Hawkins and his wife had been just one month in their new house.
My memory on that point is particularly clear, for the Executive
Committee of the Ladies' Missionary Society met at Hawkins' home the
very day they moved in officially; and it had been hanging over me, more
or less, that the next assembly of that body was to be held at my own
residence.
Not that I am in any way unsympathetic as to church work and benighted
savages and such matters; but when half a dozen women get together and
discuss a few heathen and a great many hats and similar things, the
solitary man in the house is apt to feel----
At any rate, when I saw Mrs. Hawkins enter my door that evening, the
first of the Executive Committee to arrive, I experienced a sinking
sensation for the moment. Then I secured my hat, mumbled a few excuses,
and disappeared, to see how Hawkins was spending the evening.
The inventor himself answered my ring.
“Ah, Griggs,” he remarked. “Committee talk you out of the house?”
“Something of the sort,” I admitted.
“Glad you came in. There's something I want to--but hang up your hat.”
“Hawkins,” I said, closing the door, “why do you pay a large overfed
English gentleman to stand around the premises if it's necessary for you
to answer the bell? I'm not much on style, you know, but----”
“William? Oh, it's his night out,” laughed Hawkins. “I believe the cook
and the girls have gone, too, for that matter.”
“Then we're altogether alone?”
“Yes,” said the inventor comfortably, pushing forward one of the big
library chairs for my accommodation, “all alone in the house.”
“And it's a mighty nice house,” I mused, gazing into the next apartment,
the dining-room. “That's a splendid room, Hawkins.”
“Isn't it?” smiled Hawkins, drawing back the heavy curtains rather
proudly. “Most of the little wrinkles are my own ideas, too.”
“That sideboard?” I asked, indicating a frail-looking but artistic bit
of furniture built into the wall.
“That, too--combination of sideboard and silver-safe.”
“Safe!” I laughed. “You don't keep the silver in there?”
“Why not?”
“My dear man, any one could pry that door off with a pen-knife.”
“Admitted. But supposing your 'any one' to be a burglar, he'd have to
get to the door before he could pry it off, would he not, Griggs?”
“Burglars do not, as a rule, find great difficulty in entering the
average house,” I suggested.
“Aha! That's just it--the average house!” cried the inventor. “This
isn't the average house, Griggs. The burglar who tries to get into this
particular house is distinctly up against it!”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, sir! The crook that attempts a nocturnal entrance here has my
sincere and heartfelt sympathy.”
“Hawkins' Patent Automatic Burglar Alarm?” I suggested.
“What the deuce are you sneering at?” snapped the inventor. “No, there's
no patent burglar alarm in this house.”
“Hawkins' Steel Dynamite-Proof Shutters?”
Hawkins ignored the remark and busied himself lighting a cigar.
“Hawkins' Triple-Expansion Spring-Gun?” I hazarded once more.
“Oh, drop it! Drop it!” cried Hawkins. “Positively, Griggs, your efforts
at humor disgust one. In some ways, you are as bad as a woman. Go back
and sit with the Executive Committee.”
“What's the connection?”
“Why, the thing I expected to show you in a few minutes is the very same
one which my wife fought against for two weeks, before she let me put
it into operation peacefully!” Hawkins burst out. “There's where the
connection comes in between your degenerate little wits and those of the
generality of women.”
“If it was an invention, I don't blame your wife one little bit,
Hawkins,” I said. “I can see just how she must have felt about----”
“There's the evening paper, if you want to read,” spat forth the
inventor, poking the sheet across the library table.
Therewith he turned his back squarely upon me and settled down to a
book.
It wasn't polite of Hawkins.
Indeed, after a short space the situation waxed distinctly
uncomfortable; and although I am pretty well accustomed to the
inventor's moods, I must admit that in another five minutes I should
have cleared out had it not been for a rather unexpected happening.
Hawkins was sitting near the window--in fact, his chair brushed the
hangings. As I sat gazing pensively at the back of his neck, a sudden
breeze swayed the curtains above him.
There was an undue amount of swishing overhead, it seemed to me.
Something near the top of the window, and concealed by the hangings,
rattled distinctly; simultaneously a gong struck sharply somewhere
up-stairs.
Hawkins whirled about, a most remarkable expression on his lately sullen
countenance. As nearly as I could analyze it, it was a mixture of joy,
excitement, and trembling expectancy.
“One!” he exclaimed.
