the poison doctors of St. Petersburg have never employed. Dr. Kharkoff
is completely baffled. Your American doctors--two were called in to see
Saratovsky--say it is the typhus fever. But Kharkoff knows better.
There is no typhus rash. Besides"--and he leaned forward to emphasise
his words--"one does not get over typhus in a week and have it again as
Saratovsky has."
I could see that Kennedy was growing impatient. An idea had occurred to
him, and only politeness kept him listening to Kazanovitch longer.
"Doctor," he said, as Kharkoff entered the room again, "do you suppose
you could get some perfectly clean test-tubes and sterile bouillon from
Miss Nevsky's laboratory? I think I saw a rack of tubes on the table."
"Surely," answered Kharkoff.
"You will excuse us, Mr. Kazanovitch," apologised Kennedy briskly, "but
I feel that I am going to have a hard day to-morrow and--by the way,
would you be so kind as to come up to my laboratory some time during
the day, and continue your story."
On the way out Craig took the doctor aside for a moment, and they
talked earnestly. At last Craig motioned to me.
"Walter," he explained, "Dr. Kharkoff is going to prepare some cultures
in the test-tubes to-night so that I can make a microscopic examination
of the blood of Saratovsky, Samarova, and later of his servant. The
tubes will be ready early in the morning, and I have arranged with the
doctor for you to call and get them if you have no objection."
I assented, and we started downstairs. As we passed a door on the
second floor, a woman's voice called out, "Is that you, Boris?"
"No, Olga, this is Nicholas," replied the doctor. "It is Samarova," he
said to us as he entered.
In a few moments he rejoined us. "She is no better," he continued, as
we again started away. "I may as well tell you, Professor Kennedy, just
how matters stand here. Samarova is head over heels in love with
Kazanovitch--you heard her call for him just now? Before they left
Paris, Kazanovitch showed some partiality for Olga, but now Nevsky has
captured him. She is indeed a fascinating woman, but as for me, if Olga
would consent to become Madame Kharkoff, it should be done tomorrow,
and she need worry no longer over her broken contract with the American
theatre managers. But women are not that way. She prefers the hopeless
love. Ah, well, I shall let you know if anything new happens.
Good-night, and a thou-sand thanks for your help, gentlemen."
Nothing was said by either of us on our journey uptown, for it was late
and I, at least, was tired.
But Kennedy had no intention of going to bed, I found. Instead, he sat
down in his easy chair and shaded his eyes, apparently in deep thought.
As I stood by the table to fill my pipe for a last smoke, I saw that he
was carefully regarding the letter he had picked up, turning it over
and over, and apparently debating with himself what to do with it.
"Some kinds of paper can be steamed open without leaving any trace," he
remarked in answer to my unspoken question, laying the letter down
before me.
I read the address: "M. Alexander Alexandrovitch Orloff,--Rue de----,
Paris, France."
"Letter-opening has been raised to a fine art by the secret service
agents of foreign countries," he continued. "Why not take a chance? The
simple operation of steaming a letter open is followed by reburnishing
the flap with a bone instrument, and no trace is left. I can't do that,
for this letter is sealed with wax. One way would be to take a matrix
of the seal before breaking the wax and then replace a duplicate of it.
No, I won't risk it. I'll try a scientific way."
Between two pieces of smooth wood, Craig laid the letter flat, so that
the edges projected about a thirty-second of an inch. He flattened the
projecting edge of the envelope, then roughened it, and finally slit it
open.
"You see, Walter, later I will place the letter back, apply a hair line
of strong white gum, and unite the edges of the envelope under
pressure. Let us see what we have here."
He drew out what seemed to be a manuscript on very thin paper, and
spread it out flat on the table before us. Apparently it was a
scientific paper on a rather unusual subject, "Spontaneous Generation
of Life." It was in longhand and read:
Many thanks for the copy of the paper by Prof. Betaillon of Dijon on
the artificial fertilization of the eggs of frogs. I consider it a most
important advance in the artificial generation of life.
I will not attempt to reproduce in facsimile the entire manuscript, for
it is unnecessary, and, in fact, I merely set down part of its contents
here because it seemed so utterly valueless to me at the time. It went
on to say:
While Betaillon punctured the eggs with a platinum needle and developed
them by means of electric discharges, Loeb in America placed eggs of
the sea-urchin in a strong solution of sea water, then in a bath where
they were subjected to the action of butyric acid. Finally they were
placed in ordinary sea water again, where they developed in the natural
manner. Delage at Roscorf used a liquid containing salts of magnesia
and tannate of ammonia to produce the same result.
