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Cosmopolitan, April 1915, with "The Supertoxin"
Craig Kennedy admits himself that the mystery here presented to him is one of the most puzzling he has ever encountered in his career of scientific detective. And we do not believe there is any Cosmopolitan reader who will not pause to let his thoughts wander to the possibilities evoked on learning, as he probably will, for the first time, of the wonderful recent discovery—made by a woman, too—a knowledge of which enables this modern wizard to clear the situation and fasten a dastardly plot upon its real perpetrator.
"WE'VE got to make good in this Delaney case, Kennedy," appealed our old friend Doctor Leslie, the coroner, one evening, when he had dropped unexpectedly into the laboratory, looking particularly fagged and discouraged. "You know," he added, "they've been investigating my office—and, now, here comes a case which, I must confess, completely baffles us again."
"Delaney," mused Craig. "Let me see. That's the rich Texas rancher who has been blazing a trail through the white lights of Broadway with that Baroness von Dorf and—"
"And other war-brokers," interrupted Leslie.
"War-brokers?" queried Craig.
"Yes; that's what they call them. They're a new class—people with something to sell to, or with commissions to buy for, belligerent governments. In Delaney's case, it was fifty thousand or so head of cattle and horses controlled by a syndicate of which he was the promoter. That's why he came to New York, you know—to sell them at a high price to any European power. The syndicate stands to make a small fortune."
"I understand," nodded Kennedy.
"Just as though there wasn't mystery enough about Delaney's sudden death," Leslie hurried on, "here's a letter that came to him to-day—too late."
Kennedy took the letter. It was postmarked "Washington," and read:
Dear Daley:
I intended writing to you sooner, but haven't felt well enough since I came here. The strangest thing about it is that the doctors I have consulted seem to be unable to tell me definitely what is the matter.
I can tell you I have been badly frightened. I seemed to have a lot of little boils on my face, and new ones kept coming. I felt weak and chilly, and had headaches that almost drove me crazy. Perhaps the thing, whatever it is, has made me insane, but I cannot help wondering whether there may not be something back of it all. Do you suppose some one could have poisoned me, hoping to ruin my beauty on which, to a great measure, depends my success in my mission to America during the war?
Since I came here, I have been wondering, too, how you are. If there should be anything in my suspicions, perhaps it would be safest for you to leave New York. There is nothing more I can say, but if you feel the least bit unwell, do not disregard this warning.
If you will meet me here, we can arrange the deal with those I represent, at almost any price you name.
Try hard to get here.
As ever,
Louise.
Craig looked up quickly.
"Have you communicated with the baroness?" he asked.
Doctor Leslie leaned forward in his chair.
"The fact is," he replied slowly, "the woman who calls herself the Baroness von Dorf has suddenly disappeared, even in Washington. We can find no trace of her whatever. Indeed, the embassy down there does not even admit that she is a war-buyer. Oh, the newspapers haven't got the whole Delaney story yet! But when they do get it—" he paused and glanced significantly at me—"there's going to be some sensation."
I recalled, now, that there had been an air of mystery surrounding the sudden death of Daley Delaney, the day before. At least one of the papers had called it "the purple death"—whatever that might mean. I had thought it due to the wild career of the ranchman, perhaps a plain case of apoplexy around which the bright young reporters had woven a slender thread of romance. Kennedy, however, thought otherwise.
"The purple death," he ruminated, turning the case over in his mind. "Have you any idea what the papers mean?"
"Why, it's one of the most gruesome things you ever heard of," went on Leslie eagerly, encouraged. "In some incomprehensible way, the hand of fate seems to have suddenly descended on the whole Delaney entourage. First, his Japanese servant fell a victim to this 'purple death,' as they called it. He had scarcely been removed to a hospital, where, after fighting a brave fight, he succumbed to the unknown peril, when the butler was stricken. Delaney himself packed up to leave, in panic, when suddenly, apparently without warning, the purple death carried him off. In three days, three of them have died suddenly. Then came this letter from the baroness. It set me thinking. Perhaps it was poison—I don't know."
Craig read the letter again.
