FOREWARNED
Dennis’ lacerated emotions were finally soothed and after an old oil
lamp was resurrected from the store-closet and lighted he seated
himself for a pipe and a chat, but the shock had disorganized him
beyond concentration on the case and he departed early for the fire
house.
McCarty had carefully kept his bulk between his visitor and the sight
of what lay in the fireplace and the moment the latter went away he
removed the death-dealing paraphernalia and locked it in his bedroom
closet beneath a pile of old boots, together with the revolver. This
had proved on examination to be a replica of his own old service one.
How could his would-be assassin have come into possession of a “police
positive,” a .38 manufactured for the department alone?
While he was pondering this the telephone rang and Jimmie Ballard’s
voice came to him over the wire.
“Say, Mac, do you know what that was you handed me to-day? A silver
leaf!”
“It looked kind of like a leaf and there was a silvery tinge to it
Jimmie, but I thought it was made of flat plush!” McCarty replied. “I’m
no wiser than I was before. What is it?”
“A leaf from an African silver-tree, of a species that grows most
plentifully on Table Mountain, just back of Cape Town; no telling how
old it is, for they last forever if they’re not handled too much. Where
did you get it and what has it to do with that little affair you and I
were talking about this morning?”
“Not a thing in the world!” McCarty avowed hastily. “’Tis just
something I picked up. I’ll be thankful if you’ll put it in an envelope
and mail it to me special delivery, though.”
“All right!” Jimmie laughed. “Of course it isn’t important when you’ve
got to have it by ‘special,’ and you were willing to trade the best
beat of the year for information about it, but give me the dope on it
one jump ahead of the other boys and I won’t ask any more. Did you see
our extra?”
McCarty cut short the youthful Jimmie’s enthusiasm. He had to stand
with his back squarely to the door to talk into the ’phone and he
didn’t know when his mysterious visitor might return. That shot had
miraculously not aroused the neighborhood but undoubtedly that was
because of the noise of wind and rain. Would the author of his little
surprise have sufficient strength of mind to remain away and wait to
see if the morning papers held any account of the possible tragedy?
He would, if he was one and the same with the human fiend who had
brought all those horrors to pass in the Mall, and of that McCarty was
morally convinced. He had told Dennis and the inspector, too, that it
would be only by out-guessing him and anticipating who his next victim
was scheduled to be that they could hope to solve the mystery. Now he
grinned to himself; little had he thought then who was elected!
But the event of the evening made one fact manifest; the man was
afraid! He was beginning to show weakness, his armor was cracking,
his nerve was giving way! The desperate chance he had taken of being
discovered at his work, the very elaborateness of the scheme itself,
told of the effort made in a frenzy of guilty apprehension to wipe out
one of those who represented the law.
Yet the brain which had conceived and carried to a successful
conclusion two such strange crimes as the murders, to say nothing of
the making away with the child Horace, would be more than a match for
the present situation. Having learned of his first failure he would be
doubly on the alert and wary. McCarty had drawn his fire and in all
probability there would be a cessation of crimes in the Mall while
he gave his attention to those who threatened to thwart his hideous
activities.
The storm raged even more fiercely, as the hour grew late, and for
more reasons than one McCarty was reluctant to venture forth for his
forgotten dinner. He unearthed a battered percolator, tinned meat
and crackers and made a light meal, retiring to bed at last with his
revolver beneath the pillow.
When he awakened a dark day had broken and he lay for a time listening
to the wind roaring down the chimney and the rain driving in sheets
against the windows while he formed an immediate plan. He must work
alone, for Denny would be on duty again for twenty-four hours straight,
and he welcomed the fact. If there were to be any further attempts made
upon him, the faithful Denny must not share the danger; it would be
just Denny’s luck to walk into a trap not meant for him!
As for himself, McCarty meant to give his adversary every opportunity
to try again. He shaved and dressed, and as he did so his blood raced
as in the old days, with joy of the contest, yet now for the first
time in his career he was hunted, not hunter; he had, in a twinkling,
changed places with the arch-murderer and child-stealer and the thought
gave added zest to the problem of the future. He was leaving for his
accustomed restaurant when the telephone shrilled and he paused before
taking down the receiver.
His visitor of the night before could already have learned from the
papers that his attempt had failed, but what if he were ringing up now
to be sure that the event had not actually occurred and remained as yet
undiscovered? Would he betray himself by surprise at the sound of his
intended victim’s voice?
McCarty unhooked the receiver, waited a moment, and then called in a
sudden, hearty tone:
“Hello!”
