seeing Eulalie that I had come, and I was glad when Doctor Scott left
us a moment.
"Has Mr. Kennedy found out anything yet?" she asked, in a tremulous
whisper.
"I think he is on the right track now," I encouraged. "Has anything
happened here? Remember--it is quite as important that you should tell
him all as it is for him to tell you."
She looked at me a moment, then drew from a fold of her waist a yellow
paper. It was a telegram. I took it and read:
Beware of Teresa de Leon, Hotel Pan-America.
A FRIEND.
"You know her?" I asked, folding the telegram, but not returning it.
Eulalie looked at me frankly and shook her head. "I have no idea who
she is."
"Or of who sent the telegram?"
"None at all."
"When did you receive it?"
"Only a few minutes ago."
Here was another mystery. Who had sent the anonymous telegram to
Eulalie so soon after it had been evident that Kennedy had entered the
case? What was its purpose?
"I may keep this?" I asked, indicating the telegram.
"I was about to send it to Professor Kennedy," she replied. "Oh, I hope
he will find something Won't you go to him and tell him to hurry?"
I needed no urging, not only for her sake, but also because I did not
wish to be seen or to have the receipt of the telegram by Kennedy known
so soon.
In the hotel I stopped only long enough to see that Anitra was now
hurrying toward the elevator, eager to get back to her brother and
oblivious to every one around. What had become of Page and the sinister
watcher whom he had not seen I did not know, nor did I have time to
find out.
A few moments later I rejoined Kennedy at the laboratory. He was still
immersed in work, and, scarcely stopping, nodded to me to tell what I
had discovered. He listened with interest until I came to the receipt
of the anonymous telegram.
"Did you get it?" he asked, eagerly.
He almost seized it from my hands as I pulled it out of my pocket and
studied it intently.
"Strange," he muttered. "Any of them might have sent it."
"Have you discovered anything?" I asked, for I had been watching him,
consumed by curiosity, as I told my story. "Do you know yet how the
thing was done?"
"I think I do," he replied, abstractedly.
"How was it?" I prompted, for his mind was now on the telegram.
"A poison-gas pistol," he resumed, coming back to the work he had just
been doing. "Instead of bullets, this pistol used cartridges charged
with some deadly powder. It might have been something like the
anesthetic pistol devised by the police authorities in Paris some years
ago when the motor bandits were operating."
"But who could have used it?" I asked.
Kennedy did not answer directly. Either he was not quite sure yet or
did not feel that the time was ripe to hazard a theory. "In this case,"
he continued, after a moment's thought, "I shouldn't be surprised if
even the wielder of the pistol probably wore a mask, doubly effective,
for disguise and to protect the wielder from the fumes that were to
overcome the victim."
"You have no idea who it was?" I reiterated.
Before Kennedy could answer there came a violent ring at the laboratory
bell, and I hurried to the door. It was one of the bell-boys from the
hotel where the Barrioses had their apartment, with a message for
Kennedy.
Craig tore it open and read it hurriedly. "From Doctor Scott," he said,
briefly, in answer to my anxious query. "Barrios is dead."
Even though I had been prepared for the news by my last visit, death
came as a shock, as it always does. I had felt all along that Kennedy
had been called in too late to do anything to save Barrios, but I had
been hoping against hope. But I knew that it was not too late to catch
the criminal who had done the dastardly, heartless deed. A few hours
and perhaps all clues might have been covered up. But there is always
something that goes wrong with crime, always some point where murder
cannot be covered up. I think if people could only be got to realize
it, as my experience both on the Star and with Kennedy have impressed
it on me, murder would become a lost art.
Without another word Kennedy seized his hat and together we hurried to
the hotel.
We found Anitra crying softly to herself, while near her sat Eulalie,
tearless, stunned by the blow, broken-hearted. In the realization of
the tragedy everything had been forgotten, even the mysterious
anonymous telegram signed, Judas-like, "A Friend."
Sandoval, we learned, had been there when the end came, and had now
gone out to make what arrangements were necessary. I had nothing
against the man, but I could not help feeling that, now that the
business was all Anitra's, might he not be the one to profit most by
the death? The fact was that Kennedy had expressed so little opinion on
the case so far that I might be pardoned for suspecting any one--even
Teresa de Leon, who must have seen Jose slipping away from her in spite
of her pursuit, whatever actuated it.