In his latest book on the Origin of Life Dr. Charlton Bastian tells of
using two solutions. One consisted of two or three drops of dilute
sodium silicate with eight drops of liquor ferri pernitratis to one
ounce of distilled water. The other was composed of the same amount of
the silicate with six drops of dilute phosphoric acid and six grains of
ammonium phosphate. He filled sterilised tubes, sealed them
hermetically, and heated them to 125 or 145 degrees, Centigrade,
although 60 or 70 degrees would have killed any bacteria remaining in
them.
Next he exposed them to sunlight in a south window for from two to four
months. When the tubes were opened Dr. Bastian found organisms in them
which differed in no way from real bacteria. They grew and multiplied.
He contends that he has proved the possibility of spontaneous
generation of life.
Then there were the experiments of John Butler Burke of Cambridge, who
claimed that he had developed "radiobes" in tubes of sterilised
bouillon by means of radium emanations. Daniel Berthelot in France last
year announced that he had used the ultra-violet rays to duplicate
nature's own process of chlorophyll assimilation. He has broken up
carbon dioxide and water-vapour in the air in precisely the same way
that the green cells of plants do it.
Leduc at Nantes has made crystals grow from an artificial "egg"
composed of certain chemicals. These crystals show all the apparent
vital phenomena without being actually alive. His work is interesting,
for it shows the physical forces that probably control minute life
cells, once they are created.
"What do you make of it?" asked Kennedy, noting the puzzled look on my
face as I finished reading.
"Well, recent research in the problem of the origin of life may be very
interesting," I replied. "There are a good many chemicals mentioned
here--I wonder if any of them is poisonous? But I am of the opinion
that there is something more to this manuscript than a mere scientific
paper."
"Exactly, Walter," said Kennedy in half raillery. "What I wanted to
know was how you would suggest getting at that something."
Study as I might, I could make nothing out of it. Meanwhile Craig was
busily figuring with a piece of paper and a pencil.
"I give it up, Craig," I said at last. "It is late. Perhaps we had
better both turn in, and we may have some ideas on it in the morning."
For answer he merely shook his head and continued to scribble and
figure on the paper. With a reluctant good-night I shut my door,
determined to be up early in the morning and go for the tubes that
Kharkoff was to prepare.
But in the morning Kennedy was gone. I dressed hastily, and was just
about to go out when he hurried in, showing plainly the effects of
having spent a sleepless night. He flung an early edition of a
newspaper on the table.
"Too late," he exclaimed. "I tried to reach Kharkoff, but it was too
late."
"Another East Side Bomb Outrage," I read. "While returning at a late
hour last night from a patient, Dr. Nicholas Kharkoff, of--East
Broadway, was severely injured by a bomb which had been placed in his
hallway earlier in the evening. Dr. Kharkoff, who is a well-known
physician on the East Side, states that he has been constantly shadowed
by some one unknown for the past week or two. He attributes his escape
with his life to the fact that since he was shadowed he has observed
extreme caution. Yesterday his cook was poisoned and is now dangerously
ill. Dr. Kharkoff stands high in the Russian community, and it is
thought by the police that the bomb was placed by a Russian political
agent, as Kharkoff has been active in the ranks of the revolutionists."
"But what made you anticipate it?" I asked of Kennedy, considerably
mystified.
"The manuscript," he replied.
"The manuscript? How? Where is it?"
"After I found that it was too late to save Kharkoff and that he was
well cared for at the hospital, I hurried to Saratovsky's. Kharkoff had
fortunately left the tubes there, and I got them. Here they are. As for
the manuscript in the letter, I was going to ask you to slip upstairs
by some strategy and return it where I found it, when you went for the
tubes this morning. Kazanovitch was out, and I have returned it myself,
so you need not go, now."
"He's coming to see you today, isn't he?"
"I hope so. I left a note asking him to bring Miss Nevsky, if possible,
too. Come, let us breakfast and go over to the laboratory. They may
arrive at any moment. Besides, I'm interested to see what the tubes
disclose."
