Strange, at once perceiving the blank wall into which his inquiry had led
him, sat down on the arm of a chair and sought to hide his discomfiture
by biting a liberal sized chew from the plug of tarlike tobacco that he
fished out of his trousers pocket.
He had, very naturally, believed that the solution of the mystery
was to be found in the finger-prints on the dagger, and his sudden
disillusionment annoyed and angered him. He felt himself baffled and,
having a profound dislike for the little finger-print expert anyway,
it incensed him to have to admit even momentary defeat at the latter’s
hands, especially in the presence of his superior.
The major, however, accepted the exploding of his theory with equanimity.
“It is obviously impossible for the scientist to have had any direct hand
in Sprague’s murder,” he observed, “if he himself was murdered at least
ten or fifteen minutes before the doctor was. And even if we assume that
he had an indirect hand in it, and the circumstances surrounding the
several murders would seem to disprove this, there is his own death still
to be accounted for.” He turned to the artist. “Mr. Deweese, did you know
Max Berjet?”
Deweese shook his head.
“Never heard of him until tonight,” he declared.
The major sighed.
“I thought as much,” he asserted. “It seems a waste of time to try to
fasten Sprague’s murder and the attack on you on Berjet.” He thought for
a moment; then: “Sergeant Alington, you are sure, are you, that you have
not been over-hasty in the conclusions you have drawn from your cursory
examination of the prints? If there is any doubt in your mind, I suggest
that you return to headquarters and develop the plates at once.”
“You can judge for yourself, major,” returned Alington, a little nettled.
Like most experts, so-called and otherwise, it annoyed him to have a
carefully-formed opinion of his disputed or even questioned. He could
countenance such a thing in court, under the baleful eye of His Honor;
but it was quite another thing at the scene of a crime, where he felt
himself to be upon his own ground.
Strange, sensing his annoyance, paused long enough in his exploration of
the table drawer to look at him and grin. Catching the latter’s eye he
winked, which exasperated the expert to such an extent that he dropped
his magnifying glass. Strange, feeling fully repaid for any fancied
injury, grinned again and dumped the contents of the drawer on the table.
With an injured air, Alington retrieved his magnifying glass and offered
it to the major. He then held out for Dobson’s inspection a set of
finger-prints on a regulation blank and the dagger that the coroner had
withdrawn from the breast of the dead valet. The dagger was an ordinary
white bone-handled hunting knife, with a six-inch, double-edged blade.
Dobson held it gingerly by the blood-smeared blade, in order not to
disturb the thin coating of black powder that had been sprinkled over the
handle.
Like most efficient police officials, Dobson had some knowledge of
dactyloscopy, and the detectives awaited his verdict with eagerness.
Applying the magnifying glass to the handle of the knife, the major
leisurely examined the series of whorls and ridges that showed through
the black coating. He then compared them with the finger-prints of the
dead scientist, and, when he had concluded his examination, slowly nodded
his head.
“You are right, sergeant,” he was forced to acknowledge. “The two sets of
prints are undoubtedly identical.” He handed the dagger and glass to the
expert. “Your evidence can not be combated, sergeant,” he added.
Alington inclined his head slightly and retired to his place beside the
table.
“Well,” grumbled Strange, disappointed by the expert’s vindication, “that
at least clears up the first murder. As for the murder of Berjet, as
clues are wholly lacking, in my opinion the only way we will make any
headway is to motivate the crime.”
“Has the ownership of the dagger been established?” asked the coroner.
“It has,” replied Strange, without enthusiasm.
He held up to view the sheath of the hunting-knife, which he had found
in the table drawer. A large “M. B.” had been cut on the front of the
leather covering by an unskilled hand. The letters were crude and the
edges worn, and they had evidently been cut in the leather a long while
ago.
The coroner examined the letters closely and returned the sheath to
Strange.
“There can scarcely be any doubt as to the ownership of the knife,” he
agreed.
“What progress are your men making with their search?” demanded the major.
“The men have gone over the house twice without success,” declared
Strange. “O’Brill and Muldoon are now on the roof and the other men are
searching the adjoining houses.”
“And have they found no evidence of any person having been in this house?”
“No one except Berjet and the valet.”
“Dr. Rane, what do you think of this affair?” questioned Dobson
impatiently. “We are progressing too slowly to please me. Have you any
suggestions to offer?”
“I think it might help us if Mr. Deweese would describe in the most
minute detail exactly what happened to him,” returned Rane. “There is
much of his story that has yet to be cleared up.”
“Mr. Deweese,” said Dobson, turning to the artist, “suppose you recount
the details of your attack in your own way, and then, if necessary, we
will question you.”
