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
finger-tips, 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 contrived 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?"
As we sped across the city in a taxicab, Craig remarked: "I wonder what
is the trouble? Did you see in the society news this morning the
announcement of Jack's engagement to Vivian Taylor, the daughter of the
president of the Five-Borough?"
I had seen it, but could not connect it with the trouble, whatever it
was, at the tunnel, though I did try to connect the tunnel mystery with
my expose.
We pulled up at the construction works, and a strapping Irishman met
us. "Is this Professor Kennedy?" he asked of Craig.
"It is. Where is Mr. Orton's office?"
"I'm afraid, sir, it will be a long time before Mr. Orton is in his
office again, sir. The doctor have just took him out of the medical
lock, an' he said if you was to come before they took him to the
'orspital I was to bring you right up to the lock."