by Anthology
She thought a moment.
"Hadn't you better return it? While you still have health? If you keep it, it will be only one more."
"You forget, Miss Holcomb, my promise to Chick. I loved your father, and I was fond of Watson. It's a great secret and, if the professor is right, one which man has sought through the ages. I'd be a coward to forgo my duty. If I fail, I have another to take my place."
"Oh," she said, "it's horrible. First father; then Chick; now you; and afterwards it will be Mr. Fenton."
"It is our duty," I returned. "One by one. Though we may fail, each one of us may pass a bit more on to his successor. In the end we win. It is the way of man."
I had my way. She turned over all the data and notes that had been left by the professor; but I never found a thing in them that could be construed to an advantage. My real quest was to trace down the jewel. The man Kennedy's full name was, I learned, Budge Kennedy. He had lived in Oakland. It was late in the afternoon when I parted with Miss Holcomb and started for the city.
I remember it well because of a little incident that occurred immediately after our parting. I was just going down the steps when I looked up one of the side streets. A few students were loitering here and there. But there was one who was not a student. I recognised him instantly, and I wondered. It was the Rhamda. This was enough to make me suspicious. But there was one thing more. Farther up the street was another figure.
When I came down the steps the Rhamda moved, and his move was somehow duplicated by the other. In itself this was enough to clear up some of my doubts concerning the phantom. His actions were too simple for an apparition. Only a man would act like that, and a crude one. I didn't know then the nerve of the Rhamda. There was no doubt that I was being shadowed.
To make certain, I took the by-streets and meandered by a devious route to the station. There was no question; one and two they followed. I knew the Rhamda; but who was the other?
At the station we purchased tickets, and when the train pulled in I boarded a smoker. The other two took another coach—the stranger was a thick-set individual with a stubby, grey moustache. On the boat I didn't see them; but at the ferry building I made a test to see that I was followed. I hailed a taxi and gave specific instructions to the driver.
"Drive slowly," I told him. "I think we shall be followed."
And I was right; in a few minutes there were two cars dogging our wheel-tracks. I had no doubt concerning the Rhamda; but I couldn't understand the other. At No. 288 Chatterton Place we stopped and I alighted. The Rhamda's car passed, then the other. Neither stopped. Both disappeared round the corner. I took the numbers; then I went into the house. In about a half hour a car drew up at the curb. I stepped to the window. It was the car that had tracked the Rhamda's. The stubby individual stepped out; without ceremony he ran up the steps and opened the door. It was a bit disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain and blunt—and honest.
"Well," he said, "where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?"
"That," I answered, "is a question for both of us. Who are you, and what do you want? Where is Watson?"
Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.
"My name is Jerome," he said simply. "Has something happened to Watson? Who are you?"
We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the other room. "In there," I said. "My name is Wendel."
He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.
"So that pair got him, too! I was afraid of them all the while. And I had to be away. Do you know how they did it? What's the working of their game? It's devilish and certainly clever. They played that boy for a year; they knew they would get him in the end. So did I.
"He was a fine lad, a fine lad. I knew this morning when I came down from Nevada that they had him. Found your duds. A stranger. House looked queer. But I had hopes he might have gone over to see his girl. Just thought I'd wander over to Berkeley. Found that bird Rhamda under a palm tree watching the Holcomb bungalow. It was the first time I'd seen him since that day things went amiss with the professor. In about ten minutes you came out. I stayed with him while he tracked you back here; I followed him back down town and lost him. Tell me about Watson."
He sat down; during my recital he spoke not a word. He consumed one cigar after another; when I stopped for a moment he merely nodded his head and waited until I continued. He was sturdy and frank, of an iron way and vast common sense. I liked him. When I had finished he remained silent; his grief was of a solid kind! he had liked poor Watson.
"I see," he said. "It is as I thought. He told you more than he ever told me."
"He never told you?"
"Not much. He was a strange lad—about the loneliest one I've ever seen. There was something about him from the very first that was not natural; I couldn't make him out. You say it is the ring. He always wore it. I laid it to this Rhamda. He was always meeting him. I could never understand it. Try as I would, I could not get a trace of the phantom."
"The phantom?"
"Most assuredly. Would you call him human?" His grey eyes were flecked with light. "Come now, Mr. Wendel, would you?"
"Well," I answered, "I don't know. Not after what I have seen. But for all that, I have proof of his sinews. I am inclined to blend the two. There is a law somewhere, a very natural one. The Blind Spot is undoubtedly a combination of phenomena; it has a control. We do not know what it is, or where it leads to; neither do we know the motive of the Rhamda. Who is he? If we knew that, we would know everything."
"And this ring?"
"I shall wear it."
"Then God help you. I watched Watson. It's plain poison. You have a year; but you had better count on half a year; the first six months aren't so bad; but the last—it takes a man! Wendel, it takes a man! Already you're eating your heart out. Oh, I know—you have opened the windows; you want sunshine and air. In six months I shall have to fight to get one open. It gets into the soul; it is stagnation; you die by inches. Better give me the ring."
"This Budge Kennedy," I evaded, "we must find him. We have time. One clue may lead us on. Tell me what you know of the Blind Spot."
"Very easy," he answered; "you have it all. I have been here a number of years. You will remember I fell into the case through intuition. I never had any definite proof, outside the professor's disappearance, the old lady, and that bell; unless perhaps it is the Rhamda. But from the beginning I've been positive.
