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

Of The

River. It Was A Searchlight. At Once I Thought Of The Huge

Reflector Which I Had Seen Set Up. But That Had Been On Our Side

Of The Next Pier And This Light Came From The Far Side Where The

Mohican Lay.

 

"What Is It?" I Asked Eagerly. "What Has Happened?"

 

It Was As If A Prayer Had Been Answered From Our Dungeon On La

Montaigne.

 

"I Knew We Should Need Some Means To Communicate With Herndon," He

Explained Simply,  "And The Wireless Telephone Wasn't Practicable.

So I Have Used Dr. Alexander Graham Bell's Photophone. Any Of The

Lights On This Side Of La Montaigne,  I Knew,  Would Serve. What I

Did,  Walter,  Was Merely To Talk Into The Mouthpiece Back Of This

Little Silvered Mirror Which Reflects Light. The Vibrations Of The

Voice Caused A Diaphragm In It To Vibrate And Thus The Beam Of

Reflected Light Was Made To Pulsate. In Other Words,  This Little

Thing Is Just A Simple Apparatus To Transform The Air Vibrations

Of The Voice Into Light Vibrations.

 

"The Parabolic Reflector Over There Catches These Light Vibrations

And Focuses Them On The Cell Of Selenium Which You Perhaps Noticed

In The Centre Of The Reflector. You Remember Doubtless That The

Element Selenium Varies Its Electrical Resistance Under Light?

Thus There Are Reproduced Similar Variations In The Cell To Those

Vibrations Here In This Transmitter. The Cell Is Connected With A

Telephone Receiver And Batteries Over There--And There You Are. It

Is Very Simple. In The Ordinary Carbon Telephone Transmitter A

Variable Electrical Resistance Is Produced By Pressure,  Since

Carbon Is Not So Good A Conductor Under Pressure. Then These

Variations Are Transmitted Along Two Wires. This Photophone Is

Wireless. Selenium Even Emits Notes Under A Vibratory Beam Of

Light,  The Pitch Depending On The Frequency. Changes In The

Intensity Of The Light Focused By The Reflector On The Cell Alter

Its Electrical Resistance And Vary The Current From The Dry

Batteries. Hence The Telephone Receiver Over There Is Affected.

Bell Used The Photophone Or Radiophone Over Several Hundred Feet,

Ruhmer Over Several Miles. When You Thought I Was Talking To

Myself I Was Really Telling Herndon What Had Happened And What To

Do--Talking To Him Literally Over A Beam Of Light."

 

I Could Scarcely Believe It,  But An Exclamation From Kennedy As He

Drew His Head In Quickly Recalled My Attention. "Look Out On The

River,  Walter," He Cried. "The Mohican Has Her Searchlight

Sweeping Up And Down. What Do You See?"

 

The Long Finger Of Light Had Now Come To Rest. In Its Pathway I

Saw A Lightless Motor-Boat Bobbing Up And Down,  Crowding On All

Speed,  Yet Followed Relentlessly By The Accusing Finger. The River

Front Was Now Alive With Shouting.

 

Suddenly The Mohican Shot Out From Behind The Pier Where She Had

Been Hidden. In Spite Of Lang's Expertness It Was An Unequal Race.

Nor Would It Have Made Much Difference If It Had Been Otherwise,

For A Shot Rang Out From The Mohican Which Commanded Instant

Respect. The Powerful Revenue Cutter Rapidly Overhauled The Little

Craft.

 

A Hurried Tread Down The Passageway Followed. Cases Were Being

Shoved Aside And A Key In The Door Of Our Compartment Turned

Quickly. I Waited With Clenched Fists,  Prepared For An Attack.

 

"You're All Right?" Herndon's Voice Inquired Anxiously. "We've Got

That Steward And The Other Fellows All Right."

 

"Yes,  Come On," Shouted Craig. "The Cutter Has Made A Capture."

