IV
THE FIREBUG
A big, powerful, red touring-car, with a shining brass bell on thefront of it, was standing at the curb before our apartment late oneafternoon as I entered. It was such a machine as one frequently seesthreading its reckless course in and out among the trucks andstreet-cars, breaking all rules and regulations, stopping at nothing,the bell clanging with excitement, policemen holding back trafficinstead of trying to arrest the driver--in other words, a FireDepartment automobile.
I regarded it curiously for a moment, for everything connected withmodern fire-fighting is interesting. Then I forgot about it as I waswhisked up in the elevator, only to have it recalled sharply by thesight of a strongly built, grizzled man in a blue uniform with redlining. He was leaning forward, earnestly pouring forth a story intoKennedy's ear.
"And back of the whole thing, sir," I heard him say as he brought hislarge fist down on the table, "is a firebug--mark my words."
Before I could close the door, Craig caught my eye, and I read in hislook that he had a new case--one that interested him greatly. "Walter,"he cried, "this is Fire Marshal McCormick. It's all right, McCormick.Mr. Jameson is an accessory both before and after the fact in mydetective cases."
A firebug!--one of the most dangerous of criminals. The word excited myimagination at once, for the newspapers had lately been making much ofthe strange and appalling succession of apparently incendiary firesthat had terrorised the business section of the city.
"Just what makes you think that there is a firebug--one firebug, Imean--back of this curious epidemic of fires?" asked Kennedy, leaningback in his morrischair with his finger-tips together and his eyes halfclosed as if expecting a revelation from some subconscious train ofthought while the fire marshal presented his case.
"Well, usually there is no rhyme or reason about the firebug," repliedMcCormick, measuring his words, "but this time I think there is somemethod in his madness. You know the Stacey department-stores and theirallied dry-goods and garment-trade interests?"
Craig nodded. Of course we knew of the gigantic dry-goods combination.It had been the talk of the press at the time of its formation, a fewmonths ago, especially as it included among its organisers one veryclever business woman, Miss Rebecca Wend. There had been considerableopposition to the combination in the trade, but Stacey had shattered itby the sheer force of his personality.
McCormick leaned forward and, shaking his forefinger to emphasise hispoint, replied slowly, "Practically every one of these fires has beendirected against a Stacey subsidiary or a corporation controlled bythem."
"But if it has gone as far as that," put in Kennedy, "surely theregular police ought to be of more assistance to you than I."
"I have called in the police," answered McCormick wearily, "but theyhaven't even made up their minds whether it is a single firebug or agang. And in the meantime, my God, Kennedy, the firebug may start afire that will get beyond control!"
"You say the police haven't a single clue to any one who might beresponsible for the fires?" I asked, hoping that perhaps the marshalmight talk more freely of his suspicions to us than he had alreadyexpressed himself in the newspaper interviews I had read.
"Absolutely not a clue--except such as are ridiculous," repliedMcCormick, twisting his cap viciously.
No one spoke. We were waiting for McCormick to go on.
"The first fire," he began, repeating his story for my benefit,although Craig listened quite as attentively as if he had not heard italready, "was at the big store of Jones, Green leaders have beenarrested, but I can't say we have anything against any of them. Still,Max Bloom, the manager of this company, insists that the fire was setfor revenge, and indeed it looks as much like a fire for revenge as theJones-Green fire does"--here he lowered his voice confidentially--"forthe purpose of collecting insurance.
"Then came the fire in the Slawson Building, a new loft-building thathad been erected just off Fourth Avenue. Other than the fact that theStacey interests put up the money for financing this building thereseemed to be no reason for that fire at all. The building was reputedto be earning a good return on the investment, and I was at a loss toaccount for the fire. I have made no arrests for it--just set it downas the work of a pure pyromaniac, a man who burns buildings for fun, aman with an inordinate desire to hear the fire-engines screech throughthe streets and perhaps get a chance to show a little heroism in'rescuing' tenants. However, the adjuster for the insurance company,Lazard, and the adjuster for the insured, Hartstein, have reached anagreement, and I believe the insurance is to be paid."
"But," interposed Kennedy, "I see no evidence of organised arson sofar."
"Wait," replied the fire marshal. "That was only the beginning, youunderstand. A little later came a fire that looked quite like anattempt to mask a robbery by burning the building afterward. That wasin a silk-house near Spring Street. But after a controversy theadjusters have reached an agreement on that case. I mention these firesbecause they show practically all the types of work of the variouskinds of firebug--insurance, revenge, robbery, and plain insanity. Butsince the Spring Street fire, the character of the fires has been moreuniform. They have all been in business places, or nearly all."