"Most interesting," he exclaimed energetically, when he had finished. "I shall be only too glad to help you if I can. Could you take us up to Delaney's rooms? Is the body still there?"
"No; it has been removed to a private undertaking establishment, and the apartment is guarded by police. We can stop at the undertaker's on the way over to the apartment."
There could be no doubt that Leslie was considerably relieved to think that Craig would consent to take the case. As for Kennedy, I could see that the affair aroused his interest to the keenest point.
"Was anyone associated with Delaney in the syndicate here?" inquired Craig, as we settled ourselves in Doctor Leslie's car.
"Yes," answered the coroner, hurrying us along; "another member of the syndicate was his friend—Doctor Harris Haynes."
"Who is he?" asked Kennedy.
"Haynes has been a veterinary, but found that there was more money in the cattle business than in practising his profession. The needs of the European war seemed to offer just the opportunity needed to reap a quick fortune."
"I've heard," nodded Craig, "that conditions abroad have led to a great influx of adventurers with other people's money."
"Yes; according to all accounts, Delaney and Haynes have been leading a rather rapid existence since they came to New York. It's quite right. The city is full of queer and mysterious characters, both men and women, who profess to be agents for various foreign governments, often unnamed. These two have met about all of this curious army, I suppose."
"I see," prompted Craig. "Among them, I take it, was this stunning woman who calls herself the Baroness Louise von Dorf. How friendly were they?"
"Well, she spent a great deal of time, when she was in the city, up at the apartment Delaney had rented."
Leslie and Kennedy exchanged a significant glance.
"Who is she?" asked Craig.
"No one seems to know. Yet she is always plentifully supplied with money, and they tell me she talks glibly of those whose influence she can command in Washington."
"But she has disappeared," mused Kennedy. "Were there any others?"
"Haynes hasn't been proof against their wiles," Leslie answered. "I have found out that he was introduced by one of the war-brokers to a Madame Daphne Dupres."
"And she?"
Leslie shook his head.
"I don't know anything about her except that she lives at the Hotel St. Quentin—the same place, by the way, where Haynes makes his headquarters."
OUR car pulled up at the private morgue of the burial company to which Delaney's body had been taken.
We entered, and Kennedy wasted no time in making a careful examination of the remains of the unfortunate victim.
"I couldn't make anything out of it, even after an autopsy," confessed Leslie. "It seemed as though it were something that had been conveyed by the blood all over the body, something that blocked the capillaries and caused innumerable hemorrhages into organs and tissues and especially nerve-centers."
The body seemed to be discolored and variegated in color, with here and there little marks of boils or vesicles.
"It looks like something that has depleted the red corpuscles of oxygen," continued Leslie, noticing that Kennedy had drawn off a little of the body-fluids, evidently for future study. "As nearly as I could make out, there had been a cyanosis in a marked degree. He has all the appearance of having been asphyxiated."
"Which seems to have been enough to suggest to some imaginative mind the purple death," remarked Kennedy dryly.
One of the morgue attendants had called Doctor Leslie aside, and a moment later he rejoined us.
"They tell me Haynes has been here," he reported. "I left word that any visitors were to be carefully watched."
"Strange!" muttered Kennedy, absorbing Leslie's latest information and then looking back at the body, puzzled. "Very strange! Let us go up to the apartment right away."
Kennedy stowed the little tube in which he had placed the body-fluid safely in his pocket and led the way out to the car.
DELANEY had picked out a fashionable neighborhood in which to live. As we entered the bronze, grilled door and rode up in the elevator, Kennedy handed each of us a cigar and lighted one himself. I lighted up, too, thinking that perhaps there might be some virtue in tobacco to ward off the unseen perils into which we were going.
The wealthy ranchman, evidently, on his arrival in New York, had rented an apartment furnished from a lawyer, Ashby Ames, who had gone South on account of his health.
We entered and found that it was a very attractive place that Ames had fitted up. At one side of a library or drawing-room opened out a little glass sun-parlor, or conservatory, on a balcony. Into it, a dining-room opened also. In fact, the living-rooms of the whole suite could be thrown into one with this sun-parlor as a center.
