For a moment, the discovery completely overwhelmed me; I felt a little giddy. It affected me personally, more closely than anything I had ever had to deal with, mainly because of Henry. A sort of vision rose before my eyes. I saw the whole thing about Mars exposed, and my brother crushed in ignominy.
What the reporter had found was in line with what had been running in both our minds, the conviction that a superior intellect was at the bottom of all this Martian mystery, and its various resultants. It revealed a carefully conceived, highly ingenious conspiracy; a cruel and cold-blooded fraud, done in such a fashion as to leave no clue, which would make the tracing of the adroit and utterly unscrupulous perpetrator concerned, very difficult, if not impossible.
But here was a clue, thanks to McGinity's power of observation and reportorial inquisitiveness, even if it was only the ghost of one, that might put us on to the track of the perpetrator. A water-mark, a small translucent design, appeared in the body of the parchment paper, which proved that the scroll had not been made on Mars, but on earth. There it was, as plain as day: "Royal Bond—Made in U. S. A."
McGinity's reportorial and detective instincts combined—all newspaper reporters seem to have been born with a detective complex—quickly sent him again to the secretary, this time to look for a Manhattan telephone book; and while he was thumbing hastily through its pages, I took another squint at the water-mark, in the parchment scroll. I could hardly believe my eyes.
"What we want to find out now," the reporter said, "is the name of the manufacturer of that particular brand of parchment paper. Hello!—here it is. 'Royal Parchment Paper Company, 158 Beekman Street.'"
"Indeed?" I said, as calmly as I could.
"Now, one of us must take the scroll, and call on this firm, the first thing in the morning," he suggested. "They may be able to throw some light on the matter."
"I'll go," I quickly volunteered.
"Good," said McGinity. "Our job now is to find and bring to light the actual perpetrator of this fraud. This water-mark in the parchment may put us on his trail. That's about the situation, isn't it?"
"As far as I'm concerned," I replied, "that is the situation. But I'm afraid we're facing a many-sided problem. You must remember that we are dealing with events so stupendous that they can hardly be conceived by the human mind."
"But we're in possession of one thread now that may guide us through the maze," said McGinity, settling down finally in a chair opposite me. "I admit that what we have to deal with is most extraordinary—almost inexplicable—" he went on; "but here's this much to remember—your own idea, by the way—if this mystery was contrived and worked out by a human mind, then a human mind can discover what it is."
"Quite right," I agreed. "And if the person who made the scroll is the same one who sent those Martian radio messages, and dropped the rocket—"
"Dropped?" McGinity exclaimed, interrupting me. "Of course, that rocket wasdroppedon the water-front. Dropped! That idea had never occurred to me before. It wouldn't surprise me, Mr. Royce, if you've hit on another clue."
"Yes?" I said, a little bewildered. "Anyway," I began again, "if it is the same person, then I'm sure we can trace him."
"I'll tell you what I think, Mr. Royce," McGinity said; "we shall have to go back—and go back a long way, and find all we can about—Olinski."
"Olinski?" I exclaimed. "Surely, you don't suspect him?"
"He's a radio wizard, isn't he?" the reporter said. "He may have sent those alleged messages from Mars himself. He may have directed them to the moon, round ten o'clock, each night, during the experiments, and they were echoed, or bounced, back to earth. I understand he's quite an inventor besides. Now, he may have invented that rocket—everything—"
"You're forgetting, McGinity," I interrupted. "He couldn't possibly have invented Mr. Zzyx."
"That's so—I'd forgotten Mr. Zzyx," the reporter admitted. "All the same, just to be on the safe side, I think we'd better trace Olinski's career."
"We must remember this," I suggested, "that whoever is at the bottom of this fraud—if it is a fraud—had a definite purpose in putting it over. In criminology, that is called motive. Once you have the motive, the rest comes easier."
"I agree on that, Mr. Royce," said McGinity. "But the thought has just come to me that the perpetrator of this hoax—and I'm convinced now it is a hoax—has got nearly three months' start. Let's suppose, as you suggested, that he's a man who had some definite purpose in putting it over, the man we want to find. Very well, he pulls his two big tricks late in August, the Martian radio message in code, and the rocket from outer space, both occurring on the same night; and from that time, he passes into the unknown. No more messages from Mars. Everything cleaned up in one night."
"On that supposition," I said, "we shall, of course, have to eliminate Olinski, for which I shall be very glad."
"But suppose Olinski is the man we want," McGinity said, vehemently. "What about his having an accomplice? Olinski could be doing something else. And here's something that seems to have struck nobody. How could Olinski decode, so easily and expertly, those radio signals, and the cuneiform writing on the scroll? Besides, he's held on to this scroll like grim death, and never once allowed it to pass out of his hands until tonight, when I wheedled him into lending it to me, to be photographed for a Sunday article I'm writing for the Recorder."
"If you're convinced of Olinski's complicity in this, I'm not," I said, a little heatedly. "I've every confidence in him, and I've got to be shown. So, before we start in pursuit of knowledge of Olinski, you'd better let me follow up this clue of the water-mark, which may lead us to something in the way of success."
McGinity, after some hesitation, agreed to this, and after remaining silent for a few minutes, he said: "You have, of course, no idea who this perpetrator might be?"
"No idea whatever," I promptly replied.
The thing to do, we decided after some further discussion, was to keep everything to ourselves, while we combed out things that might give us a further clue. Above all, neither Henry, nor Olinski, were to know anything whatever about our mistrust.
Meantime, McGinity was to acquaint the editorial executives of his paper with our suspicions, and to ease up on his sensational stories about Mars. On this subject, I felt pretty much at a loss at to what to suggest, but McGinity seemed to know his business. Before we parted for the night, he convinced me that slowing up on a newspaper story, removing it from the front page, reducing it to a few paragraphs, and finally dropping it altogether, was a much easier thing to do than most folk imagine. Besides, he said, the public forgets so easily and quickly.
It was in my mind to make a good start in the morning. I felt sure that the Royal Parchment Paper Company could tell me something that might be of great importance in guiding us to the solution of one of the most devilishly contrived plots I've ever known of.
All that the reporter and I had discussed was passing through my mind, after I had said good-night to him, and was heading down the hall to my own apartment. It was long after midnight. The castle was in darkness, and as quiet as a tomb. But just as I was about to enter my door, Pat came running down the hall, after me. Nearly breathless, she panted out her message. Would I go back to her room, at once? We hurried back, to find Jane there, all in a tremble, and her face showing ashen.
"It's that dreadful thing again," Jane exclaimed. She gave a little shudder, and turned away to get her smelling salts.
"What's up?" I asked. "Everything about the castle seems perfectly normal."
"But they're not," Pat said, miserably. "If you hadn't slept so soundly last night, you might have heard Mr. Zzyx, as I did, sneaking along the hall. Auntie wouldn't believe it when I told her. She said it was impossible for him to get out of his locked room without Niki knowing it."
"Now, dear Pat," I said reassuringly; "haven't you been having another nightmare? I'm positive that Mr. Zzyx was locked in his room, and asleep, at this hour last night, as he is now, tonight—tired out, like all of us, after a very exacting night at the banquet."
"But I'm certain he's not in his room, now," said Pat. "In fact, I've proved he's out, and wandering about."
"Proved?" I asked, amazed, as Jane moved to my side.
