The unknown seven A detective story
Latham, or learned enough to convince you that we are trustworthy, you
will come here again and report. We shall find a way of communicating
with you in due time. What do you say to the idea?”
Cole pondered. He tried to analyze the situation, but all he could
see were contradictions and perplexities. His only clear thought was
that he had nothing to lose and perhaps much to gain by adopting the
suggestion. His glance swept the circle of masked faces, all of them
turned expectantly in his direction.
“The idea is good,” he finally declared. “I shall pay my respects to
Doctor Latham to-morrow afternoon.”
CHAPTER VI
DOCTOR LATHAM
The sun was several hours high the following morning when Kingdon Cole
jumped out of bed and, from force of habit, turned toward his bathroom.
A glance into the mirror on the white-tiled wall made him start.
A man, even though he have nerves of steel and a constitution hard as
armor, can’t pass through a siege of intense mental torture without
showing traces of it. The nerve-racking agony, which Cole had undergone
while lying on the cot, had left marks which seven hours of sound
sleep had not removed. There was a suspicion of pallor beneath the
bronze of his face. The usual brightness of his eyes was dimmed by
a smoldering flicker which hinted at a long glimpse into infernal
horrors. His face was drawn, and there were telltale lines and furrows.
A twenty-four-hour growth of beard did not improve his appearance.
“Nerves a bit on edge,” he told himself, turning away from the mirror.
“Look as if I hadn’t slept a wink in a week. My landlady would tell me
I need a doctor, but a shower and a shave will make me as chipper as a
colt.”
Whistling, he stepped into the tub and turned on the water. A few
minutes of wriggling and writhing under the icy shower would remove all
signs of his adventure. He thrilled to the first cold splash, and then
Cole drew back from beneath the shower. His lips twisted slowly.
“Guess I’ll try a doctor instead,” he decided. “I’m really in pretty
bad shape. Nervous symptoms are not to be trifled with. I’ll see what
Doctor Dickson Latham has to say about my condition.”
Reluctantly he turned off the cold current and resigned himself
to a lukewarm bath that did not refresh him in the least. Not too
graciously, for habit becomes an exalted thing with men who live alone,
he also decided to forgo his regular morning shave. It was best, he
whimsically reflected, that Doctor Latham should see him at his worst.
He dressed with less than his usual care, took in the bottle of milk
and the newspaper that were always left at his door, and, before
starting to prepare his own simple breakfast, poured out a saucerful of
milk for “Toots.”
Toots was a white-and-yellow cat who had slipped into his rooms one
morning and made herself at home. Cole hadn’t had a word to say about
the arrangement. He had been helpless before Toots’ firmness, and the
cat had made herself a fixture in his establishment. With a languid
indifference and an occasional feline shrug she permitted herself
to be waited on by Cole, who at times wondered whether the cat was
patronizing him. When Toots selected his softest pillow to sleep on and
sunned herself on his writing desk beside the window Cole felt that the
sanctity of his bachelor existence was being violated, but the cat’s
blandly tyrannizing ways left him without a word of protest.
After breakfast he called up Doctor Latham’s office and made an
appointment for half past two. Then he sat down with his newspaper
and pipe, the latter a smelly affair with a bowl shaped into the
resemblance of a monkey’s face. It was an odd conceit, and it had
been given him in lieu of his fee by an impecunious client. Only
once had Cole had words with his landlady, and that was when the
well-intentioned woman had undertaken to scrape out the bowl of his
favorite pipe with a potato peeler. Cole smoked a weird mixture,
compounded by himself of several domestic brands and spiced with a dash
of perique. The strong concoction was a stimulant to mental effort, but
at first he had hesitated to smoke such pungent stuff in the presence
of the dainty Toots. The cat had not seemed to mind, however.
He turned the pages of his newspaper, but found nothing that interested
him. At length he threw the paper aside and refilled his pipe. Toots
was sprawled out on the unfinished manuscript of an article on criminal
tendencies which he was preparing for a psychological review. He gave
the cat a reproachful glance, but said nothing. There were times when
Toots seemed to go too far.
He looked out into the warm sunlight that bathed Gramercy Park, but
his thoughts were flitting in and out of a maze of rooms on the top
floor of a skyscraper, located somewhere in the financial center. His
recollections of the previous night were a queer medley of horror
and mystery, of things that were terribly vivid and others that were
dim and disconnected like a dream. Now, as he sat in the sunlight,
leisurely smoking his pipe, he tried to picture the mystic circle in
the dimly lighted room. He could not quite focus his mental vision on
the scene; it was too shadowy and unreal. The seven masked faces melted
into a blur, then faded away completely. It was no use trying to guess
who those seven men were, or what their amazing conduct might mean.
Perhaps his interview with Doctor Latham would suggest a solution to
the mystery.
The idea of approaching the doctor in the rôle of a patient had been
something of an inspiration, but he had made no plans beyond that.
The mock consultation would give him a chance to take the physician’s
mental and physical measure and see what manner of man he was. Cole
was a good judge of faces and a keen observer of human nature. To him
the slightest gesture and the most casually spoken word had a meaning
all their own. His first aim was to find out whether Latham was the
kind of man who might commit such an atrocious crime as the operation
on Malcolm Reeves; after that he would let his actions be guided by
developments.
