And in the center of the room sat a man of slight build, but of undoubted professional bearing, with short, grayed Vandyke beard and gray suit, gazing over half-moon spectacles with a decidedly stubborn look locking his thin lips.
CHAPTER XXIII
Dr. Flandrau Receives a Jolt
AT Darrell’s entrance the man with the grayed Vandyke beard and the half-moon spectacles was speaking.
“I’m sorry,” he was saying with an air of finality, “but I’ve told you all for the last time that I have nothing to say. Nothing whatever.”
“Hadn’t you better revise that, doctor?” returned Crosby. “They’ve got the rest of your crew all under arrest out in the country around Lincoln Road.”
Doctor Victor Flandrau shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing.”
“Confession’ll go easier with you in the trial,” insisted Corrigan.
“Have nothing to say,” snapped the doctor.
Darrell, standing with his back to the wall, interpolated a remark. “Doctor Flandrau, I’m the man who dug up this whole scheme and located everybody in it. Probably you won’t feel any too friendly to me, but I’m forced to tell you that pretty nearly every detail is in our hands now. Hadn’t you better fill in the gaps for us?”
“You’re an interfering, snooping newspaper reporter,” snapped the medical man. “Like all other reporters you’ve been poking your long nose into other people’s affairs till finally you found something. Well — root it out yourself.”
“Well, now, see here, doctor,” objected Darrell in a friendly tone, “you’re rather hard on reporters, but you quite overlook the fact that I’m pretty vitally concerned in this big case myself. Carl von Tresseler once did me the honor of smashing me in the face in a German prison camp, as I stood before him wounded and weak and blindfolded. Don’t you think, therefore, that I had a fair reason for, trying to defeat any of his swindling schemes? Won’t you revise your opinion about my being just a snooping reporter?”
“Carl von Tresseler?” the doctor bit out scornfully, looking sharply over his glasses. “What bearing has that devil — that miserable whelp of a human being — got on the affair, I’d like to know? Why drag that character into the argument?”
The men around Flandrau fastened curious gazes upon him. Darrell’s face was perhaps the most surprised of all.
“What’s he got to do with the affair?” Darrell repeated. “Why — why — why, because he’s one of you! I’ve known that from the second day I entered the case — the day I got hold of the order he wrote out for Jake Schimski to sign — so he could take it to the freight office and get that box supposedly containing one of the two clocks in this case.” The reporter felt in his vest pocket. From it he withdrew the paper he had just mentioned; then opening his leather bill fold he took from it the tattered pass, its blanks filled in with Von Tresseler’s handwriting, which had carried him across the German lines into Holland. The doctor gazed on in speculative silence. Darrell handed the two papers to him.
“Here, doctor, is the order itself. Here is a German military pass, filled in by Von Tresseler. Take a look at the two handwritings. Wake up, old man! Don’t you know the master mind you’ve been associated with? Have you been playing the game with players you don’t even know?”
Doctor Victor Flandrau took one long look at the two handwritings. Then he laid them silently on Crosby’s desk, and seemed to slump into his chair. A tense silence filled the room. The medical man’s face bore upon it a look of agony — a look such as Darrell had never before seen upon a human being’s face. Great tears suddenly sprang to Flandrau’s cold blue eyes. His head fell on his breast, and his slight frame was convulsed by deep sobs that literally shook his hearers.
“My God,” he said, “and the brains back of it were the brains of the Blonde Beast of Bremen. To think — to think that I should have been working with him of all people!” He trembled all over. But suddenly he seemed to pull himself together. A second later he looked up, dry-eyed.
“Gentlemen, I had a son — my dear and only son — Jean Flandrau, who enlisted in the Illinois Engineers at the beginning of the war. He was wounded at Château Thierry, taken prisoner, and brought to a prison camp in Germany. No, it wasn’t Innesbaden. It was Furthmal — you’ve all heard of it. Jean lived a frightful existence in that hell hole — hounded and kicked and beaten by a German bully of the same type as this Carl von Tresseler. He died in that camp. I learned of his last days from a buddie of his.” His voice broke.
