The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3), Arthur B. Reeve [my reading book TXT] 📗

Testimony Of His Eyes.

 

"It Is A Photograph Which I Think May Aid Us In Deciding Whether

It Is Dawson Or Brown Who Is Responsible For The Forgeries,"

Answered Kennedy,  "And It May Help Us To Penetrate The Man's

Disguise Yet,  Before He Escapes To South America Or Wherever He

Plans To Go."

 

"You'll Have To Hurry," Interposed Carroll,  Nervously Looking At

His Watch. "She Sails In An Hour And A Half And It Is A Long Ride

Over To The Pier Even With A Fast Car."

 

"The Print Is Almost Ready," Repeated Kennedy Calmly. "By The Way,

It Is A Photograph Which Was Taken At Atlantic City A Few Days Ago

For A Booklet Which The Lorraine Was Getting Out. The By-Products

Forger Happened To Get In It And He Bribed The Photographer To

Give Him The Plate And Take Another Picture For The Booklet Which

Would Leave Him Out. The Plate Was Sent To A Little Office In

Chicago,  Discovered By The Post-Office Inspectors,  Where The

Forged Stock Certificates Were Sold. I Understood From What Clark

Told Me Over The Telephone Before He Started To Transmit The

Picture That The Woman In It Looked Very Much Like Adele Demott.

Let Us See."

 

The Machine Had Ceased To Revolve. Craig Stripped A Still Wet

Photograph Off The Telelectrograph Instrument And Stood Regarding

It With Intense Satisfaction. Outside,  The Car Which Had Been

Engaged To Hurry Us Over To Brooklyn Waited. "Morphine Fiends,"

Said Kennedy As He Fanned The Print To Dry It,  "Are The Most

Unreliable Sort Of People. They Cover Their Tracks With Almost

Diabolical Cunning. In Fact They Seem To Enjoy It. For Instance,

The Crimes Committed By Morphinists Are Usually Against Property

And Character And Based Upon Selfishness,  Not Brutal Crimes Such

As Alcohol And Other Drugs Induce. Kleptomania,  Forgery,

Swindling,  Are Among The Most Common.

 

"Then,  Too,  One Of The Most Marked Phases Of Morphinism Is The

Pleasure Its Victims Take In Concealing Their Motives And Conduct.

They Have A Mania For Leading A Double Life,  And Enjoy The

Deception And Mask Which They Draw About Themselves. Persons Under

The Influence Of The Drug Have Less Power To Resist Physical And

Mental Impressions And They Easily Succumb To Temptations And

Suggestions From Others. Morphine Stands Unequalled As A Perverter

Of The Moral Sense. It Creates A Person Whom The Father Of Lies

Must Recognise As Kindred To Himself. I Know Of A Case Where A

Judge Charged A Jury That The Prisoner,  A Morphine Addict,  Was

Mentally Irresponsible For That Reason. The Judge Knew What He Was

Talking About. It Subsequently Developed That He Had Been A Secret

Morphine Fiend Himself For Years."

 

"Come,  Come," Broke In Carroll Impatiently,  "We're Wasting Time.

The Ship Sails In An Hour And Unless You Want To Go Down The Bay

On A Tug You've Got To Catch Dawson Now Or Never. The Morphine

Business Explains,  But It Does Not Excuse. Come On,  The Car Is

Waiting. How Long Do You Think It Will Take Us To Get Over To---"

 

"Police Headquarters?" Interrupted Craig. "About Fifteen Minutes.

This Photograph Shows,  As I Had Hoped,  The Real Forger. John

Carroll,  This Is A Peculiar Case. You Have Forged The Name Of The

President Of Your Company,  But You Have Also Traced Your Own Name

Very Cleverly To Look Like A Forgery. It Is What Is Technically

Known As Auto-Forgery,  Forging One's Own Handwriting. At Your

Convenience We'll Ride Down To Centre Street Directly."

