"Hello! Hello!" She was speaking again, evidently a little anxious and disturbed by his silence. "Mr. Stranway! Are you there? Is everything perfectly clear?"
"Perfectly!" he replied instantly. "I will see to everything!" Then eagerly: "But you! Think of the last time I saw you! Not a chance for even a word! Haven't you got any pity—any mercy? Don't you know that you——"
"I—I dare not stay here," she broke in hurriedly; and then, her voice suddenly lowered, agitated: "Will you believe me if I tell you that I—I am sorry? Good-bye!"
She had rung off.
For a moment Stranway stared helplessly at the telephone; then a whimsical smile gathered on his lips, as, with an exaggerated attempt at nonchalance, he replaced the instrument on the desk—it was a long lane that had no turning, some day he would have his innings!
He went quickly to the safe, opened it, took out the brass-bound Red Ledger, and the little key that unlocked its three great hasps. He opened the volume and turned to the index pages. Dr. Hadley Meers: it was a case that Charlebois had never spoken to him about; one of those, probably, that had long lain dormant only to spring suddenly now, at the psychological moment, into life and prominence. His finger ran down the column of names under "M," and stopped: "Meers; Hadley, M.D.... Page 119."
Stranway turned the leaves of the book rapidly, found the page—and, with a quick, sharp intake of his breath, stared at the entry before him. Queer, bizarre, enigmatical—he was prepared for that. Strange without exception was each and every entry in that still stranger book, but this was perhaps the strangest of them all! Grim, significant, premonitory, a single word on the debit side leaped out at him: "Suicide."
Stranway's lips thinned, and a hard glint came into his eyes. There was stern work here, then; work that promised a fitting ending to the three days and nights just passed. Suicide! Whose? When? Where? What did it mean? Who was this Dr. Hadley Meers upon whom Charlebois evidently now was closing down, and closing down none the less irrevocably, none the less surely, for the many years that had elapsed since the act, whatever it might have been that had caused this bald, gruesome entry, had taken place?
The open page before him afforded neither answer nor solution. He closed the Ledger, locked it, and put it back in the safe. As he straightened up, he looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. There was an hour, then, before he was due at the rendezvous—ample time to gather the papers together that Charlebois required.
He stepped now to the filing cabinet, opened a drawer, and, selecting from the neatly branded packets the one marked with the doctor's name, returned with it to the desk. The packet contained a large number of single sheets, perhaps a hundred in all, many of them bearing but a few brief sentences—the regular form of "report" used by the organisation. Placing the pile face downward before him, he drew the red-shaded reading lamp nearer to him, and, beginning at the top report, the one of earliest date, commenced to run through them rapidly. The first dated back some twenty years; after that, two or three reports bridged a space of five years; perhaps double that number related to a succeeding period of six or seven years; and then for each following year they began to grow gradually more voluminous, both in number and text, until the last fifty of them bore dates scattered over no more distant a time than the past twelve months.
At the end of some twenty minutes, Stranway had acquainted himself with the case of Dr. Hadley Meers, so far as the reports went—and a puzzled expression settled on his face. There was little in any of them that was at all out of the ordinary, much less anything that threw any light upon that ominous entry in the Red Ledger. Briefly summarised, Dr. Hadley Meers had started practice as a physician in New York when comparatively a young man twenty-four years before; his practice had grown steadily; he was generally regarded as a clever and reputable man in his profession, and apparently lived a quiet and unostentatious life; also, he operated an exclusive private sanatorium for the ultra-rich during the summer months on an island a few miles past Hell Gate within the Sound, and transferred his patients from there during the winter to an establishment on West 103rd Street. That was all, except for two of the reports, one dated three months ago, the other within the present month, which, attracting Stranway's particular attention, he had set aside from the rest and now picked up to read over again.
The first read: "George Heaton Loud, patient, died 3.5 this morning. Diagnosis: Typhoid."
