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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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Cosmopolitan, January 1915, with "The Diamond-Queen"
Here is a situation that, we venture to state, with most old-fashioned detective methods would have been written down in police annals as an "unsolved crime"—a robbery and a mysterious death. In the latter case, was there deliberate murder done? Or was it suicide? Well, if Craig Kennedy hadn't been on hand with two wonderful recently invented scientific instruments—one, a poison-detector, the other, a contrivance by which a human being's emotional feelings can be measured—it is safe to say that these questions could not have been definitely answered, and a very ingenious conspiracy, in which a much-discussed new anesthetic method is used, would have been successfully carried out.
MEET SYLVANIA, QUARANTINE, MIDNIGHT. STRANGE DEATH RAWARUSKA.
RETAIN YOU IN INTEREST STEAMSHIP COMPANY. THOMPSON, PURSER.
KENNEDY had torn open the envelope of a wireless message that had just been delivered to him at dinner. He read it quickly and tossed it over to me.
"Rawaruska," I repeated. "Do you suppose that means the Russian dancer who was in the revue last year?"
"There could hardly be two of that unusual name who would be referred to so familiarly. Curious that we've had nothing in the wireless news about it."
"Perhaps it has been delayed," I suggested. "Let me ring up the Star. They may have something now."
A few minutes later I rejoined Craig at the table. A report had just been received that Rawaruska had been discovered, late the night before, unconscious in her room on the Sylvania. The ship's surgeon had been summoned; but before he was able to do anything for her, she died. That was all the report said.
Renée Rawaruska, I knew, was a popular little Russian dancer abroad who had come to America the previous season and had made a big hit on Broadway. Beautiful, strange, fiery, she incarnated the mysterious Slav. I knew her to be one of those Russian dancers before whose performances Parisian audiences had gone wild with admiration, one who had carried her art beyond anything known in other countries, fascinating, subtle.
Hastily over the telephone Kennedy made arrangements to go down to Quarantine on a Revenue tug that was leaving to meet the Sylvania.
IT was a weird trip through the choppy seas of the Upper Bay and the Narrows, in the dark, with the wind cold and bleak.
The tug had scarcely cast off from the Battery, where we met it, when a man, who had been watching us from a crevice of his turned-up ulster collar, quietly edged over.
"You are Professor Kennedy, the detective?" he began, more as if asserting it than asking the question.
Craig eyed him, but said nothing.
"I understand," he went on, not waiting for a reply, "that you are interested in the case of that little Russian actress, Rawaruska?"
Still Kennedy said nothing.
"My name is Wade—of the customs service," pursued the man, nothing abashed. Sticking his head forward between the corners of his high collar, he added, in a lowered voice, "You have heard, I suppose, of the great diamond, the Invincible?"
Kennedy nodded.
"The Invincible, you know," he went on, "is the largest amber diamond in the world, almost the size of the famous Cullinan, over three hundred carats. It was found in the dry diggings of the Vaal River, a few miles from Kimberley. The dry diggings are independent of the De Beers combine, of course. Well, its owner has always been in the position of Mark Twain's man with the million-dollar bank-note who found it too large to cash. No one knows just what an amber diamond of that size is really worth. This one is almost perfect, resembling the huge top of a decanter stopper. It's a beautiful orange color and has been estimated at—well, as high as close to a quarter of a million, though, as I said, that is all guesswork."
"Yes?" remarked Kennedy, more for politeness than anything else.
Wade leaned over closer.
"The Invincible," he whispered, shielding his lips from the keen, biting gale, "was last known to belong to the De Guerres, of Antwerp. One of my special agents abroad has cabled me to look out for it. He thinks there is reason to believe it will be smuggled into America for safekeeping during the troubles in Belgium." It seemed to make no difference to the customs man that Kennedy did not exactly welcome him with open arms. "The De Guerres are well-known dealers in diamonds. One of the De Guerres is on the Sylvania, the junior partner—" he paused, then added—"the husband, I believe, of Rawaruska. I thought perhaps you might be willing to try to help me."
"I should be glad to," replied Kennedy tersely.
Nothing more was said on the trip, and at last we came to the Sylvania.
