The unknown seven A detective story
from his lips. Cole wondered whether his face was not pale under the
glossy black beard. Despite his bewilderment and his feeling that the
doctor’s emotions were sincere, he glowed inwardly with satisfaction.
At last Latham’s superb composure had been shattered; now he must
pursue his advantage before the doctor could rally his mental forces
and ply him with unanswerable questions.
“Doctor Latham,” he asked quickly, “do you deny that there is a
hunchbacked fellow in the house?”
The doctor sat down again. “I don’t feel called upon either to deny or
affirm it,” he declared.
Cole leaned forward across the desk. “How did that stain get on your
cuff, doctor?”
The physician’s arm was stretched out flat on the table, and Cole
pointed to the soiled cuff. Latham looked down; for an instant, as he
saw the blot, his eyes widened in astonishment.
“Oh, that!” He shrugged his shoulders. “I had a simple surgical case
a while ago. It wasn’t serious enough to take to a hospital, so I
performed it in my own office.”
“I didn’t know physicians ever performed operations in their pajamas.
No accounting for eccentricities, though. Will you do me a favor,
doctor?”
“That depends. What is it?”
Cole pointed carelessly to the door at which the doctor had been
covertly glancing from time to time.
“I would like to see what is behind that door, if you don’t mind,” he
remarked languidly.
Again a gleam of uneasiness crept into the doctor’s eyes. He regarded
Cole intently, as if trying to ferret out the reason for the request.
Cole, a thin smile on his lips, was puffing leisurely at his cigar.
“Why?” demanded the doctor.
“Just a fancy. You have no objection, I hope?”
The doctor drew himself up. He sat stiffly erect in his chair. A mask
seemed to fall from his face. Dropping all pretense of geniality, his
features took on a threatening look. “I don’t care to humor your fancy,
Mr. Stone,” he declared coldly.
With excessive care Cole ashed his cigar. Then he got up and, with a
slow, but firm, tread, walked toward the door in the rear. His fingers
closed around the knob.
“Stop!” cried the doctor sharply.
Cole turned and gave him an amused glance.
“You are a detective, I suppose?” said Latham.
“In a way,” admitted Cole modestly.
“Have you a search warrant?”
Cole shook his head.
“Then I must regard you as a trespasser. Mr. Stone, the moment you open
that door you will be a dead man.”
He reached into a pocket of his dressing gown. In the next instant a
small pistol glittered banefully in his hand. He raised it till Cole
could gaze straight into the muzzle. His eyes, as he looked ominously
at him, emitted the same cold, metallic gleam as the barrel of the
weapon.
Cole gave him a long, searching look, and he was a keen judge of faces.
At the end of the inspection he shrugged. “Doctor Latham,” he said
evenly, “you haven’t the nerve to kill me.” He turned the knob and
walked in.
CHAPTER XII
IN FOUR ROUNDS
In stony silence Doctor Latham watched the bold move. As Cole opened
the door, a diffident look came into his face. He toyed awkwardly with
the pistol, looked dubiously at the barrel, finally put the weapon back
in his pocket. “It seems you win this round,” he muttered.
The room which Cole had entered was dark. His hand fumbled along the
wall till he found a knob. At his pressure a light appeared, and it
revealed a man sprawled out in a chair. Except that the coat had been
removed he was fully dressed, and it seemed to Cole that he was sound
asleep.
He recognized the sallow face of the hunchback, having caught a brief
glimpse of it just as the elevator started. It was not a pleasant face.
The twisted lips looked as though the teeth had been bared in a snarl
just before the man fell asleep. Cole thought he might be a thug or
professional gunman. He looked away and saw Latham in the doorway.
“You’re a cool one,” murmured the physician, a trace of admiration in
his tone. “Didn’t you know I was ready to shoot you?”
“You didn’t,” was the laconic answer.
Latham came closer. He was once more suave and genial. Cole fancied
his astute brain was at work on a scheme of some sort. “Have you seen
enough to repay you for the risk you took?” he inquired. “Is this the
man you are looking for?”
Cole nodded. “He’s the one who murdered Reeves. Tough-looking customer!
What have you done to him, doctor?”
The Machiavellian smile came back. “He was in a bad way. I had to give
him a hypodermic. That’s why his crime, if he committed one, doesn’t
seem to weigh very heavily on his conscience. What are your intentions
in regard to my patient, Mr. Stone?”
Cole stepped closer to the recumbent man. The fellow looked indeed as
though he were deep in drug-induced sleep. Cole raised the arm nearest
him and turned back the shirt sleeve. A little below the elbow there
was a small puncture. He dropped the limp arm and turned away. His
head was full of perplexities and contradictions. A little while ago
certain phases of the mystery had seemed to dovetail to perfection, but
now things were taking an incongruous turn. He felt the physician was
inwardly laughing at his bewilderment.
“Well, Mr. Stone?” he inquired softly.
Cole was in a quandary, but he tried hard not to show it. For the
present the wily doctor had several strategical advantages, and
evidently he knew how to use them. It would not be easy to take the
unconscious man away. Even if it could be done, Cole would not know
where to take him. On the other hand, it would not do to let him get
away, as he undoubtedly would as soon as he recovered from the effects
of the drug.