The second read: "Henry Kenneth Loud, patient, died 2.10 this afternoon. Diagnosis: Typhoid."
Stranway frowned over these for another minute. The similarity in names was glaringly in evidence, and the death of these two men was obviously in some way pertinent to the case, since, otherwise, two deaths in the large clientele of a practising physician would not have been singled out—but in what way these typhoid cases were pertinent he had no idea. He slipped the two reports back amongst the others, and rose from his chair. He had still to secure the paper signed by Peter Minter. The Orchid had said that it was in the safe. He returned to the safe, and began to search rapidly through the compartment reserved for important papers. Perhaps this was it! A long envelope, sealed, across which a date was written in Charlebois' angular hand, caught his eye: "October 14th."
It was the day of Charlebois' disappearance!
Chapter XV.
The Accusation
Table of Contents
Stranway took the envelope from the safe, tore it open, and extracted the four closely written sheets of foolscap that it contained; and at the bottom of the last sheet, to his satisfaction, found the name, "Peter Minter," signed in a firm, bold hand.
Standing there by the safe, he glanced cursorily through a paragraph here and there; then his eyes riveted first on one phrase and then on another; and then, with a sharp, startled exclamation, he ran the few steps to the desk, spread out the sheets of foolscap beneath the lamp, and began to read intently. The document was dated from Meers' Island, October 13th, the day prior to Charlebois' endorsement on the envelope, and ran as follows:
"I, Peter Minter, A.M., M.D., do solemnly declare, with Almighty God as my witness, that one Henry Kenneth Loud, who died in Dr. Meers' sanatorium at West 103rd Street on October 12th of this year, was murdered by Dr. Hadley Meers at the instigation of Loud's nephew, Horace Loud; and I do further declare that it is now my belief that George Heaton Loud, elder brother of Henry Kenneth Loud, came to his death some three months previously in the same manner.
"I am constrained to make this statement in writing for two reasons: First, because I desire to see the criminals brought to justice; second, because I have reason to believe that Dr. Meers suspects I know the truth, and I fear that I may not live to appear against him publicly on the witness stand. He is a desperate man. I am already closely watched—in reality his prisoner in the summer sanatorium on the Sound, now vacated for the winter, where I was brought on the specious pretext of completing some of his research work in the laboratory here.
"Of my connection with Dr. Meers I must briefly speak. Until a year ago, I was professor of pathology at the State University. At that time Dr. Meers approached me, and made me a very favourable offer to associate myself with him. He was greatly interested in the pathological side of his profession, and had splendidly equipped laboratories, whose charge he desired me to assume. This appealed to me strongly, and I accepted the offer. So much for myself.
"Horace Loud, the nephew, was very intimate with Dr. Meers—and not altogether in a friendly way. For reasons which I shall not attempt to give in detail here, I became aware that Dr. Meers stood in fear of the other on account of a disgraceful piece of malpractice which had terminated fatally, and in which both were implicated.
"George Heaton Loud, the elder of the two uncles, a bachelor, was enormously wealthy, having inherited, under the old English law of entail, large British estates from his father. On his death, the property passed to his brother, Henry Kenneth Loud, also a bachelor—on Henry's death, Horace Loud, whose father was the youngest
son of the house and already some time dead, became sole heir-at-law. Neither of the uncles, who were sedate, serious men, would have anything to do with their nephew, who, I have cause to know, led a wild and reckless life. This nephew, Horace Loud, had a very small settlement which he must have spent many times over in his mad excesses. He was heavily in debt; and, I believe, by constantly forcing further supplies of money from Dr. Meers caused the financial stringency which I began to notice some six months after my association with Dr. Meers, and which worried the latter greatly.
