FOLLANSBEE REACHES THE LIMIT.
The sudden command had been fully justified.
One of Follansbee’s long, lean hands crept to his side—the side away
from the detective—and had been extended toward an open drawer in the
desk.
Nick did not wait to see whether his order met with obedience or not.
The words were still on his lips when he leaped to his feet and flung
himself across the intervening space, grasping the thin, steel-like
wrists of the physician.
The grip brought Follansbee to his feet, and for a moment the two
faced each other, their eyes flashing. Perhaps the powerful grip of
the detective’s fingers had warned Follansbee of the uselessness of a
struggle, but the unmasked, flaming rage in his face revealed the depth
of his hatred.
A quiet smile flitted over the detective’s features. He quietly
brought Follansbee’s two wrists together, clasped them both with the
fingers of one hand, and then leaning down, pulled out the open drawer
a little farther.
As he had anticipated, he found a revolver in it. This he confiscated
and dropped it into his pocket.
“I’ll take charge of this,” he announced. “All the same, though, I
don’t trust you, and I must ask you to keep your hands on the desk
hereafter. If you don’t, you may get hurt.”
With that he released Follansbee and stepped back. The head of St.
Swithin’s glared at him for a few brief moments, then subsided into his
chair again, and, with a sullen, venomous look, leaned both arms on the
desk.
“I suppose there’s no use in playing the part any longer,” he confessed.
Nick pricked up his ears at this and wondered if it were possible that
Follansbee was about to make a clean breast of it. The latter’s next
words, however, proved that the hope was groundless.
“I was at the Windermere last night,” Follansbee declared coolly, “but
not for the reason you think. James Stone is my patient, and that’s why
I consented to go through with that rather questionable farce. I can
hardly blame you for misinterpreting it, but the fact remains——”
“Drop it!” Nick broke in. “I can guess what you’re going to say. You’re
going to tell me that you were merely ‘humoring’ Stone in an attempt to
draw him out and get to the root of his disease. I suppose you think
I’m green enough to believe that there was nothing harmful in that
syringe.”
“Nothing worse than glycerine,” the physician assured him.
Nick’s laugh was harsh.
“You’re a fool, Follansbee,” he declared. “You think you’re so clever
that you can’t make yourself believe the other fellow has any brains at
all.”
“Do you think a man of my standing would deliberately lie?”
The detective might have said that he knew Follansbee was lying, but he
did not choose to do so for the very good reason that he did not wish
the doctor to learn just then what he had done.
“Standing hasn’t anything to do with it,” he answered. “It’s your
personality I don’t trust, Follansbee.”
The physician’s lips curled cynically. “That’s my misfortune—or
yours,” he said. “You played the spy last night and heard some things
which could easily be twisted. Your interpretation is wide of the
mark, however, and even if it were not, more than one witness would
be required to give any weight to the evidence. You couldn’t prove
anything against me if you tried, and I’m sure you’re too sensible to
try. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, but I’ll wager that
your friend is perfectly well and sound to-day. If he isn’t, it’s no
fault of mine.”
“What’s the good of this fencing?” demanded the detective. “Of course
Crawford is all right—so far as you know. That’s understood, and was
provided for in your instructions to your tool. The stuff isn’t
supposed to act at once, and that’s why you chose it. We’ll come back
to that later on. What I want to make clear now is that I know exactly
what you’ve done and that I also know you have already realized on your
crime.”
Doctor Follansbee stiffened a little. “Realized on my crime?” he cried.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Precisely what I say,” Nick answered coolly. “I happened to make a
call early this afternoon at a certain bank not far from the Hotel
Windermere, and I had a very interesting interview with its cashier.
He showed me three decidedly noteworthy documents—a note from you, one
from James Stone, and last, but not least, a check signed by Stone, but
otherwise filled in by you. It called for a huge amount, and had been
cashed just before the bank closed.”
Follansbee’s control was amazing.
“Well, what of it?” he snarled. “Everything was regular, wasn’t it?
Surely you haven’t any doubt of the genuineness of Stone’s note? As for
the check, it was for a large sum, I’ll admit, but every one knows that
I exact large fees, and if a patient chooses to consider my services
worth that much, it’s none of your business.”
“Isn’t it? I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, Follansbee. Picture
to yourself what it will mean when this thing comes out; when the
world learns that you have obtained nearly half a million dollars by
swindling a patient who trusted himself to you, and whose unsound
mind made him an easy victim. How long do you think you will hold
your position at the head of St. Swithin’s? And how many of your
rich patients will employ you again when it is known that you used
disappearing ink to gain your unscrupulous ends? Ah, I see that gets
under your skin!”
The detective paused for a moment and watched the discomfited rascal
through narrowed lids.
“I thought at first that Stone had merely signed the check in blank,”
he continued, “which would have implied a greater mental lack on his
part and a lesser degree of criminality on yours; but now I know
better. I took that check home with me, Follansbee, and examined it
under a microscope. Thanks to that, I discovered that there had been
other writing on it—doubtless in Stone’s hand. Your trick ink had
quite disappeared, but the point of the pen had slightly scratched the
surface of the paper; and, moreover, the application of a chemical on
one or two spots revealed traces of the ink originally used. As soon as
the bank gives me permission to do so, I shall apply that chemical—you
can doubtless guess what it is—to the whole check, and thereby bring
out the original writing once more. And when I do so, I’m sure I shall
find that, as Stone made it out, the check originally called for a much
smaller sum. Doubtless you found some excuse to change inks when it
came to the signature, with the result that it alone was written with
ordinary ink. What do you say to that?”
Apparently Follansbee had nothing to say. His hands were clenched on
his desk and he was biting his under lip and glaring fearfully at the
detective. Nick returned look for look and allowed his glance to play
over the surface of the desk. As it did so, it fell upon a letter
which Follansbee had been writing before his visitor’s entrance. The
doctor’s name and address were engraved in the upper left-hand corner,
and the ink in which the beginning of the letter was written was of the
same shade as that used on the three documents which the detective had
obtained at the bank.
“That reminds me,” said Nick, looking from the unfinished letter to the
open ink bottle.
He paused, and then with a swift movement thrust his hand out, picked
up the bottle, corked it, and started to drop it into his pocket.
“This will be one more link in the chain—your chain,” he announced.
Snarling like a wild beast, and with an agility for which Nick had not
given him credit, Follansbee shot out of his chair and hurled himself
upon the detective.
In the brief tussle which followed, the tables were turned, despite the
detective’s greater bulk and strength.