Here the fire marshal launched forth into a catalogue of fires ofsuspected incendiary origin, at least eight in all. I took them downhastily, intending to use the list some time in a box head with anarticle in the Star. When he had finished his list I hastily counted upthe number of killed. There were six, two of them firemen, and fouremployees. The money loss ranged into the millions.
McCormick passed his hand over his forehead to brush off theperspiration. "I guess this thing has got on my nerves," he mutteredhoarsely. "Everywhere I go they talk about nothing else. If I drop intothe restaurant for lunch, my waiter talks of it. If I meet a newspaperman, he talks of it. My barber talks of it--everybody. Sometimes Idream of it; other times I lie awake thinking about it. I tell you,gentlemen, I've sweated blood over this problem."
"But," insisted Kennedy, "I still can't see why you link all thesefires as due to one firebug. I admit there is an epidemic of fires. Butwhat makes you so positive that it is all the work of one man?"
"I was coming to that. For one thing, he isn't like the usual firebugat all. Ordinarily they start their fires with excelsior and petroleum,or they smear the wood with paraffin or they use gasoline, benzine, orsomething of that sort. This fellow apparently scorns such crudemethods. I can't say how he starts his fires, but in every case I havementioned we have found the remains of a wire. It has something to dowith electricity--but what, I don't know. That's one reason why I thinkthese fires are all connected. Here's another."
McCormick pulled a dirty note out of his pocket and laid it on thetable. We read it eagerly:
Hello, Chief! Haven't found the firebug yet, have you? You will knowwho he is only when I am dead and the fires stop. I don't suppose youeven realise that the firebug talks with you almost every day aboutcatching the firebug. That's me. I am the real firebug, that is writingthis letter. I am going to tell you why I am starting these fires.There's money in it--an easy living. They never caught me in Chicago oranywhere, so you might as well quit looking for me and take yourmedicine. A. SPARK.
"Humph!" ejaculated Kennedy, "he has a sense of humour, anyhow--A.Spark!"
"Queer sense of humour," growled McCormick, gritting his teeth. "Here'sanother I got to-day:
Say, Chief: We are going to get busy again and fire a bigdepartment-store next. How does that suit Your Majesty? Wait till thefun begins when the firebug gets to work again. A. SPARK.
"Well, sir, when I got that letter," cried McCormick, "I was almostready to ring in a double-nine alarm at once--they have me that bluffedout. But I said to myself, 'There's only one thing to do--see this manKennedy.' So here I am. You see what I am driving at? I believe thatfirebug is an artist at the thing, does it for the mere fun of it andthe ready money in it. But more than that, t
here must be some one backof him. Who is the man higher up--we must catch him. See?"
"A big department-store," mused Kennedy. "That's definite--there areonly a score or so of them, and the Stacey interests control several.Mac, I'll tell you what I'll do. Let me sit up with you to-night atheadquarters until we get an alarm. By George, I'll see this casethrough to a finish!"
The fire marshal leaped to his feet and bounded over to where Kennedywas seated. With one hand on Craig's shoulder and the other graspingCraig's hand, he started to speak, but his voice choked.
"Thanks," he blurted out huskily at last. "My reputation in thedepartment is at stake, my promotion, my position itself, my--myfamily--er--er--"
"Not a word, sir," said Kennedy, his features working sympathetically."To-night at eight I will go on watch with you. By the way, leave methose A. Spark notes."
McCormick had so far regained his composure as to say a heartyfarewell. He left the room as if ten years had been lifted off hisshoulders. A moment later he stuck his head in the door again. "I'llhave one of the Department machines call for you, gentlemen," he said.
After the marshal had gone, we sat for several minutes in silence.Kennedy was reading and rereading the notes, scowling to himself as ifthey presented a particularly perplexing problem. I said nothing,though my mind was teeming with speculations. At length he placed thenotes very decisively on the table and snapped out the remark,
"Yes, it must be so."
"What?" I queried, still drumming away at my typewriter, copying thelist of incendiary fires against the moment when the case should becomplete and the story "released for publication," as it were.
"This note," he explained, picking up the first one and speakingslowly, "was written by a woman."
I swung around in my chair quickly. "Get out!" I exclaimed sceptically."No woman ever used such phrases."
"I didn't say composed by a woman--I said written by a woman," hereplied.
"Oh," I said, rather chagrined.
