The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3) - Arthur B. Reeve (best detective novels of all time TXT) 📗
- Author: Arthur B. Reeve
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Were Waiting To Catch The Midnight "Side-Door Pullman"--The Fast
Freight Out Of New York.
The Fight Was Brief, For We Outnumbered Them More Than Three To
One. O'connor Himself Snapped A Pair Of Steel Bracelets On The
Thin Man, Who Seemed To Be Leader Of The Party.
"It's All Up, Pitts Slim," He Ground Out From His Set Teeth.
One Of Our Men Flashed His Bull's-Eye On The Three Prisoners. I
Caught Myself As In A Dream.
Pitts Slim Was Maloney, The Detective.
An Hour Later, At Headquarters, After The Pedigrees Had Been
Taken, The "Mugging" Done, And The Jewels Found On The Three Yeggs
Checked Off From The List Of The Branford Pearls, Leaving A Few
Thousand Dollars' Worth Unaccounted For, O'connor Led The Way Into
His Private Office. There Were Mrs. Branford And Blake, Waiting.
Maloney Sullenly Refused To Look At His Former Employer, As Blake
Rushed Over And Grasped Kennedy's Hand, Asking Eagerly: "How Did
You Do It, Kennedy? This Is The Last Thing I Expected."
Craig Said Nothing, But Slowly Opened A Now Crumpled Envelope,
Which Contained An Untoned Print Of A Photograph. He Laid It On
The Desk. "There Is Your Yeggman--At Work," He Said.
We Bent Over To Look. It Was A Photograph Of Maloney In The Act Of
Putting Something In The Little Wall Safe In Mrs. Branford's Room.
In A Flash It Dawned On Me--The Quick-Shutter Camera, The Wire
Connected With The Wall Safe, Craig's Hint To Maloney That If Some
Of The Jewels Were Found Hidden In A Likely Place In The House, It
Would Furnish The Last Link In The Chain Against Her, Maloney's
Eager Acceptance Of The Suggestion, And His Visit To Montclair
During Which Craig Had Had Hard Work To Avoid Him.
"Pitts Slim, Alias Maloney," Added Kennedy, Turning To Blake,
"Your Shrewdest Private Detective, Was Posing In Two Characters At
Once Very Successfully. He Was Your Trusted Agent In Possession Of
The Most Valuable Secrets Of Your Clients, At The Same Time
Engineering All The Robberies That You Thought Were Fakes, And
Then Working Up The Evidence Incriminating The Victims Themselves.
He Got Into The Branford House With A Skeleton Key, And Killed The
Maid. The Picture Shows Him Putting This Shield-Shaped Brooch In
The Safe This Afternoon--Here's The Brooch. And All This Time He
Was The Leader Of The Most Dangerous Band Of Yeggmen In The
Country."
"Mrs. Branford," Exclaimed Blake, Advancing And Bowing Most
Profoundly, "I Trust That You Understand My Awkward Position? My
Apologies Cannot Be Too Humble. It Will Give Me Great Pleasure To
Hand You A Certified Check For The Missing Gems The First Thing In
The Morning."
Mrs. Branford Bit Her Lip Nervously. The Return Of The Pearls Did
Not Seem To Interest Her In The Least.
"And I, Too, Must Apologise For The False Suspicion I Had Of You
And--And--Depend On Me, It Is Already Forgotten," Said Kennedy,
Emphasising The "False" And Looking Her Straight In The Eyes.
She Read His Meaning And A Look Of Relief Crossed Her Face. "Thank
You," She Murmured Simply, Then Dropping Her Eyes She Added In A
Lower Tone Which No One Heard Except Craig: "Mr. Kennedy, How Can
I Ever Thank You? Another Night, And It Would Have Been Too Late
To Save Me From Myself."
Part 3 Chapter 3 (The Germ Of Death) Pg 22
By This Time I Was Becoming Used To Kennedy's Strange Visitors
And, In Fact, Had Begun To Enjoy Keenly The Uncertainty Of Not
Knowing Just What To Expect From Them Next. Still, I Was Hardly
Prepared One Evening To See A Tall, Nervous Foreigner Stalk
Noiselessly And Unannounced Into Our Apartment And Hand His Card
To Kennedy Without Saying A Word.
"Dr. Nicholas Kharkoff--Hum--Er, Jameson, You Must Have Forgotten
To Latch The Door. Well, Dr. Kharkoff, What Can I Do For You? It
Is Evident Something Has Upset You."
The Tall Russian Put His Forefinger To His Lips And, Taking One Of
Our Good Chairs, Placed It By The Door. Then He Stood On It And
Peered Cautiously Through The Transom Into The Hallway. "I Think I
Eluded Him This Time," He Exclaimed, As He Nervously Took A Seat.
"Professor Kennedy, I Am Being Followed. Every Step That I Take
Somebody Shadows Me, From The Moment I Leave My Office Until I
Return. It Is Enough To Drive Me Mad. But That Is Only One Reason
Why I Have Come Here To-Night. I Believe That I Can Trust You As A
Friend Of Justice--A Friend Of Russian Freedom?"
He Had Included Me In His Earnest But Somewhat Vague Query, So
That I Did Not Withdraw. Somehow. Apparently, He Had Heard Of
Kennedy's Rather Liberal Political Views.