It was while I was in the midst of these fruitless speculations that
Doctor Scott beckoned us outside, and we withdrew quietly.
"I don't know that there is anything more that I can do," he remarked,
"but I promised Senor Sandoval that I would stay here until he came
back. He begged me to, seems scarcely to know how to do enough to
comfort his sister and Senorita Barrios."
I listened to the doctor keenly. Was it possible that Sandoval had one
of those Jekyll-Hyde natures which seem to be so common in some of us?
Had his better nature yielded to his worse? To my mind that has often
been an explanation of crime, never an adequate defense.
Kennedy was about to say something when the elevator door down the hall
opened. I expected that it was Sandoval returning, but it was Burton
Page.
"They told me you were here," he said, greeting us. "I have been
looking all over for you, down at your laboratory and at your
apartment. Would you mind stepping down around the bend in the hall?"
We excused ourselves from Doctor Scott, wondering what Page had to
reveal.
"I knew Sandoval had not returned," he began as soon as we were out of
ear-shot of the doctor, "and I don't want to see him--again--not after
what happened this afternoon. The man is crazy." We had reached an
alcove and sank down into a soft settee.
"Why, what was that?" I asked, recalling the look of hate on the man's
face as he had watched Page talking to Anitra in the tea-room.
"I'm giving you this for what it may be worth," began Page, turning
from me to Kennedy. "Down in the lobby this afternoon, after you had
been gone some time, I happened to run into Sandoval. He almost seized
hold of me. 'You have been at the office,' he said. 'You've been
rummaging around there.' Well, I denied it flatly. 'Who took those
letters?' he shot back at me. All I could do was to look at him. 'I
don't know about any letters. What letters?' I asked. Oh, he's a queer
fellow all right. I thought he was going to kill me by the black look
he gave me. He cooled down a bit, but I didn't wait for any apology.
The best thing to do with these hot-headed people is to cut out and let
them alone."
"How do you account for his strange actions?" asked Kennedy. "Have you
ever heard anything more that he did?"
Page shrugged his shoulders as if in doubt whether to say anything,
then decided quickly. "The other day I heard Barrios and Sandoval in
the office. They were quite excited. Barrios was talking loudly. I
didn't know at first what it was all about. But I soon found out.
Sandoval had gone to him, as the head of the family, following their
custom, I believe, to ask whether he might seek to win Anitra."
"Have you ever heard of Teresa de Leon?" interrupted Kennedy suddenly.
Page looked at him and hesitated. "There's some scandal, there, I'm
afraid," he nodded, combining his answers. "I heard Sandoval say
something about her to Barrios that day--warn him against something.
That was when the argument was heated. It seemed to make Barrios angry.
Sandoval said something about Barrios refusing to let him court Anitra
while at the same time Barrios was engaged to Eulalie. Barrios retorted
that the cases were different. He said he had decided that Anitra was
going to marry an American millionaire."
There could be no doubt about how Page himself interpreted the remark.
It was evident that he took it to mean himself.
"Sandoval had warned against this De Leon?" asked Kennedy, evidently
having in mind the anonymous telegram.
"Something--I don't know what it was all about," returned Page, then
added, in a burst of confidence: "I never heard of the lady until she
came to New York and introduced herself to me. For a time she was
interesting. But I'm too old for that sort of thing. Besides, she
always impressed me as though she had some ulterior motive, as though
she was trying to get at something through me. I cut it all out."
Kennedy nodded, but for a moment said nothing.
"I think I'll be getting out," remarked Page, with a half smile. "I
don't want a knife in the back. I thought you ought to know all this,
though. And if I hear anything else I'll let you know."
Kennedy thanked him and together we rode down in the next elevator,
parting with Page at the hotel entrance.
It was still early in the evening, and Kennedy had no intention now of
wasting a moment. He beckoned for a cab and directed the man to drive
immediately to the Pan-America.
This time Teresa de Leon was plainly prepared for a visit, though I am
not sure that she was prepared to receive two visitors.
"I believe you were acquainted with Senior Barrios, who died to-night?"
opened Kennedy, after I had introduced him.