THOMPSON, the purser, a quiet, unexcitable Englishman, met us as we came over the side, and for the moment we lost sight of our new-found friend, Wade.
"Perhaps you didn't know it," informed Thompson, as we made our way through the ship, "but Rawaruska was married."
"Who was her husband?" queried Kennedy, seeking confirmation of what we had already heard.
"Armand De Guerre, a Belgian, of Antwerp," was the reply, "one of the partners in a diamond-cutting firm of that city."
Kennedy looked at the purser keenly for a moment, then asked,
"Were they traveling together?"
"Oh, yes—that is, he had engaged a room, but you know how crowded the boats are with refugees fleeing to America from the war. He gave up his room, or rather his share of it, to a woman, a professional saleswoman, well known, I believe, in Antwerp as well as on the Rue de la Paix in Paris, and Maiden Lane and Fifth Avenue of your city, a Miss Hoffman. She shared the room with Rawaruska. De Guerre took his chances in the steerage."
As we walked down one of the main corridors, we noticed, ahead of us, a seemingly very excited gentleman engaged, apparently, in a heated conversation with another.
"Monsieur De Guerre," whispered Thompson, as we approached.
The two seemed to be just on the point of parting as we neared them, and, I think, our approach hastened them. But I heard De Guerre almost hiss, as he turned on his heel, "Well, sir, you were the last one seen with her alive."
A moment later the purser introduced us to De Guerre. There was something about him which I can hardly express, a sort of hypnotic fascination. I felt instinctively that such a man would wield a powerful influence over some women. Was it in his eyes, or was it his ardent, foreign grace?
"You must find out the truth," he cried eagerly. "Already they are saying that it was suicide. But I cannot believe it. It cannot be. No; she was murdered."
Kennedy ventured no opinion, but hastened to signify to the purser that he wanted to look over the ground as quickly as possible before the ship docked. He seemed to be keenly interested as we approached the room in which the body still lay.
It was an outside room at the end of a sort of cross alleyway, and it was impossible that anyone could have reached it except through the corridors.
Attached to it was a little bath, and directly across from the bath, on the other side, was another small room, occupied by her maid, Cécile, a French girl.
In the main bedroom was a double bed, a couch, a wardrobe, and a small, thin-legged writing- or dressing-table.
On the white bed lay the now cold and marble figure of the once vivacious little dancer. Her finely chiseled features, lacking that heaviness which often characterizes Russian women, were, however, terribly drawn, and her perfect complexion, on which she had prided herself, was now all mottled and bluish.
As Kennedy examined the body, I could not help observing that there seemed to be every evidence that the girl had been asphyxiated in some strange manner.
Had it been by a deft touch on a nerve of her beautiful, soft neck that had constricted the throat and cut off her breath? I had heard of such things. Or had it been asphyxiation due to a poison that had paralyzed the chest muscles?
The purser, as soon as we came aboard, summoned the ship's surgeon, and we had scarcely arrived at Rawaruska's room when he joined us. He was one of those solid, reliable doctors, not brilliant but one in whom you might place great confidence, a Doctor Sanderson, educated in Edinburgh and long a follower of the sea.
"Was there any evidence of a struggle?" asked Kennedy.
"No; none," replied the doctor.
"No peculiar odor, no receptacle of any kind near her that might have held poison?"
"No; nothing that could have been used to hold poison or a drug."
Kennedy was regarding the face of the little dancer attentively.
"Most extraordinary," he remarked slowly, "that congested look she has."
"Yes," agreed Doctor Sanderson; "her face was flushed and blue when I got to her—cyanotic, I should say. There seemed to be a great dryness of her throat, and the muscles of her throat were paretic. Her pupils were dilated, too, and her pulse was rapid, as if from a greatly increased blood pressure."
"Was she conscious?" asked Kennedy. "Did she recognize anything, say anything?"
"She seemed to be in a state of amnesia," replied Sanderson slowly. "Evidently, if she had seen anything, she had forgotten or wouldn't tell," he added cautiously.
"Who found her?" asked Craig.
