The Washington Square Enigma

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  Trudel smiled and, stepping out into the hall, returned with them. He donned them hurriedly and a minute later was leaving the house with Morningstar, who seemed more than eager to get away. Outside, Morningstar turned north toward the flat, open area of Lincoln Park toward what Morningstar explained, was the lagoon motorboat stand. There, he outlined to the younger man, the motorboat could be unmoored and guided out into the lake from the lagoon entrance.

  But as they left the residential portion of the Drive and forged into the park itself, a muffled figure who had been standing near the Vanderhuyden mansion whistled softly to himself.

  “Now what the hell is up the sleeves of those two fellows?” he muttered. “Hurrying like mad. I wonder — ” He whistled softly to himself again. “By George, they’re on the scent of something! It may be the Bond matter or — or — it might be the ruby itself.” He felt down in his pocket to where the handle of a revolver rested, and felt its cold barrel calculatingly. “I guess I’ll trail along under the shadow of the trees and turn company into a crowd.” He laughed quietly.

  At once he followed the two men ahead, sunk deep into the collar of his overcoat, keeping in the gloom of the trees that line the great road which cuts through Lincoln Park.

  THIS IS A CHALLENGE TO YOU. At this point all the characters and clues have been presented. It should now be possible for you to solve the mystery.

  CAN YOU DO IT?

  Here’s your chance to do a little detective work on your own — a chance to test your powers of deduction. Review the mystery and see if you can solve it at this point.

  Remember! THIS IS A SPORTING PROPOSITION, made in an effort to make the reading of mystery stories more interesting to you. So — don ther. Reach solution now. Then proceed.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  VIA MOTORBOAT

  A FEW minutes’ walk brought Harling and the detective to the low fence of concrete and iron webbing which encircles the south end of the Lincoln Park lagoon. They vaulted it, and Morningstar, evidently acquainted with the surroundings, led the way along the wooden walk for a distance, finally stopping in front of two trim motorboats, one a large black one with the name Quicksilver on it, the other a small white one bearing the name Dancing Delie. He fumbled under the stern seat of the Quicksilver and withdrew an intricate key which he fitted into a massive brass padlock that held both boats by a stout chain to the tiny dock. The padlock opened easily. He unmoored the white motorboat, locked the padlock, and replaced the key under the stern seat of the Quicksilver. Some few hundred feet off, a man standing in the shadow of the trees, watched the little moonlight performance with interest, paying particular attention to the withdrawal of the key from its hiding place under the stern seat of the Quicksilver and its later replacement.

  “All right, old man,” Morningstar was saying at the dock; “jump in. Many a mile I’ve covered in a motorboat, but never on such an errand as this, I must admit.”

  Harling climbed in and the detective followed. The latter cranked up the engine, threw on the levers, adjusted the screws and, with a loud snort the boat sprang out into the calm, moonlit lagoon. Rapidly they shot northward a few hundred feet; then the great masonry opening which led out into Lake Michigan loomed up before them, and with a deft turn, Morningstar shot the boat out into the lake, its huge expanse covered with small, choppy waves.

  As the boat skimmed smoothly and swiftly northward, following roughly the curve of the shore line, Harling essayed no conversation, so loud was the roar of the exhaust. But several times he looked backward, and once he placed his mouth close to the ear of the red-haired man.

  “Seems to me I heard the sound of another motorboat way back of us behind that bend,” he shouted to the other. “Or maybe it’s an echo from this exhaust.”

  Morningstar grinned and threw the lever up a notch. “Plenty of motorboats — speed-boats — every kind of water-cockroach — on the lake,” he shouted back, “in spite of the lateness of the year. The fans will scoot around over the surface of the water till the very day the ice begins to form.”

  Presently the tiny boat sped past the north end of Lincoln Park, and from then on it passed innumerable residences built along the wooded shore, the lights of which, showing through the front windows, looked bright and cheerful to the two men exposed to the chill breeze against the running boat.

