MAX
“Is that the poor beast you told me about?” It was an hour later, and
McCarty and Dennis were coming down the steps of the Parsons residence.
The latter pointed across the street to where Max was prowling up and
down the court.
“Yes. He’ll go on like that till he drops in his tracks.” A certain
note of grimness had crept into McCarty’s tone. “I wonder if Orbit went
down to the boat to see his friend off? I’d like a word with him if Sir
Philip has gone.”
“We’ve had words, in a manner of speaking, with more than one this
morning!” Dennis remarked. “We know as much now as we did before but
we’ve not gone a step forward and ’tis near noon.... Look at Little Fu
Moy!”
The Chinese boy, looking, in his drab, everyday attire, like some
dun-colored moth, had emerged from the side door of the house where he
was employed and approached the dog, holding a bit of cake out in one
brown little hand, but Max’s somber eyes showed no glint of recognition
and he swung out of the child’s way, staggering in sheer weakness until
he regained his poise.
Fu Moy stood still, his hand dropped to his side, and the piece of cake
falling to the pavement of the court.
“You go ring the bell, Denny, and ask for Mr. Orbit,” McCarty
directed. “I’ll be with you in a minute. If Ching Lee takes you to him
say you’ll wait for me, that I’ve something more to ask him.”
Dennis obeyed but when Ching Lee appeared and he voiced his query the
Oriental shook his head.
“Mr. Orbit is not at home. He has gone down to the wharf with Sir
Philip, whose ship sails at noon.”
“Then I’ll wait for him.” Dennis announced firmly. “My friend McCarty
will be along in a little while. When Mr. Orbit gets back, tell him the
two of us are here.”
Ching Lee showed him to the library and with a bow left him, and Dennis
seated himself, feeling regretfully of the pipe in his pocket. What
McCarty had in mind he could not conjecture and there was no telling
when Orbit might return to find him waiting there without an idea in
his head and afraid to open his mouth for fear of balling up the game.
Had Mac just been kidding when he told the inspector he’d know by noon
whether his notion was fact or not? He’d learned nothing since but a
lot of corroborative detail about things that didn’t matter, anyway.
Why on earth was he hanging around outside, fooling with the dog?
Time crawled. Twenty minutes had passed by the great old grandfather’s
clock in the corner and still McCarty did not put in an appearance.
Dennis rose at last and tiptoed out across the hall and down to the
card-room, where he cautiously opened the side door leading to the
court. There stood McCarty, chinning and laughing with the little Chink
as if he’d not a care in the world!
Dennis took a tentative step forward, but at that moment McCarty
turned with a pat on the shoulder to Fu Moy and started for the rear of
the house. Dennis was forced to beat a hasty retreat lest the boy find
him spying.
What could Mac have found to talk about to the lad? Dennis knew him too
well to be taken in by that idly jocular air, and he’d not be wasting a
minute at this stage of the game. Could it be from somebody in Orbit’s
household, after all, that Hughes had got his death-dose and poor
Lucette that puff of poisoned air? Could the boy Horace be even now
hidden in some secret corner of Chinatown or the French quarter?
He had little opportunity to speculate further, for the front door
opened and after a moment Orbit’s tones came to him raised in singsong
Chinese. Little Fu Moy replied and then the master of the house entered.
“Good morning, Riordan. Where is McCarty? Fu Moy says you both wished
to see me. What can I do for you?”
For a horrible moment Dennis’ tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and
then an inspiration came.
“Mac has something to ask you, Mr. Orbit, but he was stopped outside.
He’ll be in right away. ’Twas about that chloroforming the other night
that I wanted to see you. You woke up sick and found nothing had been
touched, but there was the bottle and the towel, and the side door open
downstairs. Did you happen to notice anything else?”
“Only proof that there were two of them,” Orbit responded thoughtfully.
“I forgot to mention that to the inspector. One had big hands, fat, and
a trifle soft, but the other’s were thin and strong with a wiry grip
and a broken finger on the left one.”
“You don’t tell me!” Dennis ejaculated and his own left hand promptly
fumbled with his coat pocket as though seeking cover there. Then in
confusion it dropped to his side again. “And how might you be knowing
that? Sure, the inspector said you’d no time to move, before the towel
was clapped down over your face!”
“They had left their marks behind them.” Orbit laughed. “Fat Hands had
raised my windows higher and he must have been the one who actually
drugged me, for Broken Finger was nervous and during that operation he
gripped the post at the foot of my bed so tightly that the impression
was plainly left in the satiny finish of the wood. The prints could
have been made by none of the household when they came in response to
my ring, for Ching Lee’s hands are very long and slender, Jean’s as
thin as claws and André’s fat but small. Fu Moy did not wake up and I
would not permit Sir Philip or his man to be disturbed.”