"Why, Miss Hoffman found her," replied the purser quickly. "She called one of the stewards. She had been sitting in the library reading until quite late, and Rawaruska had retired early. It must have been nearly midnight when De Guerre and a friend, pausing at the library door on their way from the smoking-room, saw Miss Hoffman, and all three stopped in the restaurant for a bite to eat.
"De Guerre walked down the corridor with Miss Hoffman afterward," he continued, "and left her as she went into the room with his wife. Perhaps a minute later —long enough, anyway, so that he had reached the other end of the corridor—she screamed. She had turned on the light and had found Rawaruska lying half across the bed, unconscious. Miss Hoffman called to the steward to summon Doctor Preston, but he came to me, first, instead."
"Doctor Preston?" repeated Kennedy.
"Yes, a young American physician, the friend who had been with De Guerre in the smoking-room part of the evening, and later made up the party in the restaurant."
"The man De Guerre was talking to as we came down the hall," put in Thompson.
"I've talked with him, now and then, myself," admitted Sanderson, "a bright fellow who has been studying abroad and after many adventures succeeded in getting across the border into Holland and thence to England. He managed to squeeze into the steerage of the Sylvania, though, of course, like De Guerre, he was classed as a first-cabin passenger. He had become very friendly with Rawaruska and her party in London."
Thompson leaned over.
"The steward in the corridor tells me," he said, in a low tone, "that, early in the evening, Doctor Preston and Rawaruska were on the promenade deck together."
I tried vaguely to piece together the scraps of information which we had gleaned. Kennedy, however, said nothing, but was now leaning over the body of the little dancer, looking at the upper region of her spine attentively. From a group of three or four little red marks on her back, he squeezed out several drops of liquid, absorbing them on a piece of sterile gauze.
A moment later, De Guerre, who had quietly slipped away during the examination, returned, and with him was a young woman.
"Miss Elsa Hoffman," he introduced.
Elsa Hoffman was of a fascinating type, tall, finely gowned, of superb poise, physically perfect. One could not help admiring her deep-blue eyes and blond radiance. Indeed, I felt that she must rely much on her attractions in pursuit of her business of selling gems to wealthy men and women. Still, in spite of her evident poise, the tragedy seemed to have unnerved her.
She did not seem to be able to add much to the scanty stock of facts we had, even after repeating the story of her discovery of Rawaruska.
"I—I think perhaps Mr. Kennedy ought to question Cécile," she suggested finally, turning toward De Guerre, who nodded his assent.
A sudden movement in the passageway followed, and the door opened quietly. A man entered, a youngish fellow of fine physique and attractive face. I recognized him immediately as Doctor Preston.
The door opened quietly. A man entered, a youngish
fellow of fine physique and attractive face.
I recognized him immediately as Doctor Preston.
Evidently he had just heard that some one was investigating the tragedy and had hastened to be present. Both De Guerre and Elsa nodded to him a trifle coldly. He stood apart, ill at ease, until Kennedy had finished his minute examination.
As Craig moved away from the bed, Doctor Preston contrived to place himself near him and apart from the rest.
"Mr. Kennedy," he began, in a husky undertone, "they tell me you are here to investigate this—this awful affair." Kennedy assented.
"If there is anything I can do to help you," Preston added anxiously, "I hope you will command me."
"Thank you," responded Kennedy, meeting his eye squarely this time; "I shall be glad to call on you if occasion arises."
I watched Preston closely, not quite making out just what was the reason for the strained relations that seemed to exist among the former friends. Following Kennedy's every motion, Preston retired to the position of a more than interested spectator.
Craig had completed a hasty search of the room, with its little dressing-table, two trunks, and a cabinet. Everything seemed to have been kept in a most neat and orderly manner by the attentive Cécile, who was apparently a model servant. The little white bathroom was equally immaculate, and Kennedy passed next to an examination of the room of the French maid.
Cécile was a pretty, dark little being, with snapping black eyes, the type of winsome French maid that one would naturally have expected Rawaruska to have picked out to serve her dainty self.
As I ran my eye over the group that was now intently watching Kennedy at work, I fancied I caught Elsa Hoffman eying Cécile sharply, and I am sure that, once at least, those black eyes snapped back a wireless message of defiance at the penetrating eyes of blue. I could feel the atmosphere of hostility between the two women.