"It is possible to determine sex from handwriting in perhaps eightycases out of a hundred," Kennedy went on, enjoying my discomfiture."Once I examined several hundred specimens of writing to decide thatpoint to my satisfaction. Just to test my conclusions I submitted thespecimens to two professional graphologists. I found that our resultswere slightly different, but I averaged the thing up to four cases outof five correct. The so-called sex signs are found to be largelyinfluenced by the amount of writing done, by age, and to a certainextent by practice and professional requirements, as in theconventional writing of teachers and the rapid hand of bookkeepers. Nowin this case the person who wrote the first note was only anindifferent writer. Therefore the sex signs are pretty likely to beaccurate. Yes, I'm ready to go on the stand and swear that this notewas written by a woman and the second by a man."
"Then there's a woman in the case, and she wrote the first note for thefirebug--is that what you mean?" I asked.
"Exactly. There nearly always is a woman in the case, somehow or other.This woman is closely connected with the firebug. As for the firebug,whoever it may be, he performs his crimes with cold premeditation and,as De Quincey said, in a spirit of pure artistry. The lust of firepropels him, and he uses his art to secure wealth. The man may be atool in the hands of others, however. It's unsafe to generalise on themeagre facts we now have. Oh, well, there is nothing we can do justyet. Let's take a walk, get an early dinner, and be back here beforethe automobile arrives."
Not a word more did Kennedy say about the case during our stroll oreven on the way downtown to fire headquarters.
We found McCormick anxiously waiting for us. High up in the sandstonetower at headquarters, we sat with him in the maze of delicatemachinery with which the fire game is played in New York. In greatglass cases were glistening brass and nickel machines with discs andlevers and bells, tickers, sheets of paper, and annunciators withoutnumber. This was the fire-alarm telegraph, the "roulettewheel of thefire demon," as some one has aptly called it.
"All the alarms for fire from all the boroughs, both from the regularalarm-boxes and the auxiliary systems, come here first over the networkof three thousand miles or more of wire nerves that stretch out throughthe city," McCormick was explaining to us.
A buzzer hissed.
"Here's an alarm now," he exclaimed, all attention.
"Three," "six," "seven," the numbers appeared on the annunciator. Theclerks in the office moved as if they were part of the mechanism. Twicethe alarm was repeated, being sent out all over the city. McCormickrelapsed from his air of attention.
"That alarm was not in the shopping district," he explained, muchrelieved. "Now the fire-houses in the particular district where thatfire is have received the alarm instantly. Four engines, twohook-and-ladders, a water-tower, the battalion chief, and a deputy arehurrying to that fire. Hello, here comes another."
Again the buzzer sounded. "One," "four," "five" showed in theannunciator.
Even before the clerks could respond, McCormick had dragged us to thedoor. In another instant we were wildly speeding uptown, the bell onthe front of the automobile clanging like a fire-engine, the siren horngoing continuously, the engine of the machine throbbing with energyuntil the water boiled in the radiator.
"Let her out, Frank," called McCormick to his chauffeur, as we roundedinto a broad and now almost deserted thoroughfare.
Like a red streak in the night we flew up that avenue, turned intoFourteenth Street on two wheels, and at last were on Sixth Avenue. Witha jerk and a skid we stopped. There were the engines, the hose-carts,the hook-and-ladders, the salvage corps, the police establishing firelines--everything. But where was the fire?
The crowd indicated where it ought to be--it was Stacey's. Firemen andpolicemen were entering the huge building. McCormick shouldered inafter them, and we followed.
"Who turned in the alarm?" he asked as we mounted the stairs with theothers.
"I did," replied a night watchman on the third landing. "Saw a light inthe office on the third floor back--something blazing. But it seems tobe out now."
We had at last come to the office. It was dark and deserted, yet withthe lanterns we could see the floor of the largest room littered withtorn books and ledgers.
Kennedy caught his foot in something. It was a loose wire on the floor.He followed it. It led to an electric-light socket, where it wasattached.
"Can't you turn on the lights?" shouted McCormick to the watchman.
"Not here. They're turned on from downstairs, and they're off for thenight. I'll go down if you want me to and--"
"No," roared Kennedy. "Stay where you are until I follow the wire tothe other end."
At last we came to a little office partitioned off from the main room.Kennedy carefully opened the door. One whiff of the air from it wassufficient. He banged the door shut again.
"Stand back with those lanterns, boys," he ordered.
I sniffed, expecting to smell illuminating-gas. Instead, a peculiar,sweetish odour pervaded the air. For a moment it made me think of ahospital operating-room.
"Ether," exclaimed Kennedy. "Stand back farther with those lights andhold them up from the floor."
For a moment he seemed to hesitate as if at loss what to do next.Should he open the door and let this highly inflammable gas out orshould he wait patiently until the natural ventilation of the littleoffice had dispelled it?