“Gentlemen, I will tell all. I never, never dreamed that the unknown mind who directed this whole scheme was the mind of the Blonde Beast of Bremen. Gentlemen, I may have done some unscrupulous things in my professional life, but, so help me God, the day will never come when I will work hand in glove with a beast like that other fiend who drove my son to his death.” He looked about him at the circle of faces, and in that instant Darrell could have sworn his countenance became transfigured with a strange light — the light of the martyred French.
“Well, doc, that’s the way we like to hear you talk,” said Corrigan, with the clumsy, elephantine touch of the policeman. Crosby’s remark was more conciliating.
“Suppose, doctor,” he suggested in a friendly tone of voice, “that you just tell us in your own words about this conspiracy. We know most of it — so just give us the brief facts, and the police will take a more complete deposition to-night after the paper goes to press.” He gazed at his watch significantly.
The doctor sighed a long sigh. Then he spoke.
“I can do that briefly. The undertaker in this affair, Harold Adelbert Bross, and I have known each other well for nearly a year. We met originally when he came over to my office to straighten out a death certificate of a patient who had died on me, and whose body had gone to Bross for embalming. He thought he detected a discrepancy in it; he came around to see what he could see — but there was nothing out of the way. Thus we formed out initial acquaintanceship.
“He came to me last month with a story with which you people are undoubtedly familiar; namely, of how this John Cooper Jarndyce, heir to Edward Thurston Jarndyce, intended to bury himself in wax. It was not difficult to draw Bross out. There was some third party who was in with him. He would not tell me who. But he wanted me to go in the scheme with him. All I had to do was to provide a beautiful girl who, under the name of Diana St. John, would be seen frequently in the company of one Catherwood Jarndyce, who fell heir to John Cooper Jarndyce’s inheritance if the latter did not live long enough to claim it.
“This girl,” continued the doctor, “was to sow behind her a broad trail substantiating that she was an English girl, wealthy in her own right, and was, furthermore, a money lender. This she was to accomplish by forcing several money loans on various impecunious acquaintainces of Catherwood Jarndyce and then allowing them later to redeem their notes at cut rates. This put various of her canceled notes out as exhibits, you see. She was furthermore instructed to drop in Chicago various of her books of blank promissory notes, all printed in with her name, regaining them by an advertisement. This entire procedure was to be staged in order later legally to confirm in court the fact that Diana St. John had loaned Catherwood Jarndyce money amounting to one hundred thousand dollars. The note for this amount, signed by Catherwood Jarndyce, was to be presented to him after he had come into John Cooper Jarndyce’s estate. This would be around the coming first of August. I was to present it. When paid by Catherwood or his estate, I was to retain one third of the amount, thirty-three thousand three hundred dollars; the remaining two thirds was to go to Bross, who in turn would divide it up between himself and his mysterious co-associate. We — ”
“But just a minute, doctor, interpolated Darrell puzzledly. “Catherwood Jarndyce swears he signed no notes nor I O U’s, either drunk or sober.”
“Then he lies,” said the doctor bluntly, “and he, too, is in this plot to abstract one hundred thousand dollars from his cousin’s estate and keep his own hand
s clean. Bross told me they possessed a one-hundred-thousand-dollar note actually signed by Catherwood Jarndyce; a note that couldn’t be upset in law providing the spurious Diana St. John blazed a big enough trail behind her.”
Darrell laughed dubiously.
“Catherwood Jarndyce is a very surprised and mystified young man, doctor. Somehow, from my knowledge of men, I can’t help but believe that he knows absolutely nothing of this scheme, even though he is playing an essential part.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps we’ll get at the bottom of it yet.”