Everything about the apartment was quite up to date also. For instance, I noticed that the little conservatory was lighted brilliantly by a mercury-vapor tube that ran around it in a huge rectangle of light. Leslie and the police had already ransacked the place, and there did not seem to be much likelihood that anything could have escaped them. Still, Kennedy began a searching examination.
By the frown on his forehead, I gathered that he was not meeting with much encouragement, when, suddenly, he withdrew the cigar from his mouth, looked at it critically, puffed again, then moved his lips and tongue as if trying to taste something.
Mechanically, I did the same. The cigar had a peculiar flavor. I should have flung it away if Kennedy himself had not given it to me. Surely, there had been none of that sweetishness about the fragrant Havana when I lighted it on the way up.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"There's cyanogen in this room," Craig remarked keenly, still tasting.
"Cyanogen?" I repeated.
"Yes; there are artificial aids to the senses that make them much keener than nature has done for us. For instance, if air contains the merest traces of the deadly cyanogen gas—prussic acid, you know—cigar-smoke acquires a peculiar taste which furnishes an efficient alarm-signal."
Doctor Leslie's face brightened.
"That is something like my idea," he exclaimed. "I have thought all along that it looked very much like a poisoning case. In fact, the very first impression I had was that it might have been due to a cyanide—or at least some gas like cyanogen." Kennedy said nothing, and the coroner proceeded: "And the body looked cyanotic, too, you recall. But the autopsy revealed nothing further."
There was a noise at the door, outside in the hall, and Doctor Leslie opened it.
"Doctor Haynes," he introduced, a moment later.
Haynes was a large man, good-looking, even striking, with a self-assertive manner. We shook hands, and, taking our cue from Craig, waited for him to speak.
"It's very strange what could have carried Delaney off so suddenly," ventured Haynes, a moment later. "I've been trying to figure it out. But I must admit that, so far, it has completely stumped me."
He was pacing up and down the room, and I watched him more or less suspiciously. Somehow, I could not get the idea out of my head that he had been listening to us outside.
"They tell me at the burial company that you were there to-day," put in Doctor Leslie, his eyes fixed on Haynes's face.
Haynes met his gaze squarely.
"Yes; I got thinking over what the papers said about the purple death, and I thought perhaps I might have overlooked something. But there wasn't—"
The telephone-bell rang. Haynes seized the receiver before any of the rest of us could get to it.
"That must be for me," he said, with a brusque apology. "Why—yes; I am here. Doctor Leslie and Professor Kennedy are up here. No; we haven't discovered anything new. Yes; I shall keep the appointment. Good-by."
The conversation had been short, but, to me at least, it seemed that he had contrived to convey a warning without seeming to do so.
Doctor Leslie looked at Haynes searchingly.
"Who was it?" he asked. "Madame Dupres?"
Haynes did not hesitate.
"Yes," he nodded; "I had an appointment with her and told her that if I was late it would probably be that I had stopped here."
The answer came so readily that I must confess that I was suspicious of it.
"Did Madame Dupres know the Baroness von Dorf?" asked Craig quickly.
"Yes, indeed," returned Haynes.
"But they didn't travel in the same circle, did they?" asked Doctor Leslie, with the air of the cross-examiner who wished to place on record a fact that might later prove damaging.
"Not exactly," answered Haynes, with some hesitation.
"You knew her, of course?" added Craig. Haynes nodded.
"I wonder if you could locate the baroness," pursued Kennedy.
Haynes expressed no surprise at the obvious implication that she was missing.
"I have no objection to trying," he answered simply; then, with a glance at his watch, he reached for his hat and stick and excused himself. "I'm afraid I must go. If I can be of any assistance," he added, "don't hesitate to call on me. Delaney and I were pretty closely associated in this deal, and I feel that nothing is too much to ask of me if it is possible to clear up the mystery of his death, if there is any."
He departed as quickly as he had come.
"I wonder what he dropped in for," I remarked.
"Whatever it was, he didn't get it," returned Leslie.