“This man is my patient,” continued the doctor, “and I strongly advise
against disturbing him for the present. I believe a physician’s advice
is usually heeded in such cases.”
“Your patient seemed to be in excellent health a little while ago,”
observed Cole.
“Really, you must permit me to be the judge as to his physical
condition.”
Cole eyed him levelly. “You are a very clever man, Doctor Latham. I
believe you deliberately drugged this so-called patient of yours so
that he couldn’t be removed. It was a fairly ingenious stroke.”
Latham gave him a curious glance. “That’s a very odd way of looking at
the situation,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I wonder if you aren’t a bit
disingenuous. However, it doesn’t matter. This seems to be my round.”
His faintly gloating tone nettled Cole. As far as he could see he was
outmaneuvered on every point. Hopeless as the situation seemed to be,
he was determined not to leave the house a defeated man. He rekindled
his cigar, then gazed with mild reproach at the glowing tip. A cigar
never gave him the mental stimulus that he derived from his musty
old pipe at home. Besides, the doctor’s slyly amused glances were
disconcerting. Cole’s thoughts would not travel in a straight line,
and he grew more uncomfortable as he noticed that his helplessness was
beginning to impress the doctor as queer.
He turned, placed the half-smoked cigar on a tray, and glanced through
the open door leading into the office. The nickel trimmings of a
telephone gleamed under the electric drop light over the desk. The
sight of the instrument seemed to give Cole an idea. Deliberately he
walked into the other room and picked up the directory.
“May I ask what you intend doing?” inquired the physician, following
him.
“I know a doctor who lives not far from here,” said Cole absently,
while he hastily turned the pages of the book. “I’m going to call him
in for a consultation over your patient. If the fellow is in a bad way,
two doctors are better than one. If there’s nothing wrong with him, I
want to know it. Ah!” his index finger halted in the center of a page.
“Plaza 28826.”
A faint mutter of dismay escaped the doctor. He stood at Cole’s back,
while the detective put the receiver to his ear.
“A consultation is quite unnecessary, I assure you,” declared Latham.
Cole grinned into the transmitter. He suspected Latham would agree to
bring his “patient” back to consciousness rather than have another
physician called in. A thousand slight murmurs sounded on the wire, and
then came the operator’s brisk “Number, please.”
Cole spoke the number distinctly. He expected Latham would yield rather
than suffer a blow to his professional reputation, but the physician’s
cunning rendered the matter uncertain. And, even if his ruse succeeded,
Cole would score only a temporary advantage. He was not yet sure what
his next move was to be. While waiting for the connection he glanced
over his shoulder. Latham, hands clasped at his back, was walking back
and forth.
Suddenly Cole’s face went blank. A jarring noise sounded in his ears.
In the next instant he knew he was holding a dead instrument in his
hand. All sounds had abruptly ceased. He heard Latham’s triumphant
chuckle as he hung up the receiver.
“It appears the third round is also mine,” murmured Latham, his bearded
lips parting in a gratified smile. In his right hand he held a pair of
steel nippers.
Cole gritted his teeth, but smiled complacently. “I would call it a
draw,” he said. “Your act of cutting the wire was a confession, doctor;
a confession that you are up to deviltry. I knew it all along, of
course, but I’m glad you showed your hand so plainly. It’s an advantage
to me to know that you have something to fear.”
“I hope you derive a lot of satisfaction from it,” declared Latham
easily. “I fail to see how it is going to do you any practical good,
though.”
Cole himself was not quite clear on that point. It was a moral
advantage rather than a physical one. He gazed steadily at the
physician, studying the triangular outlines of the black, neatly
trimmed beard. It was a bit tantalizing to consider how many shifting
expressions that glossy appendage might conceal. It acted as a mask,
and he was permitted to see through it only when the bearded lips
parted in a flash of teeth. Just now the face told him nothing. It
merely gave him an impression of a man of unfathomable secrets and a
deeply plotting mind. Cole felt at once baffled and fascinated.
“I am curious to know what you will try next,” said Latham after a long
pause. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable, but I’m getting deucedly
sleepy.” He yawned ostentatiously. “If you have nothing further to
propose——” He looked significantly at the door.
Cole considered for a moment longer, then he selected the most
comfortable chair in the room and sat down. With a languid air he
stretched out his legs and leaned back. “I am worried about your
patient,” he declared, with a sly wink at the room in the rear. “If you
have no objection, I’ll hang around till he comes to. This is a very
comfortable chair. Could I trouble you for another of those excellent
cigars?”
The doctor stood in front of him, and Cole fancied there was a frown
beneath the beard. “You are going too far,” said Latham severely.
“Suppose I should throw you out?”
“That would be very rude, doctor. Besides, it couldn’t be done.”
Latham came a step closer. Slowly his crafty eyes moved up and down
Cole’s figure. Evidently he concluded that the languid appearance of
the man in the chair was deceptive.
“I might summon help,” he suggested.
“You might, but I hardly think you will. Being a prudent man, you
realize it wouldn’t do to stir up things. It’s far preferable, from
your point of view, to confine this interview to ourselves. What about
another of those cigars, doctor?”
Latham did not move. His eyelids narrowed a trifle as he continued to
gaze at Cole. “You puzzle me,” he declared. “You come here representing
yourself to be a detective, but your conduct is very peculiar. You say