“Maybe there was more than two of them,” Dennis suggested hopefully.
“Was there nothing else but just them finger marks? The bureau don’t
take so much stock in that kind of evidence any more, what with the new
science and such.”
“New science?” Orbit raised his brows. “Do you mean the crime-detecting
machines imported from some of the European capitals? But that was some
years ago.”
“No, sir.” Dennis’ thoughts went swiftly back to more than one
experience he had had with automatic informers in company with McCarty
during earlier days. “This is no test of your breathing, nor pulse,
nor sweat-glands, nor yet how quick you can think when a lie comes in
handy. ’Tis the crime itself that tells nowadays what manner of man
committed it and what kind of people he sprung from; I’ve no doubt but
that soon they’ll have it down so pat they can tell a guy’s color and
religion and politics by the turn of a knife or the course of a bullet!
It’s a wonder anybody got hung at all in the old days!”
“Mr. Orbit?” McCarty unannounced appeared at last in the doorway.
“Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. Has Sir Philip Devereux gone?”
“He sailed less than an hour ago.” Orbit eyed him inquiringly. “Your
associate tells me you have something to ask me.”
“About Hughes, it was. He’d not been looking so well lately. Do you
know had he been taking any medicine?”
“Really, I couldn’t say.” He shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me to ask
him!”
“That’s that, then!” McCarty seemed lost in thought for a minute. “Who
is it drinks milk in the household?”
“Milk?” Orbit smiled. “Fu Moy, perhaps, but you will have to ask him.
The only one I know to be fond of it is Vite, the monkey; it is one of
his main articles of diet.”
As though the mention of his name had summoned him, a little
brownish-gray shape sidled in over the doorsill, paused for a moment
and then sprang through the air to land lightly on Orbit’s shoulder and
sit chattering impertinently at the intruders.
“Silence, Vite! Where are your manners?” His owner stroked him gently.
“Why do you ask about the milk, McCarty?”
“It isn’t of any matter, sir. The medical examiner was saying that
’twas only in medicine or milk the Calabar bean powder could be
dissolved.”
Orbit moved with a slight trace of impatience.
“Surely such minor details are unimportant just at this time, anxious
as I am to have the mystery concerning Hughes’ death cleared up!
Nothing can restore him or that poor girl who died so strangely in my
house, but there is Horace Goddard! This is the fourth day since his
inexplicable disappearance and his father tells me that no effort has
been made to approach him for ransom. If the boy has not been killed
in some accident he may be in horrible danger! He is delicate, he
could not long endure hardships, privation.” Orbit hesitated and then
went on: “I don’t know whether the suggestion may be worth anything or
not, but has his own home been searched thoroughly? It is an enormous,
rambling old house with innumerable storerooms and closets upstairs—I
have remembered them since I was a mere lad. Horace is a solitary,
meditative little chap, fond of getting away by himself. Isn’t it
possible that he may have gone up to some portion of the attic and
either fastened himself in or been locked away there by some one who
didn’t know he was around? Finding he couldn’t get out he may have been
frightened, fainted,—the possibilities are too awful to be imagined!”
“No, there’s no chance of that, for every inch of the house has been
gone over a dozen times, but it may be, of course, that he met with an
accident somewhere and the body hasn’t come to light yet; the inspector
was saying something like that awhile ago. The lad could have been dead
even before he was missed by Trafford; you recall the tutor coming here
to ask for him that day whilst we were talking to you? The coal men
had been after getting in your supply—?”
“Yes, yes!” Orbit nodded quickly, impatience at McCarty’s garrulity
evident in his voice now. “Most inconvenient time, too, just before
the arrival of my guests! I had ordered it days before.—But these idle
speculations about Horace won’t help any, I suppose; the Goddards
themselves can scarcely be more anxious than I am for some real results
from this investigation!”
“Well, the inspector’ll be around in a little while, if you’re home.”
McCarty signaled to Dennis with a jerk of his head. “There’s something
in his mind he wants to talk to you about, and maybe you can help him.
We’ve not made much headway, and that’s a fact, but ’tis the worst case
ever the department handled.”
There was an injured note in his voice and Orbit responded with
sympathetic tact:
“I’m sure you’re doing all you can and I shall be glad to see the
inspector or either of you at any time.” He pressed the bell and as
Ching Lee threw open the door he added: “The medical examiner has come
to no definite conclusion about the girl’s death? If it was really gas
of some sort it seems odd its nature can’t be determined. But I speak
ignorantly, of course; I know little or nothing of chemistry in any
form.... I shall wait to hear from the inspector.”