Before starting for his appointment he thought it might be well to
gather a few facts about the physician. He consulted his copy of “Who’s
Who.” Dickson Latham was a specialist in nervous disorders, a graduate
of several universities, a member of several learned societies, and his
claim to distinction rested on his having written a number of treatises
on cerebral surgery. The last fact seemed significant to Cole. He
closed the book, gave Toots another mildly reproachful look, and went
out to lunch.
A few minutes before half past two he rang the doorbell of the old
brownstone house in the Sixties, just east of Fifth Avenue, in which
Doctor Latham resided and had his office. A young woman in the
reception room handed him a magazine six months old and asked him to
wait. Cole sat down and glanced about him out of the tail of an eye,
while he pretended to look at the pictures in the periodical. It was
a commonplace room, stuffily crowded with upholstered furniture. Two
bookcases were filled with ponderous volumes in drab bindings. It was
the typical reception room of a fairly thriving physician who derives
most of his patronage from the neurotic and dyspeptic individuals of
the upper middle class.
After a brief wait Cole was facing the physician across a mahogany desk
in the inner office.
“What seems to be the matter?” asked Doctor Latham in a brisk, cheerful
voice.
“Nerves,” said Cole, making a lugubrious face. “No appetite. Can’t
sleep nights. Always tired and out of sorts.”
“Well, well, that’s too bad. You do look a bit run down, Mr. Stone. Let
me see your tongue.”
“Stone” was the name Cole had given over the telephone. It had seemed
an unnecessary precaution, since Kingdon Cole was known to only a few
people. His name seldom if ever appeared in connection with his work
as a criminal investigator, but Cole always practiced discretion to a
fault.
While Doctor Latham looked at his tongue and felt his pulse Cole
studied the physician closely, without appearing to do so. His first
glance gave him a deep respect for the skill with which the surgeon
of the night before had been made up. Doctor Latham was an inch or so
taller, also a trifle thinner, and his black beard had the vitalic
sheen that is not easily imitated; otherwise the resemblance was quite
impressive.
“Let me test your heart,” said the doctor, reaching for his stethoscope.
Cole bared his chest. He was already beginning to suspect that he
was chasing a fool’s errand. Doctor Latham did not seem capable of
deliberate wrongdoing, to say nothing of a fiendish crime. In vain Cole
searched his face for the faintest trace of duplicity. The physician
had the perennial optimism and the bristling cheerfulness that, in
cases of nervous disorders, are far more efficacious than pills and
extracts. The very tone of his voice, together with his hearty laugh,
acted as a stimulant on jaded nerves.
“There isn’t anything the matter with you, Mr. Stone,” he declared when
the examination was finished. “I can give you a tonic if you wish, but
a couple of days’ rest will do you more good.”
Cole buttoned up his shirt and replaced his collar. He felt certain now
that his visit to the doctor’s office had been in vain. Latham’s kindly
smile would have disarmed any suspicions remaining in his mind. It was
a charming smile, a flash of white teeth against a setting of black
beard, and it gave the final magnetic touch to a compelling personality.
Cole chided himself for wasting valuable time, but he wished to make
doubly sure before leaving the office. He wondered what would be the
effect on the doctor if he should suddenly mention the name of Malcolm
Reeves. None at all, very likely, he told himself; yet he felt an
itching desire to make the test.
He took out his pocketbook and looked questioningly at the doctor,
meanwhile wondering how he might mention Reeves’ name in a casual, and
yet sufficiently abrupt, manner to make the test conclusive.
“Sit down, Mr. Stone,” said Doctor Latham, waving him to a chair. “You
interest me. What is your profession?”
“Author,” said Cole, recalling that he had two volumes on criminology
to his credit.
“Ah! And what do you write?”
“Trifling things,” said Cole modestly. “You probably never saw any of
them. Such frivolous reading matter wouldn’t interest you.”
“I read very little. The medical journals and a glance at the
newspapers are about all I find time for. Do you know, Mr. Stone, that
you puzzle me considerably?”
“Indeed!” said Cole absently, still wondering how he might precipitate
Malcolm Reeves’ name into the conversation.
Doctor Latham smiled genially. A question kept teasing Cole’s mind.
What would be the effect on that beaming countenance if he should
suddenly speak Malcolm Reeves’ name? Probably none whatever, he once
more told himself; but the thought continued to tantalize him.
“There is a type of neurasthenic that is known to every medical
practitioner,” the doctor went on. “Their symptoms are quite well
defined. Their ailments are mostly imaginary. On the slightest pretext
they will run to a physician with a long tale of woe. The physician
in most instances, gives them a little sympathetic advice, a harmless
tablet made up of sugar and dough, and pockets his fee. There’s nothing
else to do. If told that their troubles exist only in their imagination
they get offended and run to another doctor. Personally I don’t care
for that kind of patients. Now, Mr. Stone, you don’t belong to that
type. You are not a neurasthenic, far from it. I wish I had your
nerves.”
Cole regarded him with a questioning look.