The unknown seven A detective story
suggestive of a walker who, instead of putting most of his weight on
his heels, places his entire foot on the ground at once.
While still within the doorway the newcomer reached out a hand and
touched a switch on the inner wall. In the light that suddenly
appeared, Cole saw that he had identified the footfalls accurately. The
man was Professor Carmody, and Cole’s eyes narrowed as he recognized
him. The scientist wore a faded silk hat and a long overcoat, just
as Cole had seen him when he walked into Doctor Latham’s house the
day before, and under his arm he carried a large umbrella. He walked
straight to the middle of the office before he saw Cole, and then he
stopped so abruptly that it seemed as if his gaunt form would topple
over.
“Hello,” he said, staring out of his small, mouse-colored eyes. His
long nose, much too large for symmetry, was turned up, and his parted
lips showed two rows of yellow teeth. He was plainly embarrassed, and
to conceal the fact he grinned ostentatiously.
“Good evening, professor,” said Cole, stepping forward. Though this was
their first meeting at close quarters, he had reason to believe that
Carmody knew who he was. Miss Brownell, he recalled, had told him that
the professor was well aware that Cole had been watching him from a
distance for some time.
“Are you connected with the Bureau of Civic Research, professor?” Cole
went on.
“In a way, yes,” said Carmody. He had a very thin voice that had a
habit of rising to a shrill pitch, or falling to a faint murmur,
without regard to what he was saying. He peered at Cole in an
apologetic way. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you
before.”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Carmody wagged his head. “I can’t say that I do.”
“Too bad, professor. I was in hopes that you would remember me. One
doesn’t like to ask favors of strangers.”
“Favors?” Carmody’s face took on a forbidding frown. “You wish to ask a
favor of me?”
“Just a slight one. There is a book in your library that is very hard
to obtain, and I am very anxious to read it. The author is one James
Price.”
The professor looked at him hard and long. “You are mistaken,” he said
finally in a very low tone. “The author whom you mention is not in my
collection. May I ask what led you to think that I own the book in
question?”
“A little bird told me.”
“You take your information from curious sources.”
“One has to, sometimes. By the way, professor, aren’t you keeping
rather queer office hours? It is, let me see, a quarter past one.”
“I might ask the same question of yourself.”
“That’s so; you might.”
“I might also ask what you are doing here. It is my impression that you
do not belong on the premises.”
“Hope I am not in the way. Please go ahead and attend to whatever
business brought you here.”
But Carmody seemed in no hurry. Cole could not know whether it was
because he had abundant leisure on his hands, or because he did not
care to attend to his business in another man’s presence, but it was
evident that the professor was not disposed to gratify his curiosity.
Now and then his mousey little eyes moved furtively about the room,
and once they rested in a designing way on one of the flat-top desks.
Cole, following his glance, was vaguely puzzled.
“Pardon me, but aren’t you trespassing?” inquired Carmody after a pause.
Cole folded his arms and smiled genially. “You are not going to order
me out, I hope?”
“Suppose I should do that?”
“I would overlook your rudeness and refuse to take the hint. If you
insisted, I might invite you to try to put me out. If you should make
such an attempt and fail at it, I would suggest calling the police to
your assistance. But I don’t think you will go that far, professor. You
might be called upon to explain your own presence here, and that would
prove embarrassing.”
There was a calculating gleam in Carmody’s eyes. Cole, with a picture
in his mind of Carlin waiting for him impatiently on the roof, was
anxious to bring the interview to a climax. He had no intention of
leaving until he had learned the object of the professor’s visit.
Once more Carmody looked stealthily about the room, and again his
glance rested on the desk. Cole’s lids narrowed, as he perceived that
the desk, which seemed to be the object of the professor’s interest,
was the one on which lay Englebreth’s unfinished letters. There
were three other desks in the room, so it seemed odd that Carmody
should center his attention on this particular one. Cole had already
discovered that the drawers were empty, and that the desk contained
nothing except the papers lying on top. Strange though it seemed, it
looked as though the scientist’s visit to the office at this late hour
was in some way concerned with the letters Englebreth had dictated that
afternoon.
The theory seemed rather far-fetched, so Cole decided to test it. He
moved leisurely about the room a few times, then stopped before the
desk at which the professor’s sly glances had been directed. In a
casual manner he picked up the letters, looked hastily at two or three,
then folded them across the middle and stuck them into his pocket.
He knew, even before the letters reached his pocket, that his suspicion
had been well founded. Carmody had watched his every move with growing
excitement. His expression had changed from bewilderment to dismay, and
finally his face took on a look of sullen determination.
“What are you doing with those letters?” he demanded.
“Taking them home,” said Cole easily, at the same time moving toward
the door.
“Wait!” said the professor sternly.
Cole turned around and watched him with amusement. “What’s the matter?”
he asked innocently. “What are these letters to you?”
“You shall not leave this office with them. Give them to me at once.”