"These facts are merely cumulative, pointing the motive to crimes so abhorrent in their conception and perpetration as to be almost beyond belief. I come now to the direct evidence. From my first association with Dr. Meers, a very considerable portion of my laboratory time was devoted to the study of typhus, typhoid and analogous diseases, pathologically. I was, and always have been, greatly interested in this, as in some schools the theory of the pathogenic micro-organism of typhoid was at one time held in dispute. I do not here propose to enter into a scientific discussion of the question—it has been proved and established beyond possibility of doubt that bacillus typhosus produces typhoid. Our object was the comparative study of typhus and typhoid; and we had in the laboratory at the time of the first brother's admittance to the sanatorium a small quantity of typhoid bacteria—these germs, or virus, being in their most pronounced and malignant form. At this time I noticed that some of this had been taken, and I spoke to Dr. Meers about it. He said he had taken it for animal experimentation. This, naturally, not only satisfied me, but caused me to forget the circumstance entirely. The patient—I am speaking now of George Heaton Loud—when first admitted, exhibited a low, run-down condition that might be the precursory symptoms of any number of diseases. During this period, Dr. Meers once or twice administered a hypodermic injection which, upon my remarking on the treatment, he informed me was a mild stimulant of some harmless nature—just exactly what he said it was now I do not recollect. In due course Loud's diagnosis was typhoid. The patient progressed favourably, then relapsed—and died. Five weeks ago, the other brother was admitted, and exactly similar circumstances attended him—except that in this case the patient died without it being necessary to induce a relapse.
"I was present on one of the occasions when Dr. Meers administered the hypodermic injection to the last named patient. It was in the sanatorium on 103rd Street. I remember accompanying Dr. Meers from the room immediately following the treatment, and that he was in a hurry to keep some outside appointment—his car was waiting at the door. He hurried into his light overcoat, and, as he half ran through the front hall, still struggling with the coat, his hypodermic case fell from his inner coat pocket. I did not notice it until he had closed the street door, and, in fact, was driving off. I picked it up, took it back to the laboratory, put it in the drawer of my desk, intending to return it to him—and forgot all about it. I might say that he, significantly enough now in view of what followed, made no mention of having lost it!
"During all this time I had not the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong; nor would my suspicions, in all probability, ever have been aroused had it not been that yesterday, and perhaps an hour after Henry Loud's death, I overheard a few words of a conversation between Horace Loud and Dr. Meers. There is a short hallway leading to the laboratory from the front of the house, and as I was passing along this on my way to the laboratory—which no one but Dr. Meers and myself was permitted to enter—I was surprised to hear voices and stopped to listen. I shall not detail this conversation. At almost the first words I stood transfixed, appalled with horror. They spoke of a large sum of money that Horace Loud would at once borrow on his prospects, an agreed amount of which was to be turned over to Meers. Loud, now that the deed was done, appeared from his tones to be uneasy and fearful; Dr. Meers, on the other hand, seemed callous, confident, self-centred, and assured Loud of the impossibility of detection. It came upon me like a flash, the meaning of the whole train of circumstances. I stole noiselessly from the hallway to the front part of the house, and pretended to busy myself there until they appeared; then I hurried back to the laboratory, and took out Dr. Meers' hypodermic from where I had placed it in my desk.
"There were two or three drops of liquid in the syringe. Weak, sick with dread, I began my task. At the end I remember wiping a cold, clammy perspiration from my forehead. The hypodermic contained bacillus typhosus—the man lying dead upstairs had been murdered by the inoculation of typhoid germs.
"I have little more to add. Shortly after my tests were completed, and while I was still trying to compose my mind to a calm consideration of what my first act should be, Dr. Meers came suddenly into the laboratory. He saw the hypodermic on the desk and at once asked me where I got it. I told him. He made some remark about being glad to get it back again, and put it in his pocket. He had no specific reason to believe that I mistrusted anything, much less that I had made an analysis of the contents of the syringe—but it is certain that his suspicions were instantly aroused. He dared, of course, give no open intimation that such was the fact in view of the possibility that I knew nothing. He adopted a precautionary course until he could satisfy himself one way or the other. For the rest of that afternoon, on one pretext or another, he was with me constantly; and in the evening he insisted on my accompanying him to the summer sanatorium on this island and left me here, apparently free, but actually under the guard of an old servant of his, ostensibly for the purpose of completing some unfinished experiments in this laboratory—where I am now writing this statement. I came here, realising that to refuse was but to make his suspicion a certainty—and to invite my own death. I am, then, unrestrained in my movements, but as much a prisoner as though behind barred doors, for without a boat I cannot leave the island as the distance to the mainland is too great to think of swimming. I do not know what the end will be.
