The unknown seven A detective story
gait was growing wabbly when the unexpected occurrence for which he had
been hoping came along.
Not even a village street is quite so dead as is the financial section
of New York in the small hours. Skyscrapers, towering in a jungle of
silence and dim lights, give a majestic touch to a stillness that is
seldom broken, save by the footfalls of policemen and private watchmen.
To Cole, therefore, it seemed nothing but a stroke of luck that a
taxicab should come along at that moment. He hailed the driver.
“See that car?” He pointed at the tail light twinkling in the distance.
“Can you overtake it?”
“I’ll try,” said the chauffeur, peering at him from beneath the visor
of his cap. “This is a pretty good old boat, though she ain’t much on
looks. Good for a fine if I get pinched?”
“Sure,” said Cole easily, though not altogether unmindful of the
slender roll in his pocket. He stepped in, and the cab jumped forward.
It rattled and lurched and creaked in the joints, as if in imminent
danger of falling to pieces, but he noticed with satisfaction that it
had a surprising capacity for speed. It swerved and slithered at a
giddy rate, at times almost jogging him out of his seat.
Pursued and pursuer wound their way out of the maze of chopped-up and
tangled streets to the south of Washington Square. The car ahead swung
into Fifth Avenue, at a slightly reduced speed, and the taxicab slowed
down accordingly. From now on it was not only easier to keep up with
the larger car, but there was also less danger of the fugitive becoming
aware of pursuit, for, even at that hour, there was a sprinkling of
traffic on the avenue.
It suddenly dawned on Cole that he was in a unique position. The
capture of the hunchback now seemed certain, but what was he to do with
the man after he had caught him? If he turned him over to the police,
which seemed the proper and regular thing to do, he would be compelled
to tell things which, in a sense, he was pledged not to reveal. Despite
all that had happened and notwithstanding the harsh treatment inflicted
on him, he had come away with a rather high opinion of The Unknown
Seven. They had trusted him, at least for a time, until the coming of
the hunchback turned their suspicions against him, and Cole was not
inclined to violate a trust.
Now, that he came to think of it, there was really very little he could
tell, even if he were disposed to divulge what he knew. In a strict
sense he did not know that the hunchback had murdered Reeves. For
that matter he did not know that Reeves was dead. Though personally
convinced on both points he could not tell a convincing story to the
police, for he had neither witnessed the commission of the crime nor
seen Reeves’ dead body.
Still another thought came to him as he bobbed up and down and from
side to side in the cab. He gave a short, dazed laugh. Even if he had
witnessed the deed and seen the body he would have been unable to
direct the police to the scene of the crime. His dizzying descent in
the elevator shaft had left him a trifle giddy. He had rushed away in
great haste, his whole mind fixed on the one idea that the hunchback
must not be permitted to get away. In his hurry he had given no thought
to the location of the building. He had strained every nerve and muscle
in his efforts to keep the car in sight, and there had been no time to
notice street signs. Like many a New Yorker, he had seldom had occasion
to visit the financial section, and many of the streets in that
district were nothing but names to him.
Though there was ample extenuation, Cole chided himself for a
blunderer. He had missed his chance to learn where the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven was situated. The general boundaries of the
neighborhood were a shade more clearly defined in his mind, but he
knew scarcely more than he had known before. The rendezvous of the
organization could be in any one of half a hundred buildings. Even
if he should stumble upon the right one he doubted whether he would
recognize it.
In the midst of his musings the cab stopped with a suddenness that
jerked him out of his seat. He glanced out and saw that the hunchback’s
car had halted two blocks ahead. They were somewhere in the Sixties,
and to the west were the black masses of the park. The hunchback was
getting out and turning down the side street, but car and driver were
proceeding north.
A suspicion was dawning in Cole’s mind as he stepped out of the
taxicab. It was rather odd that the chase should have ended at this
particular point. He paid the chauffeur, adding a generous tip to the
fare. He hurried to the corner where the car had stopped and swung into
the side street, just in time to see the hunchback disappear in the
shadow of a house. Cole hastened after him, stopping before a dark and
somber house with a brownstone front.
His hazy suspicion was confirmed. It was odd how the scattered pieces
of the mystery were beginning to dovetail. His pursuit of the hunchback
had led him to the house of Doctor Dickson Latham.
CHAPTER XI
BEHIND THE LOCKED DOOR
The moon was shining through a silver-gray mist, giving the row of
buildings a shadowy appearance. A fresh fragrance drifted out from the
park, on the scarcely perceptible breeze. A milk cart rattled down the
block; otherwise the street was deserted.
Cole peered sharply into the dark basement entrance. He suspected the
hunchback had entered the doctor’s house that way. Down the steps he
went and tried the knob, but the door was locked. The two windows on
each side were protected by iron bars. He hesitated for a moment, and
then he mounted the steps to the main entrance and rang the bell. There
seemed to be nothing else he could do, and the shifty-tongued doctor
interested him strangely. Latham’s evasions would be entertaining, if
nothing else.