"He was acquainted with me," she corrected, with a purr in her voice
that suggested claws.
"You were not married to him," shot out Kennedy; then before she could
reply, "nor even engaged."
"He had known me a long time. We were intimate--"
"Friends," interrupted Kennedy, leaving no doubt as to the meaning of
his emphasis.
She colored. It was evident that, at least to her, it was more than
friendship.
"Senor Sandoval says," romanced Kennedy, in true detective style, "that
you wrote--"
It was her turn to interrupt. "If Senor Sandoval says anything against
me, he tells what is not--the truth."
In spite of Kennedy's grilling she was still mistress of herself.
"You introduced yourself to Burton Page, and--"
"You had better remember your own proverb," she retorted. "Don't
believe anything you hear and only half you see."
Kennedy snapped down the yellow telegram before her. It was a dramatic
moment. The woman did not flinch at the anonymous implication. Straight
into Kennedy's eyes she shot a penetrating glance.
"Watch both of THEM," she replied, shortly, then turned and
deliberately swept out of the hotel parlor as though daring us to go as
far as we cared.
"I think we have started forces working for us," remarked Kennedy,
coolly consulting his watch. "For the present at least let us retire to
the laboratory. Some one will make a move. My game is to play one
against the other--until the real one breaks."
We had scarcely switched on the lights and Kennedy was checking over
the results he had obtained during his afternoon's investigations, when
the door was flung open and a man dashed in on us unexpectedly. It was
Sandoval, and as he advanced furiously at Kennedy I more than feared
that Page's idea was correct.
"It was you, Kennedy," he hissed, "who took those letters from Jose's
desk. It is you--or Page back of you--who are trying to connect me with
that woman, De Leon. But let me tell you--"
A sharp click back of Sandoval caused him to cut short the remark and
look about apprehensively. Kennedy's finger, sliding along the edge of
the laboratory table, had merely found an electric button by which he
could snap the lock on the door.
"We are two to one," returned Kennedy, nonchalantly. "That was nothing
but the lock on the door closing. Mr. Jameson has a revolver in the top
drawer of his desk over there. You will pardon me if I do a little
telephoning--through the central office of the detective bureau? Some
of our friends may not be overanxious to come here, and it may be
necessary to compel their attendance."
Sandoval subsided into a sullen silence as Kennedy made arrangements to
have Burton Page, Anitra, Eulalie, and Teresa de Leon hurried to us at
once.
There was nothing for me to do but watch Sandoval as Kennedy prepared a
little instrument with a scale and dial upon which rested an indicator
resembling a watch hand, something like the new horizontal clocks which
have only one hand to register seconds, minutes, and hours. In them,
like a thermometer held sidewise, the hand moves along from zero to
twenty-four. In this instrument a little needle did the same thing.
Pairs of little wire-like strings ran to the instrument.
Kennedy had finished adjusting another instrument which was much like
the saccharimeter, only more complicated, when the racing of an engine
outside announced the arrival of the party in one of the police
department cars.
Between us, Craig and I lost no time in disposing the visitors so that
each was in possession of a pair of the wire-like strings, and then
disdaining to explain why he had gathered them together so
unceremoniously, Kennedy turned and finished adjusting the other
apparatus.
"Most people regard light, so abundant, so necessary, so free as a
matter of course," he remarked, contemplatively. "Not one person in ten
thousand ever thinks of its mysterious nature or ever attempts to
investigate it. In fact, most of us are in utter darkness as to light."
He paused, tapped the machine and went on, "This is a polarimeter--a
simple polariscope--a step beyond the saccharimeter," he explained,
with a nod at Sandoval. "It detects differences of structure in
substances not visible in ordinary light.
"Light is polarized in several ways--by reflection, by transmission,
but most commonly through what I have here, a prism of calcite, or
Iceland spar, commonly called a Nicol prism. Light fully polarized
consists of vibrations transverse to the direction of the ray, all in
one plane. Ordinary light has transverse vibrations in all planes.
Certain substances, due to their molecular structure, are transparent
to vibrations in one plane, but opaque to those at right angles.
"Here we have," he explained, tapping the parts in order, "a source of
light, passing in through this aperture, here a Nicol polarizer, next a
liquid to be examined in a glass-capped tube; here on this other side
an arrangement of quartz plates with rotary power which I will explain
in a moment, next an analyzer, and finally the aperture for the eye of
an observer."