Instead of Kazanovitch awaiting us at the laboratory, however, we found
Miss Nevsky, haggard and worn. She was a tall, striking girl with more
of the Gaul than the Slav in her appearance. There was a slightly
sensuous curve to her mouth, but on the whole her face was striking and
intellectual. I felt that if she chose she could fascinate a man so
that he would dare anything. I never before understood why the Russian
police feared the women revolutionists so much. It was because they
were themselves, plus every man they could influence.
Nevsky appeared very excited. She talked rapidly, and fire flashed from
her grey eyes. "They tell me at the club," she began, "that you are
investigating the terrible things that are happening to us. Oh,
Professor Kennedy, it is awful! Last night I was staying with some
friends on East Broadway. Suddenly we heard a terrific explosion up the
street. It was in front of Dr. Kharkoff's house. Thank Heaven, he is
still alive I But I was so unnerved I could not sleep. I fancied I
might be the next to go.
"Early this morning I hastened to return to Fifth Avenue. As I entered
the door of my room I could not help thinking of the horrible fate of
Dr. Kharkoff. For some unknown reason, just as I was about to push the
door farther open, I hesitated and looked--I almost fainted. There
stood another bomb just inside. If I had moved the door a fraction of
an inch it would have exploded. I screamed, and Olga, sick as she was,
ran to my assistance--or perhaps she thought something had happened to
Boris. It is standing there yet. None of us dares touch it. Oh,
Professor Kennedy, it is dreadful, dreadful. And I cannot find
Boris--Mr. Kazanovitch, I mean. Saratovsky, who is like a father to us
all, is scarcely able to speak. Dr. Kharkoff is helpless in the
hospital. Oh, what are we to do, what are we to do?"
She stood trembling before us, imploring.
"Calm yourself, Miss Nevsky," said Kennedy in a reassuring tone. "Sit
down and let us plan. I take it that it was a chemical bomb and not one
with a fuse, or you would have a different story to tell. First of all,
we must remove it. That is easily done."
He called up a near-by garage and ordered an automobile. "I will drive
it myself," he ordered, "only send a man around with it immediately."
"No, no, no," she cried, running toward him, "you must not risk it. It
is bad enough that we should risk our lives. But strangers must not.
Think, Professor Kennedy. Suppose the bomb should explode at a touch!
Had we not better call the police and let them take the risk, even if
it does get into the papers?"
"No," replied Kennedy firmly. "Miss Nevsky, I am quite willing to take
the risk. Besides, here comes the automobile."
"You are too kind," she exclaimed. "Kazanovitch himself could do no
more. How am I ever to thank you?"
On the back of the automobile Kennedy placed a peculiar oblong box,
swung on two concentric rings balanced on pivots, like a most delicate
compass.
We rode quickly downtown, and Kennedy hurried into the house, bidding
us stand back. With a long pair of tongs he seized the bomb firmly. It
was a tense moment. Suppose his hand should unnecessarily tremble, or
he should tip it just a bit--it might explode and blow him to atoms.
Keeping it perfectly horizontal he carried it carefully out to the
waiting automobile and placed it gingerly in the box.
"Wouldn't it be a good thing to fill the box with water?" I suggested,
having read somewhere that that was the usual way of opening a bomb,
under water.
"No," he replied, as he closed the lid, "that wouldn't do any good with
a bomb of this sort. It would explode under water just as well as in
air. This is a safety bomb-carrier. It is known as the Cardan
suspension. It was invented by Professor Cardono, an Italian. You see,
it is always held in a perfectly horizontal position, no matter how you
jar it. I am now going to take the bomb to some safe and convenient
place where I can examine it at my leisure. Meanwhile, Miss Nevsky, I
will leave you in charge of Mr. Jameson."
"Thank you so much," she said. "I feel better now. I didn't dare go
into my own room with that bomb at the door. If Mr. Jameson can only
find out what has become of Mr. Kazanovitch, that is all I want. What
do you suppose has happened to him? Is he, too, hurt or ill?"
"Very well, then," Craig replied. "I will commission you, Walter, to
find Kazanovitch. I shall be back again shortly before noon to examine
the wreck of Kharkoff's office. Meet me there. Goodbye, Miss Nevsky."
