The Mystery & Suspense Novella

by Fletcher Flora

  Wade brought the glowing tip of his cigarette close to the shrinking flesh of Gilda Jeffries’ bare breasts. She opened her mouth to scream, and as suddenly gasped into silence. Her eyes sought a point beyond Ben Wade.

  The detective saw that glance. He whirled—just in time to duck a murderous blow from an upraised chair in the hands of a man whose face was contorted in maniacal fury. Wade’s hand whipped to his shoulder-holster. His service .32 leaped out. It spat fire.

  The chair dropped to the floor. The man who had wielded it looked stupidly at Ben Wade. He swayed, caught at his chest with clawing fingers, and slumped awkwardly downward.

  Wade said, “Well, Mr. District Attorney Halloran, I guess that settles your hash for a while!”

  Halloran groaned and doubled up on the floor. “You—you—how did you guess—?” he gasped weakly.

  Ben Wade shrugged. “Whoever murdered Judge Jeffries had a heavy transformer to step up the current. The transformer was nowhere in evidence after the murder. Yet there was no trace of any vehicle that might have brought such equipment to the garage and taken it away again—no trace, that is, unless I considered your official coupe, Halloran! You’d brought me here in it; you’d parked it directly at the garage door. And I remembered that its rear end had been so heavily weighted down that it bumped on its back springs when we turned into the driveway!” The detective grinned. “A heavy transformer in the rumble seat would have caused those rear springs to sag that way.”

  District Attorney Halloran’s face took on a greenish hue. The man was suddenly very sick. He retched, spilling blood on the carpet.

  Wade went on relentlessly. “You left this house, telling me to stay here and keep my eyes open. You went back to your coupe. But before you drove away, you connected the transformer in the back end of your car to the switch on the side of the garage. And then you used a dead man’s hand—Joe Durkin’s hand—to throw that switch and electrocute Judge Jeffries! Then in your haste to get away, you dropped that hand. You didn’t discover its loss until some time later. Then you came out to the garage—just in time to see me finding the hand. You cracked me on the skull and took it away from me. The whole thing was very clever, Halloran. Joe Durkin would have been accused of the murder—and Joe Durkin would never have been found by the police, because he was dead and buried in this very cellar! That’s the way of it, isn’t it?”

  There was no answer.

  “It’s all true, isn’t it, Halloran?” Wade repeated savagely.

  Halloran didn’t answer. Halloran would never answer anything again. The district attorney was dead.

  Wade turned to the manacled, half-nude form of Gilda Jeffries. He pulled up the shoulder-straps of her peach-colored silk nightgown and covered her creamy breasts disinterestedly. “I’d advise you to confess the whole thing and plead guilty,” he said grimly. “Then you’ll get off with a life sentence. That’s better than hanging.”

  She looked at him with her weary, defeated, harlot’s eyes. “I’ll plead guilty,” she answered dully.

  THE SCARLET THREAD, by Jacques Futrelle

  Originally published in The Mystery of the Scarlet Thread, 1905.

  CHAPTER I

  The Thinking Machine—Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph.D., LL.D., F.R.S., M.D., etc., scientist and logician—listened intently and without comment to a weird, seemingly inexplicable story. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was telling it. The bowed figure of the savant lay at ease in a large chair. The enormous head with its bushy yellow hair was thrown back, the thin, white fingers were pressed tip to tip and the blue eyes, narrowed to mere slits, squinted aggressively upward. The scientist was in a receptive mood.

  “From the beginning, every fact you know,” he had requested.

  “It’s all out in the Back Bay,” the reporter explained. “There is a big apartment house there, a fashionable establishment, in a side street, just off Commonwealth Avenue. It is five storeys in all, and is cut up into small suites, of two and three rooms with bath. These suites are handsomely, even luxuriously furnished, and are occupied by people who can afford to pay big rents. Generally these are young unmarried men, although in several cases they are husband and wife. It is a house of every modern improvement, elevator service, hall boys, liveried door men, spacious corridors and all that. It has both the gas and electric systems of lighting. Tenants are at liberty to use either or both.

  “A young broker, Weldon Henley, occupies one of the handsomest of these suites, being on the second floor, in front. He has met with considerable success in the Street. He is a bachelor and lives there alone. There is no personal servant. He dabbles in photography as a hobby, and is said to be remarkably expert.

  “Recently there was a report that he was to be married this Winter to a beautiful Virginia girl who has been visiting Boston from time to time, a Miss Lipscomb—Charlotte Lipscomb, of Richmond. Henley has never denied or affirmed this rumor, although he has been asked about it often. Miss Lipscomb is impossible of access even when she visits Boston. Now she is in Virginia, I understand, but will return to Boston later in the season.”

  The reporter paused, lighted a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair, gazing steadily into the inscrutable eyes of the scientist.

  “When Henley took the suite he requested that all the electric lighting apparatus be removed from his apartments,” he went on. “He had taken a long lease of the place, and this was done. Therefore he uses only gas for lighting purposes, and he usually keeps one of his gas jets burning low all night.”

  “Bad, bad for his health,” commented the scientist.