While he was debating he happened to glance out of the window and catchsight of a drug-store across the street.
"Walter," he said to me, "hurry across there and get all the saltpeterand sulphur the man has in the shop."
I lost no time in doing so. Kennedy dumped the two chemicals into a panin the middle of the main office, about three-fifths saltpeter andtwo-fifths sulphur, I should say. Then he lighted it. The mass burnedwith a bright flame but without explosion. We could smell thesuffocating fumes from it, and we retreated. For a moment or two wewatched it curiously at a distance.
"That's very good extinguishing-pow
der," explained Craig as we sniffedat the odour. "It yields a large amount of carbon dioxide and sulphurdioxide. Now--before it gets any worse--I guess it's safe to open thedoor and let the ether out. You see this is as good a way as any torender safe a room full of inflammable vapour. Come, we'll wait outsidethe main office for a few minutes until the gases mix."
It seemed hours before Kennedy deemed it safe to enter the office againwith a light. When we did so, we made a rush for the little cubby-holeof an office at the other end. On the floor was a little can of ether,evaporated of course, and beside it a small apparatus apparently usedfor producing electric sparks.
"So, that's how he does it," mused Kennedy, fingering the cancontemplatively. "He lets the ether evaporate in a room for a while andthen causes an explosion from a safe distance with this little electricspark. There's where your wire comes in, McCormick. Say, my man, youcan switch on the lights from downstairs, now."
As we waited for the watchman to turn on the lights I exclaimed, "Hefailed this time because the electricity was shut off."
"Precisely, Walter," assented Kennedy.
"But the flames which the night watchman saw, what of them?" put inMcCormick, considerably mystified. "He must have seen something."
Just then the lights winked up.
"Oh, that was before the fellow tried to touch off the ether vapour,"explained Kennedy. "He had to make sure of his work of destructionfirst--and, judging by the charred papers about, he did it well. See,he tore leaves from the ledgers and lighted them on the floor. Therewas an object in all that. What was it? Hello! Look at this mass ofcharred paper in the corner."
He bent down and examined it carefully.
"Memoranda of some kind, I guess. I'll save this burnt paper and lookit over later. Don't disturb it. I'll take it away myself."
Search as we might, we could find no other trace of the firebug, and atlast we left. Kennedy carried the charred paper carefully in a largehat-box.
"There'll be no more fires to-night, McCormick," he said. "But I'llwatch with you every night until we get this incendiary. Meanwhile I'llsee what I can decipher, if anything, in this burnt paper."
Next day McCormick dropped in to see us again. This time he had anothernote, a disguised scrawl which read:
Chief: I'm not through. Watch me get another store yet. I won't falldown this time. A. SPARK.
Craig scowled as he read the note and handed it to me. "The man'swriting this time--like the second note," was all he said. "McCormick,since we know where the lightning is going to strike, don't you thinkit would be wiser to make our headquarters in one of the engine-housesin that district?"
The fire marshal agreed, and that night saw us watching at thefire-house nearest the department-store region.
Kennedy and I were assigned to places on the hose-cart and engine,respectively, Kennedy being in the hose-cart so that he could be withMcCormick. We were taught to descend one of the four brass poles handunder elbow, from the dormitory on the second floor. They showed us howto jump into the "turn-outs"--a pair of trousers opened out over thehigh top boots. We were given helmets which we placed in regulationfashion on our rubber coats, turned inside out with the right armholeup. Thus it came about that Craig and I joined the Fire Departmenttemporarily. It was a novel experience for us both.
"Now, Walter," said Kennedy, "as long as we have gone so far, we'll'roll' to every fire, just like the regulars. We won't take any chancesof missing the firebug at any time of night or day."
It proved to be a remarkably quiet evening with only one little blazein a candy-shop on Seventh Avenue. Most of the time we sat aroundtrying to draw the men out about their thrilling experiences at fires.But if there is one thing the fireman doesn't know it is the Englishlanguage when talking about himself. It was quite late when we turnedinto the neat white cots upstairs.
We had scarcely fallen into a half doze in our strange surroundingswhen the gong downstairs sounded. It was our signal.
We could hear the rapid clatter of the horses' hoofs as they wereautomatically released from their stalls and the collars and harnessmechanically locked about them. All was stir, and motion, and shouts.Craig and I had bounded awkwardly into our paraphernalia at the firstsound. We slid ungracefully down the pole and were pushed and shovedinto our places, for scientific management in a New York fire-house hasreached one hundred per cent. efficiency, and we were not to be allowedto delay the game.