Kennedy adjusted the glass tube containing the liquid which bore the
substance scraped from the cartridge--he had picked up in the office of
Jose. "Look through the eyepiece, Walter," he directed.
The field appeared halved. He made an adjustment and at once the field
of vision appeared wholly the same tint. When he removed the tube it
was dark.
"If a liquid has not what we call rotary power both halves of the
double disk appear of the same tint," he explained. "If it has rotary
power, the halves appear of different tints and the degree of rotation
is measured by the alteration of thickness of this double quartz plate
necessary to counteract it. It is, as I told Mr. Jameson early to-day,
a rather abstruse subject, this of polarized light. I shall not bore
you with it, but I think you will see in a moment why it is necessary,
perhaps why some one who knew thought it would never be used.
"What I am getting at now is that some substances with the same
chemical formula rotate polarized light to the right, are
dextro-rotary, as, for instance, what is known as dextrose. Others
rotate it to the left, are levo-rotary, as the substance called levose.
Both of them are glucose. So there are substances which give the same
chemical reactions which can only be distinguished by their being left
or right rotary."
Craig took a bit of crystalline powder and dissolved it in ether. Then
he added some strong sulphuric acid. The liquid turned yellow, then
slowly a bright scarlet. Beside the first he repeated the operation
with another similar-looking powder, with the identical result.
"Both of those," he remarked, holding up the vials, "were samples of
pure veratrine, but obtained from different sources. You see the
brilliant reaction--unmistakable. But it makes all the difference in
the world in this case what was the source of the veratrine. It may
mean the guilt or innocence of one of you."
He paused, to let the significance of his remark sink in. "Veratrine,"
he resumed, "is a form of hellebore, known to gardeners for its fatal
effect on insects. There are white and green hellebore, Veratrum alba
and Veratrum viride. It is the pure alkaloid, or rather one of them,
that we have to deal with here--veratrine.
"There are various sources of veratrine. For instance, there is the
veratrine that may be derived from the sabadilla seeds which grow in
the West Indies and Mexico. It is used, I am informed, by the Germans
in their lachrymatory and asphyxiating bombs."
The mention of the West Indies brought, like a flash, to my mind
Sandoval and Senorita de Leon.
"Then, too," continued Kennedy, "there is a plant out in our own
Western country, of which you may have heard, known as the death camas,
very fatal to cattle when they eat it. The active principle in this is
also veratrine."
I began to see what Kennedy was driving at. If it were veratrine
derived from death camas it would point toward Page.
"Abderhalden, the great German physiological chemist, has discovered
that substances that once get into the blood produce specific ferments.
Not long ago, in a case, I showed it by the use of dialyzing membranes.
But Abderhalden has found that the polariscope can show it also. And in
this case only the polariscope can show what chemistry cannot show when
we reach the point of testing Senor Barrios's blood--if that becomes
necessary."
It was plain that Kennedy was confident. "There are other sources of
drugs of the nature used in this case to asphyxiate and kill, but the
active principle of all is veratrine. The point is, veratrine from what
source? The sabadilla is dextro-rotary; the death camas is levo-rotary.
Which is it here?"
As I tried to figure out the ramifications of the case, I could see
that it was a cruel situation for one or the other of the girls. Was
one of her lovers the murderer of Anitra's brother? Or was her own
brother the murderer of Eulalie's lover? I looked at the faces before
me, now tensely watching Kennedy, forgetful of the wire-like strings
which they held in their hands. I studied Teresa de Leon intently for a
while. She was still the enigma which she had been the first time I saw
her.
Kennedy paused long enough to look through the eyepiece again as if to
reassure himself finally that he was right. There was a tantalizing
suspense as we waited for the verdict of science on this intensely
human tragedy. Then he turned to the queer instrument over which the
needle-hand was moving.
"Though some scientists would call this merely a sensitive form of
galvanometer," he remarked, "it is, to me, more than that. It registers
feelings, emotions. It has been registering your own every moment that
I have been talking.
