked disconsolately through
the station, and I followed. In a secluded part of the waiting-room
he sat down, his face drawn up in a scowl such as I had never seen.
Plainly he was disgusted with himself - with only himself. This
was no bungling of Burke or any one else. Again the counterfeiters
had escaped from the hand of the law.
As he moved his fingers restlessly in the pockets of his coat, he
absently pulled out the little pieces of sponge and the ether bottle.
He regarded them without much interest.
"I know what they were for," he said, diving back into his pocket
for the other things and bringing out the sharp little knives in
their case. I said nothing, for Kennedy was in a deep study. At
last he put the things back into his pocket. As he did so his hand
encountered something which he drew forth with a puzzled air. It
was the piece of paraffin.
"Now, what do you suppose that was for?" he asked, half to himself.
"I had forgotten that. What was the use of a piece of paraffin?
Phew, smell the antiseptic worked into it."
"I don't know," I replied, rather testily. "If you would tell me
what the other things were for I might enlighten you, but - "
"By George, Walter, what a chump I am!" cried Kennedy, leaping to
his feet, all energy again. "Why did I forget that lump of paraffin?
Why, of course - I think I can guess what they have been doing - of
course. Why, man alive, he walked right past us, and we never knew
it. Boy, boy," he shouted to a newsboy who passed, "what's the latest
sporting edition you have?"
Eagerly he almost tore a paper open and scanned the sporting pages.
"Racing at Lexington begins to-morrow," he read. "Yes, I'll bet
that's it. We don't have to know the safe deposit vault, after all.
It would be too late, anyhow. Quick, let us look up the train to
Lexington."
As we hurried over to the information booth, I gasped, in a whirl:
"Now, look here, Kennedy, what's all this lightning calculation?
What possible connection is there between a lump of paraffin and
one of the few places in the country where they still race horses?"
"None," he replied, not stopping an instant. "None. The paraffin
suggested to me the possible way in which our man managed to elude
us under our very eyes. That set my mind at work again. Like a
flash it occurred to me: Where would they be most likely to go next
to work off some of the bills? The banks are on, the
jewellery-houses are on, the gambling-joints are on. Why, to the
racetracks, of course. That's it. Counterfeiters all use the
bookmakers, only since racing has been killed in New York they have
had to resort to other means here. If New York has suddenly become
too hot, what more natural than to leave it? Here, let me see -
there's a train that gets there early to-morrow, the best train,
too. Say, is No. 144 made up yet?" he inquired at the desk.
"No. 144 will be ready in fifteen minutes. Track 8."
Kennedy thanked the man, turned abruptly, and started for the
still closed gate at Track 8.
"Beg pardon - why, hulloa - it's Burke," he exclaimed as we ran
plump into a man staring vacantly about.
It was not the gentleman farmer of the night before, nor yet the
supposed college graduate. This man was a Western rancher; his
broad-brimmed hat, long moustache, frock coat, and flowing tie
proclaimed it. Yet there was something indefinably familiar about
him, too. It was Burke in another disguise.
"Pretty good work, Kennedy," nodded Burke, shifting his tobacco
from one side of his jaws to the other. "Now, tell me how your man
escaped you this morning, when you can recognise me instantly in
this rig."
"You haven't altered your features," explained Kennedy simply.
"Our pale-faced, snub-nosed, peculiar-eared friend has. What do
you think of the possibility of his going to the Lexington track,
now that he finds it too dangerous to remain in New York?"
Burke looked at Kennedy rather sharply. "Say, do you add telepathy
to your other accomplishments?
"No," laughed Craig, "but I'm glad to see that two of us working
independently have arrived at the same conclusion. Come, let us
saunter over to Track 8 - I guess the train is made up."
The gate was just opened, and the crowd filed through. No one who
seemed to satisfy either Burke or Kennedy appeared. The train
announcer made his last call. Just then a taxicab pulled up at
the street-end of the platform, not far from Track 8. A man jumped
out and assisted a heavily veiled lady, paid the driver, picked up
the grips, and turned toward us.
We waited expectantly. As he turned I saw a dark-skinned,
hook-nosed man, and I exclaimed disgustedly to Burke: "Well, if
they are going to Lexington they can't make this train. Those are
the last people who have a chance."