The oil-torch had been applied to the engine, and it rolled forth,belching flames. I was hanging on for dear life, now and then catchingsight of the driver urging his plunging horses onward like a charioteerin a modern Ben Hur race. The tender with Craig and McCormick was lostin the clouds of smoke and sparks that trailed behind us. On we dasheduntil we turned into Sixth Avenue. The glare of the sky told us thatthis time the firebug had made good.
"I'll be hanged if it isn't the Stacey store again," shouted the mannext me on the engine as the horses lunged up the avenue and stopped atthe allotted hydrant. It was like a war game. Every move had beenplanned out by the fire-strategists, even down to the hydrants that theengines should take at a given fire.
Already several floors were aflame, the windows glowing likeopen-hearth furnaces, the glass bulging and cracking and the flameslicking upward and shooting out in long streamers. The hose was coupledup in an instant, the water turned on, and the limp rubber and canvasbecame as rigid as a post with the high pressure of the water beingforced through it. Company after company dashed into the blazing"fireproof" building, urged by the hoarse profanity of the chief.
Twenty or thirty men must have disappeared into the stifle from whichthe police retreated. There was no haste, no hesitation. Everythingmoved as smoothly as if by clockwork. Yet we could not see one of themen who had disappeared into the burning building. They had beenswallowed up, as it were. For that is the way with the New Yorkfiremen. They go straight to the heart of the fire. Now and then astream of a hose spat out of a window, showing that the men were stillalive and working. About the ground floors the red-helmeted salvagecorps were busy covering up what they could of the goods with rubbersheets to protect them from water. Doctors with black bags and whitetrousers were working over the injured. Kennedy and I were busy aboutthe engine, and there was plenty for us to do.
Above the shrill whistle for more coal I heard a voice shout, "Beganwith an explosion--it's the firebug, all right." I looked up. It wasMcCormick, dripping and grimy, in a high state of excitement, talkingto Kennedy.
I had been so busy trying to make myself believe that I was really ofsome assistance about the engine that I had not taken time to watch thefire itself. It was now under control. The sharp and scientific attackhad nipped what might have been one of New York's historicconflagrations.
"Are you game to go inside?" I heard McCormick ask.
For answer Kennedy simply nodded. As for me, where Craig went I went.
The three of us drove through the scorching door, past twisted massesof iron still glowing dull red in the smoke and steam, while the waterhissed and spattered and slopped. The smoke was still suffocating, andevery once in a while we were forced to find air close to the floor andnear the wall. My hands and arms and legs felt like lead, yet on wedrove.
Coughing and choking, we followed McCormick to what had been the heartof the fire, the office. Men with picks and axes and all manner ofcunningly devised instruments were hacking and tearing at the walls andwoodwork, putting out the last smouldering sparks while a thousandgallons of water were pouring in at various parts of the building wherethe fire still showed spirit.
There on the floor of the office lay a charred, shapeless,unrecognisable mass. What was that gruesome odour in the room? Burnedhuman flesh? I recoiled from what had once been the form of a woman.
McCormick uttered a cry, and as I turned my eyes away, I saw himholding a wire with the insulation burned off. He had picked it up fromthe wreckage of the floor. It led to a bent and blackened can--that hadonce
been a can of ether.
My mind worked rapidly, but McCormick blurted out the words before Icould form them, "Caught in her own trap at last!"
Kennedy said nothing, but as one of the firemen roughly but reverentlycovered the remains with a rubber sheet, he stooped down and withdrewfrom the breast of the woman a long letter-file. "Come, let us go," hesaid.
Back in our apartment again we bathed our racking heads, gargled ourparched throats, and washed out our bloodshot eyes, in silence. Thewhole adventure, though still fresh and vivid in my mind, seemedunreal, like a dream. The choking air, the hissing steam, the ghastlyobject under the tarpaulin--what did it all mean? Who was she? I stroveto reason it out, but could find no answer.
It was nearly dawn when the door opened and McCormick came in anddropped wearily into a chair. "Do you know who that woman was?" hegasped. "It was Miss Wend herself."
"Who identified her?" asked Kennedy calmly.
"Oh, several people. Stacey recognised her at once. Then Hartstein, theadjuster for the insured, and Lazard, the adjuster for the company,both of whom had had more or less to do with her in connection withsettling up for other fires, recognised her. She was a very cleverwoman, was Miss Wend, and a very important cog in the Staceyenterprises. And to think she was the firebug, after all. I can hardlybelieve it."
"Why believe it?" asked Kennedy quietly.