“Am I addressing ex-Roundsman McCarty?” The voice which came to him was
elderly and formal, and, as McCarty replied in the affirmative, he was
certain he had never heard it before.
“Inspector Druet suggested that I telephone and ask you for an
interview on a strictly private matter, Mr. McCarty. This is Benjamin
Parsons speaking, of Number Seven, New Queen’s Mall.” His tone betrayed
not the slightest emotion. “Can you tell me when you will be at liberty
to come to me?”
“In one hour, Mr. Parsons,” McCarty responded promptly. “’Tis about
what happened night before last?”
“Yes.” There was a note of finality in the quick, firm monosyllable.
“In an hour, Mr. McCarty.”
The click of a distant receiver came to his ears and McCarty went out
with a puzzled frown. Had the inspector an inkling as to the identity
of Parsons’ “burglar” and was he passing the buck?
Thrust half under his door he found an envelope with a special delivery
stamp; Jimmie Ballard had kept his word and returned the silver leaf.
McCarty slipped it into his pocket and went out into the downpour, but
his thoughts were almost immediately diverted from it by the Italian
news-vendor on the corner, an acquaintance of many years’ standing.
“You on da job again!” White teeth gleamed in the swarthy countenance.
“Diss-a pape’ say you gonna fin’ da guy w’at murd’ da French-a girl!”
It was the _Bulletin_ and Jimmie Ballard’s idea of a joke was to
announce the rumor that former Roundsman Timothy McCarty, whose
achievements in the department had been unique and notable, had been
reattached to the detective bureau for special investigation in
connection with the crime wave in the New Queen’s Mall and important
developments might be expected shortly.
McCarty passed it by with a grunt. His eye was caught by a brief
paragraph, lower on the page, and he stood still, unheeding the rain
which streamed down his neck from his tilted umbrella. It was a bald
statement that George Radley, the poisoner who escaped from Sing Sing
a month before, had been found wandering in a hopelessly demented
condition on the upper East Side and would undoubtedly be committed
to Matteawan. The clothing he wore was being traced, in an effort to
locate the possible accomplices to his escape.
With a nod to the news-vendor McCarty hurried on at last, and while
he awaited his order at the little restaurant he gave himself up to
reflection. Was that why Parsons had sent for him? Had he learned that
the escaped prisoner received aid from beneath his roof?
He ate hastily and then made all speed to the New Queen’s Mall, where
just within the gate he ran into Inspector Druet.
“You’ve heard from Parsons?” the latter asked.
McCarty nodded.
“He said you told him to send for me. Whatever for, sir?” His tone was
blandly innocent. “What can I tell the old gentleman about his lost
papers?”
“It’s what he’ll tell you, if you can get it out of him; I can’t,”
confessed his superior. “He’s got something up his sleeve, all right,
and if he weren’t such a well-known character I’d think he guessed more
about that robbery than he was willing to say! The other one who was
holding out on us came across last night but it isn’t going to help any
except to remove one more possibility.”
“Who was it?” demanded McCarty.
“Eustace Goddard. The only thing that has kept him and his wife both
going during these three days since the boy disappeared was their own
private suspicion that he had been kidnapped for ransom and would be
held safely until the exchange could be made, but now that hope has
gone. The man they thought had taken Horace away was a former business
associate of Goddard’s, down and out now. He applied to Goddard for
financial help, it seems, at a time when it would have saved him, and
when it was refused he threatened to make Goddard pay if he stripped
him of the most precious thing he had. Goddard has been quietly looking
for him since the trouble came and expecting him hourly to make a
demand for a large sum; that was why he was willing to offer such a
huge reward. Last evening, however, he ran him to earth and found out
that the poor devil had been ill in a sanitarium for months and didn’t
know anything about Horace. Mrs. Goddard is almost insane—Allonby is
attending her—and Goddard himself is nearly as bad but I can only put
him off with the same old promises and bunk!—Look over there now;
that’s the boy’s police dog Max. He’s grieving himself to death, they
tell me. Mac, if we don’t do something soon—!”
“We’ll be sitting tight and let the other fellow show his hand, the guy
that’s been pulling all these murders and such.” They had passed down
the block together toward the Parsons house and as he spoke McCarty
glanced across the street to the court beside the Goddards’. The slim,
smooth-coated police dog was pacing restlessly up and down with the
slinking, mechanical movement of a beast in captivity, his swaying head
hung low and tail drooping.
The inspector followed his companion’s gaze.
“Trafford says he tried to coax Max to go for a walk but the dog won’t
go further than that from the house; they’re one-man creatures anyway,
that breed, and the boy was his god.—If you can get anything that looks
like straight dope out of the old gentleman ’phone me at the medical
examiner’s office.”