"I'm not so sure of that," I said, remembering the telephone conversation.
Kennedy did not appear to be bothering much about the question, one way or the other. He had let his cigar go out during Haynes' visit, but, now that we were alone again, he continued his minute search of the premises. He opened a closet, which evidently contained nothing but household utensils, and was about to shut the door when an idea occurred to him. A moment later, he pulled from the mystic depths an electric vacuum cleaner and dragged it over to the sun-parlor.
Without a word, we watched him as he ran it over the floor and walls, even over the wicker stands on which the plants stood, and then over the floor-coverings and furniture of the other rooms that opened into the conservatory. What he was after I could not imagine; but I knew it was useless to ask him.
Carefully he removed the dust and dirt from the machine and wrapped them up tightly in a package.
We parted from Doctor Leslie at the door of the apartment, promising to keep in touch with him and let him know the moment anything happened.
At the first telegraph office, Kennedy entered and sent off a long message to our friend Burke, of the secret service in Washington, asking him to locate the baroness, if possible, in that city, and to give any information he might have about either Haynes or Madame Dupres.
"It's still early in the evening," remarked Kennedy, as we left the telegraph office. "Suppose we drop around to the St. Quentin. Perhaps we may run into our friends there."
THE St. Quentin was a favorite resort of foreigners in New York, and I, at least, entered prepared to suspect everyone.
"Not all these mysterious-looking men and women," laughed Kennedy, noticing me as we walked through the lobby, "are secret agents of foreign governments."
"Still, they look as if they might give you the 'high sign,'" I replied, "particularly if you flashed a bank-roll."
"I don't doubt it," he agreed, his eye roving over the throng.
He drew me into an angle, and, for some moments, we studied the passing crowd of diplomats and near-diplomats.
A moment later, I saw Kennedy bow and, following the direction of his eyes, looked up to a sort of mezzanine gallery. There were Haynes and a most attractive woman, talking earnestly.
"Madame Dupres," Craig whispered. She was tall, slender, gowned in the most modish manner, and had a foreign way about her that would have fascinated one even more cosmopolitan than a Texas veterinary.
Now and then, some one would stop and chat with them, and it seemed that they were on very good terms, at least with a certain group at the St. Quentin.
Kennedy moved cut further into the lobby where he was more noticeable, then, with a sudden resolution, mounted the steps to the mezzanine floor and approached Haynes.
"Let me introduce Professor Kennedy, Madame Dupres," presented Haynes.
Kennedy bowed.
Whatever one's opinion of madame, he would be forced to admit that she was clever. It was evident, also, that she and Haynes were on very intimate terms.
"I hope that you will be able to clear up the mystery that the newspapers have found in Mr. Delaney's death," she remarked. "Mr. Haynes has told me that he met you to-night with Doctor Leslie. By the way, has he told you his own theory?" she asked.
"We shall do our best," replied Kennedy, meeting her eye in as impersonal a manner as it was possible, for it is always difficult to dissociate a beautiful woman from a case like this and judge her on the merits of the case. "No; Mr. Haynes has not told me his theory—yet."
"I'm very glad to have met you," she added, extending her daintily gloved hand to Kennedy, "and you may be sure that if there is any way in which I can be of service, I shall expect you to call on me. Just now, I hope you will excuse me. I have some letters to get off—and I will leave you men to discuss Mr. Haynes' theory. Never mind, Harris," she added, as Haynes made as if to escort her to the writing-room.
Never mind, Harris," she added, as Haynes
made as if to escort her to the writing-room.
As Madame Dupres passed down the steps, there was no denying that she made a splendid impression. Haynes watched her with a glance that was almost ravenous. There could be doubt of her influence over him. As she passed through the lobby, she paused at the telegraph desk a moment, then went into the writing-room.
"Yes; I think I have an explanation," began Haynes, when she was out of sight. "I've been trying to figure out what could have killed Delaney. Of course I can only guess, but I don't think it is such a bad guess."
"What is it?" asked Craig.
"You remember the mercury-vapor light?"
Kennedy nodded.