"The door was not locked, you say?" repeated Craig, following up one of the first of his own questions to Cécile, which had resulted in unearthing this new fact.
"Non, monsieur," replied Cécile, in accented English which was charming. "Mam'selle—we all called her that, her stage name—used to leave it open in case of fire or accident."
"But her valuables?" prompted Craig quickly, watching the effect of his question.
"All in the ship's safe, in care of the purser," replied Cécile. "So were Miss Hoffman's."
"Yes," corroborated Thompson, "and, besides, the corridors and passageways are well patrolled by stewards at all times."
The search of Cécile's room, which was smaller and more scantily furnished than the other, took only a few minutes.
A suppressed exclamation from Craig diverted my attention from the study of those around me to the study of Kennedy himself and what he had discovered.
Hidden away in the back of a drawer in a small chiffonier, he had come across several articles that aroused interest if they did not whet the blade of suspicion.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the maid, as Kennedy suppressed a smile of gratification. "But that is not mine!"
Kennedy drew out from the back of the drawer, where it had been tucked away, a little silken bag. He opened it. On the surface, it seemed that the bag was empty. But as he brought it cautiously closer to his face to peer in, I could see that just a whiff of its contents was enough.
"What have you there?" I asked Kennedy, careful not to be overheard.
"Cayenne pepper, snuff, and some chemical," sneezed Craig. "Very effective to throw into the face of anyone," he commented, closing the bag quickly by its loose drawing-strings, "that is, if you merely wish to blind him and put him out temporarily."
I did not pay much attention to the protests of the maid, the look of triumph that crossed the face of Elsa Hoffman, or the surprise exhibited by Doctor Preston. For Kennedy had picked up from the same drawer a little toilet-vaporizer, too, and was examining it minutely. As he held it up, I could see, or rather I fancied, that it was empty. He pressed the bulb lightly, then seemed to start back quickly.
"What's that?" I queried.
"Something the French secret-service spies call the 'bad perfume,'" he returned frankly, "an anesthetic so incredibly rapid and violent that the spies, usually women, who use it wear a filter-veil over their own mouths and noses to protect themselves."
The whole thing was so queer that I could only wonder what might be the explanation. Cécile was protesting volubly —now in fair English, now in liquid French —that she knew nothing of the articles.
I wondered whether Rawaruska herself might not have placed them there. Might she not have been a spy—one of those clever little dancers who had wormed themselves into the good graces of some of the world's leading men and made Russia a recognized diplomatic power?
Something like the same idea must have been suggested to Doctor Sanderson, who was standing next me, for he bent over and remarked to me in an undertone,
"I suppose you realize that the position of the Russian government has undergone a marked change since the Russian dancers have won international popularity?"
I had not thought much about it before, but I could not help a nod of assent.
"Why, I have heard," he continued, with the air of a man who is imparting a big piece of information, "that the beautiful young women of the Imperial Ballet mingle in the society of the capitals of the world, make friends with politicians, social leaders, high officials, and exert a great influence in favor of their own country wherever they go. No doubt," he added, "they sometimes convey valuable information to the Foreign Office which could not be obtained in any other way."
I was not paying much attention to him, for I was engrossed in considering the primary question: Could it have been a suicide, after all? Surely Rawaruska had removed the evidences of it much better than in any other case I had ever seen.
Or, had there been a "triangle," perhaps a quadrangle, here? I could not persuade myself that De Guerre cared greatly for his wife, except, perhaps, to be jealous of anyone else having her. He was too attentive to Elsa Hoffman, and she, in turn, was not of the type to care much for anyone. As for Doctor Preston, I could not exactly fit him into the scheme of things.
WE proceeded up the bay on the Sylvania, but were able to discover nothing further that night. As we left the ship at the dock in the morning, we ran across Wade, quietly directing a dozen or so of his men.
"Any trace yet of the Invincible?" asked Craig, stopping in an unostentatious corner.
The customs man shook his head gravely.
"Not yet," he replied. "But I'm not discouraged. If we miss it here in the customs inspection it will be sure to turn up later. There's a shady jeweler on Fifth Avenue, Margot. I have a man working there, a diamond-cutter, and other agents in the trade. Oh, I'll hear about it soon enough, if it is here!"