"Why believe it?" echoed McCormick. "Stacey has found shortages in hisbooks due to the operation of her departments. The bookkeeper who hadcharge of the accounts in her department, a man named Douglas, ismissing. She must have tried to cover up her operations by fires andjuggling the accounts. Failing in that she tried to destroy Stacey'sstore itself, twice. She was one of the few that could get into theoffice unobserved. Oh, it's a clear case now. To my mind, the heavyvapours of ether--they are heavier than air, you know--must haveescaped along the surface of the floor last night and become ignited ata considerable distance from where she expected. She was caught in aback-draught, or something of the sort. Well, thank God, we've seen thelast of this firebug business. What's that?"
Kennedy had laid the letter-file on the table. "Nothing. Only I foundthis embedded in Miss Wend's breast right over her heart."
"Then she was murdered?" exclaimed McCormick.
"We haven't come to the end of this case yet," replied Craig evasively."On the contrary, we have just got our first good clue. No, McCormick,your theory will not hold water. The real point is to find this missingbookkeeper at any cost. You must persuade him to confess what he knows.Offer him immunity--he was only a pawn in the hands of those higher up."
McCormick was not hard to convince. Tired as he was, he grabbed up hishat and started off to put the final machinery in motion to wind up thelong chase for the firebug.
"I must get a couple of hours' sleep," he yawned as he left us, "butfirst I want to start something toward finding Douglas. I shall try tosee you about noon."
I was too exhausted to go to the office. In fact, I doubt if I couldhave written a line. But I telephoned in a story of personalexperiences at the Stacey fire and told them they could fix it up asthey chose and even sign my name to it.
About noon McCormick came in again, looking as fresh as if nothing hadhappened. He was used to it.
"I know where Douglas is," he announced breathlessly.
"Fine," said Kennedy, "and can you produce him at any time when it isnecessary?"
"Let me tell you what I have done. I went down to the district attorneyfrom here--routed him out of bed. He has promised to turn loose hisaccountants to audit the reports of the adjusters, Hartstein andLazard, as well as to make a cursory examination of what Stacey booksthere are left. He says he will have a preliminary report readyto-night, but the detailed report will take days, of course.
"It's the Douglas problem that is difficult, though. I haven't seenhim, but one of the central-office men, by shadowing his wife, hasfound that he is in hiding down on the East Side. He's safe there; hecan't make a move to get away without being arrested. The trouble isthat if I arrest him, the people higher up will know it and will escapebefore I can get his confession and the warrants. I'd much rather havethe whole thing done at once. Isn't there some way we can get the wholeStacey crowd together, make the arrest of Douglas and nab the guiltyones in the case, all together without giving them a chance to escapeor to shield the real firebug?"
Kennedy thought a moment. "Yes," he answered slowly. "There is. If youcan get them all together at my laboratory to-night at, say, eighto'clock, I'll give you two clear hours to make the arrest of Douglas,get the confession, and swear out the warrants. All that you'll need todo is to let me talk a few minutes this afternoon with the judge whowill sit in the night court to-night. I shall install a little machineon his desk in the court, and we'll catch the real criminal--he'llnever get a chance to cross the state line or disappear in any way. Yousee, my laboratory will be neutral ground. I think you can get them tocome, inasmuch as they know the bookkeeper is safe and that dead womentell no tales."
When next I saw Kennedy it was late in the afternoon, in thelaboratory. He was arranging something in the top drawer of a flat-topdesk. It seemed to be two instruments composed of many levers and discsand magnets, each instrument with a roll of paper about five incheswide. On one was a sort of stylus with two silk cords attached at rightangles to each other near the point. On the other was a capillary glasstube at the junction of two aluminum arms, also at right angles to eachother.
It was quite like old times to see Kennedy at work in his laboratorypreparing for a "seance." He said nothing as I watched him curiously,and I asked nothing. Two sets of wires were attached to each of theinstruments, and these he carefully concealed and led out the window.Then he arranged the chairs on the opposite side of the desk from hisown.
"Walter," he said, "when our guests begin to arrive I want you to bemaster of ceremonies. Simply keep them on the opposite side of the deskfrom me. Don't let them move their chairs around to the right or left.And, above all, leave the doors open. I don't want any one to besuspicious or to feel that he is shut in in any way. Create theimpression that they are free to go and come when they please."
Stacey arrived first in a limousine which he left standing at the doorof the Chemistry Building. Bloom and Warren came together in thelatter's car. Lazard came in a taxicab which he dismissed, andHartstein came up by the subway, being the last to arrive. Every oneseemed to be in good humour.