The bell struck again.
“Two!” cried Hawkins. “By Jove! That's----”
Crash!
Out of the curtains something dropped heavily on the inventor!
For an instant it held the appearance of a grain sack, but there
was something distinctly solid about it, too, for it dealt Hawkins a
resounding whack upon his cranium before it rolled to the floor.
“Phew!” he gasped, sinking back into his chair caressing the bump with
an unsteady hand. “That--that did startle me, Griggs!”
“I shouldn't wonder,” I smiled. “What on earth did you have concealed up
there?”
“Aha! You'd never guess,” remarked Hawkins, his ill-humor departed.
“No, I don't believe I should,” I mused, staring at the pile of canvas
on the floor. “Did the painters leave it?”
“They did not,” replied Hawkins coldly. “That, Griggs, is the Hawkins
Crook-Trap!”
“Hawkins--Crook-Trap!” I repeated.
“That's what I said,” pursued the gentleman. “Possibly--now--it may
not be past your understanding to grasp why I feel so secure about that
flimsy little silver-safe.”
“I think I see. The burglar, presumably, comes in at the window, is
knocked senseless by your trap, and next morning you find and capture
him as you go down to breakfast?”
“Nothing of the sort. Look here.” Hawkins picked up the affair.
As he grasped the end, the thing hung downward and showed itself to be
a long canvas bag, fully large enough to contain the upper half of
the average man. It was distended, too, by ribs, and appeared to be of
considerable weight.
“There she is--just a bag, telescoped and hung on a frame above the
window. The burglar steps in, the bag is released, drops over him, these
circular steel ribs contract and clutch his arms like a vise--and there
you are! How's that for an idea, Griggs?”
“Looks good,” I assented.
“Moreover, the same spring which releases the ribs breaks a bottle of
chloroform,” continued the inventor enthusiastically. “It runs into a
hood, is pressed against the burglar's nose, and two minutes later the
man is stark and stiff on the floor!
“Meanwhile the annunciator bell tells me what window has been opened.
I ring up the police--and it's all over with the man who tried to break
in.”
“It sounds all right,” I admitted. “Why didn't it do all that just now?”
“Just now? Oh--you mean--just now?” stammered the inventor. “Well, it
did do practically all of that, didn't it? The window wasn't opened,
anyway--it was the breeze that knocked down the thing. Furthermore, the
ones on this floor aren't adjusted yet--I only got them from the fellow
who made them to-day.
“But up-stairs they're all fixed--chloroform and all, ready for the
burglar. I tell you, Griggs, when this crook-trap of mine is on every
window in New York City, there'll be a sensation in criminal circles!”
“Very likely. How much does it cost?”
“Um--well--er--well it cost me about--er--one hundred dollars a window,
Griggs, but----”
“About twenty windows to the average house,” I murmured. “Two thousand
dollars for----”
“Well, it won't cost a tenth of that when I'm having the parts turned
out in quantities,” cried Hawkins, with considerable heat. “Why under
the sun do you always try to throw a wet blanket over everything?
Suppose it does cost two thousand dollars to equip a house with my
crook-trap? If a man has ten thousand dollars' worth of silverware,
he'll be willing enough to spend----”
I laughed. It wasn't meant for a nasty laugh at all--it was simply
amusement at the inventor's emotionalism. But it riled Hawkins.
“Where the devil does the joke come in?” he thundered. “If I----”
“Hush!” I cried.
“I won't hush! I----”
“Two!” I counted. “Be quiet.”
Hawkins calmed down on the instant.
“Was--was it the bell?” he whispered.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
The gong up-stairs had chimed six times and stopped.
I stared at Hawkins, and Hawkins at me, and the inventor's countenance
went white.
Far above, the evening calm was disturbed by a stamping and threshing
noise, punctuated now and then by a muffled shout.
“There!” cried the inventor. There was a wealth of satisfaction in that
one word.
“Well, somebody's caught,” I said.
“You bet he is!” replied Hawkins, with a nervous chuckle. “Six
bells--that's the top story back--one of the servants' rooms. Somebody
must have thought the house deserted and come in from the roof.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! The intruder wasn't submitting to the caresses of the
crook-trap without a struggle. Also, from the volume and vigor of
the racket, it was painfully clear that the intruder was a robust
individual.
“Well?” said Hawkins, still staring at me with a rigid smile.
“Well?”