He reached out a hand, and Cole saw that it trembled. Evidently he
was desperately intent upon obtaining possession of the letters. Cole
was at a loss to understand, for he knew that the epistles dealt with
political affairs that could be of no vital concern to a man like the
professor.
“Don’t excite yourself,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing in these
letters that would interest you. They contain nothing but dry political
rot. What do you care about that sort of thing?”
“Are you going to surrender them?” demanded Carmody, and the words
sounded like an ultimatum.
“I’ll promise to consider it if you will tell me why you want them.”
The professor regarded him queerly. A look of bewilderment crossed his
sullenly determined face. His crafty little eyes seemed to be trying to
read Cole’s hidden thoughts. “Why pretend you don’t know?” he asked;
then, in wheedling tones: “Come now! The joke has gone far enough. I
know you are only trying to tease an old man. The letters, please.”
Cole shook his head. Carmody’s very insistence upon obtaining the
letters was reason enough why Cole should not give them up. Once more
he started for the door, but a sharp “Wait!” interrupted his progress.
Cole turned slowly and looked into the barrel of a pistol in Carmody’s
hand.
“My dear friend,” said the professor in his softest, lowest tones,
“please do not force me to take drastic measures. It would grieve me
exceedingly to have to deal harshly with you. The letters, please!”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
Cole’s only response to Professor Carmody’s soft-spoken ultimatum was a
smile. He knew that the scientist was the kind of foe who is the most
dangerous when he uses his gentlest tones. It struck him as droll that
he was risking his life for the sake of a few letters which, as far as
he could see, he could put to no earthly use. He would not know what
to do with them even if he should be able to depart with them safely.
It was only Carmody’s earnestness in the matter that convinced him the
letters must have a hidden significance.
“Well, professor,” he said easily, “it looks like a deadlock. I don’t
want to give up the letters, and you seem in no hurry to shoot.”
The professor smiled still more blandly and took a tighter grip on the
pistol. Cole believed he would shoot rather than see him depart with
the letters. There was a certain grimness about the gaunt form and the
sallow face which warned him that Carmody was playing a desperate game
for high stakes. As often happens in tense moments, his mind turned to
trivial things. He pictured Carlin waiting peevishly on the roof. He
imagined Ballinger in the midst of another humorous yarn. A ludicrous
vision of the hunchback, chained to the operating table in Doctor
Latham’s house, flitted through his mind.
But the pistol in Carmody’s hand baffled him. He felt no fear, but
neither did he care to throw his life away needlessly. Once before in
the past forty-eight hours he had looked into the muzzle of a pistol,
but that one had been in Doctor Latham’s hand. He had laughed then
and dared the physician to shoot, knowing that Latham, whatever other
villainies he might be guilty of, was not the type that can shoot down
a defenseless man in cold blood. He was too proud and high-spirited for
that. With Carmody it was different. The professor was made of coarser
stuff. He was not hampered by considerations of chivalry and fair play.
He would shoot as soon as Cole’s back was turned.
And so he restrained the impulse to laugh in the professor’s face and
walk away. He preferred to bide his chance and watch for a sign of
wavering in the hand that held the pistol. Growing tired of waiting, he
decided to try a little stratagem that he had found successful in the
past. It was a simple trick and based on one of the many queer antics
of the human mind.
He looked away from the pistol and began to gaze fixedly at a point on
the opposite wall. Moments passed and grew into minutes, and still he
stared rigidly, not a muscle in his face moving. His eyes were slanting
upward, at a level of about a foot and a half above the professor’s
head. The latter could not see what he was looking at, for he dared
not turn his head, knowing that Cole would jump the moment he did
so. At first he was mildly puzzled. Then his face showed signs of
bewilderment. His curiosity changed into nervous concern.
By and by he seemed plainly worried. It was evident that Cole’s fixed
and silent scrutiny of something which the professor could not see was
seriously affecting his nerves.
Cole’s rapt expression did not change in the slightest degree. He just
looked and looked at that blank point somewhere behind the professor’s
back and just above his head. Carmody grew more and more disconcerted.
A tension, which he was doing his best to check, was taking hold of
him. He shifted from one foot to the other. A sense of something weird
and unaccountable was stealing over him, despite his scientific poise
of mind.
At last came the chance for which Cole had waited. It was merely an
uneasy flicker in Carmody’s eyes, accompanied by a slight turn of
the head. It was not much, but Cole knew that, for the moment, the
professor’s mind was diverted from the pistol. It was risky, but he
might not get another chance. He flexed his muscles, and leaped, first
to one side, then straight at Carmody, wrenching the pistol from his
hand.
A squeallike cry broke from the professor’s lips. Cole chuckled as he
ran. The scientist started in pursuit, but Cole slammed the door in
his face. In another instant, putting the pistol in his pocket, he was
climbing through the window. Soon he was hurrying up the fire escape. A
dark figure, with coat tails flapping in the wind, hastened toward him,
as he swung over the parapet and landed on the roof.
“Where on earth have you been?” asked Carlin reproachfully. “I was just