 

We Had Reached The Stern Of The Ship,  And Far Out In The River The

Mohican Was Now Headed Toward Us. She Came Alongside,  And Herndon

Quickly Seized A Rope,  Fastened It To The Rail,  And Let Himself

Down To The Deck Of The Cutter. Kennedy And I Followed.

 

"This Is A High-Handed Proceeding," I Heard A Voice That Must Have

Been Lang's Protesting. "By What Right Do You Stop Me? You Shall

Suffer For This."

 

Part 3 Chapter 10 (The Smuggler) Pg 124

"The Mohican," Broke In Herndon,  "Has The Right To Appear Anywhere

From Southshoal Lightship Off Nantucket To The Capes Of The

Delaware,  Demand An Inspection Of Any Vessel's Manifest And

Papers,  Board Anything From La Montaigne To Your Little Motor-

Boat,  Inspect It,  Seize It,  If Necessary Put A Crew On It." He

Slapped The Little Cannon.

 

"That Commands Respect. Besides,  You Were Violating The

Regulations--No Lights."

 

On The Deck Of The Cutter Now Lay Four Cases. A Man Broke One Of

Them Open,  Then Another. Inside He Disclosed Thousands Of Dollars'

Worth Of Finery,  While From A Tray He Drew Several Large Chamois

Bags Of Glittering Diamonds And Pearls.

 

Pierre Looked On,  Crushed,  All His Jauntiness Gone.

 

"So," Exclaimed Kennedy,  Facing Him,  "You Have Your Jilted

Fiancee,  Mademoiselle Violette,  To Thank For This--Her Letters And

Her Suicide. It Wasn't As Easy As You Thought To Throw Her Over

For A New Soul Mate,  This Mademoiselle Gabrielle Whom You Were

Going To Set Up As A Rival In Business To Violette. Violette Has

Her Revenge For Making A Plaything Of Her Heart,  And If The Dead

Can Take Any Satisfaction She--"

 

With A Quick Movement Kennedy Anticipated A Motion Of Pierre's.

The Ruined Smuggler Had Contemplated Either An Attack On Himself

Or His Captor,  But Craig Had Seized Him By The Wrist And Ground

His Knuckles Into The Back Of Pierre's Clenched Fist Until He

Winced With Pain. An Apache Dagger Similar To That Which The

Little Modiste Had Used To End Her Life Tragedy Clattered To The

Deck Of The Ship,  A Mute Testimonial To The High Class Of Society

Pierre And His Associates Must Have Cultivated.

 

"None Of That,  Pierre," Craig Muttered,  Releasing Him. "You Can't

Cheat The Government Out Of Its Just Dues Even In The Matter Of

Punishment."

 

 

Part 3 Chapter 11 (The Invisible Ray) Pg 125

 

"I Won't Deny That I Had Some Expectations From The Old Man

Myself."

 

Kennedy's Client Was Speaking In A Low,  Full-Chested,  Vibrating

Voice,  With Some Emotion,  So Low That I Had Entered The Room

Without Being Aware That Any One Was There Until It Was Too Late

To Retreat.

 

"As His Physician For Over Twelve Years," The Man Pursued,  "I

Certainly Had Been Led To Hope To Be Remembered In His Will. But,

Professor Kennedy,  I Can't Put It Too Strongly When I Say That

There Is No Selfish Motive In My Coming To You About The Case.

There Is Something Wrong--Depend On That."

 

Craig Had Glanced Up At Me And,  As I Hesitated,  I Could See In An

Instant That The Speaker Was A Practitioner Of A Type That Is

Rapidly Passing Away,  The Old-Fashioned Family Doctor.

 

"Dr. Burnham,  I Should Like To Have You Know Mr. Jameson,"

Introduced Craig. "You Can Talk As Freely Before Him As You Have

To Me Alone. We Always Work Together."

 

I Shook Hands With The Visitor.

 

"The Doctor Has Succeeded In Interesting Me Greatly In A Case

Which Has Some Unique Features," Kennedy Explained. "It Has To Do

With Stephen Haswell,  The Eccentric Old Millionaire Of Brooklyn.