Briefly Kennedy told him some of the scattered facts we had discovered, just enough to satisfy him without taking him into our confidence.
"I'm going to be busy in the laboratory, Walter," remarked Kennedy, as our taxi-cab extricated itself from the ruck of the river-front streets. "I don't know that there is anything that you can do—except well, yes—I wish you'd try to keep an eye on some of these people—that maid, Cécile, especially."
WE had learned that De Guerre was to stop at the Vanderveer, and, later in the morning, I dropped into the hotel, and glanced over the register. De Guerre was registered, there, and Cécile had a little room, also, pending the disposal he would make of her. Miss Hoffman had rooms of her own, which she had evidently reengaged, with a family in a residential street not far from the hotel.
The clerk told me that De Guerre was out, but that the maid had returned, after having been out alone for a short time. The lobby of the Vanderveer was fairly crowded with people by this time, and I found no difficulty in keeping in the background and still seeing pretty much everything that went on.
It was rather tame, however, and I was still debating whether I should not do something active, when I happened to glance up and catch sight of a familiar face. It was Doctor Preston, making inquiries for some one of the room-clerk.
A few moments later, Preston, who had received an answer from whomever he was calling, edged his way toward one of the little reception-rooms.
It was some minutes before I could make up my mind to risk passing the door of the little parlor and being discovered, but I was growing impatient. As I glanced in, I was astonished to see him talking earnestly to Cécile. I did not dare stop, for fear one or the other might look up, but I could see that Preston was eagerly questioning her. Her face was averted from me, and I could not read even her expression. But, going back to the lobby, I found a concealed position near the telephone-booths, which gave me a view at least of the door of the parlor.
I found a concealed position near the telephone-booths,
which gave me a view at least of the door of the parlor.
Perhaps five minutes passed. Then Cécile and Doctor Preston suddenly emerged from the reception-room. Evidently the maid was anxious to get away, perhaps afraid to be seen with him. With a word, she almost ran down the corridor, and Preston, with a queer look on his face, came slowly toward me. Instinctively I drew back into a telephone-booth; then it occurred to me that if I emerged just as he passed, he would not be likely to suspect anything.
I did so, and was quite amused at the look of surprise on his face as I greeted him. Still, I do not think he thought I was shadowing him. We paused for a moment on the street, after a conventional exchange of remarks about the tragedy of poor Rawaruska. "That Miss Hoffman seems to be a very capable woman," I remarked, by way of dragging the conversation into channels into which it seemed unlikely to drift naturally.
"Y-yes," he agreed. "I believe she has had a rather checkered career. I understand that she was a nurse, a trained nurse, once."
There was something about the remark that impressed me. It was made deliberately, I fancied.
My face betraying nothing to his searching glance, he pulled hastily at his watch.
"I'm going down-town on the subway—to clear up some of the muss that this European business has got me in with my bankers," he said quickly. "I'd be glad to have you call on me at any time at the Charlton, just up the Avenue a bit. Good-day, sir." He was gone, scarcely waiting for me to reply, leaving me to wonder what was the cause of his strange actions. Mechanically I looked at my watch and decided that I had left Craig undisturbed long enough.
AS I entered the laboratory, I saw before him a peculiar, telescope-like instrument, at one end of which, in a jar of oxygen, something was burning with a brilliant, penetrating flame.
He paused in his work, and I hastened to tell him of the peculiar experience I had had in the forenoon. But he said nothing.
"How about those things you found in the maid's room?" I asked at length. "Do they explain Rawaruska's death?"
"The trouble with them," he replied, thoughtfully shaking his head, "is that the effects of such things last only for a short time. They might have been used at first—but there was something used afterward."
"Something afterward?" I repeated, fingering the telescope-like arrangement curiously. "What's this?"
"One of the new quartz-lens spectroscopes used by Doctor Dobbie, of the English government laboratories," he answered briefly. "I think chemists, police officials, coroners, and physicians are going to find it most valuable. You see, by throwing the ultraviolet part of the spectrum from such a source of light as I obtain from the sparking of iron in oxygen through the lenses of a quartz spectroscope, the lines of many dangerous drugs can be distinctly and quickly located in the spectrum. Each drug produces a characteristic kind of line. Why, even the most minute particle of poison can be detected in this revolutionary fashion."