"Yes, proved, dear Livingston," Jane whispered. "She tied a silk thread across the hall, between her door and mine, after we came home from the banquet."
"Oh, I see!" I remarked, lightly.
"Nothing to be amused about," said Pat, with a wan, twisted smile. "I did it to prove to Aunt Jane that Mr. Zzyx was snooping about. She stayed in here with me, and we waited to see if anything happened."
"And nothing happened for half an hour," Jane supplemented, taking a good sniff of her sal volatile.
"When, suddenly, we heard something moving outside, in the hall," Pat resumed. "After a few minutes, and we didn't hear anything more, I switched off the lights in here, opened the door a few inches, and looked out. The hall was dark. I could hear the muffled sound of your voice, and Bob's, in his room. That gave me courage, so I stole outside to investigate. I found the thread had been broken."
"That's queer," I observed. "Still, it might have been broken by the butler. Schweizer suffers terribly from insomnia, and has a habit of roaming about the place at night, at unearthly hours. I really don't understand."
"But I do," Jane said, in a low, guttural voice; "and it's your business, Livingston, to rid this place of that terrible creature at once. If you don't, and I should see him roving about, in the dark, I know I'll die of heart failure, instantly." She placed strong emphasis on the last word, and took another strong whiff of her smelling salts.
At that Pat turned to me, the tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Uncle Livingston!" she said, earnestly and pleadingly; "isn't there any chance at all of ending this terrible mystery business about Mr. Zzyx and Mars? Uncle Henry must be losing his mind, or he wouldn't be associated with anything so unearthly and—spooky!"
"While we are still utterly in the dark, my dear," I said, consolingly, "I have a feeling that it's only a question of time when the whole matter will be cleared up." I wished then I could have taken her into my confidence, and told her what McGinity had discovered, about the scroll, but I knew it would be unwise to make any announcement at that stage of the proceedings, when we had only the wildest suspicions to go on. "And, now," I concluded, "I think we'll get to business at once."
"What are you going to do?" Pat asked, eagerly.
"I'm going to rouse McGinity," I replied, "and if your suspicions are correct, we'll find Mr. Zzyx, and put him back where he belongs."
"Lock him up!" Jane exclaimed. "And, for heaven's sake, keep him locked up!"
"Now, you two compose yourselves, and go to bed," I admonished gently but firmly. "You're both quite safe now."
I left the room, and went to my own apartment, where I got my flashlight. A few minutes later, I knocked at McGinity's door. Fortunately, he had not gone to bed. He was still pacing the floor and smoking furiously. The first thing he did, after I had poured out Pat's story to him, was to slip a small revolver in his hip pocket.
"There's no time to lose," I murmured, as we crept out into the hall. "Follow me—and not a sound."
I led the way to the State Apartment. Our difficulty was to effect an entrance into Mr. Zzyx's bedroom without awakening Niki, who slept in the adjoining room. As I stood racking my brains how to get into the creature's room, McGinity, on impulse, tried the door knob. To my amazement, the door opened. We walked into the room. As I trained my flashlight on the bed, he chuckled low, and said: "There's the bed, and, as you see, Pat's right. There's nobody in it."
The bedclothes were in disorder, showing that the bed had been recently occupied. Immediately, we turned our attention to the lock on the door, and found that it was not in working condition. A long brass bolt, on the inside, fitted into a deep groove in the jamb, and that was all there was to fasten the door. This would account for Mr. Zzyx's freedom of egress and ingress, and I smiled to myself at our utter stupidity in not having the lock examined. I wondered why Niki had not informed us about it, long before this. In many things, he was just plain dumb.
After creeping quietly upstairs, we explored the two upper floors, including Henry's observatory. We searched in many queer places, and looked into all the cavernous and gloomy chambers. And then we stumbled on something.
A room at the end of the corridor, on the third floor, used mostly for storage of furniture, bore traces of recent occupancy. A chair had been drawn up to a small table, on which there was a half-burned candle, a picture magazine of quite recent date, and an ash tray containing charred cigarette ends.
As I was examining the room and its contents in the light of my electric torch, a quick exclamation from McGinity directed my attention to a French window, which gave on to an iron-railed, stone balcony.
"There he is!" whispered the reporter; "out on the balcony."
I quickly turned off the flashlight. All I could discern was a black something standing on the balcony, silhouetted against a bright, starlit sky. The next moment, the shadow started to move towards the window. It was perhaps a little foolish of me, but I dashed forward, threw the window open wide, and turned a flood of light upon—Schweizer.
The butler, I immediately recalled, was occupying a bedroom a few doors down the hall from the one we were exploring. After he had explained that he often read and smoked in this room, and walked out on the balcony for fresh air, when he was troubled with insomnia, I dismissed him, without telling him what we were searching for. But he must have guessed it, for I heard him running down the hall to his bedroom.
He had no sooner gone when I was struck by a sudden idea. "It's possible," I suggested, "that Mr. Zzyx, in his after-midnight excursions, visits the butler's pantry, and makes a raid on our refrigerator. He has the appetite and stomach capacity of an ostrich. What do you say?"
"Possible," McGinity concurred. "Let's go."
As I crept stealthily downstairs, with the reporter at my side, I fully expected, at any moment, to be confronted with a long hairy arm, stretching out from some dark corner, to clutch at my throat. My feeling of nervousness increased when, in the midst of our search on the ground floor, my flashlight suddenly failed. We had just stepped into the dining room. I was reluctant to switch on the wall, or ceiling lights, for fear of alarming the servants, or attracting the attention of the night watchman who patrolled the grounds. Under no consideration could we afford to arouse the household, especially Henry.
So we elected to sit down in the darkness and wait for something to happen, possibly the discovery of the prowling Mr. Zzyx. I marveled at the instinct which enabled him to move about so freely in the dark. It was so quiet in the dining room that we could hear the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the library. There we sat, waiting, in the utter silence of the night. One o'clock struck—then half-past.
All the time we were seated there, I fancied I heard a sound quite distinct above the ticking of the clock; a faint, crackling sound, like a dog makes when it is crunching bones between its teeth. I made no mention of it to McGinity, but my heart was going in great sickening thumps. Another ten minutes of strained silence in the darkness, and my nerves were stretched to the limit.
As it turned out, McGinity had heard the same mysterious sound. Also, his eyes becoming more quickly adjusted to the darkness, being so much younger than mine, he saw something that had so far escaped my notice. Flecks of white on the floor, just to the right of us, in front of the heavily curtained French window.
Suddenly, he put his hand on my arm warningly. I heard him draw his breath sharply as he slowly rose, and tiptoed a few steps beyond where we were seated. As I craned forward to try to see what he was up to, he lit his cigarette lighter.
"My God! Look!" I heard him breathe; and, rising, I saw, in the flickering glimmer, a lot of white feathers on the floor. As his lighter quickly burned itself out, the room once more was in darkness. But I had seen enough in that momentary flash to realize that at last we had found something we were waiting for.
"What do you make out of those white feathers?" McGinity whispered, gripping my arm.
"It wouldn't surprise me a bit," I replied, "to find that Mr. Zzyx has killed Pat's white cockatoo."
"Yes; and I'll bet you anything he's somewhere close by, in one of these rooms, enjoying a cold bird, bones and all," his quick whisper came back. "That will account for the funny sound I've been hearing all the time we've been sitting here. Let's turn on the light—take a chance. What do you say?"