Have You Ever Heard Of Him?"

 

"Yes,  Indeed," I Replied,  Recalling An Occasional Article Which

Had Appeared In The Newspapers Regarding A Dusty And Dirty Old

House In That Part Of The Heights In Brooklyn Whence All That Is

Fashionable Had Not Yet Taken Flight,  A House Of Mystery,  Yet Not

More Mysterious Than Its Owner In His Secretive Comings And Goings

In The Affairs Of Men Of A Generation Beyond His Time. Further

Than The Facts That He Was Reputed To Be Very Wealthy And Led,  In

The Heart Of A Great City,  What Was As Nearly Like The Life Of A

Hermit As Possible,  I Knew Little Or Nothing. "What Has He Been

Doing Now?" I Asked.

 

"About A Week Ago," Repeated The Doctor,  In Answer To A Nod Of

Encouragement From Kennedy,  "I Was Summoned In The Middle Of The

Night To Attend Mr. Haswell,  Who,  As I Have Been Telling Professor

Kennedy,  Had Been A Patient Of Mine For Over Twelve Years. He Had

Been Suddenly Stricken With Total Blindness. Since Then He Appears

To Be Failing Fast,  That Is,  He Appeared So The Last Time I Saw

Him,  A Few Days Ago,  After I Had Been Superseded By A Younger Man.

It Is A Curious Case And I Have Thought About It A Great Deal. But

I Didn't Like To Speak To The Authorities; There Wasn't Enough To

Warrant That,  And I Should Have Been Laughed Out Of Court For My

Pains. The More I Have Thought About It,  However,  The More I Have

Felt It My Duty To Say Something To Somebody,  And So,  Having Heard

Of Professor Kennedy,  I Decided To Consult Him. The Fact Of The

Matter Is,  I Very Much Fear That There Are Circumstances Which

Will Bear Sharp Looking Into,  Perhaps A Scheme To Get Control Of

The Old Man's Fortune."

 

The Doctor Paused,  And Craig Inclined His Head,  As Much As To

Signify His Appreciation Of The Delicate Position In Which Burnham

Stood In The Case. Before The Doctor Could Proceed Further,

Kennedy Handed Me A Letter Which Had Been Lying Before Him On The

Table. It Had Evidently Been Torn Into Small Pieces And Then

Carefully Pasted Together.

 

The Superscription Gave A Small Town In Ohio And A Date About A

Fortnight Previous.

 

Dear Father [It Read]: I Hope You Will Pardon Me For Writing,  But

I Cannot Let The Occasion Of Your Seventy-Fifth Birthday Pass

Without A Word Of Affection And Congratulation. I Am Alive And

Well--Time Has Dealt Leniently With Me In That Respect,  If Not In

Money Matters. I Do Not Say This In The Hope Of Reconciling You To

Me. I Know That Is Impossible After All These Cruel Years. But I

Do Wish That I Could See You Again. Remember,  I Am Your Only Child

And Even If You Still Think I Have Been A Foolish One,  Please Let

Me Come To See You Once Before It Is Too Late. We Are Constantly

Travelling From Place To Place,  But Shall Be Here For A Few Days.

 

Your Loving Daughter,

 

Grace Haswell Martin.

 

"Some Fourteen Or Fifteen Years Ago," Explained The Doctor As I

Looked Up From Reading The Note,  "Mr. Haswell's Only Daughter

Eloped With An Artist Named Martin. He Had Been Engaged To Paint A

Portrait Of The Late Mrs. Haswell From A Photograph. It Was The

First Time That Grace Haswell Had Ever Been Able To Find

Expression For The Artistic Yearning Which Had Always Been

Repressed By The Cold,  Practical Sense Of Her Father. She

Remembered Her Mother Perfectly Since The Sad Bereavement Of Her

Part 3 Chapter 11 (The Invisible Ray) Pg 126

Girlhood And Naturally She Watched And Helped The