"Mercury-vapor lights of that sort are a pretty good source of ultra-violet rays sometimes," went on Haynes. "Well, doubtless you know that various plants belonging to different families produce free prussic acid. They are really cyanogenetic plants. Light and the assimilation processes depending 0:1 light exert a favorable influence on cyanogenesis. For instance, a mixture of citric acid with a much smaller amount of potassium nitrite and a trace of bicarbonate of iron, if exposed to light, will generate hydrocyanic acid. That, I believe, is what actually happens in some plant-tissues. I believe that such a process might be aided rather than retarded by ultra-violet rays. What do you think of it?"
Craig was following Doctor Haynes keenly. As for me, I was astounded by his frankness.
"Your explanation is plausible," was all that Craig said. "By the way, have you found out anything about the baroness?"
"Not a word yet," replied Haynes unhesitatingly. "She seems to be out of town."
"And madame—has she any idea where she is?"
Haynes shook his head.
There was nothing to be gained by further inquiry here, and I could imagine that Kennedy was burning with anxiety to get at work on his own line of inquiry at the laboratory. After a few minutes of conversation, we excused ourselves and left the hotel.
Craig's air of abstraction was not such as to invite further questioning, and I left him, an hour or so later, in the laboratory, surrounded by his microscope, slides, and innumerable test-tubes which he had prepared for some exceedingly minute investigation in which his exact soul delighted.
HOW late he worked, I do not know, for I did not hear him come into our apartment. But he was up very early; in fact, he woke me up, stirring around.
I had scarcely completed dressing while he scanned the morning papers in a vain hope that some stray news-item might shed some light on the mystery in which we were now involved, when the whir of our door-buzzer announced that we had an unusually early caller.
Kennedy opened the door and admitted a stranger. He was one of those well-groomed, middle-aged men whose appearance denotes with what care they seek by every means to retain youth that is fast passing.
"My name is Ames—Ashby Ames," he introduced. "Doctor Leslie, the coroner, has suggested that I see you. I've just heard about that trouble down at my apartment," he continued, "and, though I had planned a trip for my health to the Southern resorts, I thought it best for me to come right back. It's a beastly mess."
He had thrown his hat vindictively on the table, though his manner to us was rather that of one seeking advice.
"Why," he stormed, "this affair is the limit! I rent my apartment to an apparently reputable person. And what do I find? It is not even a mere scandal. It is worse. The place is closed and guarded. I can't get back into my own rooms!"
Kennedy smiled.
"I can't blame you for feeling vexed, Mr. Ames," he soothed; "but I'm sure I don't know what I can do for you more than I am doing. We are making every effort to clear the thing up."
"Oh, I've no criticism of you," rejoined Ames, somewhat mollified. "I didn't come here to criticize. I came only because I thought you might like to know that I was back in town, and because Doctor Leslie mentioned your name. No, indeed—no criticism. Only," he added, "now that my vacation is spoiled and I am back in town, there is going to be some action—that's all!"
"It can't come too swiftly for me," encouraged Craig.
"I'm going to jump right into this beastly row," pursued Ames aggressively. "This morning, I'm going to look these people up. They tell me that baroness has been spending a good deal of time at my place. Fine business—eh? She's disappeared; but I'll get after that Haynes and the Madame Dupres they tell me about—and I'll let you know if I find out anything."
He had scarcely given Kennedy a chance to say a word, and, in fact, Kennedy did not seem to want to say anything yet.
"Just thought I'd drop in," concluded Ames, who hadn't taken a chair but now extended his hand to us. "I think I'll make for a Turkish bath and freshen up a bit. Keep in touch with me."
We shook hands, and Ames departed, bustling out as he had bustled in. Kennedy laughed as the door closed.
"If we have many more people cooperating with us," he exclaimed, "we may resign and let this case solve itself!"
"I don't think that is likely," I replied.
"Not unless we hear from Burke," he agreed. "There is plenty for me to do here—but I wish Burke would wire."
The morning passed, and still there was no word from Burke.
"I think we might drop around to the St. Quentin for lunch," suggested Kennedy. "We might pick up some news there."