  Every now and then, a deserted bathing beach shot past them, the great, white pleasure devices seeming like skeletons of gay splashing days of the past. Finally, however, there loomed up far ahead of them a great plain, covered with white headstones, mausoleums and marble pillars surrounded by a fence of concrete posts that seemed to run on in endless procession along the shore as far northward as the eye could reach.

  “There it is,” shouted Morningstar in Harling’s ear. He put on the muffler. His words were now audible: “Calvary. One of the best-known cemeteries in the world. They say it’s so full now that it’s almost impossible to get lots or grave space.” He smiled at the other in the moonlight. “But Johnny Wilkins, it seems, managed to find space enough at least for one little stone — value one hundred thousand dollars!”

  After the boat had passed the beginning of the concrete fence for some distance, Morningstar slowed up, for a short space ahead loomed two great gateposts which marked the rear entrance.

  “We could have come here by the Evanston L road,” he explained, “but we would have had to enter through the great main entrance a mile or so to the west of us and the gatekeeper would surely have stopped us and asked us where we were going at this time of night. And we’re not looking for any more notoriety. But out here by Sheridan Road, the cemetery — outside of an occasional Evanstonian whizzing homeward past it, quoting Homer in the original Greek — is deserted, and not a chance of anyone butting in on our operations.”

  From this point on, a great number of private docks or jetties stretched out into the lake, both from the entrance of the cemetery and from the many residences far up along the Evanston shore. Morningstar steered the boat up carefully to the first dock and moored it by throwing a looped rope over an upright. Harling stepped out, rather cramped from his sitting posture and, shaking out the folds of the raincoat, walked the teetering dock up to the point where it merged with the sands of the beach. Morningstar followed at his heels.

  Together the two made their way across the narrow but well-paved road, and into the strangely silent, eerie cemetery across which Johnny Wilkins had fled after robbing the Bond residence farther up the shore. There they paused a moment uncertainly. All over the great plain tiny white posts could be seen peeping above the rusty sod, bearing black numbers painted on them. Morningstar stooped down and scrutinized the one nearest to him in the moonlight.

  “Here’s number 36-S,” he remarked. He crossed the center road. “And here’s number 36-N. Then we stick to the north half of the grounds. That much is certain.” Together they walked slowly along for several hundred feet, passing a number of bypaths which led away from the main one. “I think I get their system of numbering now,” he said suddenly. “Follow me. I’ll find out No. 67-N in a jiffy.”

  He led the way up a winding path and after a few unsuccessful examinations of the wooden markers, he pounded his fist on top of one in particular. “Here it is,” he declared grimly. “Now hold your breath, my boy. I’m almost afraid to dig.”

  Both men leaned down as though actuated by a common mechanism, and began to dig with their fingers, so great was their eagerness. They did not know that, shortly before, a long, black motorboat with its engine now running smoothly and silently, had slid up to the dock at the rear of the cemetery; that the lone occupant, after unmooring the Dancing Delia and giving it a shove out into the lake, where it began to drift northward, had hurried up the dock. Neither were they aware of the fact that the same figure, fingering the cold revolver in his pocket had slipped up the path in the moonlight, and, dodging from gravestone to gravestone behind them, had come nearer and nearer over the carp
eted turf; that he had finally stationed himself behind a great marble shaft and was taking out a white silk handkerchief from his pocket.

  Harling was the first to find the ruby. It lay a bare inch beneath the turf, which had evidently been first raised with a knife or file and then lowered again. He drew the gem out in the moonlight and brushed it off. Heavy and purple as it was, its many facets, as soon as they were cleaned with the palm of his hand, reflected the moonlight as from a thousand points. This way and that he held it, while Morningstar stared at it with satisfaction, and Harling began to wonder if this strange experience were all a dream.

