CHAPTER XX
THE SPEAKING ARC
"Looks pretty deserted here," remarked Garrick to Dillon's man, who hadaccompanied us from the door into the now deserted gambling den.
"Yes," he grinned, "there's not much use in keeping me here since theytook all the stuff to headquarters. Now and then one of the oldrounders who has been out of town and hasn't heard of the raid comesin. You should see their faces change when they catch sight of myuniform. They never stop to ask questions," he chuckled. "They justbeat it."
I was wondering how the police regarded Garrick's part in the matter,and while Garrick was busy I asked, "Have you seen Inspector Hermanlately?"
The man laughed.
"What's the matter?" I asked, "Is he sore at having the raid pulled offover his head?"
"Sore?" the roundsman repeated, "Oh, not a bit, not a bit. He enjoyedit. It gave him so much credit," the man added sarcastically,"especially after he fell down in getting the evidence against thatother place around the corner."
"Was that his case, too?" I asked.
"Sure," replied the policeman. "Didn't you know that? That Rena Taylorwas working under his orders when she was killed. They tell me atheadquarters he's working overtime on the case and other thingsconnected with it. He hasn't said much, but there's someone he isafter--I know. Mark my words. Herman is always most dangerous when he'squiet. The other day he was in here, said there was a man who used tobe seen here a good deal in the palmy days, who had disappeared. Idon't know who he was, but Herman asked me to keep a particular lookoutto see if he came back for any purpose. There's someone he suspects,all right."
I wondered why the man told me. He must have seen, by the look on myface, that I was thinking that.
"I wouldn't tell it to everybody," he added confidentially, "only, mostof us don't like Herman any too well. He's always trying to hog itall--gets all the credit if we pick up a clew, and,--well, most of uswouldn't be exactly disappointed to see Mr. Garrick succeed--that'sall."
Garrick was calling from the back room to me, and I excused myself,while the man went back to his post at the front door. Garrickcarefully closed the door into the room.
While I had been busy getting the copies of the faked edition of theStar, which had so alarmed the owner of the garage and had set thingsmoving rapidly, Garrick had also been busy, in another direction. Hehad explored not only the raided gambling den, but the little back yardwhich ran all the way to an extension on the rear of the house in thenext street, in which was situated the woman's poolroom.
He had explored, also, the caved-in tunnel enough to make absolutelycertain that his suspicions had been correct in the first place, andthat it ran to this other joint, from which the gamblers had made theirescape. That had satisfied him, however, and he had not unearthed theremains of the tunnel or taken any action in the matter yet. Somethingelse appeared to interest him much more at the present moment.
"I found," he said when he was sure that we were alone, "that the feedwire of the arc light that burns all the time in that main room overthere in the place on Forty-seventh Street--you recall it?--runs inthrough the back of the house."
He was examining two wires which, from his manner, I inferred wereattached to this feed wire, leading to it from the room in which we nowwere. What the purpose of the connection was I had no idea. Perhaps, Ithought, it was designed to get new evidence against the place, thoughI could not guess how it was to be done. So far, except for what we hadseen on our one visit, there had appeared to be no real evidenceagainst the place, except, possibly, that which had died with theunfortunate Rena Taylor.
"What's that?" I asked, as Garrick produced a package from a closetwhere he had left it, earlier in the day.
I saw, after he had unwrapped it, that it was a very powerfulmicrophone and a couple of storage cells. He attached it to the wireleading out to the electric light feed wire.
"I had provided it to be used in an emergency," he replied. "I thinkthe time has come sooner than I anticipated."
I watched him curiously, wondering what it would be that would comenext.
There followed a most amazing series of groanings and mutterings fromGarrick. I could not imagine what he was up to. The whole proceedingseemed so insane that, for the moment, it left me nonplussed andspeechless.
Garrick caught the puzzled look on my face.
"What's the matter?" he laughed heartily, cutting out the microphonemomentarily and seeming to enjoy the joke to the utmost.