We had scarcely entered when we met Haynes pacing up and down the lobby.
"What's the matter?" inquired Craig.
"Why," he replied, nervously sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and then plunging them into his trousers pockets, as if it were with the utmost difficulty he controlled those unruly members from doing violence to somebody, "that fellow Ames, from whom Delaney hired the apartment, has just returned suddenly to town. I saw him talking to Madame Dupres in the hotel parlor. She seemed a bit nervous, so I went in to speak to her. But she said everything was all right and that she'd meet me out here in a few minutes. It's quarter of an hour, now. I think he's threatening her with something."
Haynes was evidently worried.
"I should like to see both of them," decided Craig quickly.
Before Haynes could say anything more, he strode into the hotel parlor. Haynes and I followed, a short distance behind.
There was an air of tense, suppressed excitement in the group, but, of all of us, I felt that Madame Dupres was the coolest.
"I see you've lost no time in getting busy," nodded Craig to Ames.
"No," he replied easily; "this is certainly a very interesting situation which madame here outlines."
Haynes came up just in time to catch the last words.
"I say, Ames," he almost roared, "you may be a clever lawyer, but you must remember that you are also expected to be a gentleman. There are limits to questioning a woman when she has not the advantage of having a friend to advise her."
For a moment I thought there was going to be a fight, but Kennedy moved unobtrusively between the two men. As for Madame Dupres, I felt that really she was a match for both of them. Instead of getting mad, however, Ames laughed.
"Why, Haynes," he said quietly, "I don't think you ought to complain. I understand that you, now representing Delaney's Texas syndicate, have already signed the final contract for the deal with those whom Madame Dupres represents, and have received a certified check in first payment to bind the bargain."
Haynes turned almost livid, then, recovering himself, glanced at Madame Dupres.
"Why, Harris, I didn't think there was any secrecy about it now!" she said.
"There isn't," replied Haynes, quickly recovering his composure. "Only, I just didn't like to see a lawyer—an outsider—quizzing you; that's all."
Madame Dupres was clever enough to see that no good could come of prolonging an interview for which now there was an excuse to break up.
"Take me in to lunch, Harris," she said, slipping her arm familiarly into his. "Good-morning, gentlemen."
Somehow, I felt that she would have liked to add, "And if you see the baroness, tell her I have beaten her to it."
Ames watched them depart with an air of cynical satisfaction, then, in turn, excused himself from us.
Ames watched them depart with an air of cynical satisfaction.
What did it mean? What was behind all this intrigue? Was it merely to get this cattle contract, big as that was?
WE lunched together at the St. Quentin, and it was evident that Madame Dupres was doing her best to smooth over the ruffled feelings of her lover.
Luncheon over, Kennedy plunged with redoubled energy into his laboratory investigation. He said little; but I could tell from his manner that he had found something that was very fascinating to him.
It was not until the middle of the afternoon that there came a sudden, brief message from the secret service in Washington:
HAVE LOCATED THE BARONESS VON DORF IN A PRIVATE SANATORIUM HERE, AND WILL HAVE HER IN NEW YORK TO-NIGHT BY EIGHT O'CLOCK.
BURKE.
"In a private sanatorium—will have her in. New York to-night," reread Craig, studying the message. "Then it wouldn't seem that there could be much the matter with her."
For a few moments he paced the laboratory floor. At last, his face seemed to light up as if he had reasoned something out to his satisfaction. He reached for the telephone and called Leslie.
"I shall have the baroness here to-night at eight, Leslie," I heard him say. "Don't tell a soul about it. But I'd like to have you make all the arrangements to secure the attendance of Haynes, Ames, and Madame Dupres here just a bit ahead of that time."
There was nothing that I could do to aid Craig more in the hours that remained than to efface myself, and I did it in the most effectual way I could think of, compatible with my interest in the case. I rode down to Doctor Leslie's office and dined hurriedly with him. The only new information I gleaned was that Haynes had visited him during the afternoon and had outlined his theory of cyanogen, which certainly seemed to me to fit in quite readily with the facts.