"But most of all it registers the grand passion. I might even call it a
love meter. Love might seem to be a subject which could not be
investigated. But even love can be attributed to electrical forces, or,
perhaps better, is expressed by the generation of an electric current,
as though the attraction between men and women were the giving off of
electrons or radiations of one to the other. I have seen this
galvanometer stationary during the ordinary meeting of men and women,
yet exhibit all sorts of strange vibrations when true lovers meet."
Not used to Kennedy's peculiar methods, they were now on guard,
ignorant of the fact that that alone was sufficient to corroborate
unescapably any evidence they had already given of their feelings
toward each other.
Kennedy passed lightly over the torn and bleeding heart of Eulalie.
But, much as he disliked to do so, he could not so quickly pass Anitra.
In spite of her grief, I could see that she was striving to control
herself. A quick blush suffused her face and her breath came and went
faster.
"This record," went on Kennedy, lowering his voice, "tells me that two
men are in love with Anitra Barrios. I will not say which exhibits the
deeper, truer passion. You shall see for yourself in a moment. But,
more than that, it tells me which of the two she cares for most--a
secret her heart would never permit her lips to disclose. Nor will I
disclose it.
"One of them, with supreme egotism, was so sure that he would win her
heart that he plotted this murder of her brother so that she would have
the whole estate to bring to him--a terrible price for a dowry. My love
meter tells me, however, that Anitra has something to say about it yet.
She does not love this man.
"As for Teresa de Leon, it was jealousy that impelled her to follow
Jose Barrios from Cuba to New York. The murderer, in his scheming, knew
it, saw a chance to use her, to encourage her, perhaps throw suspicion
on her, if necessary. When I came uncomfortably close to him he even
sent an anonymous telegram that might point toward her. It was sent by
the same person who stole in Barrios's office and shot him with an
asphyxiating pistol which discharged a fatal quantity of pure veratrine
full at him.
"My love meter, in registering hidden emotions, supplements what the
polarimeter tells me. It was the levo-rotary veratrine of the fatal
death camas which you used, Page," concluded Craig, as again the
electric attachment clicked shut the lock on the laboratory door.
VIII
THE VITAL PRINCIPLE
"That's the handwriting of a woman--a jealous woman," remarked Kennedy,
handing to me a dainty note on plain paper which had come in the
morning mail.
I did not stop to study the writing, for the contents of the
letter were more fascinating than even Kennedy's new science
of graphology.
You don't know me [the note read], but I know of your work
of scientific investigation.
Let me inform you of something that ought to interest you.
In the Forum Apartments you will find that there is some
strange disease affecting the Wardlaw family. It is a queer
disease of the nerves. One is dead. Others are dying.
Look into it.
A FRIEND.
As I read it I asked myself vainly what it could mean. There was no
direct accusation against any one, yet the implication was plain. A
woman had been moved by one of the primal passions to betray--some one.
I looked up from the note on the table at Craig. He was still studying
the handwriting.
"It's that peculiar vertical, angular hand affected by many women," he
commented, half to himself. "Even at a glance you can see that it's
written hastily, as if under the stress of excitement and sudden
resolution. You'll notice how those capitals--" The laboratory door
opened, interrupting him.
"Hello, Kennedy," greeted Doctor Leslie, our friend, the coroner's
physician, who had recently been appointed Health Commissioner of the
city.
It was the first time we had seen him since the appointment and we
hastened to congratulate him. He thanked us absently, and it was
evident that there was something on his mind, some problem which, in
his new office, he felt that he must solve if for no other purpose than
to justify his reputation. Craig said nothing, preferring to let the
commissioner come to the point in his own way.
"Do you know, Kennedy," he said, at length, turning in his chair and
facing us, "I believe we have found one of the strangest cases in the
history of the department."
The commissioner paused, then went on, quickly, "It looks as if it were
nothing less than an epidemic of beriberi--not on a ship coming into
port as so often happens, but actually in the heart of the city."
"Beriberi--in New York?" queried Craig, incredulously.
"It looks like it," reiterated Leslie, "in the family of a Doctor
Wardlaw, up-town here, in the Forum--"
Kennedy had already shoved over the letter he had just received. Leslie
did not finish the sentence, but read the note in amazement.
"What are the symptoms?" inquired Craig.
"What makes you think it is beriberi, of all things?"