He went on and McCarty ascended the steps of the Parsons residence and
rang the bell. His summons was replied to after some little delay by a
youth who carried himself smartly if awkwardly in his page’s uniform.
The bright if somewhat weak face seemed abnormally pale, however, and
his sharp eyes shifted in a scared fashion.
“Name’s McCarty,” the newcomer announced briefly. “Mr. Parsons expects
me.”
“Yes, sir!” The youth’s tone was almost servile. “You can go right back
to his study, sir. I’ll show you!”
He led the way to the room which McCarty had already visited
surreptitiously two nights before, and knocked on the door.
“Come in.” The same dignified, elderly voice which had sounded over the
telephone answered the rapping and a man rose slowly from behind the
desk as they entered. He was tall and powerfully built, with a keen,
intellectual face softened by warm, gray eyes and a well-molded mouth,
sensitive yet firm. His finely shaped head was covered with a shock of
snow-white hair as long as a mane and his old-fashioned high stock and
severely cut black coat made him resemble a figure from the past. He
looked to McCarty’s eyes as though he might have stepped out of one of
the frames in his own portrait gallery, but there was no suggestion of
a pose about him. Without sound or gesture he appeared to dominate the
room and his caller felt almost abashed in his presence.
What would the old gentleman think if he knew the actual burglar stood
before him? McCarty could feel his honest face grow hot, but he held
his chin a trifle higher. After all, Parsons had known about fluorine
gas and powdered Calabar bean, he’d a bunch of crooks in his house and
knew it, and when his notes had been taken he didn’t feel like coming
clean about them! He might have a bit of explaining to do himself!
“Lieutenant McCarty, sir.” The elevation in rank was patent flattery
and McCarty’s eyes twinkled as Benjamin Parsons bowed.
“That will do, Danny.—Mr. McCarty,” he added as the page boy withdrew,
“I have asked you to come here because your inspector is occupied with
matters of graver import to the little community in the Mall. From
your question over the telephone this morning I gather you have been
informed of the occurrence here on Wednesday night?”
“Yes, Mr. Parsons,” McCarty replied. “Your house was entered by way of
the rear window, wasn’t it, and some papers taken? As I heard it, the
wires were cut outside and a pane of glass knocked out.”
“An interior alarm system of my own was also very cleverly disconnected
so that it would not register in my bedroom.—But won’t you sit down?”
A slender hand waved to a chair and McCarty obeyed. “All this is as
unimportant as is the identity of the intruder, or as his identity
would be if he had come merely for gain like the usual housebreaker;
but this he was not. Articles of value were practically within reach
of his hand—gold and silver plate, ivories and bronzes and ceramics
which would have meant a fortune to the ordinary burglar, remained
undisturbed, while the documents he searched for and found could be of
no possible pecuniary benefit to him.”
Mr. Parsons’ eyes were fastened on McCarty in an earnest, steady gaze
which the latter found somehow disconcerting. He cleared his throat
nervously.
“The inspector told me ’twas notes for a book that was missing, and
some other papers that was personal,” he remarked.
“Personal to others than myself, I regret to say,” Mr. Parsons shook
his head. “That is why I did not go into particulars at first, but
since I reported the matter to the authorities I have made another
discovery which, taken in connection with the rest, leaves me no
choice. The personal documents removed from this filing case over here
related to the unfortunate past history of several people whom I count
among my friends and it would be unjust to give publicity to them now,
much less to permit these records to remain in unworthy hands. The
manuscript of my book is perhaps small loss to the world, but it is the
result of years of profound thought and research. I may add that it was
intended as a message, an appeal for universal peace and I had dwelt in
detail upon the horrors of the last war, describing in full the methods
employed by man to destroy his fellows. I am stating this because one
of the weapons so described was fluorine gas, and the formula was
given. Fluorine gas has been mentioned in the papers in connection with
the sad death of the young nurse across the street, but I did not even
think of the coincidence until I made a further discovery last night.”
“What was it?” McCarty felt that the question was expected of him
although he well knew what was coming. Was the old gentleman the grand
character he appeared or as shrewd as they make them and playing safe?
He could have blushed for his own suspicious mind, but Parsons called
the crooks his “friends” and was trying to protect them. What the devil
did it all mean?
“When your inspector first called upon me to make certain inquiries
last week, at the time a manservant—from the same house as that in
which the young girl passed away—also died, he told me of the poison
believed to have been used: physostigmine.”
“Calabar bean,” McCarty nodded.
