The unknown seven A detective story
the hunchback in the other room is a murderer, but you have made no
move toward arresting him.”
“I am naturally lazy,” confessed Cole blandly, “and it would be too
much of an exertion to carry the fellow out of here on my back.”
“Have you a warrant for his arrest?”
“None is needed,” said Cole easily, though he perceived that the
conversation was taking a dangerous turn. “It is enough that I have
reasonable cause for believing that the man has committed a felony.”
His tone faltered slightly on the word “reasonable.” In his imagination
he could picture the faces of the police officials, if he should
undertake to tell them what had happened.
Latham continued his piercing scrutiny for a few moments longer. “You
looked to me like an impostor,” he declared. “I’ll wager you haven’t
even so much as a pair of handcuffs on your person.”
Cole jerked himself up straight in the chair. His twinkling eyes
bespoke an inspiration. From his pocket he drew a small pair of steel
links. “Small, but substantial,” he said musingly. “A friend gave them
to me once. I have so little use for them that I wouldn’t carry them
around except for the fact that they are so light and take so little
space in the pocket. Once, in an unexpected pinch, they proved handy,
and I have been carrying them ever since.”
He got up and briskly walked into the room in the rear. A muffled
exclamation escaped the doctor, as Cole fastened one of the links
around the hunchback’s wrist. Then, with surprising ease, he lifted the
man out of the chair and carried him to an operating table in a corner
of the room.
“What are you doing?” inquired Latham sharply, too amazed at Cole’s
conduct to be able to interfere.
A short laugh was Cole’s only answer. He stretched the unconscious man
out on the operating table.
“Are you crazy?” spluttered the doctor. “What——” He stopped short as he
saw Cole’s intention, but now it was too late to act. Cole had placed
the limp figure in such a way that the arm, from which the steel links
dangled, was hanging down along the side of the table. In a twinkling
he had fastened the other link around one of the iron legs. The
unconscious man was now securely chained to the table.
Cole turned and regarded the physician with a good-humored expression.
“My round, and it’s as good as a knock-out,” he observed.
Latham stared dumfoundedly. He saw what had happened, but he appeared
at a loss to grasp the meaning of it. “What do you hope to gain by such
tomfoolery?” he demanded.
“A lot,” said Cole softly. “Your patient can’t get away unless he
takes the table with him, and that would attract attention. A fleeing
murderer is under quite a handicap when he is chained to an operating
table. I notice it is all iron and strongly built. The legs are
soldered to the top, so it won’t be easy to take it apart. A skilled
craftsman could do it, but I believe you have a strong aversion against
calling in outsiders.”
The cold gleam in Latham’s eyes told that he understood. His gaze was
fixed in a speculative way on the two steel links.
“They could be filed off,” admitted Cole, guessing his thoughts, “but
it would take a long time to get through the chilled steel of which
they are made. An expert might be able to unlock them, but there again
you are hampered by your prejudice against outsiders. You can’t slip
the link off the iron leg, for the braces down below prevent that.
Barring accidents, I think my man will stay here till I’m ready to come
and get him.”
Doctor Latham seemed a trifle dazed. He ran his fingers awkwardly
through his beard while looking bewilderedly at Cole. “You are an
astounding person,” he declared.
“You are another, doctor.” Cole smiled engagingly. “Sorry to have
interrupted your night’s rest. Are you going to charge me for this
visit? I believe it was ten dollars last time.”
“Go to blazes!” said Doctor Latham. He stood motionless beside the
unconscious man, while Cole walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MORNING’S MAIL
Just as the clock struck eleven, the following morning, Kingdon Cole
emerged in a tingle and glow from his cold shower. He had retired
shortly before dawn, so he had considered himself entitled to sleep
till a late hour, and now he felt the exuberant strength and freshness
that make a man eager for work.
He stepped to the window, raised the shade, and looked out upon a gray
and drizzly world. He scowled a little. Like all highly sensitized
persons, he was easily susceptible to the weather. When the sky was
clouded, his face was apt to wear a frown. When the sun shone, his face
shone with it. A glance in the evening at the weather forecast could
have told him what mood he was to be in the next day, granting that
weather predictions were always accurate.
He turned from the window as Toots, with a plaintive “meow,” rubbed her
curled back against his leg. “Hungry?” inquired Cole, looking at the
cat with an expression of grave responsibility.
Toots held her tail erect and seemed to think the question wholly
superfluous. With a dutiful air Cole brought in the milk bottle, also
two letters which he found outside his door. After a glance at the
handwriting he tossed them on the table and proceeded to appease Toots’
hunger. He went about it with all the awkwardness of an overgrown boy,
spilling a part of the milk beside the saucer, then stood aside and
watched Toots lick it up.