I seated them as Kennedy had directed. Kennedy pulled out the extensionon the left of his desk and leaned his elbow on it as he began toapologise for taking up their time at such a critical moment. As nearas I could make out, he had quietly pulled out the top drawer of hisdesk on the right, the drawer in which I had seen him place thecomplicated apparatus. But as nothing further happened I almost forgotabout it in listening to him. He began by referring to the burnedpapers he had found in the office.
"It is sometimes possible," he continued, "to decipher writing onburned papers if one is careful. The processes of colour photographyhave recently been applied to obtain a legible photograph of thewriting on burned manuscripts which are unreadable by any other knownmeans. As long as the sheet has not been entirely disintegratedpositive results can be obtained every time. The charred manuscript iscarefully arranged in as near its original shape as possible, on asheet of glass and covered with a drying varnish, after which it isbacked by another sheet of glass.
"By using carefully selected colour screens and orthochromatic plates aperfectly legible photograph of the writing may be taken, althoughthere may be no marks on the charred remains that are visible to theeye. This is the only known method in many cases. I have here someburned fragments of paper which I gathered up after the first attemptto fire your store, Mr. Stacey."
Stacey coughed in acknowledgment. As for Craig, he did not mincematters in telling what he had found.
"Some were notes given in favour of Rebecca Wend and signed by JosephStacey," he said quietly.
"They represent a large sum of money in theaggregate. Others were memoranda of Miss Wend's, and still others wereautograph letters to Miss Wend of a very incriminating nature inconnection with the fires by another person."
Here he laid the "A. Spark" letters on the desk before him. "Now," headded "some one, in a spirit of bravado, sent these notes to the firemarshal at various times. Curiously enough, I find that the handwritingof the first one bears a peculiar resemblance to that of Miss Wend,while the second and third, though disguised also, greatly suggest thehandwriting of Miss Wend's correspondent."
No one moved. But I sat aghast. She had been a part of the conspiracy,after all, not a pawn. Had they played fair?
"Taking up next the remarkable succession of fires," resumed Kennedy,"this case presents some unique features. In short, it is a clear caseof what is known as a 'firebug trust.' Now just what is a firebugtrust? Well, it is, as near as I can make out, a combination ofdishonest merchants and insurance adjusters engaged in the business ofdeliberately setting fires for profit. These arson trusts are not theordinary kind of firebugs whom the firemen plentifully damn in thefixed belief that one-fourth of all fires are kindled by incendiaries.Such 'trusts' exist all over the country. They have operated inChicago, where they are said to have made seven hundred and fiftythousand dollars in one year. Another group is said to have itsheadquarters in Kansas City. Others have worked in St. Louis,Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Buffalo. The fire marshals of Illinois,Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio have investigated their work. But untilrecently New York has been singularly free from the organised work ofthis sort. Of course we have plenty of firebugs and pyromaniacs in asmall way, but the big conspiracy has never come to my personalattention before.
"Now, the Jones-Green fire, the Quadrangle fire, the Slawson Buildingfire, and the rest, have all been set for one purpose--to collectinsurance. I may as well say right here that some people are in bad inthis case, but that others are in worse. Miss Wend was originally aparty to the scheme. Only the trouble with Miss Wend was that she wastoo shrewd to be fooled. She insisted that she have her full share ofthe pickings. In that case it seems to have been the whole fieldagainst Miss Wend, not a very gallant thing, nor yet according to theadage about honour among thieves.
"A certain person whose name I am frank to say I do notknow--yet--conceived the idea of destroying the obligations of theStacey companies to Miss Wend as well as the incriminating evidencewhich she held of the 'firebug trust,' of which she was a member up tothis time. The plan only partly succeeded. The chief coup, which was todestroy the Stacey store into the bargain, miscarried.
"What was the result? Miss Wend, who had been hand in glove with the'trust,' was now a bitter enemy, perhaps would turn state's evidence.What more natural than to complete the conspiracy by carrying out thecoup and at the same time get rid of the dangerous enemy of theconspirators? I believe that Miss Wend was lured under some pretext orother to the Stacey store on the night of the big fire. The person whowrote the second and third 'A. Spark' letters did it. She was murderedwith this deadly instrument"--Craig laid the letter-file on thetable--"and it was planned to throw the entire burden of suspicion onher by asserting that there was a shortage in the books of herdepartment."
"Pooh!" exclaimed Stacey, smoking complacently at his cigar. "We havebeen victimised in those fires by people who have grudges against us,labour unions and others. This talk of an arson trust is bosh--yellowjournalism. More than that, we have been systematically robbed by atrusted head of a department, and the fire at Stacey's was the way thethief took to cover--er--her stealings. At the proper time we shallproduce the bookkeeper Douglas and prove it."