My memory of what immediately followed is rather blurred and confused. I have some memory of feeling my way through the library doorway, although how I accomplished it in the dark is more than I can figure out. What I most remember clearly is the strange, eerie sight that met our startled gaze after I had turned on the lights.
Crouching on the floor of the library, confronting us, was Mr. Zzyx, in his pajamas, and surrounded by feathers and bits of bone of the cockatoo, which obviously he had so cruelly slaughtered and devoured. And as we stood there gazing at him, he snarled at us like a wild beast defending its spoils.
Quick as a flash, McGinity's hand went to his hip pocket, but I restrained him. "Leave him alone," I advised. "Let him finish his feast."
"Pat's heart will be broken," McGinity sighed. "How could he do such a horrible, cruel thing?" He lit a cigarette.
"Because he's more animal than man," I answered; "a very dangerous and vicious animal."
We continued to watch him in silence until he had finished crunching the last bone. Then he got to his feet, and started to walk towards McGinity, round whose head spirals of tobacco smoke were curling. There was a dark stain all around the creature's mouth, which made him more repellent and disgusting.
"He wants a cigarette," I suggested.
McGinity gave him one, and lit it. And then, to our amazement, he followed us meekly as we led the way upstairs, and opened the door of his bedroom. He climbed into bed, and pulled the bedclothes over his head, like a child who has been caught in the act and is ashamed of his wrong-doing. Presently he was fast asleep.
XXIII
The after-midnight experience, especially the cruel killing of Pat's pet cockatoo, distressed me terribly. I was still feeling nervous and depressed the next morning when, after a hasty breakfast, I caught an early train for the city. I took a taxi-cab at the railroad terminal, and drove straight to the office of the Royal Parchment Paper Company, in Beekman Street, which is in the downtown district.
I did not reveal my identity—there was no reason why I should—simply explaining that I was interested in seeking out the maker of a very interesting scroll that had come into my possession, the parchment paper of which bore the firm's water-mark. In less than ten minutes, a point of high importance was settled. The parchment paper used in the scroll was identified as a heavy grade formerly manufactured by this concern but discontinued about three years before.
As it was a wholesale house, selling its products only in bulk to retailers, I was beginning to lose hope that I should ever be able to track this particular brand of parchment paper when, by great good luck, one of the assistant officials recalled having sold a small quantity of it, from the remaining store-room stock, to an aged, silver-haired man, four months back.
He remembered the transaction very well indeed because the customer explained that he had been looking for some time for this special, heavy grade of parchment paper, as he made it a business of transforming newly manufactured parchment into ancient-looking family and historical documents, for which he found a ready market among dealers in antiques.
He walked out of the office carrying his purchase, leaving no name and no address. As it was raining heavily at the time, the assistant official, because of the customer's age and apparent infirmities, followed him to the door with an umbrella, and politely volunteered to call a taxi. After he had done this, he put the old man into the cab. And now, after an interval of four months, he recalled the address the customer had given the taxi-driver: "Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street."
This remarkable display of memory sent me off at once to another field of inquiry. In a small, musty, corner curio and book shop, at Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street, I found a courteous, white-haired old man, looking rather shaggy and unkempt, who recognized the scroll at once as a sample of his own handicraft. He did not know, of course, he said, for what purpose it was to be used, nor did he seem to care; and he appeared equally unconcerned over the strange inscriptions it contained. He seemed both surprised and grieved when I showed him the water-mark. Apparently, he believed that I had been taken in by some antique dealer, in the purchase of the scroll as an ancient document.
"I do not often make a slip like that," he said, "and I am very sorry indeed if I've caused my customer any embarrassment. He did not specify that it should look old, but just different from the usual run of scrolls. For instance, he requested me to perfume the gum that holds the parchment securely to the ebony roller."
"That's all very interesting," I said, as calmly as I could. "Now, there's just one more question—did your customer reveal his name?"
The old bookseller shook his head. "I have no idea who he is," he replied; "no idea at all of his actual identity. He paid me a pretty stiff price in advance for my work. That's all that interested me."
"Can you describe him?" I asked.
He took off his spectacles, and wiped them carefully on a frayed, white silk handkerchief. "No," he said, finally and slowly. "I'm afraid I can't describe him. My memory and eye-sight are both failing fast. If you were to leave here now, and an hour later, some one was to ask me to describe your appearance, I would be utterly at a loss. I do recall, however, that he was middle-aged, well-dressed, and well bred—a gentleman, I should say."
"And that is all you know of him?" I persisted.
"That's all I know of him," the old man assented. "Well, yes, I do just remember one other thing. The day he called for the scroll, he apologized for his hurried departure, saying that he had only a few minutes in which to keep an important engagement in Radio Center, and make his train."
"Ah!" I breathed. "Did he mention taking a train on any particular railroad?"
"No," was the reply. "But after he'd gone, I found a Long Island Railroad time-table on my desk. Evidently he had left it behind—forgotten it in his haste."
After some further questioning, I went away. At noon, I met McGinity, having promised the night before to join him at lunch, in town, and submit all the evidence I had collected about the water-mark in the scroll. The restaurant was one of his own choosing, a cheerful but obscure eating-place in the Times Square section, noted for its home-cooking and excellent beer, and largely patronized by newspaper reporters working in that district.
The reporter listened to my story with signs of ever increasing interest, as we sat together in a dining nook, and when it came to an end, he exclaimed: "'Middle-aged—well-dressed—well bred!' You see? Olinski! without a doubt."
"No, I don't see it at all," I answered. "The old bookseller's vague description of the man who gave him the order for the scroll, in my opinion, doesn't fit Olinski. True, there's evidence that the man left hurriedly for an important engagement at Radio Center, and later, to catch a train on the Long Island Railroad, but that proves nothing against Olinski. Why should he rush off to keep an appointment in Radio Center, when he spends most of his time in his laboratory there? Besides, he's perfectly familiar with the time schedules of the railroad, so far as Sands Cliff is concerned."
"Then, if it wasn't Olinski, it must have been his accomplice," McGinity persisted. "There's more than one person mixed up in this."
"Undoubtedly you're right," I concurred. "But it would be just as easy and logical to suspect Prince Matani. Personally, I would suspect the Prince of doing anything, short of murder, for money. He's been trying to force Henry's hand for some time, in regard to Pat, and failing, this may have been his revenge. But acting only as a paid agent for a superior intellect, who put the thing over in a much bigger way, perhaps, than the Prince had anticipated."
"If this is true, then it will account for the Prince falling in a fit the first time he set eyes on Mr. Zzyx," the reporter suggested. "He expected to find a small baboon, and he finds a monster. Then, he vanishes. Very odd that he should go off to California—disappear like that."
"You've taken the words right out of my mouth," I rejoined, with a benign smile. "However, as matters are now shaping themselves, it's my opinion that any suspicions we may have regarding either Olinski or the Prince are coming to a quick end. We might as well attach suspicion to Mamie Sparks, our colored laundress."
"Well, at any rate, Mr. Royce," said McGinity, "one thing is pretty well established in my mind, and that is—if the perpetrator of this gigantic fraud isn't a lunatic, he's certainly been carried away by some strange fanatical motive."