Kennedy, however, continued to regard the couple steadily. The
man saw that he was being watched and faced us defiantly, "Such
impertinence!" Then to his wife, "Come, my dear, we'll just make it."
"I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to show us what's in that grip,"
said Kennedy, calmly laying his hand on the man's arm.
"Well, now, did you ever hear of such blasted impudence? Get out of
my way, sir, this instant, or I'll have you arrested."
"Come, come, Kennedy," interrupted Burke. "Surely you are getting
in wrong here. This can't be the man."
Craig shook his head decidedly. "You can make the arrest or not,
Burke, as you choose. If not, I am through. If so - I'll take all
the responsibility."
Reluctantly Burke yielded. The man protested; the woman cried; a
crowd collected.
The train-gate shut with a bang. As it did so the man's demeanour
changed instantly. " There," he shouted angrily, "'you have made
us miss our train. I'll have you in jail for this. Come on now to
the nearest magistrate's court. I'll have my rights as an American
citizen. You have carried your little joke too far. Knight is my
name - John Knight, of Omaha, pork-packer. Come on now. I'll see
that somebody suffers for this if I have to stay in New York a year.
It's an outrage - an outrage."
Burke was now apparently alarmed - more at the possibility of the
humorous publicity that would follow such a mistake by the secret
service than at anything else. However, Kennedy did not weaken,
and on general principles I stuck to Kennedy.
"Now," said the man surlily while he placed "Mrs. Knight" in as
easy a chair as he could find in the judge's chambers, "what is the
occasion of all this row? Tell the judge what a bad man from
Bloody Gulch I am."
O'Connor had arrived, having broken all speed laws and perhaps some
records on the way up from headquarters. Kennedy laid the Scotland
Yard finger-prints on the table. Beside them he placed those taken
by O'Connor and Burke in New York.
"Here," he began, "we have the finger-prints of a man who was one
of the most noted counterfeiters in Great Britain. Beside them are
those of a man who succeeded in passing counterfeits of several
kinds recently in New York. Some weeks later this third set of
prints was taken from a man who was believed to be the same person."
The magistrate was examining the three sets of prints. As he came
to the third, he raised his head as if about to make a remark, when
Kennedy quickly interrupted.
"One moment, sir. You were about to say that finger-prints never
change, never show such variations as these. That is true. There
are fingerprints of people taken fifty years ago that are exactly
the same as their finger-prints of to-day. They don't change - they
are permanent. The fingerprints of mummies can be deciphered even
after thousands of years. But," he added slowly, "you can change
fingers."
The idea was so startling that I could scarcely realise what he
meant at first. I had read of the wonderful work of the surgeons
of the Rockefeller Institute in transplanting tissues and even whole
organs, in grafting skin and in keeping muscles artificially alive
for days under proper conditions. Could it be that a man had
deliberately amputated his fingers and grafted on new ones? Was the
stake sufficient for such a game? Surely there must be some scars
left after such grafting. I picked up the various sets of prints.
It was true that the third set was not very clear, but there
certainly were no scars there.
"Though there is no natural changeability of finger-prints," pursued
Kennedy, "such changes can be induced, as Dr. Paul Prager of Vienna
has shown, by acids and other reagents, by grafting and by injuries.
Now, is there any method by which lost finger-tips can be restored?
I know of one case where the end of a finger was taken off and only
one-sixteenth inch of the nail was left. The doctor incised the
edges of the granulating surface and then led the granulations on
by what is known in the medical profession as the 'sponge graft.'
He grew a new finger-tip.
"The sponge graft consists in using portions of a fine Turkish
surgical sponge, such I have here. I found these pieces in a desk
at Riverwood. The patient is anaesthetised. An incision is made
from side to side in the stump of the finger and flaps of skin are
sliced off and turned up for the new end of the finger to develop
in - a sort of shell of living skin. Inside this, the sponge is
placed, not a large piece, but a very thin piece sliced off and
cut to the shape of the finger-stump. It is perfectly sterilised
in water and washed in green soap after all the stony particles
are removed by hydrochloric acid. Then the finger is bound up
and kept moist with normal salt solution.
"The result is that the end of the finger, instead of healing over,
grows into the fine meshes of the pieces of sponge, by capillary
attraction. Of course even this would heal in a few days, but the
doctor does not let it heal. In three days he pulls the sponge off
gently. The end of the finger has grown up just a fraction of an
inch. Then a new thin layer of sponge is added. Day after day this
process is repeated, each time the finger growing a little more. A
new nail develops if any of the matrix is left, and I suppose a
clever surgeon by grafting up pieces of epidermis could produce on
such a stump very passable finger-prints."