Kennedy fumbled in the drawer of the desk, then drew forth a long stripof paper covered with figures. "All the Stacey companies," he said,"have been suffering from the depression that exists in the trade atpresent. They are insolvent. Glance over that, Stacey. It is a summaryof the preliminary report of the accountants of the district attorneywho have been going over your books to-day."
Stacey gasped. "How did you get it? The report was not to be readyuntil nine o'clock, and it is scarcely a quarter past now."
"Never mind how I got it. Go over it with the adjusters, anybody. Ithink you will find that there was no shortage in Miss Wend'sdepartment, that you were losing money, that you were in debt to MissWend, and that she would have received the lion's share of the proceedsof the insurance if the firebug scheme had turned out as planned."
"We absolutely repudiate these figures as fiction," said Stacey,angrily turning toward Kennedy after a hurried consultation.
"Perhaps, then, you'll appreciate this," replied Craig, pulling anotherpiece of paper from the desk. "I'll read it. 'Henry Douglas, being dulysworn, deposes and says that one'--we'll call him 'Blank' for thepresent--'with force and arms did feloniously, wilfully, andintentionally kill Rebecca Wend whilst said Blank was wilfully burningand setting on fire--'"
"One moment," interrupted Stacey. "Let me see that paper."
Kennedy laid it down so that only the signature showed. The name wassigned in a full round hand, "Henry Douglas."
"It's a forgery," cried Stacey in rage. "Not an hour before I came intothis place I saw Henry Douglas. He had signed no such paper then. Hecould not have signed it since, and you could not have received it. Ibrand that document as a forgery."
Kennedy stood up and reached down into the open drawer on the right ofhis desk. From it he lifted the two machines I had seen him place thereearly in the evening.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this is the last scene of the play you areenacting. You see here on the desk an instrument that was invented manyyears ago, but has only recently become really practical. It is thetelautograph--the long-distance writer. In this new form it can beintroduced into the drawer of a desk for the use of any one who maywish to make inquiries, say, of clerks without the knowledge of acaller. It makes it possible to write a message under these conditionsand receive an answer concerning the personality or business of theindividual seated at one's elbow without leaving the desk or seeming tomake inquiries.
"With an ordinary pencil I have written on the paper of thetransmitter. The silk cord attached to the pencil regulates the currentwhich controls a pencil at the other end of the line. The receivingpencil moves simultaneously with my pencil. It is the principle of thepantagraph cut in half, one half here, the other half at the end of theline, two telephone wires in this case connecting the halves.
"While we have been sitting here I have had my right hand in thehalf-open drawer of my desk writing with this pencil notes of what hastranspired in this room. These notes, with other evidence, have beensimultaneously placed before Magistrate Brenner in the night court. Atthe same time, on this other, the receiving, instrument the figures ofthe accountants written in court have been reproduced here. You haveseen them. Meanwhile, Douglas was arrested, taken before themagistrate, and the information for a charge of murder in the firstdegree perpetrated in committing arson has been obtained. You have seenit. It came in while you were reading the figures."
The conspirators seemed dazed.
"And now," continued Kennedy, "I see that the pencil of the receivinginstrument is writing again. Let us see what it is."
We bent over. The writing started: "County of New York. In the name ofthe People of the State of New York--"
Kennedy did not wait for us to finish reading. He tore the writing fromthe telautograph and waved it over his head.
"It is a warrant. You are all under arrest for arson. But you, SamuelLazard, are also under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Wend and sixother persons in fires which you have set. You are the real firebug,the tool of Joseph Stacey, perhaps, but that will all come out in thetrial. McCormick, McCormick," called Craig, "it's all right. I have thewarrant. Are the police there?"
There was no answer.
Lazard and Stacey made a sudden dash for the door, and in an instantthey were in Stacey's waiting car. The chauffeur took off the brake andpulled the le
ver. Suddenly Craig's pistol flashed, and the chauffeur'sarms hung limp and useless on the steering-wheel.
As McCormick with the police loomed up, a moment late, out of thedarkness and after a short struggle clapped the irons on Stacey andLazard in Stacey's own magnificently upholstered car, I remarkedreproachfully to Kennedy: "But, Craig, you have shot the innocentchauffeur. Aren't you going to attend to him?"
"Oh," replied Kennedy nonchalantly, "don't worry about that. They wereonly rock-salt bullets. They didn't penetrate far. They'll sting forsome time, but they're antiseptic, and they'll dissolve and absorbquickly."
The Poisoned Pen Page 4
