asked Dorgan coolly, in spite of the exposures. "What of it all?" he
asked surlily. "I have nothing to do with it, anyhow. Why do you come
to me? Take it to the proper authorities."
"Shall I?" asked Kennedy quietly, leaning over and whispering a few
words in Dorgan's ear. I could not hear what he said, but Dorgan
appeared to be fairly staggered.
When Kennedy passed out of the Boss's office there was a look of quiet
satisfaction on his face which I could not fathom. Not a word could I
extract from him on the subject, either. I was still in the dark as to
the result of his visit.
XXIV
THE DEBACLE OF DORGAN
Sunday morning came and with it the huge batch of papers which we
always took. I looked at them eagerly, though Kennedy did not seem to
evince much interest, to see whether the Carton photographs had been
used. There were none.
Kennedy employed the time in directing some work of his own and had
disappeared, I knew not where, though I surmised it was on one of his
periodic excursions into the underworld in which he often knocked
about, collecting all sorts of valuable and interesting bits of
information to fit together in the mosaic of a case.
Monday came, also, the last day before the election, with its lull in
the heart-breaking activities of the campaign. There were still no
pictures published, but Kennedy was working in the laboratory over a
peculiar piece of apparatus.
"I've been helping out my own shadows," was all the explanation he
vouchsafed of his disappearances, as he continued to work.
"Watching Mrs. Ogleby?" I hinted.
"No, I didn't interfere any more with Miss Kendall. This was someone
else--in another part of the city."
He said it with an air that seemed to imply that I would learn all
about it shortly and I did not pursue the subject.
Meanwhile, he was arranging something on the top of a large, flat
table. It seemed to be an instrument in two parts, composed of many
levers and discs and magnets, each part with a roll of paper about five
inches wide.
On one was a sort of stylus with two silk cords attached at right
angles to each other near the point. On the other was a capillary glass
tube at the junction of two aluminum arms, also at right angles to each
other.
It was quite like old times to see Kennedy at work in his laboratory
again, and I watched him curiously. Two sets of wires were attached to
each of the instruments, and they led out of the window to some other
wires which had been strung by telephone linemen only a few hours
before.
Craig had scarcely completed his preparations when Carton arrived.
Things were going all right in the campaign again, I knew, at least as
far as appeared on the surface. But his face showed that Carton was
clearly dissatisfied with what Craig had apparently accomplished, for,
as yet, he had not told Carton about his discovery after studying the
photographs, and matters between Carton and Margaret Ashton stood in
the same strained condition that they had when last we saw her.
I must say that I, too, was keenly disappointed by the lack of
developments in this phase of the case. Aside from the fact that the
photographs had not actually been published, the whole thing seemed to
me to be a mess. What had Craig said to Dorgan? Above all, what was his
game? Was he playing to spare the girl's feelings merely by allowing
the election to go on without a scandal to Carton? I knew the result of
the election was now the least of Carton's worries.
Carton did not say much, but he showed that he thought it high time for
Kennedy to do something.
We were seated about the flat table, wondering when Kennedy would break
his silence, when suddenly, as if by a spirit hand, the stylus before
us began to move across one of the rolls of paper.
We watched it uncomprehendingly.
At last I saw that it was actually writing the words. "How is it
working?"
Quickly Craig seized the stylus on the lower part of the instrument and
wrote in his characteristic scrawl, "All right, go ahead."
"What is the thing?" asked Carton, momentarily forgetting his own
worries at the new marvel before us.
"An instrument that was invented many years ago, but has only recently
been perfected for practical, every-day use, the telautograph, the
long-distance writer," replied Kennedy, as we waited. "You see, with
what amounts to an ordinary pencil I have written on the paper of the
transmitter. The silk cord attached to the pencil regulates the current
which controls another capillary glass tube-pen at the other end of the
line. The receiving pen moves simultaneously with my stylus. It is the
same principle as the pantagraph, cut in half as it were, one half
here, the other half at the other end of the line, two telephone wires
in this case connecting the halves. Ah,--that's it. The pencil of the
receiving instrument is writing again. Just a moment. Let us see what
it is."