“Quite so. I had never heard of it, as it happened, and I looked it up
in some books of reference I have; books in common use in every home of
intelligent interests. I was called away before I had finished reading
the article and marked the page. That page, Mr. McCarty, has been torn
from my encyclopædia, and this could only have been done on Wednesday
evening.”
The gentle yet dominating voice had continued in its level, perfectly
controlled monotone and McCarty looked down at the floor but felt
impelled to raise his eyes again. If only the old gentleman would look
away for a minute!
“It seems like a queer sort of burglar that would tear a page out of a
book he could find anywhere, and the fact that it was an article about
Calabar bean, and the notes on fluorine gas gone too—!” The words stuck
in McCarty’s throat but he forced himself to go on: “Why should he have
took them just from here, when the damage was done with the both of
them, and how did he know where to get them, anyway?”
“I have been asking myself those questions but I cannot answer them.
However, I am convinced that those two coincidences are more than
coincidences and it was my duty to report them.”
“Yes, of course.” McCarty shuffled one foot. “Mr. Parsons, what’s
become of your butler, Chris Porter?—Roberts, he called himself here.”
He had launched the question with deliberate abruptness but the gray
eyes did not waver.
“You knew of his identity? The record of his misfortune was one of
those taken from my filing case.”
“I recognized him and he made a certain confession to me the other
day.” McCarty returned the gaze with interest now and he saw Mr.
Parsons start slightly, a faint flush rising in the smooth pallor of
his cheeks.
“A confession? Christopher was a broken man, subjected to a persecution
which would have been unfair even if he were guilty of the charge for
which he had suffered imprisonment but I am convinced of his absolute
innocence!” he asserted vigorously. “A grave miscarriage of justice
had been committed; I could not restore to him the years which our
penal system had taken from him but I was endeavoring to help him get
on his mental and moral feet again, to win back his self-respect! Mr.
McCarty, if Christopher made any supposed confession it must have been
wrung from him by coercion! Innocent or guilty he has paid the penalty
the State demanded!”
“Sure, for complicity in that poisoning case, if that’s what you mean,
but ’twas not that he confessed. Mr. Parsons, I’d like to ask you
something.” McCarty bent forward. “If a guy—I mean a man—was sent up
and escaped and you thought he was innocent, would you think it your
duty to hide him or turn him over to the law again?”
“I should deliver him to the authorities.” The answer came without an
instant’s hesitation. “A man’s personal opinion could not be allowed to
weigh against the mandates of our laws or our whole social fabric would
centuries ago have been undermined. The individual must be submerged in
the collective body, if civilization is to endure!—But why do you ask?”
“You knew that Radley, the fellow sentenced with Porter, escaped a
month ago and that he was caught last night?”
“I knew that he had escaped but not that he was recaptured!” Mr.
Parsons spoke in oddly shocked accents. “The newspapers doubtless have
an account of it, but I was too disturbed in mind this morning to
glance at them.—Where was the unfortunate man found?”
“Not where he was last Sunday, Mr. Parsons!” McCarty retorted
significantly. “He’s supposed to be crazy now, so he’ll go to the
asylum instead of back up the river, but he wasn’t crazy last Sunday,
nor the week and more before that, when he laid hid in the empty house
next door here, fed from your table and cared for by some one in your
house! That was Porter’s confession, and I’m asking you where is he?”
“He has gone!” Parsons rested his elbow on his desk and shielded his
eyes with his hand. “I never suspected this! Christopher laid the table
for breakfast as usual this morning and arranged the mail and the
newspapers; it must have been then that he saw the account of Radley’s
capture and ran away, panic-stricken for fear that he might fall into
the hands of the law again! I have thought that he seemed more deeply
troubled this week; if he had only come to me, and let me convince him
of his higher duty! I have failed with him, failed!”
Deep distress throbbed with a note of pain in his tone but McCarty
persisted dryly:
“That’s as may be, sir. He left about the time the papers came? That’ll
be around eight o’clock? Was it before or after you ’phoned to me that
you knew of it?”
Mr. Parsons’ hand fell.
“Just before. I knew no reason for his departure and he left no word,
but the condition of his room showed hurried flight. It was then that I
decided to place myself unreservedly in your hands.”
“Because of that missing dope about fluorine gas and Calabar bean, and
his own past history?” McCarty demanded. “Because he’d already been
convicted of poison—!”
“Stop!” Mr. Parsons rose. “Christopher was innocent of that old charge
and he was equally innocent of the crimes which have been committed
this past week! He was mistaken in his sense of duty, but not a
murderer!”