No one of us said anything, but Kennedy seemed to realise the
thought in our minds and proceeded to elaborate the method.
"It is known as the 'education sponge method,' and was first
described by Dr. D. J. Hamilton, of Edinburgh, in 1881. It has
frequently been used in America since then. The sponge really acts
in a mechanical manner to support the new finger-tissue that is
developed. The meshes are filled in by growing tissue, and as it
grows the tissue absorbs part of the sponge, which is itself an
animal tissue and acts like catgut. Part of it is also thrown
off. In fact, the sponge imitates what happens naturally in the
porous network of a regular blood-clot. It educates the tissue to
grow, stimulates it - new blood-vessels and nerves as well as flesh.
"In another case I know of, almost the whole of the first joint of
a finger was crushed off, and the doctor was asked to amputate the
stump of bone that protruded. Instead, he decided to educate the
tissue to grow out to cover it and appear like a normal finger. In
these cases the doctors succeeded admirably in giving the patients
entire new fingertips, without scars, and, except for the initial
injury and operation, with comparatively little inconvenience except
that absolute rest of the hands was required..
"That is what happened, gentlemen," concluded Kennedy. "That is
why Mr. Forbes, alias Williams, made a trip to Philadelphia to be
treated-for crushed finger-tips, not for the kick of an automobile
engine. He may have paid the doctors in counterfeits. In reality
this man was playing a game in which there was indeed a heavy stake
at issue. He was a counterfeiter sought by two governments with
the net closing about him. What are the tips of a few fingers
compared with life, liberty, wealth, and a beautiful woman? The
first two sets of prints are different from the third because they
are made by different finger-tips-on the same man. The very core
of the prints was changed. But the finger-print system is
vindicated by the very ingenuity of the man who so cleverly has
contrivred to beat it."
"Very interesting - to one who is interested," remarked the stranger,
"but what has that to do with detaining my wife and myself, making
us miss our train, and insulting us?"
"Just this," replied Craig. "If you will kindly oblige us by laying
your fingers on this inking-pad and then lightly on this sheet of
paper, I think I can show you an answer."
Knight demurred, and his wife grew hysterical at the idea, but there
was nothing to do but comply. Kennedy glanced at the fourth set of
prints, then at the third set taken a week ago, and smiled. No one
said a word. Knight or Williams, which was it? He nonchalantly lit
a cigarette.
"So you say I am this Williams, the counterfeiter?" he asked
superciliously.
"I do," reiterated Kennedy. "You are also Forbes."
"I don't suppose Scotland Yard has neglected to furnish you with
photographs and a description of this Forbes?"
Burke reluctantly pulled out a Bertillon card from his pocket and
laid it on the table. It bore the front face and profile of the
famous counterfeiter, as well as his measurements.
The man picked it up as if indeed it was a curious thing. His
coolness nearly convinced me. Surely he should have hesitated in
actually demanding this last piece of evidence. I had heard,
however, that the Bertillon system of measurements often depended
on the personal equation of the measurer as well as on the measured.
Was he relying on that, or on his difference in features?
I looked over Kennedy's shoulder at the card on the table. There
was the concave nose of the "portrait parle" " of Forbes, as it had
first been described to us. Without looking further I involuntarily
glanced at the man, although I had no need to do so. I knew that
his nose was the exact opposite of that of Forbes.
"Ingenious at argument as you are, he remarked quietly, "you will
hardly deny that Knight, of Omaha, is the exact opposite of Forbes,
of London. My nose is almost Jewish - my complexion is dark as an
Arab's. Still, I suppose I am the sallow, snub-nosed Forbes
described here, inasmuch as I have stolen Forbes's fingers and
lost them again by a most preposterous method."
"The colour of the face is easily altered," said Kennedy. "A little
picric acid will do that. The ingenious rogue Sarcey in Paris
eluded the police very successfully until Dr. Charcot exposed him
and showed how he changed the arch of his eyebrows and the wrinkles
of his face. Much is possible to-day that would make Frankenstein
and Dr. Moreau look clumsy and antiquated."