“Well, we've got to go up there and capture him,” announced the
inventor, gathering himself for the task. “Come on.”
“Not just yet, thank you. We'll let the chloroform get in its work
first.”
“But don't you want to see the thing in actual operation?”
“Hawkins, if any one could have less curiosity about anything than I
have about seeing your crook-trap in operation----”
“All right, stay down here if you like. I'm going up.”
“Suppose your burglar gets loose?” I argued. “Suppose he has a big,
wicked revolver, and learns that you're responsible for the way he's
been handled?”
Hawkins walked resolutely and silently toward the stairs. As for me,
curiosity as to his fate bested my judgment. I followed.
As we neared the top of the house, the thumping and hammering grew
louder and more vicious; and when we finally stood outside the door, the
din was actually deafening.
“That's--that's either William's room or the cook's,” said Hawkins, with
a slight quaver in his tones. “He's going it, isn't he?”
“He certainly is. Let's stay here, Hawkins.”
“No, sir. I'm going in to watch it. He's not loose, that's sure.”
Hawkins opened the door very gently.
Inside, the room was dark--not pitch dark, but that semi-gloom of a city
room whose only light comes from an arc lamp half a block away.
The air was heavy and sickening with the fumes of chloroform. They
fairly sent my head a-reeling, but their effect upon the burglar seemed
to have been nil.
Over by the window a huge form was hurling itself to and fro, from wall
to wall and back again, in the frantic endeavor to gain freedom. The bag
enveloped his head and shoulders, but a mighty pair of arms within the
bag were straining and tearing at the fabric, and a couple of long,
muscular legs kicked madly at everything within reach.
Every few seconds, too, a puffed oath added spice to the excitement, as
the captive wrenched and strained.
On the whole, the scene was a bit too gruesome to be humorous. As a rule
I can see the funny side of Hawkins' doings; but the fun departed
from this particular mess at the thought of what would happen when the
colossus finally emerged from the bag and commenced operations upon
Hawkins and myself--neither of us athletes.
“He's caught, isn't he, Griggs?” stuttered Hawkins, clutching my arm.
“For the moment,” I replied. “But come--let's get an officer. If that
canvas gives----”
“Gives!” sneered the inventor. “Why that canvas----”
“Gawd! If I gets yer!” screamed the man in the bag.
“Oh, great Caesar!” gulped Hawkins. “It's--it's getting horrible, isn't
it?”
“Aha! I heard yer then, ye cur!” roared the captive.
Hawkins' hand on my arm shook violently.
“We--we'll have to do something with him,” he whispered. “What shall it
be? We've got to subdue him, somehow or other.”
“Why not let the chloroform work while we go out and get a couple of
policemen?”
“Well, you see, it doesn't seem to be working, Griggs. Don't know why,
but--phew! Did you hear that rip?”
I had heard it. I had also seen the silhouette of a long arm appear
against the dim light of the window.
“Oh, Lord!” gasped Hawkins. “It's given somewhere! We'll have to squelch
him now inside of ten seconds or--what the deuce shall I do, Griggs?”
“Take a chair and stun him,” I replied. “That's all I can suggest. And
personally I don't care for the job.”
“Well--somebody's got to do something,” groaned the inventor, seizing
one of the bedroom chairs. “If ever he gets loose--say, where are you
going, Griggs?”
“Just into the hall,” I said. “I'm going to light the gas and watch the
battle from a safe distance.”
Hawkins clutched his chair and stared at me like a man in a nightmare.
His expression reminded me of the day when, as a boy on the farm, I took
the hatchet and started out to kill my first chicken. I felt just as
Hawkins looked that evening in the dark doorway of the bedroom.
“D'ye suppose it'll kill him?” he choked. “Griggs, do you think----”
A long rip resounded from the darkness. A triumphant shout followed.
Hawkins turned swiftly, raised his chair, and darted toward the man in
the bag.
There was a crash, a shout, a dull blow, and a heavy fall--and just then
I managed to light the gas.
Literally, I caught my breath and rubbed my eyes. For a few seconds
the scene dumfounded me past action; but shortly I hurried into the
apartment and struck another light.
Hawkins was stretched upon the floor groaning. His entire face seemed to
have suffered violent impact with some unyielding body, and both hands
covered his nose, from which the life-blood flowed freely.
And across the room, sitting against the wall, his large person
decorated by sundry steel hoops and shreds of canvas, sat--William, the
Hawkins' butler, staring dazedly into space!