 

Carroll Was Sputtering And Almost Frothing At The Mouth With Rage

Which He Made No Effort To Suppress. Williams Was Hesitating,

Nonplussed,  Until Kennedy Reached Over Unexpectedly And Grasped

Carroll By The Arm. As He Shoved Up Carroll's Sleeve He Disclosed

The Forearm Literally Covered With Little Punctures Made By The

Hypodermic Needle.

 

"It May Interest You," Remarked Kennedy,  Still Holding Carroll In

His Vise-Like Grip,  While The Drug Fiend's Shattered Nerves Caused

Him To Cower And Tremble,  "To Know That A Special Detective

Working For Me Has Located Mr. And Mrs. Dawson At Bar Harbor,

Where They Are Enjoying A Quiet Honeymoon. Brown Is Safely In The

Custody Of His Counsel,  Ready To Appear And Clear Himself As Soon

Part 3 Chapter 8 (The Forger) Pg 96

As The Public Opinion Which Has Been Falsely Inflamed Against Him

Subsides. Your Plan To Give Us The Slip At The Last Moment At The

Wharf And Board The Steamer For South America Has Miscarried. It

Is Now Too Late To Catch It,  But I Shall Send A Wireless That Will

Cause The Arrest Of Miss Demott The Moment The Ship Touches An

American Port At Colon,  Even If She Succeeds In Eluding The

British Authorities At Kingston. The Fact Is,  I Don't Much Care

About Her,  Anyway. Thanks To The Telelectrograph Here We Have The

Real Criminal."

 

Kennedy Slapped Down The Now Dry Print That Had Come In Over His

"Seeing Over A Wire" Machine. Barring The False Van Dyke Beard,  It

Was The Face Of John Carroll,  Forger And Morphine Fiend. Next Him

In The Picture In The Brilliant And Fashionable Dining-Room Of The

Lorraine Was Sitting Adele Demott Who Had Used Her Victim,  Bolton

Brown,  To Shield Her Employer,  Carroll.

 

 

 

Part 3 Chapter 9 (The Unofficial Spy) Pg 97

 

 

"Craig,  Do You See That Fellow Over By The Desk,  Talking To The

Night Clerk?" I Asked Kennedy As We Lounged Into The Lobby Of The

New Hotel Vanderveer One Evening After Reclaiming Our Hats From

The Plutocrat Who Had Acquired The Checking Privilege. We Had

Dined On The Roof Garden Of The Vanderveer Apropos Of Nothing At

All Except Our Desire To Become Acquainted With A New Hotel.

 

"Yes," Replied Kennedy,  "What Of Him?"

 

"He's The House Detective,  Mcbride. Would You Like To Meet Him?

He's Full Of Good Stories,  An Interesting Chap. I Met Him At A

Dinner Given To The President Not Long Ago And He Told Me A Great

Yarn About How The Secret Service,  The Police,  And The Hotel

Combined To Guard The President During The Dinner. You Know,  A Big

Hotel Is The Stamping Ground For All Sorts Of Cranks And Crooks."

 

The House Detective Had Turned And Had Caught My Eye. Much To My

Surprise,  He Advanced To Meet Me.

 

"Say,--Er--Er--Jameson," He Began,  At Last Recalling My Name,

Though He Had Seen Me Only Once And Then For Only A Short Time.

"You're On The Star,  I Believe?"

 

"Yes," I Replied,  Wondering What He Could Want.

 

"Well--Er--Do You Suppose You Could Do The House A Little--Er--

Favour?" He Asked,  Hesitating And Dropping His Voice.

 

"What Is It?" I Queried,  Not Feeling Certain But That It Was A

Veiled Attempt To Secure A Little Free Advertising For The

Vanderveer. "By The Way,  Let Me Introduce You To My Friend

Kennedy,  Mcbride."

 

"Craig Kennedy?" He Whispered Aside,  Turning Quickly To Me. I

Nodded.

 

"Mr. Kennedy," Exclaimed The House Man Deferentially,  "Are You

Very Busy Just Now?"

