The unknown seven A detective story
their fingers touched, Cole experienced that indescribable something
that comes from contact with a man of strong personal magnetism.
Ballinger’s grip could not have been called energetic, but it
transmitted a subtle electric current.
“You are tackling a man-size job,” remarked the doctor after Carlin
had withdrawn. “You will have a chance to match your wits against the
infernal cleverness of the astutest rogue in the country. I suppose
Carlin has explained the situation to you?”
“He has only given me a few hints. There hasn’t been time for detailed
explanations. All I know is that a colossal project of some sort is on
foot, and that The Unknown Seven is trying to put a crimp in it.”
Ballinger took his arm and led him to the smoking room. He extended
his cigar case, and Cole noticed that his fingers were long, slim,
and finely tapering, the fingers of one having a deft touch, a strong
imagination, and a lively dramatic instinct. Again Cole saw that
Ballinger’s resemblance to Doctor Latham was very slight, extending
only to outward physique. It was the disguise, and the black beard in
particular that had produced the likeness.
“Too bad about poor Reeves,” murmured Ballinger, as he held a lighted
match in his cupped hands. “His life, however, would have been only a
burden to himself and others, so in one sense it is just as well that
he was shuffled off. For professional reasons I regret his death very
keenly. I had hopes of being able to restore his brain to some degree
of normal functioning. If I had succeeded I think he would have told us
a most interesting story, and that, of course, was just what the other
side feared. However, his actions told us a great deal the other night.”
“When he seemed to recognize Doctor Latham in you?”
“Exactly. To that extent the experiment was a complete success. It was
Carlin’s idea, and the credit belongs to him. I merely carried out his
suggestions, and I didn’t particularly relish the task.” He chuckled
apologetically. “Well, the murder of Reeves is additional proof of
the fact that we are fighting a crowd of very ingenious and utterly
conscienceless scoundrels. Evidently they are directed by a master
mind, a genius of the kind we often read about, but seldom meet. You
will admit there’s a great deal of fascination about a rascal of that
type, Cole?”
Cole did not answer, but he remembered the magnetic tug he had felt in
Doctor Latham’s presence.
“I almost envy you the exciting times you will have tracking this
master mind to his lair,” Ballinger went on. “We know some of the
smaller fry in the crowd, Professor Carmody, for instance, but our
efforts won’t lead anywhere until we have found the directing genius.
And when we have found him, Cole, we will be face to face with an
interesting character. Brilliant, resourceful, unscrupulous, and full
of bewildering subtleties, the kind that kills without hesitation the
moment his plans are interfered with. I dare say you have already
suspected who he is?”
Ballinger’s eyes shone with a fine glow of enthusiasm, but it was the
unimpassioned enthusiasm of a scientist who dissects and analyzes.
“Perhaps,” said Cole guardedly. “Haven’t you?”
Ballinger smiled queerly, but the opening of the door and the
announcement that dinner was served forestalled a reply. In the
corridor they were parted by a stream of people, and Cole found an
opportunity to speak a few words in Carlin’s ear. The lawyer nodded
bewilderedly, like one receiving instructions which he does not
understand. He knew Cole had a plan of some sort, but he could not make
even a guess as to what it was.
There were some twenty-five or thirty at the table. Cole found himself
seated between Miss Brownell and Carlin. Inwardly he felt a tingling
sensation, as he contemplated the bombshell he was about to explode
among the diners, but his face showed no sign of it. Now and then he
stole a glance down the two wings of the table. He liked the faces of
the men with whom he was to work. They were an alert, keen-eyed lot,
the kind of men Cole himself would have selected.
“You are a judge of faces,” whispered Miss Brownell, leaning slightly
toward him. “Who is the traitor?”
Cole shook his head. That very question had already occurred to him.
There was not one in the gathering who by his looks could be singled
out as the traitor.
“Whom would you pick?” he whispered back.
Her glance ran quickly up and down the table. He could see that her
woman’s intuition was at work. A queer gleam came into her eyes; her
face hardened for a moment. He tried to trace her glance, but it was
too late.
“It wouldn’t be fair to tell, would it?” she said evasively. “I may be
wrong, you know.”
Cole only smiled. As nearly as he had been able to tell, her glance had
rested for an instant somewhere near the center of the left wing of the
table. He scanned the faces of the men seated there, but none of them
impressed him unfavorably, and he wondered what Miss Brownell could
have based her guess on.
The dinner progressed by easy stages, and the scene which Cole had been
rehearsing in his mind was drawing near. Carlin, seated at his right,
looked nervous, and Miss Brownell’s usually vivacious manner seemed
somewhat dampened. Finally the sauterne was opened and the waiters
filled the glasses. Carlin cleared his throat.
Noisy applause greeted the lawyer’s announcement that Cole had
accepted the management of The Unknown Seven’s activities. Then Carlin
proposed a toast, and it was drunk standing. Cole watched the faces
of the men as they quaffed their wine. In several of them he saw a
vaguely wondering look, telling him that their senses had registered
an impression so faint that as yet their minds had not grasped it. He
sipped his own wine, and he wondered whether he would have been able to
taste the foreign substance if he had not known it was there.