Over his coffee and toast, a few minutes later, he started to read
his mail. One of the letters was addressed in a strange feminine
handwriting, and he opened it first. He suddenly stopped eating and
took in the contents at a glance. The note read:
“Come back. I trust you. +Miss B.+”
Beneath the signature was a row of X’s. Cole counted seven of them;
they were the insignia of The Unknown Seven, of course. It was
gratifying to know that the mysterious Miss Brown still had faith in
him, despite the suspicions of the other members of the organization,
but her frankness puzzled him. If the others thought him guilty of
duplicity, why did she not think likewise? She had seen and heard
precisely the same things that the others had seen and heard. As far as
he knew, she had no facts on which her favorable opinion of him could
have been based. What, then, was the reason for her attitude?
“Woman’s intuition, I suppose,” mused Cole with a glance at Toots.
“That probably accounts for it. But how does the charming Miss Brown
expect me to find my way back to the headquarters of The Unknown Seven?
To locate the building would be about as ticklish a job as finding
a needle in a haystack. I don’t see why she—— Yes, I do! She has
naturally taken it for granted that I had sense enough to make a mental
note of the street and number when I made my hasty exit last night. She
doesn’t know what a half-cocked idiot I am. Shucks!”
Cole made a wry face. Somehow he must manage to find the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven. Unless he answered Miss Brown’s summons, she
would naturally suppose that her faith in him had been misplaced and
that he was remaining away because of a sense of guilt. Cole resolved
he would canvass every block in lower Manhattan before permitting such
a thing to happen. How to go about it was another matter, however. A
systematic search would eventually lead him to the building, but that
would mean a waste of valuable time. He must find the headquarters
of The Unknown Seven without delay, not only because Miss Brown had
faith in him, but also for the more practical reason that he would not
know what to do with the hunchback until he had positive knowledge of
Malcolm Reeves’ death.
He had no fear that his prisoner would escape from Doctor Latham’s
house. He had left the hunchback in a predicament from which the
astute physician would not be able to release him without a great deal
of difficulty; but Cole did not depend on that alone. Tony Pinto, a
ragged urchin whose habitat was the picturesquely squalid section
around Chatham Square, was watching the doctor’s residence. Cole, who
had earned the lad’s everlasting gratitude by once doing him a small
service, had instructed him to keep a sharp eye on the place. Tony
had the wits of a fox and the legs of a deer, and a great ambition
to become a detective. If an attempt should be made to spirit the
hunchback away, Tony would find it out and report to Cole instantly.
Finishing his breakfast he lighted his pipe and composed himself
for hard thinking. The tobacco smoke grew so thick in the room that
Toots blinked at him reproachfully. Suddenly an idea came to him. He
recalled having heard Grover Carlin say that a number of the members
of The Unknown Seven had offices in the building. Cole had recognized
several of the members, the previous evening, from photographs that had
appeared from time to time in the newspapers, in connection with their
social and financial activities. Right here was a clew to the location
of the headquarters.
He picked up the telephone directory and found the name of Vincent
de Witte, one of the men whom he had recognized. He glanced at the
financier’s office address, and he saw his clew slipping out of his
fingers. The address was somewhere in Union Square, much too far north
to be anywhere near the building he was searching for. Next he looked
up the address of Stephen Aldrich, but with no more success. The
philanthropist’s offices, according to the directory, were in the Times
Square district.
Cole tried two other names, then tossed the book away in disgust.
It came to him that men like De Witte and Aldrich were engaged in
multifarious enterprises and probably had two or more suites of
offices in different sections of the city. Likely as not the business
enterprises which they were conducting in the headquarters building
were under corporate names, not generally known to the public. It was
not to be expected that men so shrewd as The Unknown Seven had proven
themselves to be would leave even the remotest clew to the location of
their rendezvous. Cole saw he must try something else.
He gazed hard into the monkey’s face graven into the bowl of his pipe.
What with the drizzle outside and the chaotic condition of his mind,
he scowled into the tobacco haze that surrounded him. Why the deuce
hadn’t Miss Brown telephoned him instead of mailing him a letter?
Why was it that women of her type were so prone either to underrate
or overrate the intelligence of the sterner sex? They never accepted
men at their true valuation, but their opinions were always colored
by bias of one kind or another. Cole squinted at Toots while these
thoughts ran through his mind. He had a distinct impression that that
dainty specimen of femininity always regarded him with a sort of lofty
tolerance. Miss Brown, on the other hand——
Suddenly he remembered the other letter. At first glance he had
recognized the cramped hand of Hector Englebreth’s secretary. He
snipped off the margin of the envelope. Without doubt the letter
contained a sharp reminder that Cole had promised to give his client a
supplementary report on the condition of Malcolm Reeves. He anticipated
a crisply phrased note as he drew out the inclosure. Then a surprise
came to him. The envelope contained not only a letter, but a check
besides. It was for a generous amount. Evidently his client had sent
him something on account. Thoughtful of Englebreth! Cole put the check
aside and glanced at the note, and then he received a second surprise.
He read:
“+Dear Sir+: Mr. Englebreth desires me to notify you that he no longer
requires your services. Inclosed please find check for services
rendered to date.”
Cole stared hard at the few typewritten lines. The stiffly worded