The Detective Megapack

by Various Writers

  “A search even now would be almost worth while, wouldn’t it?” asked the broker.

  George Weston laughed aloud.

  “It might be,” he said, “but I have some doubt. A thing that was searched for twenty years would not be easily found.”

  So it seemed to strike the others after awhile and the matter was dropped.

  “But this ghost thing,” said the broker, at last. “I’m interested in that. Suppose we make up a ghost party and go down tonight. My contractor declares he can’t get men to work there.”

  “I would be glad to go,” said George Weston, “but I’m running over to the Vandergrift ball in Providence tonight.”

  “How about you, Hatch?” asked the broker.

  “I’ll go, yes,” said Hatch, “as one of several,” he added with a smile.

  “Well, then, suppose we say the constable and you and I?” asked the broker; “tonight?”

  “All right.”

  After making arrangements to meet the broker later that afternoon he rushed away—away to The Thinking Machine. The scientist listened, then resumed some chemical test he was making.

  “Can’t you go down with us tonight?” Hatch asked.

  “No,” said the other. “I’m going to read a paper before a scientific society and prove that a chemist in Chicago is a fool. That will take me all evening.”

  “Tomorrow night?” Hatch insisted.

  “No—the next night.”

  This would be on Friday night—just in time for the feature which had been planned for Sunday. Hatch was compelled to rest content with this, but he foresaw that he would have it all, with a solution. It never occurred to him that this problem, or, indeed, that any problem, was beyond the mental capacity of Professor Van Dusen.

  Hatch and Ernest Weston took a night train that evening, and on their arrival in the village stirred up the town constable.

  “Will you go with us?” was the question.

  “Both of you going?” was the counter-question.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll go,” said the constable promptly. “Ghost!” and he laughed scornfully. “I’ll have him in the lockup by morning.”

  “No shooting, now,” warned Weston. “There must be somebody back of this somewhere; we understand that, but there is no crime that we know of. The worst is possibly trespassing.”

  “I’ll get him all right,” responded the constable, who still remembered the experience where blood—warm blood—had been thrown in his face. “And I’m not so sure there isn’t a crime.”

  That night about ten the three men went into the dark, forbidding house and took a station on the stairs where Hatch had sat when he saw the thing—whatever it was. There they waited. The constable moved nervously from time to time, but neither of the others paid any attention to him.

  At last the—the thing appeared. There had been a preliminary sound as of something running across the floor, then suddenly a flaming figure of white seemed to grow into being in the reception-room. It was exactly as Hatch had described it to The Thinking Machine.

  Dazed, stupefied, the three men looked, looked as the figure raised a hand, pointing toward them, and wrote a word in the air—positively in the air. The finger merely waved, and there, floating before them, were letters, flaming letters, in the utter darkness. This time the word was: “Death.”

  Faintly, Hatch, fighting with a fear which again seized him, remembered that The Thinking Machine had asked him if the handwriting was that of a man or woman; now he tried to see. It was as if drawn on a blackboard, and there was a queer twist to the loop at the bottom. He sniffed to see if there was an odor of any sort. There was not.

  Suddenly he felt some quick, vigorous action from the constable behind him. There was a roar and a flash in his ear; he knew the constable had fired at the thing. Then came the cry and laugh—almost a laugh of derision—he had heard them before. For one instant the figure lingered and then, before their eyes, faded again into utter blackness. Where it had been was nothing—nothing.

  The constable’s shot had had no effect.

  CHAPTER IV

  Three deeply mystified men passed down the hill to the village from the old house. Ernest Weston, the owner, had not spoken since before the—the thing appeared there in the reception-room, or was it in the library? He was not certain—he couldn’t have told. Suddenly he turned to the constable.

  “I told you not to shoot.”

  “That’s all right,” said the constable. “I was there in my official capacity, and I shoot when I want to.”

  “But the shot did no harm,” Hatch put in.

  “I would swear it went right through it, too,” said the constable, boastfully. “I can shoot.”

  Weston was arguing with himself. He was a cold-blooded man of business; his mind was not one to play him tricks. Yet now he felt benumbed; he could conceive no explanation of what he had seen. Again in his room in the little hotel, where they spent the remainder of the night, he stared blankly at the reporter.

  “Can you imagine any way it could be done?”

  Hatch shook his head.

  “It isn’t a spook, of course,” the broker went on, with a nervous smile; “but—but I’m sorry I went. I don’t think probably I shall have the work done there as I thought.”

  They slept only fitfully and took an early train back to Boston. As they were almost to separate at the South Station, the broker had a last word.

  “I’m going to solve that thing,” he declared, determinedly. “I know one man at least who isn’t afraid of it—or of anything else. I’m going to send him down to keep a lookout and take care of the place. His name is O’Heagan, and he’s a fighting Irishman. If he and that—that—thing ever get mixed up together—”

  Like a schoolboy with a hopeless problem, Hatch went straight to The Thinking Machine with the latest developments. The scientist paused just long enough in his work to hear it.

  “Did you notice the handwriting?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” was the reply; “so far as I could notice the style of a handwriting that floated in air.”

  “Man’s or woman’s?”