"Would you prefer to be sent to a State or a private institution?" Irasped, testily. "What insanity is all this? It sounds like thefee-faw-fum and mummery of a voodoo man."
"Come, now, Tom," he rejoined, argumentatively. "You know as well as Ido what sort of people those gamblers are--superstitious as the deuce.I did this once before to-day. This is a good time to do it again,before they persuade themselves that there is nothing in that storywhich we printed in the Star. That fellow is in there now, probably inthat room where we were, and it is possible that they may reassure himand settle his fears. Now, just suppose a murder had been committed ina room, and you knew it, and heard groanings and mutterings--fromnowhere, just in the air, about you, overhead--what would you do, ifyou were inclined to be superstitious?"
Before I could answer, he had resumed the antics which before I hadfound so inexplicable.
"Cut out and run, I suppose," I replied. "But what has that to do withthe case? The groanings are here--not there. You haven't been able toget in over there to attach anything, have you? What do you mean?"
"No," he admitted, "but did you ever hear what you could do with amicrophone, a rheostat, and a small transformer coil if you attachedthem properly to a direct-current electric lighting circuit? No? Well,an amateur with a little knowledge of electricity could do it. Thething is easily constructed, and the result is a most complicatedmatter."
"Well?" I queried, endeavouring to follow him.
"The electric arc," he continued, "isn't always just a silent electriclight. You know that. You've heard them make noises. Under the rightconditions such a light can be made to talk--the 'speaking arc,' asProfessor Duddell calls it. In other words, an arc light can be made toact as a telephone receiver."
I could hardly believe the thing possible, but Garrick went onexplaining.
"You might call it the arcophone, I suppose. The scientific fact of thematter is that the arc is sensitive to very small variations of thecurrent. These variations may run over a wide range of frequency. Thatsuggested to Duddell that a direct-current arc might be used as atelephone receiver. All that you need is to add a microphone current tothe main arc current. The arc reproduces sounds and speech distinctly,loud enough, even, to be heard several feet away from the light."
He had cut out the microphone again while he was talking to me. Heswitched it in again with the words, "Now, get ready, Tom. Just onemore; then we must hurry around in that car of ours and watch the fun."
This time he was talking into the microphone. In a most solemn,sepulchral voice he repeated, "Let the slayer of Rena Taylor beware.She will be avenged! Beware! It will be a life for a life!"
Three times he repeated it, to make sure that it would carry. Then,grabbing up his hat and coat, he dashed out of the room, past thesurprised policeman at the door, and took the steps in front of thehouse almost at a bound.
We hardly had time to enter our own car and reach the corner ofForty-seventh Street, when the big black automobile which we hadfollowed uptown shot by almost before the traffic man at the crossingcould signal a clear road.
"We must hang onto him!" cried Garrick, turning to follow. "Did youcatch a glimpse of his face? It's our man, the go-between, the keeperof the garage whom they call the Boss. He was as pale as if he had seena ghost. I guess he did think he heard one. Between the news-paper fakeand the speaking arc, I think we've got him going. There he is."
It was an exciting ride, for the man ahead was almost reckless, thoughhe seemed to know instinctively sti
ll just when to put on bursts ofspeed and when to slow down to escape being arrested for speeding. Wehung on, managing to keep something less than a couple of blocks behindhim. It was evident that he was making for the ferry uptown across theriver to New Jersey, and, taking advantage of this knowledge, Garrickwas able to drop back a little, and approach the ferry by going down adifferent street so that there was no hint yet that we were followinghim.
By judicious jockeying we succeeded in getting on the boat on theopposite side from the car we were following, and in such a way that wecould get off as soon as he could. We managed to cross the ferry, and,in the general scramble that attends the landing, to negotiate the hillon the other side of the river without attracting the attention of theman in the other car. His one idea seemed to be speed, and he had nosuspicion, apparently, that in his flight he was being followed.
As we bowled along, forced by circumstances to take the fellow's dust,Garrick would quietly chuckle now and then to himself.