It was not the first time that I had had a roving commission to find
some one who had disappeared in New York. I started by inquiring for
every possible place that he might be found. No one at the Fifth Avenue
house could tell me anything definite, though they were able to give me
a number of places where he was known. I consumed practically the whole
morning going from one place to another on the East Side. Some of the
picturesque haunts of the revolutionists would have furnished material
for a story in themselves. But nowhere had they any word of
Kazanovitch, until I visited a Polish artist who was illustrating his
stories. He had been there, looking very worn and tired, and had talked
vacantly about the sketches which the artist had showed him. After that
I lost all trace of him again. It was nearly noon as I hurried to meet
Craig at Kharkoff's.
Imagine my surprise to see Kazanovitch already there, seated in the
wrecked office, furiously smoking cigarettes and showing evident signs
of having something very disturbing on his mind. The moment he caught
sight of me, he hurried forward.
"Is Professor Kennedy coming soon?" he inquired eagerly. "I was going
up to his laboratory, but I called up Nevsky, and she said he would be
here at noon." Then he put his hand up to my ear and whispered, "I have
found out who it was who shadowed Kharkoff."
"Who?" I asked, saying nothing of my long search of the morning.
"His name is Revalenko--Feodor Revalenko. I saw him standing across the
street in front of the house last night after you had gone. When
Kharkoff left, he followed him. I hurried out quietly and followed both
of them. Then the explosion came. This man slipped down a narrow street
as soon as he saw Kharkoff fall. As people were running to Kharkoff's
assistance, I did the same. He saw me following him and ran, and I ran,
too, and overtook him. Mr. Jameson, when I looked into his face I could
not believe it. Revalenko--he is one of the most ardent members of our
organisation. He would not tell me why he had followed Kharkoff. I
could make him confess nothing. But I am sure he is an agent
provocateur of the Russian government, that he is secretly giving away
the plans that we are making, everything. We have a plot on
now--perhaps he has informed them of that. Of course he denied setting
the bomb or trying to poison any of us, but he was very frightened. I
shall denounce him at the first opportunity."
I said nothing. Kazanovitch regarded me keenly to see what impression
the story made on me, but I did not let my looks betray anything,
except proper surprise, and he seemed satisfied.
It might be true, after all, I reasoned, the more I thought of it. I
had heard that the Russian consul-general had a very extensive spy
system in the city. In fact, even that morning I had had pointed out to
me some spies at work in the public libraries, watching what young
Russians were reading. I did not doubt that there were spies in the
very inner circle of the revolutionists themselves.
At last Kennedy appeared. While Kazanovitch poured forth his story,
with here and there, I fancied, an elaboration of a particularly
dramatic point, Kennedy quickly examined the walls and floor of the
wrecked office with his magnifying-glass. When he had concluded his
search, he turned to Kazanovitch.
"Would it be possible," he asked, "to let this Revalenko believe that
he could trust you, that it would be safe for him to visit you to-night
at Saratovsky's? Surely you can find some way of reassuring him."
"Yes, I think that can be arranged," said Kazanovitch. "I will go to
him, will make him think I have misunderstood him, that I have not lost
faith in him, provided he can explain all. He will come. Trust me."
"Very well, then. To-night at eight I shall be there," promised
Kennedy, as the novelist and he shook hands.
"What do you think of the Revalenko story?" I asked of Craig, as we
started uptown again.
"Anything is possible in this case," he answered sententiously.
"Well," I exclaimed, "this all is truly Russian. For intrigue they are
certainly the leaders of the world to-day. There is only one person
that I have any real confidence in, and that is old Saratovsky himself.
Somebody is playing traitor, Craig. Who is it?"
"That is what science will tell us to-night," was his brief reply.
There was no getting anything out of Craig until he was absolutely sure
that his proofs had piled up irresistibly.
Promptly at eight we met at the old house on Fifth Avenue. Kharkoff's
wounds had proved less severe than had at first been suspected, and,
having recovered from the shock, he insisted on being transferred from
the hospital in a private ambulance so that he could be near his
friends. Saratovsky, in spite of his high fever, ordered that the door
to his room be left open and his bed moved so that he could hear and
see what passed in the room down the hall. Nevsky was there and
Kazanovitch, and even brave Olga Samarova, her pretty face burning with
the fever, would not be content until she was carried upstairs,
although Dr. Kharkoff protested vigorously that it might have fatal
consequences. Revalenko, an enigma of a man, sat stolidly. The only
thing I noticed about him was an occasional look of malignity at Nevsky
and Kazanovitch when he thought he was unobserved.