  Hatch was puzzled.

  “I couldn’t judge,” he said. “It seemed to be a bold style, whatever it was. I remember the capital D clearly.”

  “Was it anything like the handwriting of the broker—what’s-his-name?—Ernest Weston?”

  “I never saw his handwriting.”

  “Look at some of it, then, particularly the capital D’s,” instructed The Thinking Machine. Then, after a pause: “You say the figure is white and seems to be flaming?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it give out any light? That is, does it light up a room, for instance?”

  “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

  “When you go into a room with a lamp,” explained The Thinking Machine, “it lights the room. Does this thing do it? Can you see the floor or walls or anything by the light of the figure itself?”

  “No,” replied Hatch, positively.

  “I’ll go down with you tomorrow night,” said the scientist, as if that were all.

  “Thanks,” replied Hatch, and he went away.

  Next day about noon he called at Ernest Weston’s office. The broker was in.

  “Did you send down your man O’Heagan?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the broker, and he was almost smiling.

  “What happened?”

  “He’s outside. I’ll let him tell you.”

  The broker went to the door and spoke to some one and O’Heagan entered. He was a big, blue-eyed Irishman, frankly freckled and red-headed—one of those men who look trouble in the face and are glad of it if the trouble can be reduced to a fighting basis. An everlasting smile was about his lips, only now it was a bit faded.

  “Tell Mr. Hatch what happened last night,” requested the broker.

  O’Heagan told it. He, too, had sought to get hold of the flaming figure. As he r
an for it, it disappeared, was obliterated, wiped out, gone, and he found himself groping in the darkness of the room beyond, the library. Like Hatch, he took the nearest way out, which happened to be through a window already smashed.

  “Outside,” he went on, “I began to think about it, and I saw there was nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn’t have convinced me of that when I was inside. I took a lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other and went all over that house. There was nothing; if there had been we would have had it out right there. But there was nothing. So I started out to the barn, where I had put a cot in a room.

  “I went upstairs to this room—it was then about two o’clock—and went to sleep. It seemed to be an hour or so later when I awoke suddenly—I knew something was happening. And the Lord forgive me if I’m a liar, but there was a cat—a ghost cat in my room, racing around like mad. I just naturally got up to see what was the matter and rushed for the door. The cat beat me to it, and cut a flaming streak through the night.

  “The cat looked just like the thing inside the house—that is, it was a sort of shadowy, waving white light like it might be afire. I went back to bed in disgust, to sleep it off. You see, sir,” he apologized to Weston, “that there hadn’t been anything yet I could put my hands on.”

  “Was that all?” asked Hatch, smilingly.

  “Just the beginning. Next morning when I awoke I was bound to my cot, hard and fast. My hands were tied and my feet were tied, and all I could do was lie there and yell. After awhile, it seemed years, I heard some one outside and shouted louder than ever. Then the constable come up and let me loose. I told him all about it—and then I came to Boston. And with your permission, Mr. Weston, I resign right now. I’m not afraid of anything I can fight, but when I can’t get hold of it—well—”

  Later Hatch joined The Thinking Machine. They caught a train for the little village by the sea. On the way The Thinking Machine asked a few questions, but most of the time he was silent, squinting out the window. Hatch respected his silence, and only answered questions.

  “Did you see Ernest Weston’s handwriting?” was the first of these.

  “Yes.”

  “The capital D’s?”

  “They are not unlike the one the—the thing wrote, but they are not wholly like it,” was the reply.

  “Do you know anyone in Providence who can get some information for you?” was the next query.

  “Yes.”

  “Get him by long-distance ’phone when we get to this place and let me talk to him a moment.”

  Half an hour later The Thinking Machine was talking over the long-distance ’phone to the Providence correspondent of Hatch’s paper. What he said or what he learned there was not revealed to the wondering reporter, but he came out after several minutes, only to re-enter the booth and remain for another half an hour.

  “Now,” he said.

  Together they went to the haunted house. At the entrance to the grounds something else occurred to The Thinking Machine.

  “Run over to the ’phone and call Weston,” he directed. “Ask him if he has a motor-boat or if his cousin has one. We might need one. Also find out what kind of a boat it is—electric or gasoline.”

  Hatch returned to the village and left the scientist alone, sitting on the veranda gazing out over the sea. When Hatch returned he was still in the same position.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Ernest Weston has no motor-boat,” the reporter informed him. “George Weston has an electric, but we can’t get it because it is away. Maybe I can get one somewhere else if you particularly want it.”

  “Never mind,” said The Thinking Machine. He spoke as if he had entirely lost interest in the matter.

  Together they started around the house to the kitchen door.

  “What’s the next move?” asked Hatch.

  “I’m going to find the jewels,” was the startling reply.

  “Find them?” Hatch repeated.

  “Certainly.”

  They entered the house through the kitchen and the scientist squinted this way and that, through the reception-room, the library, and finally the back hallway. Here a closed door in the flooring led to a cellar.

  In the cellar they found heaps of litter. It was damp and chilly and dark. The Thinking Machine stood in the center, or as near the center as he could stand, because the base of the chimney occupied this precise spot, and apparently did some mental calculation.