"The facts of the case are all very strange, and very puzzling," I observed. "I have been reflecting on the matter for the last hour or so, since leaving the old bookseller, and I'm beginning to feel that we're up against a pretty difficult task—perhaps an impossible one."
"Oh, please, don't say that, Mr. Royce!" the reporter said, earnestly. "We may be all tangled up in this web of mystery, but we've got a start—just a thread of a clue—haven't we? Not such a big one but still a start. If we keep on the alert, we may run into something else that will put us in possession of another thread of a clue. That'll be two threads, won't it?"
"Yes," I replied, lugubriously; "but as far as I can see at present, things look pretty hopeless, and we might as well stop now with our investigations, and let matters take their natural course."
"That I'll never do," said McGinity, bringing his fist down on the table, as though to accentuate his determination to see things through. "You must remember, I've been taken in, as well as your brother Henry, and on my shoulders rests the responsibility of all those printed articles of mine."
"And not inventions, either," I said, "but stories founded on facts. You can excuse—facts."
"Not if they're fictitious facts," said McGinity; "and it's my duty now to expose their falsity to the public. No, Mr. Royce, we can't turn back now!"
As he spoke the last word, a boy selling a special extra of an afternoon paper, entered the restaurant, and came straight to our table. "Want a paper, Mister?" the boy asked me. I shook my head, but as soon as McGinity had glimpsed the big, front page headline he snatched a paper out of the boy's hand.
Within a second he was directing my attention to the glaring headline, which read: "Martian Rocket Disappears—Stolen!" and then to a space in the center of the page, headed: "Very Latest News," under which appeared a few lines, printed in red ink. Together we read them:
"New York police notified today by officials of New York Museum of Science that the Martian rocket, found on Long Island, near the estate of Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, and placed on exhibition in the museum, was stolen from its glass-case during the night. Watchman found bound and drugged. While nothing uncovered so far to establish clue to identity of daring thieves, police have obtained information showing theft was committed by two men, who were seen to leave the museum, carrying the rocket, and drive off in a small van, about three o'clock this morning."
Before I could speak, McGinity jumped to his feet, and made for a telephone booth. Five tense minutes passed, then he burst out of the booth, and came to me.
"Ah!" he said, excitedly; "now, we're getting somewhere."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Just this," the reporter replied. "The theft of this rocket proves conclusively that the superior intellect, the master mind, is back on the job. Something has forced him out of hiding—out of the unknown into which he passed about three months ago. He's getting scared. He realizes that the finger of suspicion, sooner or later, will be pointed at him, and he's trying to destroy all evidence of his guilt."
"That is, of course, a possibility," I agreed. "But this theft of the rocket, now. Why, to me, it makes the whole thing seem more and more of a puzzle."
"It's the best thing that could have happened," McGinity observed. "It will prepare the public for the exposé, which is bound to come now, and put your brother in right. Public sentiment is always with the man who has been duped."
"Does this mean that we will not go on with our investigations?" I inquired.
McGinity shook his head. "My instructions from the Desk," he answered, "which I just received on the phone, are to continue with our private investigations. And my first job is to make contact as soon as possible with your brother Henry. And let me say, right here, that I think it highly important that we keep nothing back from him. We must give him a clear, succinct account of the whole matter as we know it up to this moment."
"Whew!" I exclaimed. "You don't know Henry. He would consider any move like that, on our part, as highly meddlesome, even offensive."
"But in enlisting his services in tracking down the stolen rocket—ten to one, it's been dumped in the East River, which is only a few blocks from the museum—we must acquaint him with all the particulars that have come to light. Tell what we know and suspect in the matter. He's got to know sometime—why not now?"
"Very well, then," I assented; adding, with an amused chuckle: "Looks like we've got a very busy afternoon ahead of us."
"Busy isn't the word," McGinity rejoined, as he began making some hasty notes on a bunch of copy-paper, which he always kept handy in his coat pocket. "However, this is only the beginning."
"What are you making notes for?" I asked, curiously. "Are they for your paper, or the police?"
"Neither," replied McGinity. "They are intended for broadcasting. After I'd talked to my City Editor, I got Mr. Scoville of the NRC on the phone, and he's promised to have a good description of the rocket put on the air at three o'clock this afternoon, again at six, and at nine this evening."
"Excellent idea," I said, enthusiastically. "I only wish there was something I could do. What can I do?"
"Well, Mr. Royce," replied McGinity, as he finished making his notes, and gave me a smile and roguish wink that meant much, "a reward is always useful in these matters. Money can do things that mere words can't do."
"I see what you mean," I responded slowly. I thought a moment, and then said: "If my belief's correct, the sooner we lay hands on the two men who stole the rocket the better! Yes? Well, Mr. McGinity, I'm quite willing to help out on this, in a small way, of course. I'll offer a reward of $5,000—"
"Five thousand dollars!" McGinity interrupted, gleefully. "That's a whole lot of money, Mr. Royce, and I'm sure it's going to help solve the mystery. And say—here's an idea that occurs to me. Why not phone Olinski now, at once, and get a detailed description of the rocket from him. And then ask him—also for me—if he ever visited a certain curio and bookseller's shop at the corner of Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street. If he doesn't answer you directly, and begins to question you—well, just hang up. Better hurry now!"
I am easily excited, and I certainly felt my heart thump as I hurried into one of the compartments of the telephone booth, to carry out the reporter's suggestions, while McGinity stepped quickly into the adjoining section, to conclude the necessary arrangements by telephone for broadcasting the $5,000 reward.
I smiled to myself as I impatiently awaited a response to my call. There I was, a staid member of society, a pillar of the church, holding dignified offices in at least a dozen of the most exclusive and conservative clubs of New York—tracking down an ingeniously concocted scheme to ruin my brother's reputation as a scientist, with the self-possession of a Hercule Poirot, or any other equally distinguished detective of fiction; lunching at a reporters' hangout, and, now, about to perform a rather dirty trick on my good friend, Olinski—altogether putty in the hands of a very audacious but ingratiating reporter.
Luckily for me, Olinski was reported "out" at his laboratory. In fact, he hadn't been in for two days; obviously his staff was worried.
"Of course, Olinski's out," muttered McGinity, when I told him; "he's got other business to attend to—pressing business." And then he proceeded to begin preparations to leave. "Now, we'd better get along to Sands Cliff—quick! Our next job's there."
The reporter's car was waiting for us, and in less than an hour we were outside our lodge-gate. The big iron gate is usually kept open during the day-time, but now it was closed. As there was no sign of the lodge-keeper, McGinity got out and opened the gate. When we rolled through, the radiator was spouting hot water and steam like a miniature Yellowstone Park geyser. The reporter had whirled me along country roads and through villages, in the drab light of a cloudy November afternoon, at a speed not at all to my liking.
Parking the car just inside the gate, we drew near the gray-walled castle. Something ominous was in the air. A deadly chill, floating in across the terrace from the dark waters of the Sound, seemed to penetrate to our very bones. Everything was weirdly silent. No sign of life. I grew very anxious and uncomfortable, although the incredible truth did not dawn upon me. Why was everything so horribly silent? Where were the usual sounds and stir of a big country estate? Why this tomb-like castle?
I was surprised to find the front door open. Within a few seconds we had entered, and were standing in the great, vaulted entrance hall, now dark and gloomy. Not a sound, nor a movement!