  “Man alive,” the red-haired man ejaculated, “but I’m anxious to see that under electric light. They say it’s a veritable ball of purple fire. Here in the moonlight, though, it’s cold and dead. It seems more like — ”

  Morningstar’s words were broken short by a sharp command from behind: “If you please, gentlemen, all hands skyward.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  A LAUGH ON THE BREEZE

  AT THE sudden command the two men turned swiftly around. Harling, as though actuated by a mechanical impulse, thrust the huge gem into his coat pocket.

  Standing in the moonlight, some twenty feet away, was a tall man with a white silk handkerchief knotted over the lower part of his face. His soft hat was pulled down, keeping his eyes and forehead in gloom. He was muffled in an overcoat. Slowly the two men facing him, in answer to the menacing revolver which oscillated gently from one to the other, raised their hands.

  “You fellow in the raincoat,” said the masked figure in a husky and disguised voice, “kindly replace your left hand in your left coat pocket and slowly — very slowly — withdraw the article you just placed there. You fellow with the crimson locks, keep your paws elevated right where they are. You fellow with the raincoat, one attempt to withdraw anything but what you placed in that pocket, and I’ll snap a bullet through you before you can — All right. Start in!”

  Harling made no move for a second. A sudden mad impulse seized him to take a chance and run, but one look at the steady revolver showed him too plainly that he would never cover ten feet. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his left hand into his pocket. His fingers closed on a crystalline, faceted surface, and, stifling again the impulse to fly with the Vanderhuyden ruby in the face of certain disaster, he withdrew his hand with its contents.

  Then the masked figure spoke again: “Walk ten feet toward me and lay it down on the turf. Then amble back to where you are. And no monkey business — I’ll pot you sure.”

  Harling, uneasily watching the revolver which covered him, but which was ready to snap in the twinkling of an eye to the other man, walked forward a few feet and deposited the stone on the ground. Then he walked back to his first position and waited curiously.

  The masked figure with a happy laugh ran lightly forward and stooped over without once taking his eyes off the two men in front of him. Groping a bit undecidedly, his free fingers closed on the stone, and he stood erect again. Then without a further word, he backed off quickly to the main road which led into the cemetery, not once changing the direction of the weapon that still flashed menacingly in the moonlight. But at the main road, he suddenly did a surprising thing.

  Like a flash, he spun on his heel and, slipping the revolver in his pocket, sped down the road through the big gate across the well-paved, narrow road, down the sands to the dock, and out along the narrow footboard to where the black motorboat was moored.

  Even before he had reached the gate, Morningstar was fumbling in his own pocket for his revolver. It caught in the lining of his pocket but he managed to get it out finally, and, kneeling on the ground, took careful aim at the figure now on the dock.

  The latter, though, had evidently all his plans prepared, for with one motion, he had flung off the painter, thrown the lever which connected the chugging engine with the propeller, and with one leap had hurled himself flat on the bottom of the motorboat. A second later, the craft was shooting like an arrow out into the lake, in a southeasterly direction.

  Morningstar, from where he crouched on the sod, fired again and again. His first bullet struck one of the heavy iron wires of the rear fence, and it sung like a thousand violin strings. Several times after that, Harling thought he heard the dull thud of metal against wood as the bullet struck the fleeing motorboat, but he kept well out of line.

  With the sudden disappearance of the” boat around a bend in the shore, still apparently pas-sengerless on account of its lone occupant lying flat on its bottom, the engine stopped for a bare few seconds, and a mocking laugh floated back to them on the breeze.

  With the starting up of the engine again, Morningstar turned to the man at his side.

  “Oh — hell!” he groaned, as he noticed that the white motorboat was no longer moored to the dock. He pitched his empty revolver furiously on the turf, and sat down with his head in his hands: “Stung, by all that’s holy! Whipsawed! Caught like a couple of schoolboys — like nincompoops! Bah! And to think that I’d — ”

  He stopped. He looked in a sickly way toward Harling, and his red hair seemed almost to have taken on the pallor of his face.