“Let me say a word,” broke in Corrigan significantly. “I’ll admit that I incline to the theory that Catherwood Jarndyce is in this plot. I never heard tell of a man signing a note for a hundred thousand dollars in my life, and not knowing he did it. But” — he emphasized his words with energetic nods of his head — “if by any chance these rascals, Bross — and by the way, doctor, Bross is Herman Adolph Brossmeier — and his nephew, Carl von Tresseler, obtained such a valuable paper, it would never have been contested in law. Von Tresseler is a killer, a cold-blooded, ruthless killer. Catherwood Jarndyce’s body would have been found pumped full of bullets in an alleyway some night after” — he raised a positive forefinger — “after he had qualified for the Edward Thurston Jarndyce estate. While dead men tell no tales, what is more important, they never contest notes.” He shook his head. “But I incline to the theory that he’s in the plot himself. Well, doc, suppose you go ahead with your story.”
“Well,” resumed Flandrau, “if the scheme went through — that is if they got the spurious body into the vault without a slip-up — we had agreed to proceed with the rest of the details. If by the thousandth chance it fell through, Bross was to show up certain papers that proved it merely a great practical joke. If the scheme was successful we were to swoop down the night of the day of the funeral into the basement of John Cooper Jarndyce’s bungalow, carry him off bound and gagged in Bross’ automobile hearse to the country, and there keep him prisoner for a couple of months or more in an old abandoned sanatorium owned by my father, Doctor Leon Flandrau, which has been for sale for years. Its complete isolation as well as the huge wall around it would ward off all danger of discovery, as not even a casual passer-by could see through or over the wall.” The doctor paused. “Well — all this is exactly what afterward transpired — so no need for me to repeat, I guess. You’ve got the story.”
“Just a few questions then, doctor,” said Darrell. “Who is the girl who is playing the part of Diana St. John?”
“Her former name is Lily Castleton. She is an English girl, a former actress, stranded here in America. She has an apartment up in the Chetson Arms on Argyle Street, across from that of Catherwood Jarndyce. Understand,” said the doctor, the innate chivalry of the French evidently thrusting itself to the surface. “Lily knows nothing of this scheme. Send the rest of us up, if you will, but she has committed no crime whatever but that of living under an assumed name. And that is at the most only a misdemeanor.”
“Well, maybe so. We’ll disregard that for the present anyway. How did you intend to account for having this one-hundred-thousand-dollar note in your possession endorsed over to you presumably by Diana St. John, who would leave sufficient evidences of her handwriting behind her and then disappear back into Europe?”
“A very simple matter,” said the medical man. “I had papers fixed to show that I had sold her Oklahoma oil stock owned by me, in exchange for the note.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The oil stock may have been nearly worthless, but who is there to prove in these days exactly what a share of any oil well is worth?”
“I see,” was Darrell’s sole comment. He was lost a minute in his own abstractions.
During the brief pause, Feldock, withdrawing from his mouth his pipe on which he had been thoughtfully puffing, put in a query of his own.
“I should like to ask,” he said, “if our estimable cross-examiner across the room, Mr. Darrell, is finished, a question or two. First, doctor, after you had all cashed in, and were ready to scatter after, I presume, arranging for the liberation of John Cooper Jarndyce, where had you intended to go?”
“I intended to go by way of South America to Paris, the playground of the world,” said Flandrau with a deep sigh. “This country has grown intolerable, not only to me but to a good proportion of its own people.”
“Then you willingly forfeited your chances to dispose of this old sanatorium site back in the woods?” asked Feldock.
The doctor smiled.
“I sold it a full month ago for five thousand dollars cash to a real estate firm who expects to open a new subdivision out there. My contract provides that I hold undisputed possession as a tenant until the fall.”
“What did the services of this Lily Castleton cost?” put in Crosby. “And who furnished the’ money?”
“Her fee and her expenses as Diana St. John were to come to about one thousand five hundred dollars. The money was given me by Bross.” Flandrau looked about him warily. It was plain that in the last half hour he had become a broken man. “Any more questions, gentlemen?”
“Who,” asked Corrigan, “is Dr. Harry Irving Bigley of South Robey Street, who Darrell claims signed the death certificate for John Cooper Jarndyce’s wax figure?”
