DENNIS SUPPLIES A SIMILE
On Saturday morning, as McCarty opened his door to proceed to breakfast
he caromed violently with Dennis at the head of the stairs.
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t look where you’re going!” the latter
observed. “I’ve come straight off duty without a bite or a shave to
find out what’s new, but not to be thrown downstairs!”
“Come on, let’s eat, then,” invited McCarty. “You can get a shave after
and join me back here, for I’ve had a ’phone from the inspector and
he’ll be around soon; he’s got something to tell us.”
Their meal concluded, Dennis betook himself to his favorite barber and
McCarty returned to his rooms with the usual collection of newspapers
under his arm. Before the half-open door of the antique shop he paused.
From an inner room at the rear came the deep strains of a ’cello in
a simple, oddly insistent little tune, unsuited to the strains of
a stringed instrument, until they swelled into a sweeping arpeggio
accompaniment. Girard must have finished setting his stock in order, to
be idling away the early morning hour with his everlasting fiddle!
Nevertheless McCarty listened for a moment longer and then, pushing
open the door, he went in. The ’cello was silenced and the little old
Frenchman’s withered face peered out inquiringly from between the
curtains.
“Ah, it is you, my friend!” He came forward in welcome. “You have heard
the ’cello? She is in a bad humor because I play upon her German music
once more, but it is of a quaintness and charm, that witch’s song from
‘Hansel und Gretel’; I go every year to hear it.”
“Is that what you were playing?” McCarty asked politely. “Would it be
opera, now? I’m not up in them, at all.”
“It is from a fairy story for the children,” Monsieur Girard explained.
“The witch builds a castle of gingerbread in the woods to attract the
little ones and when they touch it they are destroyed.—But tell me! You
are again of the police, is it not so? You have found the murderer of
my countrywoman?”
“Not yet, Girard. I just stopped by to pass the time of day, and ask
you if you should see that red-headed limb of Satan, Jimmie Ballard,
hanging around, tell him I’ve left town; he’s too free with his pen
entirely!” McCarty returned with some heat. Then his manner changed.
“You didn’t happen to notice a man who came to see me night before
last, just around dark? I missed him by only a few minutes.”
“But no, my friend.” Girard shook his head. “It rains with such fury
that one cannot see before the door and I close the shop while yet it
is light.—You do not come in a long time to spend an evening with the
old man!”
His tone was wistful and McCarty responded heartily:
“Sure I’ll come, just as soon as this case is over! Don’t forget about
Jimmie!”
Leaving the shop he mounted the stairs to his apartment above, and
settled himself to read the papers; but they held little of interest,
and, as the inspector still delayed in coming, he got out his books
once more and was deeply engrossed when Dennis reappeared, freshly
shaven and well-brushed, with a new collar an inch too small embracing
his gaunt neck.
“What are you dolled up for?” his host demanded. “That collar’s so
tight the eyes are bulging out of your head!”
“Leave be!” retorted Dennis with dignity. “A man has a right to spruce
up of a Saturday! So you’re at them books again! Where’s the inspector?”
“That’s his ring now.” McCarty rose. “Denny, mind you listen to what
I tell him about Parsons, but don’t add anything to it. What he don’t
know will save a waste of time.”
“What are you—?” Dennis began, but there was no opportunity for him to
finish his query; the inspector had taken the stairs two steps at a
time and entered without ceremony.
“Sorry I’m late, Mac.—Hello, Riordan, on the job with us again? The
medical examiner has had news from Washington.”
“Washington?—Sit down, sir!—About that poison gas, you mean?” McCarty
pushed forward the big armchair. “Did they find out what it’s made of?”
“As much as will ever be known.” The inspector’s face was very grave.
“I don’t know whether you recall reading about it or not after all this
time, but during the last months of the war a report went out from
the Capital that a new poison gas had been invented, deadlier than
anything yet tried. The formula was a secret one, the property of the
government. The papers were full of it and preparations were being made
to supply our troops with it when the armistice came. Nobody except
the officials in charge of that department have thought much about it
since until our inquiries of the last day or two. Last night Hinton
Sherard, the man responsible for the safety of that folio of secret
documents, blew his brains out; the formula for the poison gas had
disappeared.”