He had resumed squinting through the spectroscope.
"Well," I asked, "do you find anything there?"
He had evidently been using the gauze on which he had preserved the liquid from the peculiar marks on Rawaruska's spine.
"Narcophin," he muttered.
"Narcophin? What is that?"
"A derivative of opium — morphine. There's another poison here, too."
"What is it?"
"Scopolamin," he answered tersely, "scopolamin hydrobromid."
"Why," I exclaimed, "that is the drug they use in this new 'twilight sleep,' as they call it!"
"Exactly," he replied. "I suspected something of the kind when I saw those little punctures on her back. Some people show a marked susceptibility to it; others, just the reverse. Evidently she was one of those who go under it quickly."
I looked at Kennedy in amazement.
"You can see," he went on, catching the expression on my face, "if it could be used for medical science, it could also be used for crime. That's the way I reasoned, the way some one else must have reasoned."
He paused, then went on:
"Some one thought out this plan of using narcophin and scopolamin to cause the twilight sleep, to keep Rawaruska just on the borderland of unconsciousness. Perception is retained, but memory lost. You are acquainted with the test? They show an object to a patient and ask her if she sees it. Say, half an hour later, it is shown again. If she remembers it, it is a sign that a new injection is necessary.
"Only in this case, the criminal went too far, disregarded the danger of the thing. Scopolamin in too great a quantity causes death by paralysis of respiration—a paralysis, by the way, against which artificial respiration and all means of stimulating are ineffective, because of the rigidity of the muscles. And so, you see, in this case Rawaruska died."
I could not help thinking of Preston, the young doctor who had been studying in Germany. More than likely he had heard of and had investigated the Freiburg "twilight-sleep" treatment.
Wade, of the customs service, had, as I have said, told us that he had several secret agents about in the trade, constantly picking up bits of information that might interest the Treasury Department. It did not surprise Kennedy, therefore, late in the forenoon, to have Wade call up and tell him that among the early callers at Margot's was the maid, Cécile.
"That was where she must have been before I reached the Vanderveer," I explained.
Kennedy nodded.
"But why did she go there? And why was she talking with Preston?"
As I couldn't answer the questions, I didn't try, but waited while Craig reasoned out some method of attack on them.
IN the middle of the afternoon, when Fifth Avenue was crowded with shoppers, we paused before Margot's window, looking over the entrancing display of precious stones gleaming out from the rich, black-velvet background, and then sauntered in.
Kennedy engaged the salesman in talk about necklaces and lavalieres, always leading the conversation around to the largest stones that he saw, and dwelling particularly on those that were colored.
"I'm much interested in orange stones," he remarked, casually turning up a flawless white diamond and discarding it as if it did not interest him. "Once, when I was abroad, I saw the famous Invincible, and a handsomer gem I never want to see."
The clerk, ever obliging, replaced the tray before us in the safe and retired toward the back of the shop.
"He suspects nothing, at least," whispered Kennedy. A moment later he returned. "I'm sorry," he reported, "but we haven't any such stones in the house. But I believe we expect some in a few days. If you could—"
"I shall remember it, thank you," interrupted Kennedy brusquely, as I caught a momentary gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "That's most fortunate. I'll be in again. Thank you."
We turned toward the door. In an instant it flashed over me that perhaps they were re-cutting the big Invincible.
"Just a moment, please, gentlemen," interrupted a voice behind us. A short, stocky man had come up. "I thought you did not look like purchasers, nor yet like crooks," he said defiantly. "Did I hear you refer to the Invincible?"
It was Margot himself. Kennedy said nothing.
"Yes," he went on, "I am cutting a large diamond, but it is not like the Invincible. It is much handsomer—one that was discovered right here in this country in the new diamond fields of Arkansas. The diamond itself is already sold. And you would nevair guess the buyer, oh, nevair!"
"No?" queried Kennedy.
"Nevair!" reiterated Margot.
"It could not be delivered to a woman who was once the maid of Rawaruska, the Russian dancer?" Craig asked abruptly.