Deweese had entirely recovered from his shock by this time and seemed
eager to be of aid.
“On my way home from the theater,” he began, “I stopped near the
corner lamp, less than half a block away, to light a cigarette. As
I was striking a match I heard a terrific crash of breaking glass
behind me, and at once ran back to see what had happened. I found this
gentleman”—nodding at Peret—“bending over the body of a man on the
pavement. The body has since been identified as that of Max Berjet. Mr.
Peret declared that the scientist had been murdered, and, at his bidding,
I went to the drug store on the other side of the street to summon aid.
“While a clerk was ’phoning for the police I returned to the scene of
the tragedy accompanied by the druggist and Dr. Sprague, who happened to
be in the store at the time. Dr. Sprague examined and pronounced Berjet
dead. Mr. Peret then informed the doctor that he was a detective and
requested him to remain with the body until the police arrived, so he
could make a preliminary investigation in the house. This Dr. Sprague
agreed to do, and Mr. Peret ran across the pavement and jumped the fence
in front of Berjet’s house.
“I was standing a few feet away, talking with the druggist, and saw
everything that followed. At the very instant that Mr. Peret leaped
over the fence, I heard Dr. Sprague scream and saw him throw out his
hands as if to grapple with something. He was standing by Berjet’s body
at the time. He appeared to have been attacked by some powerful and
ferocious Thing, which I could not see, and I sprang forward to go to his
assistance. It was then that I heard the whispering sound and felt the
Thing hurl itself upon me.
“I could see nothing, but I felt my throat caught in a viselike grip and
my chest crushed between two opposing forces. I cried out once, and then
my breath was shut off. I threw out my hands to grapple with the unseen
Thing, but there appeared to be nothing to grapple with. My hands came in
contact with nothing but air.
“Yet all of this while I could feel the monster crushing my life out.
The terrible grip on my throat kept pressing my head back, inch by inch,
and the pressure around my body seemed on the point of caving my ribs
in. Everything went black before me, and I could feel myself losing
consciousness. Calling to my aid every ounce of strength I possessed, I
made a last desperate effort to free myself of the Thing, and just as I
felt life slipping from my grasp, the pressure on my throat and chest
relaxed and, too exhausted to stand, I fell to the pavement.”
“Unconscious?” asked the coroner.
“No, never for a single instant did I lose consciousness. Every terrible
second of that eternity is indelibly stamped on my mind.”
The recollection of his frightful experience made the artist tremble.
Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his face.
“Was Dr. Sprague still struggling with his—ah—antagonist when you were
attacked?” questioned the major.
“I cannot say,” replied Deweese. “After I was attacked I had little
thought to give to anything but my own defense.”
“The testimony of both Peret and the druggist show that Deweese and
Sprague were attacked at practically the same time,” observed Strange,
shifting his quid from east to west. “Both men struggled for a few
seconds—about half a minute, according to Peret—and fell to the pavement
at the same instant.”
“Then it appears that we have more than one thing to contend with,”
interposed the major a little grimly. “Mr. Deweese, you are positive, are
you, that you did not _see_ the Thing? Think before you reply.”
“It is not necessary for me to think,” retorted the artist, “God knows,
if I had seen the Thing I should not have been able to forget it this
quickly!”
“When did you hear the Thing whisper—before or after it attacked you?”
“Before. After it hurled itself upon me I heard nothing.”
“But you felt it breathing in your face?”
“Not after the attack: no. It was immediately after I heard the
whispering sound that I felt the Thing’s breath on my face. After that
terrible grip became fastened on my throat, everything else became
negligible.”
“You mean that even if the Thing had been breathing in your face it is
doubtful if you would have known it?”
“Yes.”
“Did this breathing sound or feel like the breathing of a man?”
“No; the Thing’s breath was quick and jerky and as cold as ice.”
“_Cold?_” cried Peret, leaping to his feet.
He had been sitting back in his chair in an attitude of dejection,
staring at a blank space on the wall. He had, with one ear, however, been
drinking in every word of the conversation, and now he rose from his
chair with such suddenness that he all but upset the little finger-print
expert standing in front of him.
“Yes, _cold_,” repeated Deweese, the perspiration dripping from his brow,
“cold and clammy.”
“_Dame!_” cried the Frenchman, breathing on his hand as if to test the
temperature of his breath. “Think well, my friend, of what you are
saying. The breath of living things is _warm_. Perhaps it was not the
breathing of a monster that you heard. It may have been—.” He hesitated,
and then, at a loss, stopped.
“There was no mistaking the—the thing I felt on my face,” rejoined the
artist grimly. “Except for the fact that it was cold and spasmodic it was
like the breathing of a man.”