"But one word more. The question will arise as to how the two brothers became inmates of the doctor's private hospital in the first place, and as to the necessarily fatal termination of typhoid in the second place. The first could be accounted for in a hundred ways. Dr. Meers was their family physician and socially intimate with them; numberless means, therefore, presented themselves of administering any one of many drugs in food or drink that would produce a slight general debility sufficient to cause them to seek his advice professionally—which would result in his suggesting the sanatorium for a period of observation pending a diagnosis that he could pretend puzzled him. After that, when under treatment—he is far too clever to have attempted it before—he could have recourse to inoculation, and well developed symptoms of typhoid in natural course would ensue. As to the fatal termination of the disease, that very point enhances the fiendish ingenuity of the crime. How safe, how sure for the perpetrator! The phrase itself, 'murdered by typhoid,' sounds an absurdity—and yet, just God! it is true. The disease fatal? Not necessarily in its first attack—it took two for the elder brother—but, relapse after relapse induced, the inevitable end is death.
"If anything happens to me, if I am unable to escape from here, I pray that God in His infinite justice will direct this paper into proper hands.
"PETER MINTER."
Stranway's brain was whirling as, he folded up the sheets of foolscap. Crime in its many shades, in its varying degrees, was no stranger to him, but none he had ever met before had been like this in Machiavellian originality. Murdered by typhoid!—the inhuman deviltry of it was like an icy hand at his heart. And then came crowding upon him question after question. This document—how did it get into Charlebois' safe? Where was this Peter Minter now?—at the island sanatorium?—alive or dead? And Charlebois—what part, matching his wits against those of this fiend Meers, had he played that had kept him hidden, absent, all these days? And suicide—what bearing on all this had that grim debit entry on the Red Ledger's page?
He pulled out his watch again. The perusal of Minter's statement had taken him longer than he had imagined�
��it was already ten minutes after seven. Stranway pushed a button on the desk, then turned, closed and locked the safe, gathered up the reports, put Minter's statement into a fresh envelope, sealed this, and placed it with the report in his pocket.
The red-silken portière before the glass-panelled door leading to No. 2 Dominic Court was lifted aside, and a man entered the room.
"Ah, Verot—you, eh?" Stranway said quickly. "Remain here—I am going out. Tell whoever reports either by phone or in person that their work is ended. Charlebois is found."
"Found!" Verot cried excitedly. "Bon Dieu, that is the best news I have ever had, unless"—his face clouded with sudden anxiety—"unless he has been harmed."
"He has not been harmed. Everything is all right," Stranway answered hurriedly, moving toward the door as he spoke. "Take charge—I'm off, and not an instant to lose. Good-bye!"
He hastened from the room, and, a minute later, after traversing the little courtyard, emerged on Sixth Avenue. Here, he hailed a passing taxi.
"Hapsburg Rathskeller—and hurry!" he flung at the chauffeur.
Chapter XVI.
Stacked Cards
Table of Contents
It was seven-thirty to the minute as Stranway entered the famous Bohemian resort. The place was crowded. Every one of the tables in the dining-room appeared to be occupied. A waiter approached him, offering to find him a seat. Stranway declined politely. His eyes, sweeping over the room, had singled out the familiar figure of a little grey-haired old gentleman, seated at a table in the far corner opposite a heavy-built, well-dressed, clean-shaven man—the latter, evidently, Dr. Hadley Meers.
The Red Ledger Page 12