I almost gasped in astonishment at the words that I saw. I looked
again, for I could not believe my eyes. Still, there it was. My first
glance had been correct, impossible as it was.
"I, Patrick Murtha," wrote the pen.
"What is it?" asked Carton, awestruck. "A dead hand?"
"Stop a minute," wrote Kennedy hastily.
We bent over him closely. Craig had drawn from a packet several
letters, which he had evidently secured in some way from the effects of
Murtha. Carefully, minutely, he compared the words before us with the
signatures at the bottom of the letters.
"It is genuine!" he cried excitedly.
"Genuine!" Carton and I echoed.
What did he mean? Was this some kind of spiritism? Had Kennedy turned
medium and sought a message from the other world to solve the
inexplicable problems of this? It was weird, uncanny, unthinkable. We
turned to him blankly for an explanation of the mystery.
"That wasn't Murtha at all whose body we saw at the Morgue," he hurried
to explain. "That was all a frame-up. I thought as soon as I saw it
that there was something queer."
I recalled now the peculiar look on his face which I had interpreted as
indicating that he thought Murtha had been the victim of foul play.
"And the other night, when we were in Carton's office and someone
called up threatening you, Carton, and Dopey Jack, I saw at once that
the voice was concealed. Yet there was something about it that was
familiar, though I couldn't quite place it. I had heard that voice
before, perhaps while we were getting the records to discover the
'wolf.' It occurred to me that if I had a record of it I might identify
it by comparing it with those we had already taken. I got the record. I
studied it. I compared it with what I already had, line, and wave, and
overtone. You can imagine how I felt when I found there was only one
voice with which it corresponded, and that man was supposed to be dead.
Something more than intuition as I looked at the body that night had
roused my suspicions. Now they were confirmed. Fancy how that
information must have burned in my mind, during these days while I knew
that Murtha was alive, but could say nothing!"
Neither Carton nor I could say a word as we thought of this voice from
the dead, as it almost seemed.
"I hadn't found him," continued Craig, "but I knew he had used a pay
station on the West Side. I began shadowing everyone who might have
helped him, Dorgan, Kahn, Langhorne, all. I didn't find him. They were
too clever. He was hiding somewhere in the city, a changed personality,
waiting for the thing to blow over. He knew that of all places a city
is the best to hide in, and of all cities New York is safest.
"But, though I didn't actually find his hiding place, I had enough on
some of his friends so that I could get word to him that his secret was
known to me, at least. I made him an offer of safety. He need not come
out of his hiding place and I would agree to let him go where and when
he pleased without further pursuit from me, if he would let me install
a telautograph in a neutral place which he could select and the other
end in this laboratory. I myself do not know where the other place is.
Only a mechanic sworn to secrecy knows and neither Murtha nor myself
know him. If Murtha comes across, I have given my word of honour that
before the world he shall remain a dead man, free to go where he
pleases and enjoy such of his fortune as he was able to fix so that he
could carry it with him into his new life."
Carton and I were entranced by the romance of the thing.
Murtha was alive!
The commitment to the asylum, the escape, the search, the finding of a
substitute body, mutilated beyond ordinary recognition, the mysterious
transfers, and finally the identification in the Morgue--all had been
part of an elaborately staged play!
We saw it all, now. Carton had got too close to him in the conviction
of Dopey Jack and the proceedings against Kahn. He had seen the
handwriting on the wall for himself. In Carton's gradual climbing, step
by step, for the man higher up, he would have been the next to go.
Murtha had decided that it was time to get out, to save himself.
Suddenly, I saw another aspect of it. By dropping out as though dead,
he destroyed a link in the chain that would reach Dorgan. There was no
way of repairing that link if he were dead. It was missing and missing
for good.
Dorgan had known it. Had it been a hint as to that which had finally
clinched whatever it was that Kennedy had whispered to the Silent Boss
that morning when we had seen him in his office?
All these thoughts and more flashed through my head with lightning-like
rapidity.
The telautograph was writing again, obedient to Kennedy's signal that
he was satisfied with the signature.
"... in consideration of Craig Kennedy's agreement to destroy even this
record, agree to give him such information as he has asked for, after
which no further demands are to be made and the facts as already
publicly recorded are to stand."
