The unknown seven A detective story
Doctor Latham laughed pleasantly. “You’re in perfect condition, Mr.
Stone. Perhaps you have smoked too much, or taken too much strong
coffee in the last few days, resulting in one or two sleepless nights,
but there is nothing else the matter with you. Ordinarily you would
have shaken off the effects with a cold shower, or a hike in the
country. I dare say you haven’t consulted a physician more than two or
three times since you grew up. Under the circumstances I am somewhat
curious to know why you came to me.”
Cole gave him a sharp glance, but the affably smiling face instantly
quieted the misgivings which the doctor’s statement had aroused.
“What I don’t see,” Latham went on, “is why you went to a doctor at
all, and why to me in particular. We never saw each other until to-day.
I don’t flatter myself by thinking that you knew me by reputation.
People who have no regular physician usually go to some one recommended
to them by friends. They don’t like to consult a doctor who is an utter
stranger to them. Perhaps among my patients there is a friend of yours
who mentioned me to you?”
“That’s it exactly,” said Cole, thrilling inwardly as he saw his chance
to pitch Reeves’ name into the conversation. “Only the other day I was
complaining to a friend of not feeling well, and he suggested I go to
you. His name——”
“Ah,” asked Doctor Latham, speaking in very soft tones. “I wonder if
you are referring to Malcolm Reeves?”
For a moment Cole looked as if he had received a blow between the
eyes. He gathered himself in an instant, but not before the doctor had
noticed his surprise. The physician was still smiling, but now the
smile was different. It was frosty and pale. “I see I guessed right,”
he murmured.
“Is Reeves one of your patients?” Cole managed to ask.
The doctor leaned back in the chair, crossed his long legs, and gazed
toward the ceiling. Cole became conscious of a distinct chill in the
air, and he felt irritated at himself for having stumbled into the same
trap he had set for the physician. Doctor Latham, he was beginning to
perceive, was a man whose mental thrust was as quick and sure as his
own.
“Frankness is an excellent policy, Mr. Stone,” observed the physician
coldly. “We shall make better progress if you will put all your cards
on the table. You did not come here to consult me about your health.
May I ask why you are honoring me with this visit?”
“You have not yet answered my own question,” observed Cole, quickly
rallying to the verbal fencing match. “Is Reeves a patient of yours?”
The doctor lowered his gaze. His piercing eyes searched Cole’s face. A
faint flash of white teeth showed between the bearded lips.
“I believe that question has a point to it,” he observed. “You ought to
know, Mr. Stone, that a physician never discusses his patients. It is
a very good rule, especially in the present instance. It affords me a
good excuse for not answering your question.”
“Then you admit you found the question embarrassing?”
“A discreet man never admits anything, Mr. Stone. I may point out,
however, that questions are never embarrassing, although answers
sometimes are. I believe Wilde says something to that effect in one of
his plays.”
“Then you positively decline to answer?”
“In order to spare us mutual embarrassment, yes. You see, Mr. Stone,
there are circumstances in which a truthful answer may convey an
erroneous impression. Now, won’t you tell me to what I owe the honor of
this visit?”
“Is that a candid question, Doctor Latham?”
“By no means, my friend. I knew the answer before I spoke the question.
I was merely curious to see whether you would reply truthfully.”
Cole smiled. It was evident that Doctor Latham was a past master in the
art of dueling with words. The man’s frankness amazed him. In admitting
that he knew the purpose of Cole’s visit he had also admitted that he
knew something about Malcolm Reeves’ condition. But he had turned his
phrases so adroitly that nothing of a tangible nature could be fastened
on him.
“Will you tell me how you knew, doctor?”
“Through a process of elimination. I knew at first glance that your
concern over your physical condition was only a subterfuge. That
narrowed the range of speculation down considerably. In fact, it left
only one possible theory in regard to the object of your visit.”
“Why only one? Isn’t it conceivable, for instance, that I came here to
see if your office contains anything worth stealing?”
Doctor Latham shook his head. “You don’t look the part, Mr. Stone.”
“Well, suppose I am an officer of the law and came here to see if you
are prescribing illegal amounts of intoxicating liquor or habit-forming
drugs?”
“You didn’t go about it the right way.”
“Couldn’t I be a long-lost friend or relative?”
“I haven’t either. You came here for one specific purpose, Mr. Stone,
and I know what that purpose is.”
Cole regarded him narrowly. “Knowledge sometimes implies guilt,” he
remarked in casual tones.
“But not always. You think that, because I know the object of your
visit, I have guilty knowledge of a certain matter that you are
interested in. That’s a very loose inference, Mr. Stone.”
Cole thought for a few moments. The other’s indirect frankness amazed
him, yet Doctor Latham was entirely too slippery to permit himself to
be pinned down to hard facts.
“Each of us seems to have come to stalemate,” observed the physician
after a pause. “Shall we call the game a draw? Both of us have gained
something. You think you have verified a suspicion, while I have
learned to be on my guard against a new source of possible danger. Why
not leave well enough alone?”
“It’s a good suggestion,” said Cole, smiling. “Thanks for a very
interesting half hour, doctor. Good day.” He bowed and moved toward the
door, but the doctor’s voice made him turn back.