A sharp feminine voice interrupted. It was the woman, who had kept
silent up to this time. "But I have read in one of the papers this
morning that a Mr. Williams was found dead in an automobile accident
up the Hudson yesterday. I remember reading it, because I am afraid
of accidents myself."
All eyes were now fixed on Kennedy. "That body," he answered quickly,
"was a body purchased by you at a medical school, brought in your
car to Riverwood, dressed in Williams's clothes with a watch that
would show he was Forbes, placed on the track in front of the auto,
while you two watched the Buffalo express run it down, and screamed.
It was a clever scheme that you concocted, but these facts do not
agree."
He laid the measurements of the corpse obtained by Burke and those
from the London police card side by side. Only in the roughest way
did they approximate each other.
"Your honour, I appeal to your sense of justice," cried our prisoner
impatiently. "Hasn't this farce been allowed to go far enough? Is
there any reason why this fake detective should make fools out of
us all and keep my wife longer in this court? I'm not disposed to
let the matter drop. I wish to enter a charge against him of false
arrest and malicious prosecution. I shall turn the whole thing over
to my attorney this afternoon. The deuce with the races - I'll
have justice."
The man had by this time raised himself to a high pitch of
apparently righteous wrath. He advanced menacingly toward Kennedy,
who stood with his shoulders thrown back, and his hands deep in
his pockets, and a half amused look on his face.
"As for you, Mr. Detective," added the man, "for eleven cents I'd
lick you to within an inch of your life. 'Portrait parle,' indeed!
It's a fine scientific system that has to deny its own main
principles in order to vindicate itself. Bah! Take that, you
scoundrel!
Harriet Wollstone threw her arms about him, but he broke away. His
fist shot out straight. Kennedy was too quick for him, however. I
had seen Craig do it dozens of times with the best boxers in the
"gym." He simply jerked his head to one side, and the blow passed
just a fraction of an inch from his jaw, but passed it as cleanly
as if it had been a yard away.
The man lost his balance, and as he fell forward and caught himself,
Kennedy calmly and deliberately slapped him on the nose.
It was an intensely serious instant, yet I actually laughed. The
man's nose was quite out of joint, even from such a slight blow. It
was twisted over on his face in the most ludicrous position imaginable.
"The next time you try that, Forbes," remarked Kennedy, as he pulled
the piece of paraffin from his pocket and laid it on the table with
the other exhibits, "don't forget that a concave nose built out to
hook-nose convexity by injections of paraffin, such as the
beauty-doctors everywhere advertise, is a poor thing for a White
Hope.
Both Burke and O'Connor had seized Forbes, but Kennedy had turned
his attention to the larger of Forbes's grips, which the Wollstone
woman vociferously claimed as her own. Quickly he wrenched it
open.
As he turned it up on the table my eyes fairly bulged at the sight.
Forbes' suit-case might have been that of a travelling salesman
for the Kimberley, the Klondike, and the Bureau of Engraving, all
in one. Craig dumped the wealth out on the table - stacks of
genuine bills, gold coins of two realms, diamonds, pearls,
everything portable and tangible all heaped up and topped off with
piles of counterfeits awaiting the magic touch of this Midas to
turn them into real gold.
"Forbes, you have failed in your get-away," said Craig triumphantly.
"Gentlemen, you have here a master counterfeiter, surely - a master
counterfeiter of features and fingers as well as of currency."
VI
THE SAND-HOG
"Interesting story, this fight between the Five-Borough and the
Inter-River Transit," I remarked to Kennedy as I sketched out the
draft of an expose of high finance for the Sunday Star.
"Then that will interest you, also," said he, throwing a letter down
on my desk. He had just come in and was looking over his mail.
The letterhead bore the name of the Five-Borough Company. It was
from Jack Orton, one of our intimates at college, who was in charge
of the construction of a new tunnel under the river. It was brief,
as Jack's letters always were. "I have a case here at the tunnel
that I am sure will appeal to you, my own case, too," it read. "You
can go as far as you like with it, but get to the bottom of the
thing, no matter whom it hits. There is some deviltry afoot, and
apparently no one is safe. Don't say a word to anybody about it,
but drop over to see me as soon as you possibly can."
"Yes," I agreed, "that does interest me. When are you going over?"
"Now," replied Kennedy, who had not taken off his hat. "Can you
come along?"