“Like the breathing of a man choking on a piece of ice?” suggested the
coroner.
“Exactly.”
“_Eh, bien!_” called the Frenchman, and smote himself on the forehead
with his clenched fist. “Why did you not tell us this before?”
The Frenchman was transformed. Heretofore, in appearance at least, he
had been an insignificant little man with no special capacity for the
intricacies of unsolved crime mysteries. But now that the germ of an
elusive idea had taken root in his mind he seemed to grow in stature as
well as in intellect. His eyes became animated, his nostrils distended,
his foolish little mustache took on an air of dignity, and his narrow
shoulders seemed to grow straighter and to broaden.
Twisting the starboard point of his mustache fiercely between his
fingers, he began to pace rapidly up and down the room. Dobson, who was
acquainted with these symptoms, threw a significant look at the coroner.
The look, however, failed to register, for Rane was staring at the floor,
with knitted brow. He appeared to be thinking deeply.
Strange scratched his ear reflectively and stole a glance at the
Frenchman. He, also was familiar with the latter’s eccentricities and,
like the major, was always a little awed by an outburst of his friend’s
temperament. Experience had taught him that this was a moment for
silence, and he was determined to maintain it at all costs.
But even while he was rolling this thought around in his mind, and
glaring threateningly at O’Shane, who was moistening his lips as if about
to speak, the Frenchman put an end to it in a manner peculiarly his own.
“_Triomphe!_” he cried, with such suddenness and vigor that the
iron-nerved detective sergeant jumped. “I’ve got it! At last I see the
light!”
In his excitement he danced up and down in front of the major, to the
secret amusement of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese. Strange,
however, knowing what this overflow of energy denoted, leaned forward
eagerly and strained his ears to catch what would follow.
“Well, what have you got?” asked the major calmly, though the coroner
thought he could detect a note of vast relief in his voice.
“The answer to the riddle, major,” yelled Peret too excited to contain
himself. “I’ve got it! I’ve found it! The mystery is solved. _Nom de
diable!_ The Thing is—”
“Stop,” said the major, truculently. “We must use some discretion here.
Are you sure you know what you are talking about, Peret, or are you
simply making a wild guess?”
“I know it,” shouted Peret, making a heroic though futile effort to lower
his voice. “Ah, it was too simple! Like taking the candy from the mouth
of the little one! _Oui, m’sieu_; The mystery is solved! I stake my
reputation on it. I will show you—Stay!”
To the horror of the central office men, he grasped the dignified major
by the lapel of his coat and dragged him (not unwillingly) out of his
chair and half across the room. When they were well out of earshot of the
others, he drew the major’s head down and poured a perfect torrent of
whispers in his ear.
Dobson heard the Frenchman out without interruption, but, while evincing
the deepest interest, he did not appear to be altogether convinced.
However, Peret had once been under his command, and there was no one who
had more respect for his ability. It was he himself who, a year or so
previously, had characterized the Frenchman as “an accomplished linguist,
a master of disguise and one of the most astute criminologists on this
side of the Atlantic.”
In his present extremity, moreover, he was like a drowning man clutching
at a straw. He was not in a position to reject a possible solution of the
mystery advanced by a man of Peret’s ability, no matter how unsound it
might appear to him.
“What you say seems plausible enough,” he remarked, when Peret paused
for want of breath; “but it is, after all, only a theory. There is not a
shred of evidence to give weight to your words.”
“Evidence is sometimes the biggest liar in the world,” said Peret, a
little dashed by Dobson’s lack of enthusiasm. “In this case, however,
there is, as you say, no evidence of any kind—yet. We must therefore
look for it, before it sneaks up on us and bites us. Ah, my dear friend.
Think! Consider! Reflect! Why, the thing is as clear as a piece of
crystal.”
“What suggestions have you to make!” asked the major, visibly impressed.
“I suppose you have in mind some plan—.”
“_Oui!_” cried Peret, with fierce enthusiasm. “Except for one little
thing, I ask that you give me a free hand. I will either prove or
disprove my theory within twenty-four hours. Your men in the meantime,
can make an independent investigation.”
He made several hieroglyphics on a page torn from his memorandum book and
handed it to the major. Dobson studied the characters for a moment, and
then nodded.
“All right,” he said briskly. “I give you a free hand. Call headquarters
when you want, and in the meantime let me know at the earliest possible
moment, if you learn anything of importance. _Allez-vous-en._”
“Remember—no arrests!” hissed Peret, and, clapping his hat on the back of
his head, he fled from the house as if pursued by the devil himself.
_CHAPTER V._