And then, suddenly, in the gloom and silence, we saw something that struck terror in our hearts. Jane—dear, lovable old Jane—lying, still as death, face downward, on the floor, at the base of the great staircase. Showing vividly on the stone steps, from top to bottom, were blotches of dark red. They looked like bloody footprints.
XXIV
I have often wondered, since all this occurred, how it happened that McGinity and I arrived at the castle at this very critical moment, which, afterwards, proved to be the crucial stage of our adventures in trying to detect and trace the utterly unscrupulous scoundrel who perpetrated the Martian hoax. Seconds—or minutes—later, and I might now be recording a much more terrible series of events. It was all horrible enough, God knows!
To our great relief, we found that Jane had fainted from shock. She showed signs of returning to consciousness as the reporter and I sprang to her side. She was, of course, the first person to give us the news. After we had assisted her to her feet, we partly carried her to a big easy chair, propping her up with sofa pillows. Luckily, her smelling salts were in her handbag, which I had picked up from the floor, and as I waved the vial of sal volatile to and fro under her nose, I urged her gently to tell us what had happened.
"Where's Henry?" was my first question.
"He went away—er—after lunch," Jane replied, slowly and painfully. She was still breathing with difficulty, and her words came in little gasps.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"No place—in particular. He was completely fagged out. I think he went for a drive."
"And Pat? Where is she?"
"She went out about an hour ago. I begged her not to go. She's been crying all day—about her white cockatoo."
"Did she say where she was going, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked.
"She said something about the dock. What she did say was that she felt that some fresh air, and a little exercise, would do her good."
"Did she mention any particular kind of exercise?" McGinity questioned again.
"No—she merely said—oh, yes—she spoke of rowing—that was it."
"Pat's very fond of rowing," I explained to McGinity, "and frequently goes over to the island, and potters about the old lighthouse ruins." Then I turned again to Jane: "Now, Jane, tell us—what about Mr. Zzyx?"
At the mention of the creature's name, she turned more pale and sank back in the chair, gasping. I thought she was going to faint again. Between us, McGinity and I rubbed her hands and forearms briskly. Quickly rallying, she murmured, with quivering lips: "He went mad—or something—stark crazy!"
I glanced at McGinity, and whispered: "He must have gone on a rampage—just as I feared."
"Where are all the servants, Miss Royce?" McGinity asked, as Jane recovered some semblance of her natural poise.
She smiled a little grimly. "I guess they've all been frightened away," she answered. "You see, I don't know about everything that happened, but it's my belief that all the servants have locked themselves up in the service wing. Oh, neither of you can comprehend the utter reign of terror we've just passed through. Here I was, by myself—Henry and Pat both out—the servants fleeing in alarm. Naturally, at first, I was in a state of absolute despair as to what to do."
"Let's begin at the beginning, Jane," I counselled, softly. "When did you first hear of Mr. Zzyx acting up?"
"About half an hour ago," she replied. "I was in my room, reading, when Schweizer knocked at my door. His face was as white as a sheet. He said a great commotion was going on in the State Apartment, and hadn't he better call the police. But I advised him to summon all the men-servants in the place, as I felt they could handle the situation, whatever it might be."
"Then what?"
"The butler had not been gone two minutes when I heard that dreadful thing, screeching—oh, terrible to hear!—and running up and down the hall, outside my room, and smashing the furniture. Then everything became quiet. He must have gone downstairs, for, a few minutes later, I heard the woman servants screaming—such screaming as I never heard before and never want to hear again."
"What did you do, then?"
"As soon as the screaming had subsided, I decided that something must be done, for I suddenly realized that all the men on the place had gone off on a half holiday. Besides, the telephone extension on the second floor went out of order this morning. My intention, as I slipped out of my room, was to go downstairs to the library, lock myself in, and phone the police. As none of the servants, not even my personal maid, had shown themselves, and viewing the awful wreckage that creature had made of the tables, chairs and tapestries in the hall, I was convinced that something terrible was going on."
"But how did you happen to be lying at the foot of the staircase?"
"I will tell you." She drew a long, painful breath, and then continued. "All went well until I reached the bottom of the stairs, when I heard heavy footsteps above me. I turned and looked. Mr. Zzyx was coming down towards me, chattering, and showing his teeth, rolling his head, and waving his arms convulsively, like he had a fit. I was frozen with terror to the spot. I couldn't move. I remember seeing blood on his hands and clothes, as he came nearer to me. I recall receiving a heavy blow on my arm. After that, I remember nothing."
"Thank God! you escaped without a scratch," I breathed. "But where do you suppose he's gone? The front door was open when we arrived. He may have gone out that way."
"I have no idea," Jane said. Then she wailed: "Oh, what are we to do?"
"We'll do something," I replied, and immediately went into action. I had a police whistle in my pocket, and, leaving Jane in charge of McGinity, I went quickly into the library. Opening the window that gave on to the terrace, I blew the whistle. Just then, I saw Schweizer coming from the servants' wing. I waved a hand to him, and he came hurrying on to the terrace and up to the window.
"What's become of everyone?" I inquired.
"The women have barricaded themselves in their quarters, sir," the butler replied. "That hairy fellow nearly scared the life out of 'em. Mamie Sparks went into a faint, and isn't out of it yet."
"Isn't there a strong-armed man left on the place?"
"None, sir," Schweizer replied. "The two chauffeurs went with your brother on a drive. I was afraid to tackle that hairy thing unarmed and single-handed, and ever since leaving Miss Jane locked up in her room, I've been searching everywhere for a gun."
"Did you see Mr. Zzyx leaving by the front door?"
"I saw nothing, sir, after I went back to the servants' wing to look for a weapon. If I'd found one, I meant to shoot that fellow dead. He surely made a mess of things with his tearing and smashing."
"Yes, I know," I rejoined, glancing back over my shoulder. The dining room looked as though a small whirlwind had struck it. "Better come inside, Schweizer, and help us get things straightened out."
"Just a word, sir," the butler said, coming up closer to the window, and speaking in little more than a whisper. "I think murder's been committed."
"Oh, I don't believe that," I replied, "but we'll soon see."
While alarmed and mystified at first over the red blotches on the marble staircase, it was my belief now that Mr. Zzyx must have cut himself severely during his rampage, which would account for the blood stains. But after the butler had joined us, and had told of hearing Niki screaming, during the commotion in the State Apartment, that put a different complexion on the matter. Leaving Schweizer to guard Jane, McGinity and I hastened upstairs.
It was my earnest hope that Niki was in hiding somewhere. I could not picture a person of his athletic prowess being outmatched, even by a strong-limbed creature like Mr. Zzyx. First, I tried Mr. Zzyx's door. It was locked on the inside. Then I knocked on the door which opened into the room occupied by Niki, a double room, one half of which was fitted as a bedroom. There was no response. Dead silence followed each knock—an eerie silence that caused my blood to run chill.
In a moment I had opened the door, and we were standing in his room. There were unmistakable traces of some sort of struggle. Several chairs and a reading-table were overturned, rugs disarranged, and books and magazines scattered over the floor. But no sign of Niki. I called him by name. "Niki! Niki!" my voice echoing weirdly from the high ceiling.
Then, at McGinity's suggestion, I opened the door connecting Niki's apartment with Mr. Zzyx's luxurious sleeping quarters. I gave one glance into the room, then recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The reporter leapt forward to look. The sight that met our gaze stayed with me for many days afterwards.