Margot shot a quick glance at us.
"Then you are, as I suspected, a detectif!" he cried.
"Then you are, as I suspected, a detectif!" he cried.
Kennedy eyed him sharply without admitting the heinous charge. Margot returned his look, and I felt that of all sayings that about a dishonest man not being able to look you in the eye was itself the least credible. He laughed daringly.
"Well, perhaps you are right," he said. "But whoever it is, he is lucky to have bought a stone like it so cheaply."
The man was baffling. I could not figure it out. Had Margot been simply a high-class "fence" for the disposal and convenient reappearance of stolen goods?
WE returned up-town to our apartment to find that, in the mean time, Wade had called up again. Kennedy got him on the wire. It seemed that shortly after we left Margot's, Cécile had called again and had gone off with a small, carefully wrapped package.
"A strange case," pondered Kennedy, as he hung up the receiver. "First, there is a murder that looks like a suicide, then the sale of a diamond that looks like a fake." He paused a moment. "They have worked quickly to cover it up; we must work with equal quickness if we are to uncover them."
With almost lightning rapidity he had seized the telephone again and had our old friend First Deputy O'Connor on the wire. Briefly he explained the case, and arranged for the necessary arrests that would bring the principal, actors in the little drama to the laboratory that night. Then he fell to work on a little delicate electrical instrument consisting outwardly, at least, of a dial with a pointer and several little carbon handles, as well as a switchboard.
I know that Kennedy did not relish having his hand forced in this manner; but, nevertheless, he was equal to the emergency, and when, after dinner, those whom O'Connor had rounded up began to appear at the laboratory, no one would ever have imagined that he had not the entire case on the very tip of his tongue, almost bursting forth with accusation.
De Guerre had complied with the police order by sending Cécile alone in a cab, and later he drove up with Miss Hoffman. Doctor Preston came in shortly afterward, shooting a keen glance at Cécile, and avoiding more than a nod to De Guerre. Margot himself was the last to arrive, protesting volubly. Wade, of course, was already there.
"I really must beg your pardon," began Kennedy, as he ignored the querulousness of Margot, the late arrival, adding significantly, "that is, of all of you except one, for monopolizing the evening."
Whatever might have been in their minds to say, no one ventured a word. Kennedy's tone when he said, "Of all of you except one," was too tense and serious. It demanded attention, and he got it.
"I am going to put to you first a hypothetical case," he continued quietly. "Let us say that the De Guerres, of Antwerp, decided to smuggle a great jewel into America for safe-keeping, perhaps for sale, during the troublous times in their own country.
"Now, any man would know," he went on, "that he had a pretty slim chance when it came to smuggling in a diamond. Besides, everyone knew that the De Guerres owned this particular stone, of which I shall speak later. But a woman? Smuggling is second nature to some women."
Quickly he ran over the strange facts that had been unearthed regarding the death of the dainty Russian dancer.
"You were right, Monsieur De Guerre," he concluded, turning to the diamond merchant. "It was no suicide. Your wife was killed—unintentionally, it is true—but killed in an attempt to steal a great diamond from her while she was smuggling it."
De Guerre made no answer, save a hasty glance at Wade that did not carry with it an admission of smuggling.
"You mean to say then, Mr. Kennedy," Margot demanded, "that while Rawaruska was smuggling in the big diamond of which you speak, some one heard of it and deliberately murdered her?"
"Not too fast," cautioned Craig. "Think again before you use those words, 'deliberately murdered.' If it had been murder that was intended, how much more surely it might have been accomplished by more brutal methods—or by more scientific. No; it was never deliberately intended."
He stopped, as if to emphasize the point, then, slowly, began to distribute to each of us one of the carbon handles I had seen him adjusting to the peculiar little electrical instrument.
"Let me reconstruct the case," he hurried on, giving a final twist or two to the instrument itself, now placed before him on a table, with its dial-face away from us. "Rawaruska had retired for the night. Where had she placed the diamond? It would probably take a long search to find it. Well, the twilight sleep was chosen, because it was supposed to be a safe and sure means to the end. Even if she retained some degree of consciousness, she would forget what happened. That is partly the reason for the treatment—anyhow, the loss of memory.