WHEN we reached the laboratory early, Kennedy was still absorbed in his studies with the microscope. He said nothing, but apparently had gained an air of confidence which he lacked the night before.
The baroness had not yet arrived, but a few minutes after us came Ashby Ames, still complaining about the closing of his apartment and the inconvenience the whole affair had put him to. Haynes arrived, and Ames cut short his tirade, glancing resentfully at the veterinary as though, in some way, he were responsible for his troubles. Madame Dupres arrived shortly, and I could not help noticing that Haynes was patently jealous of even the nod of recognition she gave to Ames.
"I don't think I need say that this is one of the most puzzling cases that we have ever had," began Kennedy, with a glance at Doctor Leslie.
"It certainly is," chimed in the coroner.
"In the first place," resumed Kennedy, "I discovered in the air up there in De-laney's rooms just a trace of cyanogen."
Haynes nodded approvingly.
"But," added Craig, as if he had built up a house of cards merely to demolish it, "I don't think that cyanogen was the cause of Delaney's death."
"What could it have been, then?" demanded Haynes, his face clouding.
Kennedy looked at him calmly.
"You've heard of anthrax?" he asked.
"Y-yes," replied Haynes, meeting his eyes fixedly. "Murrain—the cattle-disease."
"That is so deadly to human beings sometimes," added Craig. "Well, I've found something very much like anthrax germs in the sweepings that I took up with the vacuum cleaner up there."
Doctor Leslie was listening intently.
"I can't see how it could have been anthrax," he put in. "The symptoms were entirely different."
"No; this was a poisoning of some kind," added Doctor Haynes. "Doctor Leslie himself tells me that you found traces of cyanogen in the air—and you have just said so, too."
Kennedy indicated the microscope.
"Take a look at that slide under the lens," he said simply.
I was nearest, and as he evidently meant each of us to look, I did so. Under the high-powered lens I could see some little roundish dots moving slowly through the field. Haynes looked next.
"But, Professor Kennedy," he objected, almost as soon as he had time for a good look, "the bacilli of anthrax have normally the form of straight bars strung together in a row."
"Yes; rod bacilli," added Doctor Leslie, also looking, "like slender, cylindrical, non-motile chains joined end to end."
We looked at Craig inquiringly.
"Like that," he indicated, substituting another slide.
We looked again. The field had somewhat the appearance of an exaggerated war-map, with dark units of supposed troops.
"That's it," nodded Haynes.
Kennedy removed the slide.
"Those are some anthrax germs I obtained here in the city from a pathologist," he said, turning a switch that threw on, from a lamp, a peculiar, purplish light. "This is a machine for the propagation of ultraviolet rays."
He placed the second slide, with its germs of anthrax, in the light.
"Now look," he said.
We did. The chains were broken and smaller units were moving.
"If anthrax germs are exposed for a few seconds, even, to ultra-violet light, they change more or less," Kennedy proceeded. "As a matter of fact, these new forms quickly change back again into their original form."
For about ten minutes we sat in the most intense silence, while the weird light played as if with ghostly fingers on the deadly invisible peril on the little glass microscope slide.
"But if the action of the ultra-violet rays is continued," went on Craig, "the microbe changes into a coccus, and then into a filiform bacillus. This form is stable. And the germ is changed in other respects than mere shape. It has entirely new characteristics. It is a true mutation. It produces a disease entirely different from that of the anthrax bacillus from which it is derived. I have made experiments with it on a guinea-pig—and the animal died in forty-eight hours."
Startled as I was by this remarkable discovery, I yet had time to watch Haynes. He had not taken his eyes off Kennedy once since the latter he began to speak.
"In anthrax," continued Craig, "an autopsy reveals an enormous serous swelling about the point of inoculation, with a large gathering of microbes which are formed in the blood and spleen. Death seems to be due to septic poisoning. But this new microbe—supertoxicus, I think it might well be named—produces no swelling, and scarcely any microbes are to be found in the blood. The lungs are inflamed, with innumerable small abscesses. That is the internal form of the disease from breathing in the spores of these microbes. It has an external form, also, but that is by no means so deadly. One would say that death from the internal form of the disease was due to poisoning. The toxin of this microbe produces a sort of asphyxiation, cutting off and eating up the supply of oxygen.