"Just witness it," asked Kennedy of us. "It is a gentleman's agreement
among us all."
Nervously we set our names to the thing, only too eager to keep the
secret if we could further the case on which we had been almost
literally sweating blood so long.
Prepared though we were for some startling disclosures, it was,
nevertheless, with a feeling almost of faintness that we saw the stylus
above moving again.
"The Black Book, as you call it," it wrote, "has been sent by messenger
to be deposited in escrow with the Gotham Trust Company to be
delivered, Tuesday, the third of November, on the written order of
Craig Kennedy and John Carton. An officer of the trust company will
notify you of its receipt immediately, which will close the entire
transaction as far as I am concerned."
Kennedy could not wait. He had already seized his own telephone and was
calling a number.
"They have it," he announced a moment later, scrawling the information
on the transmitter of the telautograph.
A moment it was still, then it wrote again.
"Good-bye and good luck," it traced. "Murtha!"
The Smiling Boss could not resist his little joke at the end, even now.
"Can--we--get it?" asked Carton, almost stunned at the unexpected turn
of events.
"No," cautioned Kennedy, "not yet. To-morrow. I made the same promise
to Murtha that I made to Dorgan, when I went to him with Walter,
although Walter did not hear it. This is to be a fair fight, for the
election, now."
"Then," said Carton earnestly, "I may as well tell you that I shall not
sleep to-night. I can't, even if I can use the book only after election
in the clean-up of the city!"
Kennedy laughed.
"Perhaps I can entertain you with some other things," he said
gleefully, adding, "About those photographs."
Carton was as good as his word. He did not sleep, and the greater part
of the night we spent in telling him about what Craig had discovered by
his scientific analysis of the faked pictures.
At last morning came. Though Kennedy and I had slept soundly in our
apartment, Carton had in reality only dozed in a chair, after we closed
the laboratory.
Slowly the hours slipped away until the trust company opened.
We were the first to be admitted, with our order ready signed and
personally delivered.
As the officer handed over the package, Craig tore the wrapper off
eagerly.
There, at last, was the Black Book!
Carton almost seized it from Kennedy, turning the pages, skimming over
it, gloating like a veritable miser.
It was the debacle of Dorgan--the end of the man highest up!
XXV
THE BLOOD CRYSTALS
Much as we had accomplished, we had not found Betty Blackwell. Except
for her shadowing of Mrs. Ogleby, Clare Kendall had devoted her time to
winning the confidence of the poor girl, Sybil Seymour, whom we had
rescued from Margot's. Meanwhile, the estrangement of Carton and
Margaret Ashton threw a cloud over even our success.
During the rest of the morning Craig was at work again in the
laboratory. He was busily engaged in testing something through his
powerful microscopes and had a large number of curious microphotographs
spread out on the table. As I watched him, apparently there was nothing
but the blood-stained gauze bandage which had been fastened to the face
of the strange, light-haired woman, and on the stains on this bandage
he was concentrating his attention. I could not imagine what he
expected to discover from it.
I waited for Kennedy to speak, but he was too busy more than to notice
that I had come in. I fell to thinking of that woman. And the more I
thought of the fair face, the more I was puzzled by it. I felt somehow
or other that I had seen it somewhere before, yet could not place it.
A second time I examined the unpublished photograph of Betty Blackwell
as well as the pictures that had been published. The only conclusion
that I could come to was that it could not be she, for although she was
light-haired and of fair complexion, the face as I remembered it was
that of a mature woman who was much larger than the slight Betty. I was
sure of that.
Every time I reasoned it out I came to the same contradictory
conclusion that I had seen her, and I hadn't. I gave it up, and as
Kennedy seemed indisposed to enlighten me, I went for a stroll about
the campus, returning as if drawn back to him by a lodestone.
About him was still the litter of test tubes, the photographs, the
microscopes; and he was more absorbed in his delicate work than ever.
He looked up from his examination of a little glass slide and I could
see by the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes that he was not
looking so much at me as through me at a very puzzling problem.