  From that point he started around the walls, solidly built of stone, stooping and running his fingers along the stones as he walked. He made the entire circuit as Hatch looked on. Then he made it again, but this time with his hands raised above his head, feeling the walls carefully as he went. He repeated this at the chimney, going carefully around the masonry, high and low.

  “Dear me, dear me!” he exclaimed, petulantly. “You are taller than I am, Mr. Hatch. Please feel carefully around the top of this chimney base and see if the rocks are all solidly set.”

  Hatch then began a tour. At last one of the great stones which made this base trembled under his hand.

  “It’s loose,” he said.

  “Take it out.”

  It came out after a deal of tugging.

  “Put your hand in there and pull out what you find,” was the next order. Hatch obeyed. He found a wooden box, about eight inches square, and handed it to The Thinking Machine.

  “Ah!” exclaimed that gentleman.

  A quick wrench caused the decaying wood to crumble. Tumbling out of the box were the jewels which had been lost for fifty years.

  CHAPTER V

  Excitement, long restrained, burst from Hatch in a laugh—almost hysterical. He stooped and gathered up the fallen jewelry and handed it to The Thinking Machine, who stared at him in mild surprise.

  “What’s the matter?” inquired the scientist.

  “Nothing,” Hatch assured him, but again he laughed.

  The heavy stone which had been pulled out of place was lifted up and forced back into position, and together they returned to the village, with the long-lost jewelry loose in their pockets.

  “How did you do it?’ asked Hatch.

  “Two and two always make four,” was the enigmatic reply. “It was merely a sum in addition.” There was a pause as they walked on, then: “Don’t say anything about finding this, or even hint at it in any way, until you have my permission to do so.”

  Hatch had no intention of doing so. In his mind’s eye he saw a story, a great, vivid, startling story spread all over his newspaper about flaming phantoms and treasure trove—$100,000 in jewels. It staggered him. Of course he would say nothing about it—even hint at it, yet. But when he did say something about it—!

  In the village The Thinking Machine found the constable.

  “I understand some blood was thrown on you at the Weston place the other night?”

  “Yes. Blood—warm blood.”

  “You wiped it off with your handkerchief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you the handkerchief?”

  “I suppose I might get it,” was the doubtful reply. “It might have gone into the wash.”

  “Astute person,” remarked The Thinking Machine. “There might have been a crime and you throw away the one thing which would indicate it—the blood stains.”

  The constable suddenly took notice.

  “By ginger!” he said. “Wait here and I’ll go see if I can find it.”

  He disappeared and returned shortly with the handkerchief. There were half a dozen blood stains on it, now dark brown.

  The Thinking Machine dropped into the village drugstore and had a short conversation with the owner, after which he disappeared into the compounding room at the back and remained for an hour or more—until darkness set in. Then he came out and joined Hatch, who, with the constable, had been waiting.

  The reporter did not ask any questions, and The Thinking Machine volunteered no information.

  “Is it too late for
anyone to get down from Boston tonight?” he asked the constable.

  “No. He could take the eight o’clock train and be here about half-past nine.”

  “Mr. Hatch, will you wire to Mr. Weston—Ernest Weston—and ask him to come tonight, sure. Impress on him the fact that it is a matter of the greatest importance.”

  Instead of telegraphing, Hatch went to the telephone and spoke to Weston at his club. The trip would interfere with some other plans, the broker explained, but he would come. The Thinking Machine had meanwhile been conversing with the constable and had given some sort of instructions which evidently amazed that official exceedingly, for he kept repeating “By ginger!” with considerable fervor.

  “And not one word or hint of it to anyone,” said The Thinking Machine. “Least of all to the members of your family.”

  “By ginger!” was the response, and the constable went to supper.

  The Thinking Machine and Hatch had their supper thoughtfully that evening in the little village “hotel.” Only once did Hatch break this silence.

  “You told me to see Weston’s handwriting,” he said. “Of course you knew he was with the constable and myself when we saw the thing, therefore it would have been impossible—”

  “Nothing is impossible,” broke in The Thinking Machine. “Don’t say that, please.”

  “I mean that, as he was with us—”

  “We’ll end the ghost story tonight,” interrupted the scientist.

  Ernest Weston arrived on the nine-thirty train and had a long, earnest conversation with The Thinking Machine, while Hatch was permitted to cool his toes in solitude. At last they joined the reporter.

  “Take a revolver by all means,” instructed The Thinking Machine.

  “Do you think that necessary?” asked Weston.

  “It is—absolutely,” was the emphatic response.

  Weston left them after awhile. Hatch wondered where he had gone, but no information was forthcoming. In a general sort of way he knew that The Thinking Machine was to go to the haunted house, but he didn’t know when; he didn’t even know if he was to accompany him.

  At last they started, The Thinking Machine swinging a hammer he had borrowed from his landlord. The night was perfectly black, even the road at their feet was invisible. They stumbled frequently as they walked on up the cliff toward the house, dimly standing out against the sky. They entered by way of the kitchen, passed through to the stairs in the main hall, and there Hatch indicated in the darkness the spot from which he had twice seen the flaming phantom.