It was indeed a strange gathering, the like of which the old house had
never before harboured in all its varied history. Every one was on the
qui vive, as Kennedy placed on the table a small wire basket containing
some test-tubes, each tube corked with a small wadding of cotton. There
was also a receptacle holding a dozen glass-handled platinum wires, a
microscope, and a number of slides. The bomb, now rendered innocuous by
having been crushed in a huge hydraulic press, lay in fragments in the
box.
"First, I want you to consider the evidence of the bomb," began
Kennedy. "No crime, I firmly believe, is ever perpetrated without
leaving some clue. The slightest trace, even a drop of blood no larger
than a pin-head, may suffice to convict a murderer. The impression made
on a cartridge by the hammer of a pistol, or a single hair found on the
clothing of a suspected person, may serve as valid proof of crime.
"Until lately, however, science was powerless against the bomb-thrower.
A bomb explodes into a thousand parts, and its contents suddenly become
gaseous. You can't collect and investigate the gases. Still, the
bomb-thrower is sadly deceived if he believes the bomb leaves no trace
for the scientific detective. It is difficult for the chemist to find
out the secrets of a shattered bomb. But it can be done.
"I examined the walls of Dr. Kharkoff's house, and fortunately was able
to pick out a few small fragments of the contents of the bomb which had
been thrown out before the flame ignited them. I have analysed them,
and find them to be a peculiar species of blasting-gelatine. It is made
at only one factory in this country, and I have a list of purchasers
for some time back. One name, or rather the description of an assumed
name, in the list agrees with other evidence I have been able to
collect. Moreover, the explosive was placed in a lead tube. Lead tubes
are common enough. However, there is no need of further evidence."
He paused, and the revolutionists stared fixedly at the fragments of
the now harmless bomb before them.
"The exploded bomb," concluded Craig, "was composed of the same
materials as this, which I found unexploded at the door of Miss
Nevsky's room--the same sort of lead tube, the same blasting-gelatine.
The fuse, a long cord saturated in sulphur, was merely a blind. The
real method of explosion was by means of a chemical contained in a
glass tube which was inserted after the bomb was put in place. The
least jar, such as opening a door, which would tip the bomb ever so
little out of the horizontal, was all that was necessary to explode it.
The exploded bomb and the unexploded were in all respects
identical--the same hand set both."
A gasp of astonishment ran through the circle. Could it be that one of
their own number was playing false? In at least this instance in the
warfare of the chemist and the dynamiter the chemist had come out ahead.
"But," Kennedy hurried along, "the thing that interests me most about
this case is not the evidence of the bombs. Bombs are common enough
weapons, after all. It is the evidence of almost diabolical cunning
that has been shown in the effort to get rid of the father of the
revolution, as you like to call him."
Craig cleared his throat and played with our feelings as a cat does
with a mouse. "Strange to say, the most deadly, the most insidious, the
most elusive agency for committing murder is one that can be obtained
and distributed with practically no legal restrictions. Any doctor can
purchase disease germs in quantities sufficient to cause thousands and
thousands of deaths without giving any adequate explanation for what
purpose he requires them. More than that, any person claiming to be a
scientist or having some acquaintance with science and scientists can
usually obtain germs without difficulty. Every pathological laboratory
contains stores of disease germs, neatly sealed up in test-tubes,
sufficient to depopulate whole cities and even nations. With almost no
effort, I myself have actually cultivated enough germs to kill every
person within a radius of a mile of the Washington Arch down the
street. They are here in these test-tubes."
We scarcely breathed. Suppose Kennedy should let loose this deadly foe,
these germs of death, whatever they were? Yet that was precisely what
some fiend incarnate had done, and that fiend was sitting in the room
with us.
"Here I have one of the most modern dark-field microscopes," he
resumed. "On this slide I have placed a little pin-point of a culture
made from the blood of Saratovsky. I will stain the culture.
Now--er--Walter, look through the microscope under this powerful light
and tell us what you see on the slide."
I bent over. "In the darkened field I see a number of germs like
dancing points of coloured light," I said. "They are wriggling about
with a peculiar twisting motion."
"Like a corkscrew," interrupted Kennedy, impatient to go on. "They are
of the species known as Spirilla. Here is another slide, a culture from
the blood of Samarova."
"I see them there, too," I exclaimed.
Every one was now crowding about for a glimpse, as I raised my head.