"Walter," he remarked at length, "did you notice anything in particular
about that blonde woman who dashed down the steps into the taxicab and
escaped from the dope joint?"
"I should say that I did," I returned, glad to ease my mind of what had
been perplexing me ever since. "I don't want to appear to be foolish,
but, frankly, I thought I had seen her before, and then when I tried to
place her I found that I could not recognize her at all. She seemed to
be familiar, and yet when I tried to place her I could think of no one
with just those features. It was a foolish impression, I suppose."
"That's exactly it," he exclaimed. "I thought at first it was just a
foolish impression, too, an intuition which my later judgment rejected.
But often those first impressions put you on the track of the truth. I
reconsidered. You remember she had dropped that bandage from her face
with the blood-stain on it. I picked it up and it occurred to me to try
a little experiment with these blood-stains which might show something."
He paused a moment and fingered some of the microphotographs.
"What would you say," he went on, "if I should tell you that a
pronounced blonde, with a fair complexion and thin, almost hooked,
nose, was in reality a negress?"
"If it were anyone but you, Craig," I replied frankly, "I'd be tempted
to call him something. But you--well, what's the answer? How do you
know?"
"I wonder if you have ever heard of the Reichert blood test? Well, the
Carnegie Institution has recently published an account of it. Professor
Edward Reichert of the University of Pennsylvania has discovered that
the blood crystals of all animals and men show characteristic
differences.
"It has even been suggested that before the studies are over
photographs of blood corpuscles may be used to identify criminals,
almost like fingerprints. There is much that can be discovered already
by the use of these hemoglobin clues. That hemoglobin, or red colouring
matter of the blood, forms crystals has been known for a long time.
These crystals vary in different animals, as they are studied under the
polarizing microscope, both in form and molecular structure. That is of
immense importance for the scientific criminologist.
"A man's blood is not like the blood of any other living creature,
either fish, flesh, or fowl. Further, it is said that the blood of a
woman or a man and of different individuals shows differences that will
reveal themselves under certain tests. You can take blood from any
number of animals and the scientists to-day can tell that it is not
human blood, but the blood, say, of an animal.
"The scientists now can go further. They even hope soon to be able to
tell the difference between individuals so closely that they can trace
parentage by these tests. Already they can actually distinguish among
the races of men, whether a certain sample of blood, by its crystals,
is from a Chinaman, a Caucasian, or a negro. Each gives its own
characteristic crystal. The Caucasian shows that he is more closely
related to one group of primates; the negro to another. It is
scientific proof of evolution.
"It is all the more wonderful, Walter, when you consider that these
crystals are only 1-2250th of an inch in length and 1-9000th of an inch
in width."
"How do you study them?" I asked.
"The method I employed was to take a little of the blood and add some
oxalate of ammonium to it, then shake it up thoroughly with ether to
free the hemoglobin from the corpuscles. I then separated the ether
carefully from the rest of the blood mixture and put a few drops of it
on a slide, covered them with a cover slip and sealed the edges with
balsam. Gradually the crystals appear and they can be studied and
photographed in the usual way--not only the shapes of the crystals, but
also the relation that their angles bear to each other. So it is
impossible to mistake the blood of one animal for another or of one
race, like the white race, for that of another, like the black. In fact
the physical characteristics by which some physicians profess to detect
the presence of negro blood are held by other authorities to be
valueless. But not so with this test."
"And you have discovered in this case?" I asked.
"That the blood on the bandage from the face of that woman who escaped
was not the blood of a pure Caucasian. She shows traces of negro blood,
in fact exactly what would have been expected of a mulatto."
It dawned on me that the woman must have been Marie, after all; at
least that that was what he meant.
"But," I objected, "one look at her face was enough to show that she
was not the dark-skinned Marie with her straight nose, her dark hair
and other features. This woman was fair, had a nose that was almost
hooked and hair that was almost flaxen. Remember the portrait parle."
"Just so--the portrait parle. That is what I am remembering. You recall
Carton discovered that in some way these people found out that we were
using it? What would they do? Why, they have thought out the only
possible way in which to beat it, don't you see?