“I don’t get you this morning at all!” Dennis remarked plaintively when
the door of Orbit’s house had closed behind them. “While I waited I saw
you kidding the little heathen out in the side court and then you went
to the back, and Orbit came in and I had to string him. For what did we
go there in the first place? You’d little to ask him and you got less
for it, when you did finally come in! Is it stalling around for time,
you are?”
“There’ll be no more stalling, Denny!” There was a new note in
McCarty’s voice. “’Twas little I got from Orbit himself, but we’ll go
to Goddard now. I want to use his telephone.”
“Why didn’t you use Orbit’s?” Dennis demanded. Then a light broke over
his face. “’Tis the inspector you’ll be calling up and there’s them in
that house back there—! Mac, for the love of the saints, have you found
out something? Have you struck it at last?”
The dog Max who was lying in the patch of sunlight that filtered down
between the houses, raised his head at the eager expectancy of Dennis’
tone and McCarty glanced at him thoughtfully.
“’Twas not me that struck anything, Denny, and ’tis only a guess yet
but ’twas _it_ ought to have struck _me_ before this!” he replied.
“We’ll have a little while to wait, and I’ll thank you to keep Goddard
and that Trafford talking and not leave them out of your sight whilst
I’m telephoning; I don’t want either of them listening in!”
“Then ’tis one of them, as well as somebody in Orbit’s house—!” Dennis
gaped in amazement. “Mac, what kind of a devilish plot is it? You said
last night ’twas too sickening to talk about—!”
“’Tis worse!” McCarty interrupted tersely. “Let be till we see what
comes!”
Winch the butler, looking more aged and fragile than ever, ushered
them into the drawing-room where Goddard presently appeared followed
by Trafford. The stout little man had changed markedly in the past few
days; his eyes were dim and the flesh of his face hung in folds as
though deflated, while his voice had the trembling overtone of that of
an old man.
“You—you have news for us, McCarty? Some word has reached you of—of
Horace?”
“I think I know where he will be in a little while, Mr. Goddard,”
McCarty replied quietly. “I’ll have to ask you to wait, though, till
the inspector gets here, and I’ll have to ’phone him. Can I use the one
in your smoking-room? I want to be dead sure it’s private for I’ve got
to talk confidential.—Thanks, Trafford, I know the way.”
Waiting only for Goddard’s nod he cast a quick admonitory glance at
Dennis and hastened away. The latter cast about wildly in his mind for
a safe topic to pursue, but the burden was lifted from him.
“What is it, Riordan? For God’s sake, what does McCarty mean?” Goddard
turned to him.
“I’ve no notion,” Dennis replied, truthfully enough. “He’s been working
on something for the last day or two while I was on—on other duty, but
I expect things will be moving now. You’ve heard nothing yourself?”
“Nothing!” Goddard raised a shaking hand to his forehead. “I tell you,
Riordan, we can’t—we can’t endure much more of this! If my boy were
in his grave we would at least know it and learn somehow to bear it
but the uncertainty is driving us mad! Unless we know the truth soon I
shall lose my wife, too!”
“We’ll know.” Dennis spoke with the assurance of utter conviction.
“Mac’s not one to start anything he can’t finish and I’ve worked on
too many cases with him not to know the signs. If he says the lad will
be found in a little while he means it but—but maybe it’ll be sick or
something he’ll be. Worrying, you see, and being away from home—!”
Words failed him, for he had read in that ominous quietude of McCarty’s
voice a hint of trouble yet to come. He floundered desperately in a
tender-hearted attempt to pave the way. The situation was saved for him
by the sudden reappearance of McCarty himself in the doorway.
“Denny, go out and call Yost in; the inspector has instructions for
him.” The latent excitement had intensified in his tone. “Don’t tell
the whole block what you’re doing, either!”
“I don’t know, myself!” Dennis retorted, preparing nevertheless to
obey. “Shall I take his place?”
“Now you’re talking!” McCarty nodded approval. “He’ll have a message
for you when he comes out and ’twill be all right to do what he says.
The other night in my rooms when we were starting out to pay a couple
of calls I gave you something to carry; did you think to bring it with
you now?”
The revolver! Dennis started violently and one hand sought his hip
pocket involuntarily as he nodded.
“All right. You’ll know what to do with it after you’ve talked to Yost.
Send him in.”
Dennis departed, found the headquarters’ man patrolling listlessly on
the sidewalk and delivered the message. Then he paced from gate to gate
in a daze of bewildered thought. Things were indeed moving. He could
not fathom what was in McCarty’s mind, but he felt a grim portent in
the very air of the sunlit, semi-deserted block, like the shuddering
silence before a blast.
The elder Sloane returned; the housemaid from Mrs. Bellamy’s who had
taken charge of little Maude immediately after Wednesday’s tragedy went
out upon an errand and came back before Yost left the Goddard house.