When Carlin finished, Cole got to his feet amid renewed handclapping.
Somewhat bluntly he thanked them for the ovation, and then he veered
sharply to the subject uppermost in his mind.
“I wonder,” he said, “how many of you can look me straight in the eye
and tell me that you are loyal to this organization.”
A breathless hush followed. His very quiet tones had created a profound
impression. In the next instant every pair of eyes in the room was
leveled at him without wavering.
“It seems to be unanimous,” he observed dryly. “One can lie, however,
with his eyes as well as with his tongue, and I know that one among you
is a liar.”
Another period of silence followed, and then came a scraping of feet
and exclamations of incredulity. Cole held up a silencing hand. His
eyes were everywhere, noting each shifting expression in the startled
faces before him.
“One of you has proven false to the organization,” he declared in
short-clipped accents. “I discovered it only a little while ago. I
found positive proof, not only of the treachery, but of the traitor’s
identity as well. He is at this table. He was one of those who only a
few moments ago looked me straight in the eyes. What shall we do with
him?”
Once more came an electric hush. Cole had spoken quietly, but with an
emphasis that carried conviction. He smiled faintly, as he met the
startled glances of the diners. A slight trace of the foreign substance
in the wine was still lingering on his tongue.
“What shall we do with him?” he asked again.
“There’s only one thing to do with a traitor,” muttered some one at
the farther end of the table, and the suggestion was followed by a
chorus of approval.
“And that thing has already been done,” declared Cole with grim
emphasis. “So that it may serve as a warning to others who may be
tempted to betray us, the traitor will die right before our eyes.
Inside one minute the poison that was put into his glass will begin to
take effect.”
Cole pretended to look at his watch, but his glance was gliding swiftly
over the two long rows of faces. He had spoken rapidly, and yet with a
quiet insistence, putting his astounding announcement into the fewest
possible words. The effect he hoped to produce depended upon a quick
assault on the guilty person’s mental faculties, shocking him off
his balance before he had time to digest the statement. In the acute
tension of the moment, the vague impression that he had received while
sipping his wine would suddenly crystallize, and then, with the fear of
death upon him, he could not help betraying himself.
At least such was the psychological effect Cole had intended, and he
had been reasonably sure that the test would succeed. Moments passed
while he stood, watch in hand, glancing out of the tail of an eye
at the faces around the table. Sixty seconds passed, and a look of
diffidence crossed his features. Here and there an impatient mutter was
heard. Carlin was looking up at him with an expression of thinly veiled
disappointment. At length Cole snapped the watch shut. He smiled rather
sheepishly.
“The trick didn’t work,” he said disgustedly. “Yes, I might as well
admit it was only a trick. The traitor was too clever to betray
himself.” With that he sat down, well aware that he had made an
unfavorable impression.
“It was too thin, Cole,” whispered Carlin in his ear. “Too bad you
didn’t consult me beforehand.”
Cole nodded dejectedly. Then he felt Miss Brownell’s gaze on his face.
He turned and saw a knowing twinkle in her eyes.
“It was very clever, Mr. Cole,” she whispered. But for all that her
face indicated she might have given him only a consoling platitude.
“You saw, of course?”
“Yes, I saw enough.” The sheepish grin still lingered on Cole’s lips.
“And you guessed right. The traitor is sitting near the center of the
left wing of the table. Doctor Ballinger is a very astute rascal. It
took him only a fraction of a second to see through my little bluff. He
is smiling behind his palm this very moment. We’ll just let him keep on
smiling for a while, eh, Miss Brownell?”
CHAPTER XVI
GOLD
After dinner Cole looked the picture of a man whose faith in himself
has received a staggering blow. He seemed to take the outcome of his
ruse very much to heart. He moved gloomily among the members of the
organization, getting personally acquainted with a number of the men
on his staff, and all the while he appeared to be making valiant, but
not very successful, efforts to shake off his depression. Carlin did
his best to gloss over the apparent frustration of the scheme, but Cole
proved a hard man to console.
Doctor Ballinger approached him after he had retired into a corner,
and gave him a vigorous slap on the shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard,
old man,” he said cheerily. “Know just exactly how you feel. It’s
embarrassing to turn up a flivver right at the start, but don’t you
mind. Better luck next time. Have a smoke.”
“Thanks,” said Cole dejectedly, as he helped himself to a cigar from
the doctor’s case. “What hurts me most is that I know I was right.
Nothing is so humiliating to a man as to be sure of his facts and not
be able to prove them. I know positively that there’s a black sheep in
this fold. If I had worked the scheme properly——”
“Tut, tut!” interrupted Ballinger. “Your scheme was all right in
principle. You were simply out of luck, that’s all. The traitor, if
you’re right in the assumption that there is such a creature among us,
is probably a very slick customer. No doubt you had him scared stiff
for a moment, but his emotional reaction didn’t last long enough for
him to betray himself. He assumed that you were only bluffing. At any
rate he saw that, having already drained his glass, nothing could be
gained by making a show of himself. In other words his mind outstripped