“And ’tis that the murderer used?” Dennis stared. “Did he steal it from
the department?”
“Theft would have been impossible, except for some one on the inside
but the despatches in code from Washington indicate that Sherard has
been deeply involved in some foreign financial scandal. He managed to
extricate himself about two months ago by the payment of a large sum;
the affair only reached the ears of the departmental heads when he
killed himself publicly in the main dining-room of the Weyland Hotel
and as he never had as much money as he is reputed to have paid out
there’s only one construction to be put on it. He must have sold the
formula for that gas.”
“It must have taken a mint of money to buy it,” McCarty observed
thoughtfully. “Any of them that live on the Mall could have afforded
it, I suppose, providing they wanted it bad enough but—two months ago!
The murderer sure planned a good ways ahead! Are you certain there’s no
mistake about it? If nobody knows the formula—?”
“The chemist who invented it is still living and three other men in
official Washington are familiar with its component parts. They all
agree that the effect of the gas inhaled by Lucette, as shown by the
autopsy, was identical with what would have been produced by the action
of this unnamed gas, and nothing else known to chemistry would have had
just that result.—Try one of these instead, Mac; old Mr. Parsons gave
them to me and though he doesn’t smoke himself they ought to be good.”
He had drawn a handful of fragrant cigars from his pocket as McCarty
proffered the box from the mantel. “The important thing to us about
this affair is that Washington is all excited and determined to get our
man and the formula before it passes out of his hands, perhaps into
those of some foreign power, do you see?”
“In case there’s another war?”
“Exactly. They’re sending on some picked men from the Secret Service
to investigate and you know what that will mean; the case will be
practically taken out of our hands.”
“To the everlasting shame of the Force, and through us!” McCarty sprang
to his feet and paced rapidly back and forth. “It’s hell, ain’t it,
inspector? We’ve done all that mortal could and been blocked at every
turn, like Sir Philip in the chess game with Orbit last night; ’twould
be the devil and all if we fall down on it now!”
“You’ll not!” Dennis sat up suddenly, the ashes from his pipe falling
upon the book laid open across his knee. “Don’t mind him, sir! He’s got
something up his sleeve, he as good as told me so yesterday afternoon!”
“Denny!” McCarty paused, grimacing horribly at the base informer.
“Don’t you listen to him, inspector! I had just a notion with nothing
to back it up, and if I sprung it now and it turned out to be wide of
the mark there’s no corner of this earth could hide us from what would
come!”
“What is it?” the inspector demanded. “For God’s sake, Mac, don’t hold
out anything now! It’s more than your record or my career that is at
stake; the pride of the whole department is in our hands! What is this
notion, as you call it?”
McCarty shook his head.
“It’s no use, sir! If I had one hint of even circumstantial evidence
to support it, I wouldn’t be loafing here this minute, but I’ll tell
you what I will do. Come noon, I’m thinking I’ll know whether there’s
anything in it or no and if there is I’ll be ’phoning to headquarters,
with a request that’ll maybe surprise you. Whatever it is you’ll let me
have it, for well you know I’d make no move unless I was sure.”
There was an unmistakable note of finality in his tone and Inspector
Druet acknowledged it with a shrug. In his troubled eyes a renewed glow
of hope had come.
“By noon?” he repeated. “I’ll be there waiting for your message, Mac.”
“Meanwhile,” McCarty carefully avoided Dennis’ gaze, “I’ve a bit of
news for you, sir. Denny and me have managed to lay our hands on the
papers that have been missing from Parsons’ house.”
“I thought you would!” The shadow of a smile passed across the
inspector’s face. “The department doesn’t countenance burglary, of
course, but when two such deputies as you take matters into your own
hands I wash mine of the responsibility. What did you find out?”
Dennis was endeavoring to hide behind his book but his agonized
contortions bore mute testimony to his guilt. McCarty gazed at his old
superior with a world of reproach.
“’Tis not what I expected from you, sir, after all these years, but
we’ll try to bear up under the injustice of it! The papers came to us
in a confidential way and since all Parsons wants is to get them back
again there’s no harm done.”
“Look here!” The amusement had faded from the inspector’s
countenance. “Orbit’s house was broken into that same night and he was
chloroformed—!”