Between them lay the chair.
“Oh, Griggs, Griggs, Griggs!” moaned the inventor. “Come quick! Get my
wife! I'm done for this time! He's finished me!”
“Hawkins!” I cried, shaking him. “Did he----”
“Never mind him--let him escape,” replied Hawkins, faintly. “Just get my
wife before I go. Good-by, old friend, good-by.”
“Mr.--'Awkins!” gasped the butler, his senses returning.
“What!” shrilled the inventor, sitting bolt upright, black eyes, swelled
face, and all completely forgotten. “Is that you, William?”
“Yes, sir,” stammered the man. “Was--was it you I hit, sir?”
“Was it!” yelled Hawkins, struggling to his feet. “Look at this face!
What the deuce did you mean by it?”
“Beg--beg pardon, sir, but did you--did you sorter strike me with a
chair, sir?”
“I--well, yes, William, I did.”
“Well, I, not knowing of course as it was you, sir, I sorter hit back.
But have you got the thief, sir?”
“The what?”
“Indeed, yes, sir. There's one in the house. I was attacked here--right
in this here very room. See here, sir, this bag! Just as I opened the
window, he kem behind me, sir, threw it over my head, and tried to
chloroform me, sir--you can smell it, sir.”
“Yes. All right,” said Hawkins, briefly, with what must have seemed to
the man a strange lack of interest.
“You see, sir, whoever the rascal was, he must 'a' known as I intended
going out this evening, sir, and that the house would be empty like. So
in he sneaks from the roof, bag and all, and waits. And when I kem up
the stairs, instead of going out, sir----”
“All right. That'll do. I understand,” muttered Hawkins. “No one threw
a bag over you. It was a new--er--sort of burglar alarm--just had it put
up to-day.”
“Burglar alarm!” cried the butler, staring at the remnants from which he
was slowly extricating himself.
“Yes!” snapped Hawkins. “And don't stand there mumbling over it,
William!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here,” said the inventor, “is a--er--twenty-dollar note. You will
immediately forget everything that has happened within the last half
hour.”
“Yes, sir,” responded the butler, with a wide smile.
Hawkins led the way down-stairs. In the bathroom he paused to lave his
much abused features; and by the time he had finished, my own features
had had a chance to regain something like composure.
Once more in the library, which we had deserted some twenty minutes
before, Hawkins threw himself rather limply into a chair.
“Well, well, well!” he muttered. “Now, who under the sun could have
foreseen that?”
I forebore remarks.
“William ought to be in the prize-ring,” continued the inventor sadly.
“But he's a bright chap. He'll keep his mouth shut. Lucky--er--nobody
else was in the house, wasn't it?”
“How are you going to account to Mrs. Hawkins for those black eyes?”
“Oh--we can say that we were boxing and you hit me. That's easy.”
“She'll believe that, too, Hawkins,” I said, gazing at the battered
countenance. “You look more as if you'd had a collision with an express
train.”
“Oh, she'll believe it, all right,” said the inventor cheerily. “For
once--just for once, Griggs--something has happened which my better half
won't be on to. You'll see I'm right. There isn't a clue.”
“Well, perhaps,” I sighed.
“And now let's have some of that old Scotch. I feel a little weak.”
We loitered into the next apartment--the dining-room. We turned
our footsteps toward the sideboard. We stopped--both of us--as if
transformed to stone.
The door was off the silver-safe. The drawers lay about the floor.
And the little safe itself was as empty as the day it left the
cabinet-maker!
“D-d-d'you see it, too?” cried Hawkins in a scared, husky voice.
“Yes,” I replied, stooping to look into the safe. “It must have been a
sneak-thief, Hawkins. Every vestige of your beautiful service is gone!”
The inventor glared long at the wreck.
“And now that's got to be explained,” he muttered at last, continuing
his journey to the sideboard. “How can I get around it?”
He poured out a generous dose of the Scotch, imbibed it at a swallow,
and shuffled drearily back to the library, where he dropped once more
into a chair and stared through fast-swelling eyes at the glazed tile
fire-place.
And I? Well, just then I heard Mrs. Hawkins' step on the vestibule
flooring without; she had returned for the minutes of the last meeting.
The bell rang. I walked quickly upstairs to call up the police and
notify them. It wasn't my place to answer that bell, with William in the
house.