Niki was lying on the bed, on his back, his clothes almost torn to tatters, and the upper part of his body and head hidden under pillows and bedclothes, which bore crimson stains. I made no comment at the moment. My thoughts were going back to the performance of Verdi's "Otello" at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House; the night I had studied Mr. Zzyx attentively as he watched, as if spellbound, the smothering to death of Desdemona by the jealous and enraged Moor. Had my surmises at that time been right? Had this violent climax of the opera taken hold of his primitive mind and obsessed him until it had quickened him to this deed of incredible violence?
Beyond any reasonable doubt, Niki had been overcome and smothered to death after a terrific fight with this hairy monster. The wreckage of the furnishings of the room bore evidence of such a struggle.
McGinity spoke first. "Awful!" he said in a faint voice.
"Poor Niki!" I said, in a tone which I scarcely recognized as my own.
"If that fiend smothered Niki to death, how do you account for all that—" McGinity checked himself as his voice choked.
"As Niki's face bears only scratches," I replied, "it's possible that Mr. Zzyx cut himself seriously while smashing window-panes and picture-glass. That will account for the bloodstains on the pillows and bedclothing."
"Then he must have killed Niki after going on a rampage through the castle," McGinity suggested.
"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I figure that he killed Niki first. He must have returned to the second floor by the back stairs, and by some strange instinct, re-enacted the killing with his cut and bleeding hands, to make sure his victim was dead."
"A cruel, murderous affair any way you look at it," said McGinity. "Better call the police at once."
"No," I demurred. "I mean to keep things quiet until Henry returns."
"In that case, then," the reporter suggested, "we'd better split up. You go and find Pat, and I'll start looking for Mr. Zzyx. It's my belief that he's escaped into the thick woods, back of the castle."
"Be careful, young man," I advised, in assenting to his proposed plan of action. "That fellow is mad—desperate, and likely to show fight."
"He'll not escape me, don't you worry," the reporter rejoined, his hand moving instinctively to his hip pocket. "I'll take no chances in tackling that bird. So now," he concluded, "whatever it is we're in for—"
He had no time to finish that sentence. The butler's voice broke in, coming from the hall. "Come, quickly, Mr. Royce! Come, at once, sir!" the butler shouted.
We left the chamber of death, taking good care to lock the door, and hurried down the hall to join Schweizer, who had only come to the head of the stairs, so as not to let Jane out of his sight. He had surprising news to tell. The gate-keeper, who had deserted his post at the first alarm, had come running up from his hiding-place, behind the terrace wall, at the brink of the cliff, to report that he had seen Mr. Zzyx go down to the dock, and, a few minutes later, cast off in a runabout, heading for the island.
The effect of this news was terrifying. The same thought must have struck McGinity and myself at the same instant. Pat was on the island. To be caught there—alone—by—It was too terrible to contemplate.
If the effect of the news was terrifying to us both, it was also electrical, so far as McGinity was concerned. Without uttering a word, he dashed out of the castle, ran across the terrace, and disappeared down the steps to the dock.
Apprehensive of the effect of this news, as well as the killing of Niki, on Jane, who was now comfortably ensconced on a divan in the hall, with her personal maid in attendance, I gave Schweizer a quick, whispered account of what we had found, and enjoined him to secrecy.
"Then there was murder, sir?" he said, in a low voice. "Niki murdered! Murder, says you, murder!" His mind couldn't seem to grasp it. "Lord help us!" he added. "I hope that reporter person gets that hairy, murdering thing, and gets it good!"
Increasingly disturbed and anxious about Pat's fate, I left the butler, signaling to him as I went outside, to stay back and look after Jane. Emerging on the terrace, another surprising sight met my gaze, giving a startling and dramatic turn to the tragic proceedings of the afternoon.
The shanty, which stood on the island, near the lighthouse ruins, was on fire. The bitterly cold, north-east wind was already whipping the flames and sending them upward in long, red tongues, which seemed to lick the lowering November sky. Cold and biting as the wind was, I was not sure that the quiver which shook me from head to foot was more from cold than from the dread anticipation of what was at hand.
Shaking and shivering, I somehow managed to get to the dock. McGinity had already cast off, and, as I breathed a prayer for the safety of Pat, I watched him struggling against the wind and incoming tide in a big, unwieldy dory, the only boat available at the dock. A flat-bottomed boat with high flaring sides, largely used on the New England coast, and by American fishing vessels, and christened "The Tub" by our servants, who used it for fishing excursions.
Mr. Zzyx must have reached the island with incredible speed. The runabout was tied up at the tiny dock, on the far side of which Pat's row-boat rocked with the tide. The flames from the burning shanty were mounting still higher, their reflection turning the expanse of surrounding water into turbulent pools of fiery red. Still, no movement was noticed on the island that would indicate the presence there, either of Pat, or of the maddened creature, Mr. Zzyx. I was beginning to be more alarmed than ever, when suddenly things began to take shape.
First, I saw McGinity beach his boat at the far end of the island, where there was a small, pebbly beach. Then came a flutter of something white—Pat's scarf, or handkerchief—at the pinnacle of the ruins.
At that moment the flames died down, and myriads of sparks flew upward as the walls of the shanty collapsed. Visibility became obscure on account of the smoke. Presently I saw McGinity running up the steps, cut in the rocks, to the door of the lighthouse, the lower part of which was practically intact. I saw him enter the doorway. Then everything became indistinct in a cloud of smoke, and out of that obscurity, I saw a black figure come stealthily around the ruins, moving from the ledge of rock on the side next to the Sound, as though it had been in hiding. As it crept into the doorway, and disappeared into the dark interior of the ruins, I cried, "Oh, God!" It was Mr. Zzyx. Pat and McGinity were trapped in the lighthouse.
Standing there alone on the dock, in the biting cold and gathering gloom, and helpless to assist Pat and McGinity in their perilous position, I passed into a state of anxiety bordering on frenzy. It was only my abounding faith in the courage and resourcefulness of the reporter in meeting the situation that kept me sane. Also, I felt sure then, as I do still, that Mr. Zzyx did not go to the island in pursuit of Pat. By no possible means could he have known that she was there. Mad with fury, and out to wreck and kill, he was winding up his abnormal excitation with all the mischief he could do on the island.
It is natural to assume that when he rushed out of the castle and reached the dock, he saw in the runabout a means to further satisfy his madness for excitement; or the boat may have suggested a means of escape. As I learned afterwards, he had gone with Niki for a spin in the runabout, directly after lunch. The engine may still have been warm, for he seemed to have had no difficulty in starting it himself, and he had long ago become proficient in casting off and tying up. The fact remains that he got to the island.
Of course, from the dock, I could not see what was transpiring inside the lighthouse. But I know now what happened. As Pat told her story afterwards, she had spent about an hour on the island when she decided to row back to the mainland. The exercise of rowing, the cold, bracing wind, and quiet moments spent in wandering about the ruins, had refreshed her wonderfully. She was walking down the rocky slope to the island dock, when she saw the runabout approaching. Naturally, she suspected nothing out of the way.
"At first, I thought," she said, after it was all over, "that it must be either one of our servants, or—improbable as it seemed—Mr. McGinity. The runabout was halfway across before I recognized Mr. Zzyx.