"Some one believed this was a safe and sure anesthetic. First, perhaps a whiff of the secret-service 'bad perfume' to insure that she would not cry out—then an injection of narcophin and scopolamin—another —and the twilight sleep. A few minutes, and Rawaruska was unconscious.
"Then came the search. Perhaps she was restless—another injection settled that. At last the great diamond was found. But the twilight sleep meant not forgetfulness but death to Rawaruska!"
Craig paused. It was almost as if one could see the word picture of the scene as he painted it.
"What was to be done? The diamond must be re-cut—anything to hide its identity, at once, and at any cost. And Margot? The story of the Arkansas diamond and the sale is a blind. The case is perfect!"
Kennedy raised his eyes for the first time from the study of the little electrical machine before him, and caught the eye of Cécile, holding it, unwilling.
"Did you ever hear of the great diamond, the Invincible?" Kennedy smashed out.
I felt that it might not have been exactly chivalrous, but it was necessary.
Cécile's breast, which had showed a wildly beating heart as Kennedy told of how her mistress had died, was calmer now. Her air of surprise at the mention of the diamond was perfect. Elsa Hoffman was gazing at her, too, in tense interest. De Guerre was outwardly cool; Margot openly cynical; Preston leaning forward in ill-suppressed excitement.
For a moment Kennedy paused again, as if allowing all to collect themselves before he took them by assault.
"I have lately been studying," he remarked casually, "the experiments of Doctor Von Pfungen, of Vienna, showing the protective resistance of the human skin against an electric current. Normally, this resistance averages from seventy to eighty thousand ohms. In the morning, owing to the accumulation of waste products, the resistance may mount to almost double. In persons suffering from nervous anxiety, it decreases to five thousand and even down to a thousand ohms in cases of hysteria. Von Pfungen has also measured a human being's emotional feelings by the electric current. I have a copy of his instrument here. There is one person who sits gripping the carbon handle connected with this galvanometer who, to begin with, had a resistance of over sixty thousand. But when I began to tell of how Rawaruska met her death, of the hypothetical case I have built up by my observations and experiments here in this very laboratory, the needle of the galvanometer started to oscillate downward. It went down until it reached thirty-eight thousand at the mention of murder. When I said the case was perfect, it had got as low as under twenty thousand, swinging lower and lower as the person saw hope depart."
I became more and more impatient What was it he had discovered? Who was it?
"Preston," cried Kennedy, suddenly wheeling on the young doctor, "through your regard—honorable, I am sure— for Rawaruska, you have let yourself be drawn into doing a little amateur-detective work. Let me warn you. Instead of clearing up the case, you merely laid yourself open to suspicion. Fortunately, the galvanometer absolves you. You should have known that Cécile was only a tool. De Guerre, your black wallet, that all diamond dealers carry—thank you, Wade—that's it."
Kennedy had turned from Preston to Cécile, then to De Guerre, so suddenly that no one was prepared for the signal he gave to the customs officer.
Wade had covered the surprised dealer and was now emptying out the contents of the wallet.
THERE, on the table, gleaming in the light of the laboratory, lay a wonderful brilliant, some three hundred carats—perfect in its blazing, crystalline, orange beauty. There it lay, a jewel which might charm and arouse the cupidity of two hemispheres. It shone like a thing of life. Yet, back of its orange fire lay a black tragedy.
Margot was on his feet instantly.
"That is not the—"
"Just a moment, Mr. Margot," interrupted Kennedy. "I think Mr. Wade will be able to show that it is the Invincible when he matches up the parts that have been hurriedly cut from—from the wonderful Arkansas diamond." Craig added sarcastically. "Miss Hoffman, Doctor Preston tells us that before you were a diamond saleswoman you had been a trained nurse."
The look Elsa Hoffman flashed, as her calm exterior refused to conceal her emotions longer, was venomous.
Kennedy was the calmest one of us all, as he tapped the little galvanometer significantly with his index linger.
"De Guerre," he exclaimed, leaning forward slightly, "you and your lover, Elsa Hoffman, planned cunningly to rob your own brothers. But, instead of robbers merely," he ground out, "you are murderers!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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