“He is a stripling just out of his interneship in the Cook County Hospital. He inherited a sum of money just about the time he started to practice, with the result that he chucked the medical game and went adventuring down into Mexico. His signature on the death certificate is a very crude forgery, copied from a sublease which he had signed to occupy one of the offices in my suite. Bross wanted me to sign the Jarndyce death certificate myself, but I did not care to chance it. Then came young Bigley with a proposition to cancel his lease, and we decided to shoulder the death certificate on him. He knows absolutely nothing of all this, you see.”
“And who is the big Negro who has been stationed at the sanatorium?” asked Darrell. “How much does he get? Also, who are the man and woman who were away when we raided the place to-night?”
“The Negro is Joe Bodwell. He was formerly a janitor in the building where my offices are. He is a morphine addict. He is almost a slave to me, because I am the only person who can provide him his drug. There is no cure for him, other than a gradual withdrawal.” The doctor stopped short as though he were venturing into grounds themselves quite dangerous. He changed the subject hastily.
“The white man is a labor slugger whose wrist I treated here during the old labor war of last year. He was forced at that time to get out of town. I wrote for him to come on here; that I had a job for him. The woman he brought along with him claims she is his wife. We had to have a woman there, you see, to cook the meals. I’m giving him three hundred dollars for the job. Bross pays it, however. The Negro thinks John Cooper Jarndyce is a young man with a temporary insanity. The white man, I dare say, knows otherwise; but he needs the money he’s getting. There was no danger of his talking, for he claims he has to keep his identity secret. Has to remain under cover, in fact. He says the Black Hand is after him.”
“The Black Hand is after him?” repeated Crosby, leaning forward in his chair. “Why — how is that?”
“Because he married an Italian girl in Cleveland who was betrothed to a big Sicilian there. Berta Martori was her name. His is Duke Murphy. The’re not only earning a bit of change on this job, but he’s dodging the vengeance of the stiletto as well.”
Then Crosby did a strange thing.
“Glory be!” he ejaculated, bringing down his fist upon his desk. “Jeff Darrell, you’re wallowing in luck to-night and don’t know it. If you resign from the Call to-night for the reason you stated a while back, you’re totally bereft of your senses. Let’s suspend operations for a minute. I’ve got to get the Old Man on the wire pronto!”
And as Crosby rose and passed, strangely enough, into the outer city room with its closed telephone booth, a clang of bells in the alley below and a violent clat
tering of footsteps up the unused stairs which led from the outside announced that Inspector Notman, together with his prisoners from the old sanatorium and John Cooper Jarndyce, the central figure in the case, had arrived at the Call.
A tense silence fell in the room. The general expectancy, the one question stood revealed in all eyes — would one of the prisoners be the arch-schemer, Carl von Tresseler?
CHAPTER XXIV
Enter — The Clock
FIVE minutes later, as the vehicles downstairs drove away, leaving the alley empty and deserted once more, Crosby’s office held in it a strange assemblage of men, some seated in chairs, some on tables, some standing. Perhaps the most conspicuous thing in the room was a huge open coffin, which, covered with a canvas tarpaulin, had been brought in by Farley and Hunter, in the lee of Notman’s party, accompanied by much grunting and perspiration. Now with its black cover removed, it stood erect in one corner, its contents, the ingenious wax shell which had marked for the public the demise of one of its citizens, the cynosure of all eyes within those four walls.
In a chair a dozen feet from it sat its live counterpart, John Cooper Jarndyce, gayly smoking a cigarette, his reddish-bearded face broken into a broad grin as he surveyed his waxen replica. Mullins and Clancy, of the raiding party, who had accompanied Notman with the prisoners, stood silently off against one wall.
Sullen of face, stubborn of mien, in a chair with his legs crossed, sat a man of about thirty-five with hard-looking features and cauliflowered ear — the typical bad man and labor slugger. At his side, in another chair, but rather timid-appearing in contrast to him, sat a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl of sunny Italy. And in the corner, stupidly surveying a scene which he did not apparently comprehend, stood big Joe Bodwell, the giant Negro caretaker of the abandoned sanatorium. The stenographers sat with pencils poised above their notebooks.
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