He waited patiently, for he had many things to consider. Just what
trend the forthcoming interview was to take he did not know. That
the hunchback should have taken refuge in the physician’s house was
significant, especially since there were good reasons for supposing
that Latham was responsible for the wrecking of Reeves’ mind. That he
had also instigated the murder of the maniac seemed only a reasonable
sequence of the first supposition. In this connection Professor
Carmody’s visit to the doctor’s house yesterday was a highly
interesting circumstance. Perhaps the two rogues had planned the murder
then.
Cole rang again. At the same time he brushed all hasty inferences and
surmises from his mind. He came back to the point that, as far as hard
facts were concerned, he knew next to nothing. He did not even have a
good reason for placing the hunchback under arrest. If he turned the
fellow over to the police he would probably be only laughed at for his
trouble. The hunchback would brazen out of it, and Cole would not have
a leg to stand on. As for Doctor Latham——
He rang again more emphatically this time. Then he listened to the
queer noises which the reverberations stirred up within the dark house.
As for Doctor Latham, Cole could hope to do no more than draw the
doctor out by deftly aimed questions. It was scarcely to be expected
that such a slippery individual as Dickson Latham would betray himself,
yet something might come of the interview. The doctor might get
careless, or Cole might succeed in confusing him.
Once more he reached for the button, but just then a step sounded in
the hall. The door came open. It was the doctor himself who admitted
his early caller. It was dark where they stood, and Cole could see
little else than a black beard and a long dressing gown, but he fancied
there were signs of repressed irritation about the doctor, as he
recognized his visitor.
“Ah, it’s you, Mr. Stone. Please step in.”
The voice was affable enough. Cole followed him through the hall, the
reception room, and into the physician’s office. When they faced each
other across the desk, Latham seemed to have recovered his usual ease
of manners. “Nerves again, Mr. Stone?” he asked pleasantly.
“No; only a slight headache,” said Cole.
“And you wish me to prescribe something?”
“Yes, but it isn’t drugs I want. I came here hoping you would
cure my headache by removing the cause. I have an acute case of
flabbergastation.”
Doctor Latham’s bearded lips parted in a thin flash of very white
teeth. Cole thought there was something Machiavellian about the smile.
The physician reached out an arm and passed a box of cigars across the
desk. A startled gleam flashed into Cole’s eyes. The movement of the
doctor’s arm had wrinkled the sleeve of the dressing gown and exposed
a narrow rim of the cuff of his pajama jacket. The cuff was pale blue,
and just above the rim was a stain.
“I can recommend these perfectos,” said Latham genially.
Cole, easily hiding his surprise, accepted one. The doctor struck a
match, and the stain became visible once more, as he helped Cole to a
light. It was a fresh blot of a dark tinge, probably not more than an
hour old.
“What is it that flabbergasts you, Mr. Stone?” inquired the physician,
after each man had pulled appreciatively at his cigar. The question was
accompanied with a slight and seemingly casual glance at a door in the
rear of the office.
The glance had not escaped Cole. He picked his words carefully.
“Fifteen or twenty minutes ago,” he began, “a man entered your house.”
“Yes?” asked the physician in a toneless voice.
“A hunchback,” Cole went on, guessing that the doctor had carefully
hidden the fellow, while Cole had been kept waiting outside the door.
“He entered your basement, unless I’m mistaken. Odd time for a call,
doctor.”
“A physician, as you undoubtedly know, receives callers at all hours.
Nothing unusual in that.”
“But you will admit that this fellow’s mode of entrance was rather
irregular? A physician’s patients do not usually sneak in the basement
way.”
“Very true, but please come to the point, Mr. Stone. You must grant
that I have a right to receive visitors any way I choose, even through
the chimney, if it pleases my fancy. You tell me that a hunchback
entered my house by the basement door. I neither deny nor affirm it,
but, without wishing to seem rude, may I ask what it is to you?”
“Suppose the fellow were a criminal?”
“I never inquire into the moral character of my patients. Their
physical welfare is all that concerns me.”
“But suppose this individual had committed a murder? You would not care
to harbor a murderer in your house, would you?”
A slight flicker of uneasiness showed in the doctor’s eyes. “A
murderer? Aren’t you carrying your suppositions rather too far, Mr.
Stone?”
Again he cast a sidelong glance at the inner door. Cole sensed a hidden
significance in the doctor’s attention to that door. It puzzled him
almost as much as did the stain on the cuff. He thought quickly,
estimating how much he stood to gain or lose by a direct attack.
“I’m not supposing,” he declared bluntly. “I know there is a murderer
in your house.”
“Oh!” The doctor’s tone was tense and very low. “Whom did he murder?”
“Malcolm Reeves.”
“Mal—Malcolm Reeves?” In an instant the physician had kicked back his
chair and was on his feet. With the cigar tightly clamped between his
bearded lips he stared hard at Cole. His eyes were bright as metal, but
there was a glint of grave concern in their depths. In that moment Cole
would have been ready to swear that Latham’s consternation was genuine.
“Is Reeves dead?” asked the doctor hoarsely.
Cole gave him a level glance. “He was murdered less than two hours ago,
and the murderer is in your house.”
The physician stared for a moment longer. An indistinct mutter came