"My first horrified thought was that he was coming after me," she went on, her voice still strained by excitement. "And to me that meant only one thing: that he was going to make an attempt on my life, using the same tactics as he had employed when he so cruelly killed my white cockatoo. He'd always seemed mild to me, and while I was afraid of him, I never considered him really dangerous. I had developed a sort of fondness for him, as I would for a big dog. But after killing my poor bird—well, that settled everything. I had decided not to spend another night in the castle while he was in it, and I was prepared to give Uncle Henry my ultimatum, and stay with friends in town, if he didn't rid the premises at once of that—killer.
"I was scared into a fit, too scared for a minute or so to think of anything to do. Then I thought of setting fire to the shanty. That's a thought that might occur to anybody in the same fix. I counted on the fire bringing someone, quickly, from the castle to the island, for I had told Aunt Jane I was going for a row, and I believed the fire would indicate that I was at the lighthouse, and in danger. I had been inside the shanty, and had noticed a barrel filled with waste paper and pasteboard boxes—probably gathered up from one of the picnic parties trespassing on the island during the summer. So I ran back, into the shack, and threw a burning match into the barrel. The flames leapt up so quickly, it was a close call getting outside without getting singed.
"I was pretty shaky by this time, so I decided to hide in the ruins. Mr. Zzyx was tying up at the dock. I could hear him chattering; he was acting very queerly. I got down, and crawled on my hands and knees, behind the rocks, until I reached the lighthouse doorway. I don't believe he saw me.
"When I got inside the ruins it was so dark I had to light a match to find my way. As I did so, something rushed at me from above, and struck me on the head. It was a big bat. I screamed, and ran up the winding, stone stairway as far as I could go. I crawled behind one of the larger stones that had fallen inside, on the third landing, and stayed there until I got my breath. The clouds were hanging so low over my head, I felt I could almost reach up and touch them. This feeling suggested something, so I climbed up on one of the dislodged stones, leaned over the broken ledge of the circular wall, and waved the white silk scarf I had been wearing under my wool jacket. Then I went back into hiding again. It wasn't any fun, hiding there, in all that uncertainty, and expecting every moment to see Mr. Zzyx coming up the steps.
"Then I heard a voice. Some one was calling me by name. Again, I climbed up on the stone, and peered over the ledge. I had only a second or two to see that it was Mr. McGinity calling, and to wave to him. It was long enough, however, and I never felt so relieved in my life before, as I thought my last hour had come."
Pat must have looked pretty ghastly when McGinity finally reached her side, according to what he told me afterwards. He had no idea, then, what had become of Mr. Zzyx, and was surprised not to encounter him inside the ruins.
I don't think either of them told me exactly what passed between them, when McGinity came to Pat's rescue. Perhaps it was too sacred to both of them to repeat, even for a devoted uncle's ears. Anyway, the reporter took her gently by the arm, and assisted her down the winding stairs. They had just reached the second landing when they heard Mr. Zzyx's labored breathing, as he came creeping up the steps below them.
Time was vital. McGinity's first thought was of Pat's safety. On this landing there was a closet in the wall, in which oil for the beacon lamp had been stored years ago. The heavy, studded oak door had defied the ravages of time. The hinges, though, were almost eaten away by rust. It required all the strength he possessed to open the door, and then to close it, once he had placed Pat inside. She was too frightened, it seems, to raise any protest against being shut up in the dark.
McGinity had just time to draw his revolver when Mr. Zzyx appeared at the top of the steps, and came at him, growling fiercely. He fired a shot to frighten off the creature, but it had not the slightest effect. Before he could get out of the way, Mr. Zzyx lunged at him in wild fury, caught him in his hairy arms, and held him with a grip like a vise. Luckily, his right arm was free, and he dealt the creature a heavy blow on the head with the butt of his revolver. This not only broke the clinch; it frightened off the maddened beast.
With a bound, Mr. Zzyx dashed up the steps to the peak of the ruins. McGinity quickly followed, firing three shots in the air in rapid succession. His idea all through had been to frighten and cow, and not to kill, and what occurred after they both reached the open landing certainly was not the act of wanton destruction on the reporter's part.
Mr. Zzyx wheeled, and rushed at the reporter. Again McGinity fired, a reckless shot. This time he stayed the onrush, and Mr. Zzyx turned in his tracks, leapt up on the dislodged stones, and gained the top ledge.
A wave of horror came over McGinity as he watched him waver a moment, to and fro, then, with a scream that sounded almost human, plunge to his death on the rocks below. If he was not instantly killed by the fall, he was drowned, for his body rolled off the rocks and was engulfed in the sea.
XXV
To this day, McGinity believes that when he fired that last shot, the bullet ricocheted off a stone and entered a vital spot in Mr. Zzyx's body; and that the creature was as good as dead when he plunged from the parapet. I never did believe that. For that matter, we had no means of knowing the truth, for the body was never recovered from its watery grave.
I doubt if Pat heard much of the stress and sound of battle. She insists that she did. She must have slipped off in a faint, and had had time to come out of it when McGinity burst the door open and released her. He found her crumpled up in the small closet space, like a pale flower broken in the storm. She gazed up at him dazedly, but with a faint smile.
By the time they got down to the island dock, the water seemed filled with private launches, wealthy residents living along the North Shore having been attracted to the scene by the fire. A belated fire-boat began spouting water on the smoldering ruins of the shanty as they cast off in the runabout for the mainland.
As soon as McGinity had given me a quick summary of what had happened, and Pat had enjoyed a good cry in my embrace, I advised keeping everything quiet until we could report to the proper police authorities. When we reached the castle, we were surprised to find village policemen all over the place. It seems that Jane, on being told of the fire, had ordered Schweizer to summon the village fire department, but the butler was so excited that he dialed the wrong number, and got the police station. Furthermore, he never mentioned the fire. A touch of comedy which is never far away from tragedy.
It was perhaps just as well, as everything had to come out eventually. To Chief of Police Meigs, of Sands Cliff village, I gave a clear account of the whole wretched affair, which caused even that big, grim-faced individual to shudder. McGinity was feeling pretty sick himself over the death of Mr. Zzyx. To hear him talk about it, and the way he carried on, you would think he was guilty of premeditated murder, and would have to answer to the law.
Something of his mental unrest must have reached the Chief of Police, for, just as the Chief was leaving, he put his hand gently on the reporter's shoulder, and said: "Now, you quit your worrying, son. We'll fix this up, all right."
There were more bad minutes for us both when Pat and Jane found out about Niki. It was pretty terrible to hear them go on. But an hour after the police had arrived, Niki's body had been removed to the village mortuary, and all signs of blood stealthily and carefully removed by the servants, while the furnishings of the various rooms and halls, which had sustained damage during the rampage, were replaced as far as possible, and some semblance of the former formality of things restored.
Naturally, we were again overrun by city reporters, to whom, acting as spokesman, I gave only the absolutely necessary facts. Unwittingly, McGinity had now got himself mixed up in the news, and for the first time in his brief reportorial career, publicity was the last thing on earth he wanted, or was at all interested in. I spared him as much as possible, for I quickly realized he was laboring under the delusion that to have his name linked to Pat's in his tragic encounter with Mr. Zzyx would cause her much embarrassment, if not unpleasantness. But I happened to know that Pat didn't mind in the least; in fact, that she was very proud of the association of their names, even in these most sordid and harrowing circumstances.