  “Now comes the mystery of the affair,” the reporter went on. “It was five weeks or so ago Henley retired as usual—about midnight. He locked his door on the inside—he is positive of that—and awoke about four o’clock in the morning nearly asphyxiated by gas. He was barely able to get up and open the window to let in the fresh air. The gas jet he had left burning was out, and the suite was full of gas.”

  “Accident, possibly,” said The Thinking Machine. “A draught through the apartments; a slight diminution of gas pressure; a hundred possibilities.”

  “So it was presumed,” said the reporter. “Of course it would have been impossible for—”

  “Nothing is impossible,” said the other, tartly. “Don’t say that. It annoys me exceedingly.”

  “Well, then, it seems highly improbable that the door had been opened or that anyone came into the room and did this deliberately,” the newspaper man went on, with a slight smile. “So Henley said nothing about this; attributed it to accident. The next night he lighted his gas as usual, but he left it burning a little brighter. The same thing happened again.”

  “Ah,” and The Thinking Machine changed his position a little. “The second time.”

  “And again he awoke just in time to save himself,” said Hatch. “Still he attributed the affair to accident, and determined to avoid a recurrence of the affair by doing away with the gas at night. Then he got a small night lamp and used this for a week or more.

  “Why does he have a light at all?” asked the scientist, testily.

  “I can hardly answer that,” replied Hatch. “I may say, however, that he is of a very nervous temperament, and gets up frequently during the night. He reads occasionally when he can’t sleep. In addition to that he has slept with a light going all his life; it’s a habit.”

  “Go on.”

  “One night he looked for the night lamp, but it had disappeared—at least he couldn’t find it—so he lighted the gas again. The fact of the gas having twice before gone out had been dismissed as a serious possibility. Next morning at five o’clock a bell boy, passing through the hall, smelled gas and made a quick investigation. He decided it came from Henley’s place, and rapped on the door. There was no answer. It ultimately developed that it was necessary to smash in the door. There on the bed they found
Henley unconscious with the gas pouring into the room from the jet which he had left lighted. He was revived in the air, but for several hours was deathly sick.”

  “Why was the door smashed in?” asked The Thinking Machine. “Why not unlocked?”

  “It was done because Henley had firmly barred it,” Hatch explained. “He had become suspicious, I suppose, and after the second time he always barred his door and fastened every window before he went to sleep. There may have been a fear that some one used a key to enter.”

  “Well?” asked the scientist. “After that?”

  “Three weeks or so elapsed, bringing the affair down to this morning,” Hatch went on. “Then the same thing happened a little differently. For instance, after the third time the gas went out Henley decided to find out for himself what caused it, and so expressed himself to a few friends who knew of the mystery. Then, night after night, he lighted the gas as usual and kept watch. It was never disturbed during all that time, burning steadily all night. What sleep he got was in daytime.

  “Last night Henley lay awake for a time; then, exhausted and tired, fell asleep. This morning early he awoke; the room was filled with gas again. In some way my city editor heard of it and asked me to look into the mystery.”

  That was all. The two men were silent for a long time, and finally The Thinking Machine turned to the reporter.

  “Does anyone else in the house keep gas going all night?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” was the reply. “Most of them, I know, use electricity.”

  “Nobody else has been overcome as he has been?”

  “No. Plumbers have minutely examined the lighting system all over the house and found nothing wrong.”

  “Does the gas in the house all come through the same meter?”

  “Yes, so the manager told me. This meter, a big one, is just off the engine room. I supposed it possible that some one shut it off there on these nights long enough to extinguish the lights all over the house, then turned it on again. Do you think it was an attempt to kill Henley?”

  “It might be,” was the reply. “Find out for me just who in the house uses gas; also if anyone else leaves a light burning all night; also what opportunity anyone would have to get at the meter, and then something about Henley’s love affair with Miss Lipscomb. Is there anyone else? If so, who? Where does he live? When you find out these things come back here.”

  * * * *

  That afternoon at one o’clock Hatch returned to the apartments of The Thinking Machine, with excitement plainly apparent on his face.

  “Well?” asked the scientist.

  “A French girl, Louise Regnier, employed as a maid by Mrs. Standing in the house, was found dead in her room on the third floor today at noon,” Hatch explained quickly. “It looks like suicide.”

  “How?” asked The Thinking Machine.

  “The people who employed her—husband and wife—have been away for a couple of days,” Hatch rushed on. “She was in the suite alone. This noon she had not appeared, there was an odour of gas and the door was broken in. Then she was found dead.”

  “With the gas turned on?”

  “With the gas turned on. She was asphyxiated.”

  “Dear me, dear me,” exclaimed the scientist. He arose and took up his hat. “Let’s go see what this is all about.”

  CHAPTER II

  When Professor Van Dusen and Hatch arrived at the apartment house they had been preceded by the Medical Examiner and the police. Detective Mallory, whom both knew, was moving about in the apartment where the girl had been found dead. The body had been removed and a telegram sent to her employers in New York.

  “Too late,” said Mallory, as they entered.

  “What was it, Mr. Mallory?” asked the scientist.