“May my right arm drop off this minute if we had anything to do with
that!” McCarty’s solemn tones held the ring of truth. “I won’t say
that I’ve not my own suspicions about it, but they come to me since
and they’re all part and parcel of that notion I’ve got concerning the
whole case. However, getting back to Parsons, maybe you’d like to look
over what was stolen from his filing case in that outrageous robbery.
You’ll know then why the housemaid and the page boy looked familiar to
you.”
He handed the records of Parsons’ domestic staff to the inspector and
watched with a twinkle as the other ran quickly through them. When his
astonished comments had ceased, he produced the manuscript notes but
drew no attention to the reference to fluorine gas, nor did he mention
the leaf he had torn from the encyclopædia as he briefly recounted the
interview with the eccentric philanthropist on the previous day.
“I left asking myself was he a crook or a crank or a saint on earth?”
he concluded. “What’s your opinion of him?”
“He may be a dreamer, with a lot of ideas for bettering the world, that
will never work out while we’re full of original sin, but I think he’s
a wonderful old character and worthy of his family,” the inspector
replied reflectively. “I was talking to one of these psycho-analysts
who is going to lecture to us in the commissioner’s new school the
other day and he knew all about them; it seems they’re celebrated among
students of heredity as a shining example of what good blood means.
There are thousands of ‘Parsons,’ I suppose, but I’m talking about the
descendants of the first David Parsons and the old gentleman we know
is the last in the direct male line.”
“I know,” McCarty remarked. “Five governors they’ve given to the
New England states, eight clergymen in America, fourteen foreign
missionaries, eleven college professors and two of them became college
presidents, and I can’t recall how many army and navy officers and
other big men. I’ve been looking them up a little, myself.”
“The devil you have!” The inspector stared. “Keeping up with the
commissioner’s latest innovations, eh? Did you know that the Parsons
have been contrasted by these same students of heredity with another
family that’s supposed to be the worst on record?”
“I’ve no way of getting at things like those psycho-analysts,” McCarty
responded apologetically. “What about this other family?”
“I’ve forgotten the name but they died out long ago, the male members,
anyway. Every kind of crime and general crookedness was represented
among them.—But we’re wasting time. I suppose you want me to return
these papers to Parsons with the best excuse I can think of?”
“No. We’ve an hour to spare before we can do anything, and Denny and
me thought we’d take them to him ourselves.” McCarty gazed ceilingward
through the wreaths of smoke. “Denny wants a little talk with him.”
“Every day,” Dennis laid down his book at last. “Every day, in every
way, my friend Timothy McCarty is getting to be a better and better
liar—”
“Denny, what have you got hold of now!” McCarty flushed hotly.
“One of your new lesson books,” the other replied with immense
satisfaction. “’Tis by a foreign gentleman with a name like an
Australian bushranger’s call—”
“I bought it by mistake, thinking it was about this psycho-stuff too,
because I couldn’t understand it!” McCarty slammed the desk drawer upon
the embarrassing volume and turned to the inspector, who had risen.
“You’re going, sir? It may be a little past noon when I call you up,
but you’ll hear from me one way or the other.”
Mutual recriminations of a more or less acrimonious nature took place
after the inspector’s departure but they merely cleared the air.
Finally McCarty remarked:
“I gave myself away as well as you about breaking into the Parsons
house, but that was only after you’d told the inspector I was holding
out on him, which I wasn’t, having nothing to hold. As to getting at
criminals by way of science I’m not laughing at it, Denny, just because
I’m not on to it yet.”
“Nor me!” Dennis agreed. “Only to my mind, science is a lot like
spontaneous combustion; if you don’t handle it careful it’ll work up
its own heat and break out in a blaze.”
“Like what?” McCarty paused with his hat halfway to his head.
“Spontaneous combustion.” Dennis repeated. “When anything that
generates its own heat, like hay in a stable, is shut up too long
without air getting to it, it’s liable to take fire by itself. That’s
one of the first things ever I learned when I joined the department.”
McCarty chuckled.
“And that’s your idea of science, is it? Maybe ’tis as good as any
other!—Now let’s go and ease the old gentleman’s mind about his stolen
property.”
But they were destined to meet with still another delay, for on
entering the west gate of the Mall they encountered Mr. Gardner Sloane.