 

"Not Especially So," Replied Craig. "My Friend Jameson Was Telling

Part 3 Chapter 9 (The Unofficial Spy) Pg 98

Me That You Knew Some Interesting Yarns About Hotel Detective

Life. I Should Like To Hear You Tell Some Of Them,  If You Are Not

Yourself Too---"

 

"Perhaps You'd Rather See One Instead?" Interrupted The House

Detective,  Eagerly Scanning Craig's Face.

 

"Indeed,  Nothing Could Please Me More. What Is It--A 'Con' Man Or

A Hotel 'Beat'?"

 

Mcbride Looked About To Make Sure That No One Was Listening.

"Neither," He Whispered. "It's Either A Suicide Or A Murder. Come

Upstairs With Me. There Isn't A Man In The World I Would Rather

Have Met At This Very Instant,  Mr. Kennedy,  Than Yourself."

 

We Followed Mcbride Into An Elevator Which He Stopped At The

Fifteenth Floor. With A Nod To The Young Woman Who Was The Floor

Clerk,  The House Detective Led The Way Down The Thickly Carpeted

Hall,  Stopping At A Room Which,  We Could See Through The Transom,

Was Lighted. He Drew A Bunch Of Keys From His Pocket And Inserted

A Pass Key Into The Lock.

 

The Door Swung Open Into A Sumptuously Fitted Sitting-Room. I

Looked In,  Half Fearfully,  But,  Although All The Lights Were

Turned On,  The Room Was Empty. Mcbride Crossed The Room Quickly,

Opened A Door To A Bedroom,  And Jerked His Head Back With A Quick

Motion,  Signifying His Desire For Us To Follow.

 

Stretched Lifeless On The White Linen Of The Immaculate Bed Lay

The Form Of A Woman,  A Beautiful Woman She Had Been,  Too,  Though

Not With The Freshness Which Makes American Women So Attractive.

There Was Something Artificial About Her Beauty,  The Artificiality

Which Hinted At A Hidden Story Of A Woman With A Past.

 

She Was A Foreigner,  Apparently Of One Of The Latin Races,

Although At The Moment In The Horror Of The Tragedy Before Us I

Could Not Guess Her Nationality. It Was Enough For Me That Here

Lay This Cold,  Stony,  Rigid Beauty,  Robed In The Latest Creations

Of Paris,  Alone In An Elegantly Furnished Room Of An Exclusive

Hotel Where Hundreds Of Gay Guests Were Dining And Chatting And

Laughing Without A Suspicion Of The Terrible Secret Only A Few

Feet Distant From Them.

 

We Stood Awestruck For The Moment.

 

"The Coroner Ought To Be Here Any Moment," Remarked Mcbride And

Even The Callousness Of The Regular Detective Was Not Sufficient

To Hide The Real Feelings Of The Man. His Practical Sense Soon

Returned,  However,  And He Continued,  "Now,  Jameson,  Don't You

Think You Could Use A Little Influence With The Newspaper Men To

Keep This Thing Off The Front Pages? Of Course Something Has To Be

Printed About It. But We Don't Want To Hoodoo The Hotel Right At

The Start. We Had A Suicide The Other Day Who Left An Apologetic

Note That Was Played Up By Some Of The Papers. Now Comes This

Affair. The Management Are Just As Anxious To Have The Crime

Cleared Up As Any One--If It Is A Crime. But Can't It Be Done With

The Soft Pedal? We Will Stop At Nothing In The Way Of Expense--

Just So Long As The Name Of The Vanderveer Is Kept In The

Background. Only,  I'm Afraid The Coroner Will Try To Rub It In And

Make The Thing Sensational."

 

"What Was Her Name?" Asked Kennedy. "At Least,  Under What Name Was

She Registered?"

 

"She Was Registered As Madame De Nevers. It Is Not Quite A Week

Now Since She Came Here,  Came Directly From The Steamer

Tripolitania. See,  There Are Her Trunks And Things,  All Pasted

Over With Foreign Labels,  Not An American Label Among Them. I

Haven't The Slightest Doubt That Her Name Was Fictitious,  For As

Far As I Can See All The