  “Suicide,” was the reply. “No question of it. It happened in this room,” and he led the way into the third room of the suite. “The maid, Miss Regnier, occupied this, and was here alone last night. Mr. and Mrs. Standing, her employers, have gone to New York for a few days. She was left alone, and killed herself.”

  Without further questioning The Thinking Machine went over to the bed, from which the girl’s body had been taken, and, stooping beside it, picked up a book. It was a novel by “The Duchess.” He examined this critically, then, standing on a chair, he examined the gas jet. This done, he stepped down and went to the window of the little room. Finally The Thinking Machine turned to the detective.

  “Just how much was the gas turned on?” he asked.

  “Turned on full,” was the reply.

  “Were both the doors of the room closed?”

  “Both, yes.”

  “Any cotton, or cloth, or anything of the sort stuffed into the cracks of the window?”

  “No. It’s a tight-fitting window, anyway. Are you trying to make a mystery out of this?”

  “Cracks in the doors stuffed?” The Thinking Machine went on.

  “No.” There was a smile about the detective’s lips.

  The Thinking Machine, on his knees, examined the bottom of one of the doors, that which led into the hall. The lock of this door had been broken when employees burst into the room. Having satisfied himself here and at the bottom of the other door, which connected with the bedroom adjoining, The Thinking Machine again climbed on a chair and examined the doors at the top.

  “Both transoms closed, I suppose?” he asked.

  “Yes,” was the reply. “You can’t make anything but suicide out of it,” explained the detective. “The Medical Examiner has given that as his opinion—and everything I find indicates it.”

  “All right,” broke in the Thinking Machine abruptly. “Don’t let us keep you.”

  After awhile Detective Mallory went away. Hatch and the scientist went down to the office floor, where they saw the manager. He seemed to be greatly distressed, but was willing to do anything he could in the matter.

  “Is your night engineer perfectly trustworthy?” asked The Thinking Machine.

  “Perfectly,” was the reply. “One of the best and most reliable men I ever met. Alert and wide-awake.”

  “Can I see him a moment? The night man, I mean?”

  “Certainly,” was the reply. “He’s downstairs. He sleeps there. He’s probably up by this time. He sleeps usually till one o’clock in the daytime, being up all night.”

  “Do you supply gas for your tenants?”

  “Both gas and electricity are included in the rent of the suites. Tenants may use one or both.”

  “And the gas all comes through one meter?”

  “Yes, one meter. It’s just off the engine room.”

  “I suppose there’s no way of telling just who in the house uses gas?”

  “No. Some do and some don’t. I don’t know.”

  This was what Hatch had told the scientist. Now together they went to the basement, and there met the night engineer, Charles Burlingame, a tall, powerful, clean-cut man, of alert manner and positive speech. He gazed with a little amusement at the slender, almost childish figure of The Thinking Machine and the grotesquely large head.

  “You are in the engine room or near it all night every night?” began The Thinking Machine.

  “I haven’t missed a night in four years,” was the reply.

  “Anybody ever come here to see you at night?”

  “Never. It’s against the rules.”

  “The manager or a hall boy?”

  “Never.”

  “In the last two months?” The Thinking Machine persisted.

  “Not in the last two years,” was the positive reply. “I go on duty every night at seven o’clock, and I am on duty until seven in the morning. I don’t believe I’ve seen anybody in the basement here with me between those hours for a year at least.”

  The Thinking Machine was squinting steadily
into the eyes of the engineer, and for a time both were silent. Hatch moved about the scrupulously clean engine room and nodded to the day engineer, who sat leaning back against the wall. Directly in front of him was the steam gauge.

  “Have you a fireman?” was The Thinking Machine’s next question.

  “No. I fire myself,” said the night man. “Here’s the coal,” and he indicated a bin within half a dozen feet of the mouth of the boiler.

  “I don’t suppose you ever had occasion to handle the gas meter?” insisted The Thinking Machine.

  “Never touched it in my life,” said the other. “I don’t know anything about meters, anyway.”

  “And you never drop off to sleep at night for a few minutes when you get lonely? Doze, I mean?”

  The engineer grinned good-naturedly.

  “Never had any desire to, and besides I wouldn’t have the chance,” he explained. “There’s a time check here,”—and he indicated it. “I have to punch that every half hour all night to prove that I have been awake.”

  “Dear me, dear me,” exclaimed The Thinking Machine irritably. He went over and examined the time check—a revolving paper disc with hours marked on it, made to move by the action of a clock, the face of which showed in the middle.

  “Besides there’s the steam gauge to watch,” went on the engineer. “No engineer would dare go to sleep. There might be an explosion.”

  “Do you know Mr. Weldon Henley?” suddenly asked The Thinking Machine.

  “Who?” asked Burlingame.

  “Weldon Henley?”

  “No-o,” was the slow response. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  “One of the tenants, on the second floor, I think.”

  “Lord, I don’t know any of the tenants. What about him?”

  “When does the inspector come here to read the meter?”

  “I never saw him. I presume in daytime, eh Bill?” and he turned to the day engineer.