The supercilious manner had fallen from him and he greeted them with
marked cordiality.
“Horrible week we’ve been through, gentlemen!” he declaimed. “Leaving
the death of Orbit’s valet out of it, a murder, a kidnapping and two
robberies make a frightful record to contemplate. I trust you are
taking every measure to protect us here? By gad, there’s no telling
where this thing will strike next!”
“Did you ever find your key to the gates?” McCarty asked suddenly.
“Confound it, no; had to have another one made!” Sloane fumed. “Let
me see, it was a week ago that I missed it. I’d used it Saturday
morning to enter the east gate, I remember it distinctly, and I must
have dropped it near the Parsons house.—But I hope you’ll tell your
inspector that I depend on him to have a special watch kept over our
home; my father had a very bad turn on Tuesday and if any excitement
like a burglary were to take place it might prove fatal.”
“Did you get a good nurse for him?” McCarty asked solicitously. “The
last one you had beat it, didn’t he?”
“Otto? Oh, he’s back; came Tuesday afternoon, fortunately. Stupid ass
but a splendid attendant and my father’s used to him.—You won’t forget
to have us properly guarded?”
McCarty reassured him heartily and as they watched him swing off toward
the Avenue with a jaunty air Dennis remarked:
“So Lindholm showed up again, and we never even thought of it! On
Tuesday, too! Do you suppose—?”
“I’m through supposing!” McCarty interrupted. “We’ll stop by and find
out!”
The Sloane house, in spite of its almost oppressive luxury,
unmistakably betrayed the fact that a feminine hand had been for long
absent from its care and arrangement. There was a cold, detached air
about as though those beneath its roof were transients with no foothold
and little interest of a personal nature. Dennis voiced his impression
when the ancient butler had hobbled away to summon the nurse.
“’Tis like a hotel!” he whispered. “Grander than most, but public like.
If ’twas the old days I’d have been minded to ask the old guy where the
café was!”
“You’re not used to the high society we’ve been moving in lately,
Denny,” McCarty replied, adding, as soft but heavy feet padded down the
wide center staircase of the reception hall: “Wisht! Here comes the
squarehead!”
The man who entered almost before the words had left his lips was a
blond, massively built giant with an up-standing brush of hair so light
as to be almost colorless, and sleepy blue eyes in a round face ruddy
with health.
“Ay Otto Lindholm.” He bent a mildly inquiring gaze upon them. “You
bane same mans dat go to my missus?”
“Sure we are!” McCarty beamed in a friendly fashion. “What the devil
did you run away for? You’d nothing to fear because of a row with
Hughes!”
“My woman!” Otto shrugged as if that settled the matter. “Ay tal her we
better stay but she has a scare on. You bane married, you know.”
“Neither of us, thank God!” McCarty replied devoutly. “You quarreled
with Hughes on Thursday night a week ago, didn’t you?”
“Ay tal him he keep ’way from my woman or Ay bane goin’ to fix him.” He
spoke with stolid satisfaction. “Next time he write latter to her Ay
bane kick him ’roun’ de street like yaller dog. Dat’s all.”
His clear, placid eyes regarded them still in good-humored inquiry and
McCarty asked:
“When did you see him again?”
“De next night. Friday.”
“What-t!” The quiet answer had been all but overwhelming, but Otto
seemed unconscious of its portent.
“De next night,” he repeated patiently. “It bane yust start to rain an’
he var sitting on stoop of house t’ree street down, holting on wit’
bote han’s to stomach. He var ver’ sick mans. Ay tal him Ay take him
home but he tal me go to hell. He look w’ite lak sheet, Ay t’ank he
bane soffer mooch but he say he bane goin’ walk it off. Dat’s last Ay
see of him.”
“You went on and left him sitting there? That would be about eight
o’clock?”
“Yes, ’bout eight. Ay stay to see can Ay halp him but he get oop an’
walk ’way. Ay t’ank to mysalf den he look lak deat’ but Ay did not
guess it var poison. He tal me he bane get sick at dinner an’ Ay t’ank
he yust eat too mooch.” Otto shook his head. “Hughes var bad mans but
murder is not so good! Dat Calabar bean he bane get here in de Mall,
sure!”