  “Morningstar,” Harling cried out to the other, “did — did you notice that our sudden visitor just now kept his middle finger on the trigger instead of his index finger? The index one was gone at the joint. I’m afraid, old man, that your visitor, Courtenay Vandervoort, called just a little too soon. He wasn’t due until eleven o’clock.”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  HE WHO LAUGHS LAST

  MORNINGSTAR stared dully at him for a second. Then he spoke in a lifeless tone of voice.

  “Minus the index finger?” he commented slowly. He nodded his head gloomily. “Vandervoort, all right. And we were a couple of children. What can I ever say to Miss Vanderhuyden? I can’t face her, Harling. I wish I could throw up the case and just slink away from the city. Man, you can’t guess how I feel about — about this! I’m knocked cold.”

  Harling gazed down toward the dock. Out along the shore, a good way from the sands, he could see the Dancing Delie drifting slowly northward, and it was no nearer the beach than before.

  “Morningstar,” he said quietly, putting his hand on the detective’s shoulder, “if that was Vandervoort, I have an idea that I know a way to undo all this damage that’s been done here tonight through our stupidity. Suppose that — ”

  “You’re crazy, then,” snarled Morningstar, beside himself with chagrin and anger. “You can’t do anything now. He’ll scoot along the south shore, pull up on the beach somewhere, hide that gem in a new place, and all the king’s horses can’t get it away after that. You can bring your testimony into court. But you can’t prove definitely to a jury of twelve men that it was Vandervoort.” He paused, shrugging his shoulders despairingly. “No, it’s all off, my friend. The Vanderhuyden ruby is gone for good.”

  At this, Harling spoke sharply: “Come, come,” he said; “pull yourself together, man. I tell you, there’s a way to get back that stone. I’ll do it myself if you’ll give me half a chance. Will you accept my proposition or not? Would I make the statement if I didn’t feel there was a chance to do it?”

  The other shook his head. Then he stared silently at Harling.

  “In the first place,” Harling went on hurriedly, “Vandervoort must have lurked in the vicinity of 1500 Lake Shore Drive tonight after he left from that interview with Miss Vanderhuyden, and he must have discovered that there was a good deal of activity. Consequently, when he saw the two of us slip out and go down toward Lincoln Park, he must have suspected something — and followed us. It’s mighty plain. Another thing I’ll venture: If he should call up his valet and learn that Miss Vanderhuyden wants to see him at her home at eleven o’clock, he’ll make tracks for there. Am I right or wrong?”

  “Well, what’s that got to do with the ruby?” wailed Morningstar. “He’s not going to have that stone on his person when he comes. I tell you he’ll hide it wh
ere it can never be found. He’ll not have it on his body.”

  “Of course he won’t,” snapped Harling; “of course he won’t. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Now look here, Morningstar. I’ll get back that stone for you and Miss Vanderhuyden. Never mind how; it can be done. The first thing for you to do is to brace up, shut up, and tell me how we can get back to the North Side in order to reach the house before the guests arrive. Then I’ll go into the details of my plan.”

  He pointed out to the lake where the white motorboat was drifting northward: “We can’t wait for that forever. And what will your friend say at your losing the boat?”

  “It’ll drift in by morning,” returned Morningstar in a low voice, “and someone on the Evanston shore will stake it on the sand. I’ll have to stand the usual expense. The black one will probably be beached at the foot of Oak Street. As for getting back, this road leads westward through the cemetery for a mile to the Evanston L road. That’ll bring us into the city — at least, to the North Avenue station — within forty minutes. But I feel like letting you go back,” he added despondently, “and make the explanations yourself. I can’t face Miss Vanderhuyden.”

  “Come,” said Harling brusquely; “you can face her. What happened here tonight wasn’t our fault, and I tell you I can outline a method by which to bring back that stone so that it can’t be stolen again. Come!”

  Morningstar, apparently worried almost to distraction, turned glumly down the nearest gravel path, and, reaching the main road, trudged along at Harling’s elbow without a word. To the younger man he seemed now to be like a person in a dream. At the big western entrance of the cemetery, they made their way through a tiny door built into the great iron gates, the latter locked tightly at this hour of the night.