"Marie, Madame Margot, whatever you call her, had a beauty parlour. Oh,
they are clever, these people. They reasoned it all out. What was a
beauty parlour, a cosmetic surgery, for, if it could not be used to
save them? They knew we had her scientific description. What was the
thing to do, then? Why, change it, of course, change her!"
Kennedy was quite excited now.
"You know what Miss Kendall said of decorative surgery, there? They
change noses, ears, foreheads, chins, even eyes. They put the thing up
to Dr. Harris with his knives and bandages and lotions. He must work
quickly. It would take all his time. So he disappeared into Margot's
and stayed there. Marie also stayed there until such time as she might
be able to walk out, another person entirely. Harris must have had
charge of her features. The attendants in Margot's had charge of her
complexion and hair--those were the things in which they specialized.
"Don't you see it all now? She could retire a few days into the dope
joint next door and she would emerge literally a new woman ready to
face us, even with Bertillon's portrait parle against her."
It was amazing how quickly Kennedy pieced the facts together into an
explanation.
"Yes," he concluded triumphantly, "that blonde woman was our
dark-skinned mulatto made over--Marie. But they can't escape the power
of science, even by using science themselves. She might change her
identity to our eyes, but she could not before the Reichert test and
the microscope. No, the Ethiopian could not change her skin before the
eye of science."
It was late in the afternoon that Kennedy received a hurried telephone
call from Miss Kendall. I could tell by the scraps of conversation
which I overheard that it was most important.
"That girl, Sybil Seymour, has broken down," was all he said as he
turned from the instrument. "She will be here to-day with Miss Kendall.
You must see Carton immediately. Tell him not to fail to be here, at
the laboratory, this afternoon at three, sharp."
He was gone before I could question him further and there was nothing
for me to do but to execute the commission he had laid on me.
I met Carton at his club, relating to him all that I could about the
progress of the case. He seemed interested but I could see that his
mind was really not on it. The estrangement between him and Margaret
Ashton outweighed success in this case and even in the election.
Half an hour before the appointed time, however, we arrived at the
laboratory in Carton's car, to find Kennedy already there, putting the
finishing touches on the preparations he was making to receive his
"guests."
"Dorgan will be here," he answered, evading Carton's question as to
what he had discovered.
"Dorgan?" we repeated in surprise.
"Yes. I have made arrangements to have Martin Ogleby, too. They won't
dare stay away. Ike the Dropper, Dr. Harris, and Marie Margot have not
been found yet, but Miss Kendall will bring Sybil Seymour. Then we
shall see."
The door opened. It was Ogleby. He bowed stiffly, but before he could
say anything, a noise outside heralded the arrival of someone else.
It proved to be Dorgan, who had come from an opposite direction. Dorgan
seemed to treat the whole affair with contempt, which he took pleasure
in showing. He was cool and calm, master of himself, in any situation
no matter how hostile.
As we waited, the strained silence, broken only by an occasional
whisper between Carton and Kennedy, was relieved even by the arrival of
Miss Kendall and Sybil Seymour in a cab. As they entered I fancied that
a friendship had sprung up between the two, that Miss Kendall had won
her fight for the girl. Indeed, I suspect that it was the first time in
years that the girl had had a really disinterested friend of either sex.
I thought Ogleby visibly winced as he caught sight of Miss Seymour. He
evidently had not expected her, and I thought that perhaps he had no
relish for the recollection of the Montmartre which her presence
suggested.
Miss Seymour, now like herself as she had appeared first behind the
desk at the hotel, only subdued and serious, seemed ill at ease.
Dorgan, on the other hand, bowed to her brazenly and mockingly. He was
evidently preparing against any surprises which Craig might have in
store, and maintained his usual surly silence.
"Perhaps," hemmed Ogleby, clearing his throat and looking at his watch
ostentatiously, "Professor Kennedy can inform us regarding the purpose
of this extra-legal proceeding? Some of us, I know, have other
engagements. I would suggest that you begin, Professor."
He placed a sarcastic emphasis on the word "professor," as the two men
faced each other--Craig tall, clean-cut, earnest; Ogleby polished,
smooth, keen.
"Very well," replied Craig with that steel-trap snap of his jaws which
I knew boded ill for someone.