“Just one moment, Mr. Stone. I think you have forgotten something. My
fee is ten dollars. Ah, thank you!”
CHAPTER VII
COLE RECEIVES A WARNING
He left the physician’s office a poorer, but a wiser, man. The half
hour had been well spent even though the interview had yielded little
in the way of tangible results. Cole had met an interesting personality
and come in contact with a fine-edged mind. The doctor, with his
subtleties and his evasions, had proven a fascinating character. His
depth and elusiveness carried a teasing appeal to Cole’s imagination.
Cole was not yet through with Doctor Latham.
He walked to the corner, turned into a tobacconist’s shop, and bought
a package of cigarettes, then stood at the curb and smoked one, while
he glanced now and then at the physician’s house. The drab brownstone
façade seemed as mocking and tantalizing as the man who dwelt within.
It was as baffling and impenetrable as the doctor himself. Cole tried
to analyze his impressions, but it was a hard task. The physician had
admitted nothing except by implication. He had thrown out certain bold
hints, and then he had practically challenged Cole to make the most of
them.
Cole did not like to draw hasty conclusions, but, after he had sifted
down his impressions, there remained in his mind a picture of a
polished and very artful rogue who performed his machinations with an
adroit touch and a high degree of finesse. The picture was blurred
in spots, and he had to use his imagination to touch up the obscure
parts. It was significant, however, that the surgeon’s make-up should
have exerted such a startling effect on Malcolm Reeves the night
before. Beyond doubt Reeves had thought that he recognized the man who
was responsible for his pitiful state. This proved inferentially Doctor
Latham was the man who——
But Cole did not like to deal in inferences. They were treacherous
things, as he had observed on numerous occasions. He must have more
facts before he began building up theories on the flimsy foundation
which Doctor Latham’s oily innuendos had created in his mind. Meanwhile
it was interesting to note that the clew which he had brought with him
from the circular table appeared to be a substantial one. He had not
convinced himself of Doctor Latham’s guilt, but he had at least found
a promising lead. Reluctantly, for his experience of the night before
still rankled, he was forced to admit that there was a modicum of truth
in what the spokesman had told him.
He finished his cigarette and was about to turn away, but just then a
figure, rounding the opposite corner, claimed his attention. With a
little start he recognized Professor Carmody. Bending over a stout cane
the professor walked with a jerky gait and the plopping sound of shoes
several sizes too large. He wore a sun-bleached silk hat and, despite
the balmy autumn weather, a long overcoat covered his gaunt form.
Cole nodded in a knowing way as he saw the professor turn into Doctor
Latham’s house.
Thoughtfully he walked away. His suspicions and speculations were
assuming tangible form. Professor Carmody’s visit to Latham’s house
in broad daylight suggested several things. Viewed in connection with
certain other circumstances, it hinted strongly at a bond of interest
between the two men. In view of what Cole already knew it seemed not
so very far-fetched to suppose that they were associates in some
enterprise that was more or less closely related to Malcolm Reeves’
fate. That Carmody should openly call on the doctor seemed to indicate
that the conspirators felt that they had covered their tracks so
carefully that ordinary precautions could be thrown to the wind.
Cole cut through a corner of the park, and gradually his perplexities
dissipated themselves in the soft autumnal haze that hung over the
greenery. He knew how to loaf as well as to work, and he possessed the
happy knack of forgetting his problems in contemplation of rippling
waters, or an azure sky. It was thus he conserved his energies and kept
in touch with the softer aspects of life.
He rested for half an hour, and then he remembered he had a duty to
perform. It was not a pleasant task, but it must be done. Now that
he had learned something definite about Malcolm Reeves’ fate, it was
necessary that he should report progress to his clients. As he retraced
his steps across the park and turned north on Fifth Avenue he wondered
how much it would be advisable to tell. To go into details in regard
to his adventures of the previous night would be impossible, for Cole
himself did not know what they meant.
Ascending the steps of a square-cornered house of gloomy aspect he rang
the doorbell. There was a tomblike air about the residence of Hector
Englebreth that gave Cole a chill each time he visited the house. Out
of deference to the whims of the invalid who occupied it the window
shades were nearly always lowered. Doors turned without the faintest
sound on well-oiled hinges. Heavy carpets muffled the footfalls of
inmates and visitors. The heavily shaded lamps threw a subdued light on
massive and somberly upholstered furniture that seemed to belong to a
remote past.
A tight-lipped manservant ushered Cole into the library. Englebreth
was seated in a wheel chair before a desk of black walnut. Despite the
infirmity, which an acute case of inflammatory rheumatism had brought
him, his long and triangular face gave an impression of wiry strength.
His shoulders, as he sat hunched in the wheel chair, seemed uncommonly
broad. His face was bloodless; his short-cropped, upstanding hair was
almost white. Except when he spoke, the long, thin lips were tightly
compressed, making him look as though he were constantly exerting his
will power to hide the signs of his suffering.
“Any news, Mr. Cole?” he inquired in a low, toneless voice.
“I have made some progress,” replied Cole, also speaking in subdued