"Such a condition is called 'cyanosis.' That is why, in Delaney, it had the appearance of cyanogen poisoning. The effect was the same. But the trace of cyanogen in the air was merely a coincidence. It wasn't cyanogen that killed. But it was something quite as deadly—and far harder to trace—a new germ!"
We listened, fascinated.
"A French scientist, a woman, Madame Victor Henri, a student at the Pasteur Institute, in Paris, has shown that a new microbe can actually be created from anthrax germs by the use of ultra-violet rays. It is not like anthrax, but may be quite as deadly.
"This discovery proves that a living organism can be changed suddenly and artificially into an organism of a new and entirely different species. One can scarcely appreciate the importance of it. If the germs of different diseases can be transformed—the germ of one being changed into the germ of another—it will be a first step toward finding a way to change deadly germs into others that will be quite innocuous." Kennedy paused impressively to let the horror of the thing impress itself upon our minds. "But this criminal has been working for evil purposes in the wrong direction—creating a disease in order to cover up his tracks!"
One could almost feel the net closing..
"Delaney has fallen a victim to a new germ of which some one learned in Paris," Craig raced on inexorably, "a germ that would never, in all probability, be discovered by American doctors, a germ that poisoned safely, surely, and swiftly by its deadly supertoxin."
A FEW moments before there had been a noise of a car outside the laboratory window, but, in the excitement of Craig's most startling revelation, we had paid no attention.
A hasty tap at the door interrupted him. Before he could open it, a very beautiful woman burst in, followed by a thick-set Irishman.
It was the Baroness von Dorf and our friend Burke.
For a moment, the two women fairly glared at each other.
"I've heard what Professor Kennedy just said," cried the baroness, her eyes snapping fire. "Fortunately, I had to go to Washington, and was able to protect myself by seeming to disappear. If I had stayed in New York another day, there is no telling what might have happened to me. Probably I should have got this disease internally instead of externally. As it was, I thought—I thought it would come near ruining my beauty."
Burke tossed a yellow slip of paper on the table near Kennedy.
"That is something one of our special agents found and brought me to-day!" he exclaimed.
Kennedy picked it up and read it, while Burke faced us.
The secret-service man fixed his eyes on Madame Dupres.
"As for you, my dear lady," he challenged, "how do you happen to be in New York with one of the greatest international crooks that ever lived?"
"I—in New York?" she shrugged coolly. "Monte Carlo, Paris, Vienna, London—all were dead. I had to come here to make a living."
The baroness drew herself up as if to speak.
"You scoundrel—you will give my apartment a bad name with your dirty cattle-plague—will you!" ground out a voice harshly at my side.
I turned quickly. Ames had clutched Haynes by the throat. We were all on our feet in a moment, but there was no need of separating them. The veterinary was more than a match for the hot-headed little lawyer.
"Some one," shot out Kennedy, wheeling quickly, "figured that the cattle deal could be brought about quite naturally if Delaney were dead and the baroness out of the way. Later, he could reap the profit, and carry off Madame Dupres into the bargain. And if anything were ever discovered, what more natural than to throw the suspicion on a veterinary who was supposed to know all about anthrax?"
Just then, a half-circle of nickled steel gleamed momentarily in Kennedy's hands. I recognized it as a pair of the new handcuffs that uncoiled automatically, gripping at a mere touch.
I saw it all in a flash, as I picked up the paper that Burke had tossed to Kennedy.
It was a telegram, and read:
A.A., THE NEW STRATFIELD, WASHINGTON.
RETURN IMMEDIATELY. CORONER HAS CRAIG KENNEDY ON CASE.
D.D.
"It was a devilish scheme," snapped Kennedy, as the handcuffs circled the fake lawyer's wrists, "but it didn't work, Ames."
"It was a devilish scheme," snapped Kennedy, as
the handcuffs circled the fake lawyer's wrists.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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