Henry returned from his long motor drive a little after five o'clock. I would have given a king's ransom to have avoided meeting him, and disclosing the drama of crime that had been enacted during his absence, involving the loss of two lives.
Fortunately, I was relieved of this very unpleasant duty. As it turned out, Chief of Police Meigs had met Henry on the road, recognized his car, and stopped him. So he had a rather fair idea of what had occurred. I could plainly see the news weighed on him heavily, betrayed by his white face, quivering hands, and the pathetic droop of his mouth.
When McGinity and I followed him into the library, he dropped into his desk-chair with a moan that stirred my deepest pity and sympathy. In his anguish of mind, he kept muttering: "Niki murdered ... in my house!" and glancing suspiciously at the reporter.
"It wasn't necessary, I'm sure, for you to drive Mr. Zzyx to his death," he said finally, addressing McGinity.
"No one regrets the occurrence more than I do, Mr. Royce, but it can't be helped now," McGinity said, in a low, apologetic tone.
"It seems such a senseless sort of murder," Henry said.
"But it wasn't murder," I promptly corrected him. "Pat's life was endangered, as well as McGinity's, and I think he would have been wise if he had shot Mr. Zzyx dead, on the spot, which, of course, he didn't. Mr. Zzyx's end, while horrible, was purely accidental."
"Oh, you think that, do you?" Henry turned on me savagely. "Well, it's a lie!" he quavered, as he came to his feet, shaking his fist at me. "It wasn't necessary for you, Livingston, to interfere in this matter at all, but it's the sort of thing you've done all your life—interfering in my affairs. You've never considered me in the least—thoughtless—selfish!"
Then, as suddenly as he rose, he collapsed over the desk. We both thought he had fainted, but he waved away our offers of assistance.
"I'm all right," he mumbled, sinking back in his chair. "Sit down, Livingston. Sit down, McGinity. I'm rather upset. At my age ... being met in my house with this dreadful news! Now, McGinity," he concluded, in a quiet voice, "tell me all about it."
McGinity told the story briefly, and Henry listened without interruption, believing when the reporter had finished that the subject had been brought to a definite conclusion. Unfortunately, there was something else to be cleared up. Matters had come to a crisis, and it was high time we convinced Henry that he had been made a victim of a hoax. But how were we to prove and justify our suspicions?
I had infinite faith in the capability of the reporter in meeting the situation, and I was greatly pleased when he rose to the occasion, and laid before Henry all the suspicious circumstances which he knew to be material to the point, particularly referring to the spurious scroll, which I produced immediately for my brother's inspection.
Henry seemed staggered by the disclosure. "Science has been a curse to me," he quavered. "I wish to God I had never dabbled in it."
"It looks to me now, Mr. Royce," McGinity observed, "that in all this careful preparation of the plot, there was only one slip, and that was in using this parchment paper containing a familiar water-mark, which you have just seen. If the scroll is counterfeit, then that radio message from Mars, which told of its being secreted in the rocket, was not legitimate. You will also recall that no mention was made in this message of any occupant of the rocket. How do you explain the presence there of the late, lamented Mr. Zzyx? Was he just a coincidence?"
"I've been keeping my mouth shut on that point," Henry answered, "but I will be quite frank now, and admit that Mr. Zzyx was a coincidence. I'd particularly like to know how he got into the rocket. If he was a species of the man-ape inhabiting the tropical zone of Mars, as described in the scroll, and depicted on the screen last night, and was captured and locked in the rocket, and sent earthwards in the interest of science—"
"Oh, come now, Mr. Royce!" McGinity interrupted, with a kindly smile. "If the scroll is not genuine, then its contents can only be false."
"Too true," Henry admitted, mournfully. "But it was so cleverly thought out—a masterpiece of invention. I'll go further, and say it was an inspiration. The most original and logical concept of life on Mars that has ever been given to the world. But the question that's agitating my poor brain now, is how did Mr. Zzyx get into the rocket?"
"There'll be no difficulty in finding that out, sir, although it may take a little time," McGinity said. "No more difficult than proving that the scroll was a fake. Truth will out, sir."
"But how are you going to find out the whole truth, young man?" Henry asked, his voice fairly wailing.
"I can only tell you this much," McGinity answered. "Things have started to break—first, the discovery of the water-mark in the scroll, and, secondly, the theft of the rocket from the Museum of Science—and they'll keep on breaking. That happens every day in newspaper reporting business. In all big newspaper, or police stories, like mystery murders, kidnappings, state and civic scandals the underlying motives, means and methods are so closely linked that to solve one automatically brings another to light. When things begin to break, it's like touching off a string of fire-crackers—one explosion sets off another."
Henry shook his head, and rose abruptly. He appeared to have reached the limit of endurance. "I'm going out for a little air," he announced. As he went slowly out of the room, he looked pathetically old and broken.
As soon as he had gone, the reporter turned to me. "Well, what do you say, Mr. Royce? Shall we continue to go through with this business?"
"Of course," I replied. "And the sooner the next break comes, the better it'll suit me."
"All right, Mr. Royce," said the reporter, with a broad grin. "That suits me down to the ground. Now," he continued, glancing at his watch, and walking towards the radio, "let's tune in, shall we? It's just six o'clock."
A fraction of a second after he had tuned in, the stentorian voice of the announcer of the NRC radio press bureau broke the silence of the room. This is what he said:
"Late this afternoon, the police recovered the rocket from Mars, stolen last night from the New York Museum of Science. It was found on the bottom of the East River, at the foot of East Sixty-fourth Street. But nothing else so far has been uncovered by the police. Not the slightest clue to the identity of the thieves. Any person listening in, who may have information regarding this theft, and the subsequent disposal of the rocket in the river, will stand a good chance of winning a $5,000 reward by communicating at once with Police Headquarters in Manhattan, or at any police station in the greater city."
"Well, McGinity," I said, after the announcer had signed off, "that's break number three. You're a pretty good guesser. Now, perhaps, you can predict when the next break will come."
"Oh, I don't know," the reporter answered, half musingly. "I'm chuck full of funny ideas, you know." He thought a moment, then said: "Well, I've a good hunch that the next break will come by telephone, and that it'll bring some startling information."
He had hardly uttered the last word when the telephone on Henry's desk began to trill. I strode quickly to the instrument, and as I picked up the receiver, McGinity came to the side of the desk, making no attempt to hide his amusement.
"Good Lord!" he remarked, laughing. "I'd no idea that break number four would come so quickly."
I silenced him with a wave of my hand. The voice on the telephone was weak and trembling—a woman's voice.
"Is this the home of Henry Royce?" inquired the voice. "Can I speak to Mr. Henry Royce, or to his brother, Livingston?"
"This is Livingston Royce, speaking," I replied.
"Oh, Mr. Royce! For God's sake, come to me at once! This is—"
The voice broke off abruptly, in a low gurgling sound that conveyed a sense of its being strangled in the speaker's throat. Then, curiously enough, I heard the voice again, miles off, it seemed—a smothered, muffled cry of "Help! Help!" Then it trailed out into indistinctness, and there was complete silence on the telephone. The voice was familiar, but for the moment I could not place it.
Cradling the receiver, I sat staring up at the reporter. He spoke first—it seemed as if a long time had elapsed before he did speak.