"Fancy what he must have thought," he chortled. "First the newspaperthat sent him scurrying up to the gambling place for more news, or tospread the alarm, and then, while they were sitting about, perhapswhile someone was talking about the strange voices they had alreadyheard this morning, suddenly the voice from nowhere. Can you blame themif they thought it was a warning from the grave?"
Whatever actually had happened in the gambling house, the practicaleffect was all that even Garrick could have desired. Hour after hour,we hung to that car ahead, leaving behind the cities, and passing alongthe regular road through town after town.
Sometimes the road was well oiled, and we would have to drop back a bitto escape too close observation. Then we would strike a stretch whereit was dry. The clouds of dust served to hide us. On we went until itwas apparent that the man was now headed at least in the direction ofTuxedo.
We now passed the boundary between New York state and New Jersey andsoon after that came to the house of Dr. Mead where Warrington had beenconvalescing until Garrick's warning had brought him, still half ill,down to the city to protect Violet Winslow. In fact, the road seemedreplete with interesting reminiscences of the case, for a few milesback was the spot where Rena Taylor's body had been found, as well asthe garage whence had come the rumour of the blood-stained car. Therewas no chance to stop and tell the surprised Dr. Mead just what hadbecome of his patient and we had to trust that Warrington would explainhis sudden disappearance himself. In fact, Garrick scarcely looked toeither the right or left, so intent was he on not missing for aninstant the car that was leading us in this long chase.
On we sped, around the bend where Warrington had been held up. It was anasty curve, even in the daytime.
"I think this fellow ahead noticed the place," gritted Garrick, leaningforward. "He seemed to slow up a bit as he turned. I hope he didn'tnotice us as he turned his head back slightly."
It made no difference, if he did, for, the curve passed, he wasevidently feeding the gas faster than ever. We turned the curve also,the forward car something more than a quarter of a mile ahead of us.
"We must take a chance and close up on him," said Garrick, as he, too,accelerated his speed, not a difficult thing to do with the almostperfect racer of Warrington's. "He may turn off at a crossroad at anytime, now."
Still our man kept on, bowling northward along the fine state road thatled to one of the richest parts of the country.
He came to the attractive entrance to Tuxedo Park. Almost, I hadexpected him to turn in. At least I should not have been surprised ifhe had done so.
However, he kept on northward, past the entrance to the Park. We hungdoggedly on.
Where was he going? I wondered whether Garrick might have been wrong,after all. Half a mile lengthened into a mile. Still he was speeding on.
But Garrick had guessed right. Sure enough, at a cross road, the othercar slowed down, then quickly swung around, off the main road.
"What are you going to do?" I asked Garrick quickly. "If we turn also,that will be too raw. Surely he'll notice that."
"Going to stop," cried Garrick, taking in the situation instantly."Come on, Tom, jump out. We'll fake a little tire trouble, in case heshould look around and see us stopping here. I'll keep the enginerunning."
We went back and stood ostentatiously by the rear wheel. Garrick bentover it, keeping his eye fixed on the other car, now perhaps half amile along on the narrow crossroad.
It neared the top of a hill on the other side of the valley acrosswhich the road wound like a thin brown line, then dipped down over thecrest and was lost on the other side.
Garrick leaped back into our car and I followed. He turned the bendalmost on two wheels, and let her out as we swept down a short hill andthen took the gentle incline on high speed, eating up the distance asthough it had been inches instead of nearly a mile.
A short distance from the top of the hill, Garrick applied the brake,just in time so that the top of our car would not be visible to one whohad passed on down the next incline into the valley beyond.
"Let us walk up the rest of the way," he said quickly, "and see what ison the other side of this hill."
We did so cautiously. Far down below us we could see the car which wehad been trailing all the way up from the city, threading its way alongthe country road. We watched it, and as we did so, it slowed up andturned out, running up a sort of lane that led to what looked like atrim little country estate.
The car had stopped at an unpretentious house at the end of the lane.The driver got out and walked up to the back door, which seemed to bestealthily opened to admit him.
"Good!" exclaimed Garrick. "At last we are on a hot trail!"
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