When he reached Dennis’ side his former listlessness had vanished.
“Who’s gone out of the Mall?” he demanded.
“Only a hired girl from Mrs. Bellamy’s, and she came in again.” Dennis
replied. “What is it? Mac said you’d tell me what to do, and he asked
had I a gun with me. I have.”
“Then go take the east gate.” Yost pointed. “Open it if any one wants
to come in but let no one out if you have to drill them full of holes!
Get me?”
“’Tis the clearest thing I’ve heard this day!” Dennis averred. “I’ll do
no drilling but there’ll no one pass me! What in hell is doing, do you
know?”
“Only that the inspector’s coming as fast as the chief’s own car can
get here and he’s bringing a young army with him! It looks like the end
of it, Riordan!—Hey, there goes the Bellamy butler! I’ll have to head
him off, for I’m taking the west gate myself. There’s somebody wanting
to get in yours.”
Dennis hurried to the gate opening on the Avenue and with much ceremony
admitted an open touring car in which sat a young lady so bewilderingly
beautiful that he gaped after her in respectful admiration until she
disappeared in the Parsons house. Was that the old gentleman’s niece?
He was recalled to his present duties only when the chauffeur turned
and drove straight toward him once more, halting only a bare few feet
away.
“Hi, there! Open the gate!”
“Nothing doing,” Dennis retorted firmly. “Orders from police
headquarters. Them that gets in, stays in.”
“Yah! You green rookie! I’m Mr. Parsons’ chauffeur, if that means
anything to you, and I’m in a hurry!”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.” With a gingerly reluctance
which would have meant sudden death had he been faced by an earnest
antagonist, Dennis produced his revolver. “’Twould mean nothing if you
drove the chariot of the Angel Gabriel, you’d not get through that
gate!”
A wordy combat ensued interrupted only by the appearance on the Avenue
side of the barrier of young Mr. Brinsley Sloane. He hesitated, turning
slightly pale at sight of Dennis’ formidable weapon. The latter called
out peremptorily:
“’Round to the other gate if you want to get in! This guy’ll get out if
you open this one! Police orders!”
“Really!” Brinsley Sloane stared through his huge-rimmed glasses. “This
is extraordinary! What has the fellow done, officer?”
Dennis swelled visibly at the appellation.
“Nothing yet,” he admitted. “He won’t, either, unless he’s wishful to
croak!”
“Is the fellow mad?” Young Sloane addressed the chauffeur who,
scenting an ally, broke into injured explanations. The argument
became a triangular affair although the scion of the Sloanes remained
discreetly on the neutral ground beyond the gate. It was ended at
last by a subdued hubbub at the farther one. Dennis turned to behold
the inspector drive slowly in with several familiar officials of the
department; his car was followed by a larger one packed with husky men
and bristling with long-handled shovels.
Dennis uttered a startled exclamation and Brinsley Sloane let himself
hurriedly in with his key while the Parsons’ chauffeur no longer
exhibited any desire to depart. Martin appeared suddenly from nowhere
and addressed the astounded deputy.
“Beat it, Riordan; Mac wants you! I’ll take over your job.”
Dennis needed no second bidding. He set off at a shambling run,
unconsciously brandishing his revolver as he went and Goddard, Trafford
and McCarty emerged from the house to meet him. He noticed as in a daze
that the tutor braced his employer with an almost filial manner and the
older man leaned heavily upon him, pallid but composed.
The men with the shovels were piling out of the second car and he saw
that they carried in addition enormous sooty baskets. His eyes turned
wonderingly to McCarty as the inspector hurried up.
“All set, Mac! The boys are posted all around the walls. What do you
want done?”
“Open that coal chute first!” McCarty pointed to the square iron plate
like a trap-door in the center of the side court, over which Max was
still hovering. “Then send your men down in Orbit’s cellar to dig like
hell! There’s thirty tons to be moved by the ten of them in an hour and
a thousand dollars from Mr. Goddard to the guy that takes out the last
shovelful. Go to it!”
Ching Lee had appeared in the front door of the Orbit house and Jean at
the side one, while André peered from the kitchen window. All at once
the houseman was brushed aside and Orbit strode out.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“We’re going to move your coal, Mr. Orbit,—the coal that was put in
so quick the very hour that Horace Goddard disappeared!” McCarty
replied. He turned abruptly to the group who were lifting the cover
of the chute. As it rose and then fell back ringing on the pavement,
a long-drawn howl broke upon the air; Max, tense and quivering, was
gazing down into the aperture and McCarty motioned toward him.
“’Twas him and not me got the hunch first, inspector. ’Twas the lad’s
pal, here—Max!”