"It Is About Vassili Saratovsky, The Father Of The Russian
Revolution, As We Call Him, That I Have Come To Consult You," He
Continued Quickly. "Just Two Weeks Ago He Was Taken Ill. It Came
On Suddenly, A Violent Fever Which Continued For A Week. Then He
Seemed To Grow Better, After The Crisis Had Passed, And Even
Attended A Meeting Of Our Central Committee The Other Night. But
In The Meantime Olga Samarova, The Little Russian Dancer, Whom Yon
Have Perhaps Seen, Fell Ill In The Same Way. Samarova Is An Ardent
Revolutionist, You Know. This Morning The Servant At My Own Home
On East Broadway Was Also Stricken, And--Who Knows?--Perhaps It
Will Be My Turn Next. For To-Night Saratovsky Had An Even More
Violent Return Of The Fever, With Intense Shivering, Excruciating
Pains In The Limbs, And Delirious Headache. It Is Not Like
Anything I Ever Saw Before. Can You Look Into The Case Before It
Grows Any Worse, Professor?"
Again The Russian Got On The Chair And Looked Over The Transom To
Be Sure That He Was Not Being Overheard.
"I Shall Be Only Too Glad To Help You In Any Way I Can," Returned
Kennedy, His Manner Expressing The Genuine Interest That He Never
Feigned Over A Particularly Knotty Problem In Science And Crime.
"I Had The Pleasure Of Meeting Saratovsky Once In London. I Shall
Try To See Him The First Thing In The Morning."
Dr. Kharkov's Face Fell. "I Had Hoped You Would See Him To-Night.
If Anything Should Happen----"
"Is It As Urgent As That?"
"I Believe It Is," Whispered Kharkoff, Leaning Forward Earnestly.
"We Can Call A Taxicab--It Will Not Take Long, Sir. Consider,
There Are Many Lives Possibly At Stake," He Pleaded.
"Very Well, I Will Go," Consented Kennedy.
Part 3 Chapter 3 (The Germ Of Death) Pg 23
At The Street Door Kharkoff Stopped Short And Drew Kennedy Back.
"Look--Across The Street In The Shadow. There Is The Man. If I
Start Toward Him He Will Disappear; He Is Very Clever. He Followed
Me From Saratovsky's Here, And Has Been Waiting For Me To Come
Out."
"There Are Two Taxicabs Waiting At The Stand," Suggested Kennedy.
"Doctor, You Jump In The First, And Jameson And I Will Take The
Second. Then He Can't Follow Us."
It Was Done In A Moment, And We Were Whisked Away, To The Chagrin
Of The Figure, Which Glided Impotently Out Of The Shadow In Vain
Pursuit, Too Late Even To Catch The Number Of The Cab.
"A Promising Adventure," Commented Kennedy, As We Bumped Along
Over New York's Uneven Asphalt. "Have You Ever Met Saratovsky?"
"No," I Replied Dubiously. "Will You Guarantee That He Will Not
Blow Us Up With A Bomb?"
"Grandmother!" Replied Craig. "Why, Walter, He Is The Most Gentle,
Engaging Old Philosopher----"
"That Ever Cut A Throat Or Scuttled A Ship?" I Interrupted.
"On The Contrary," Insisted Kennedy, Somewhat Nettled, "He Is A
Patriarch, Respected By Every Faction Of The Revolutionists, From
The Fighting Organisation To The Believers In Non-Resistance And
Tolstoy. I Tell You, Walter, The Nation That Can Produce A Man
Such As Saratovsky Deserves And Some Day Will Win Political
Freedom. I Have Heard Of This Dr. Kharkoff Before, Too. His Life
Would Be A Short One If He Were In Russia. A Remarkable Man, Who
Fled After Those Unfortunate Uprisings In 1905. Ah, We Are On
Fifth Avenue. I Suspect That He Is Taking Us To A Club On The
Lower Part Of The Avenue, Where A Number Of The Russian Reformers
Live, Patiently Waiting And Planning For The Great 'Awakening' In
Their Native Land."
Kharkoff's Cab Had Stopped. Our Quest Had Indeed Brought Us Almost
To Washington Square. Here We Entered An Old House Of The Past
Generation. As We Passed Through The Wide Hall, I Noted The High
Ceilings, The Old-Fashioned Marble Mantels Stained By Time, The
Long, Narrow Rooms And Dirty-White Woodwork, And The Threadbare
Furniture Of Black Walnut And Horsehair.
Upstairs In A Small Back Room We Found The Venerable Saratovsky,
Tossing, Half-Delirious With The Fever, On A Disordered Bed. His
Was A Striking Figure In This Sordid Setting, With A High
Intellectual Forehead And Deep-Set, Glowing Coals Of Eyes Which
Gave A Hint At The Things Which Had Made His Life One Of The
Strangest Among All The Revolutionists Of Russia And The Works He
Had Done Among The Most Daring. The Brown Dye Was Scarcely Yet Out
Of His Flowing White Beard--A Relic Of His Last Trip Back To His
Fatherland, Where He Had Eluded The Secret Police In The Disguise
Of A German Gymnasium Professor.
Saratovsky Extended A Thin, Hot, Emaciated Hand To Us, And We
Remained Standing. Kennedy Said Nothing For The Moment. The Sick
Man Motioned Feebly To Us To Come Closer.
"Professor Kennedy," He Whispered, "There Is Some Deviltry Afoot.
The Russian Autocracy Would Stop At Nothing. Kharkoff Has Probably
Told You Of It. I Am So Weak----"
He Groaned And Sank Back, Overcome By A Chill That Seemed To Rack
His Poor Gaunt Form.
"Kazanovitch Can Tell Professor Kennedy Something, Doctor. I Am
Too Weak To Talk, Even At This Critical Time. Take Him To See
Boris And Ekaterina."
Part 3 Chapter 3 (The Germ Of Death) Pg 24
Almost Reverently We Withdrew, And Kharkoff Led Us Down The Hall
To Another Room. The Door Was Ajar, And A Light Disclosed A Man
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