"Taking that lecture in ethics as a starter, I built up my theory. All the clues lead to this building. It's something that I cannot understand. It's out of the occult. It's a bit too much for me. I moved into the place and waited. I've never forgotten that bell, nor that old lady. You and Fenton are the only ones who have seen the Blind Spot."
I had a sudden thought.
"The Rhamda! I have read that he has the manner of inherent goodness. Is it true? You have conversed with him. I haven't."
"He has. He didn't strike me as a villain. He's intrinsic, noble, out of self. I have often wondered."
I smiled. "Perhaps we are thinking the same thing. Is this it? The Blind Spot is a secret that man may not attain to. It is unknowable and akin to death. The Rhamda knows it. He couldn't head off the professor. He simply employed Dr. Holcomb's wisdom to trap him; now that he has him secure, he intends to hold him. It is for our own good."
"Exactly. Yet—"
"Yet?"
"He was very anxious to put you and Fenton into this very Spot."
"That is so. But may it not be that we, too, knew a bit too much?"
He couldn't answer that.
Nevertheless, we were both of us convinced concerning the Rhamda. It was merely a digression of thought, a conjecture. He might be good; but we were both positive of his villainy. It was his motive, of course, that weighed up his character; could we find that, we would uncover everything.
XIV
A NEW ELEMENT
Budge Kenned
y was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.
He had two sons—Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white plaster on his trousers.
I came right to the point: "Do you know anything about this?" I held out the ring.
He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. "What, that! Well, I guess I do! Where'd you get it?" He called out to the kitchen: "Say, Mollie, come here. Here's the old man's jool!" He looked at me a bit fearfully. "You aren't wearing it?"
"Why not?" I asked.
"Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave it to Dr. Holcomb—or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his pocket once, and he came near dying."
"Unlucky?" I asked.
"No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man talking."
"He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?"
"Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him promise not to wear it."
"I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?"
"Oh, yes. He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a plasterer, you know—just a labourer. He was digging a basement. It was a funny basement—a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone wall right across the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone. You can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front. If you don't know about the door, you'll never find it. Dad often spoke about that. He was working in the back cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in some blue clay."
"Where was this place? Do you remember?"
"Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took the old man's dinner."
"Do you know the number?"
"It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story house, and was built in 'ninety-one."
I nodded. "And afterwards you moved to Oakland?"
"Yes."
"Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the cellar?"
"He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely a labourer, and did what he was paid for."
"Do you know who built it?"
"Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to wear a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he showed up he would run us kids out of the building. I think he was a bachelor."
This was all the information he could give, but it was a great deal. Certainly it was more than I had hoped for. The house had been built by a chemist; even in the construction there was mystery. I had never thought of a second cellar; when I had explored the building I had taken the stone wall for granted. It was so with Jerome. It was the first definite clue that really brought us down to earth. What had this chemist to do with the phenomena?
After all, behind everything was lurking the mind of man.
We hastened back to the house and into the cellar. By merely sounding along the wall we discovered the door; it was cleverly constructed and for a time defied our efforts; but Jerome got it open by means of a jemmy and a pick. The outside was a clever piece of sham work shaped like stone and smeared over with cement. In the dim light we had missed it.
We had high expectations. But we were disappointed. The space contained nothing; it was smeared with cobwebs and hairy mould; but outside of a few empty bottles and the gloomy darkness there was nothing. We tapped the walls and floor and ceiling. Beyond all doubt the place once held a secret; if it held it still, it was cleverly hidden. After an hour or two of search we returned to the upper part of the building.
Jerome was not discouraged.
"We're on the right track, Mr. Wendel; if we can only get started. I have an idea. The chemist—it was in 'ninety-one—that's more than twenty years."
"What is your idea?"
"The Rhamda. What is the first thing that strikes you? His age. With everyone that sees him it's the same. At first you take him for an old man; if you study him long enough, you are positive that he is in his twenties. May he not be this chemist?"
"What becomes of the doctor and his Blind Spot?"
"The Blind Spot," answered Jerome, "is merely a part of the chemistry."
Next day I hunted up a jeweller. I was careful to choose one with whom I was acquainted. I asked for a private consultation. When we were alone I took the ring from my finger.
"Just an opinion," I asked. "You know gems. Can you tell me anything about this one?"
He picked it up casually, and turned it over; his mouth puckered. For a minute he studied.
"That? Well, now." He held it up. "Humph. Wait a minute."
"Is it a gem?"
"I think it is. At first I thought I knew it right off; but now— wait a minute."
He reached in the drawer for his glass. He held the stone up for some minutes. His face was a study; queer little wrinkles twisting from the corners of his eyes told his wonder. He did not speak; merely turned the stone round and round. At last he removed his glass and held up the ring. He was quizzical.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
"That is something I do not care to answer. I wish to know what it is. Is it a gem? If so, what kind?"
He thought a moment and shook his head.
"I thought I knew every gem on earth. But I don't. This is a new one. It is beautiful—just a moment." He stepped to the door. In a moment another man stepped in. The jeweller motioned towards the ring. The man picked it up and again came the examination. At last he laid the glass and ring both upon the table.
"What do you make of it, Henry?" asked the jeweller.
"Not me," answered the second one. "I never saw one like it."
It was as Watson had said. No man had ever identified the jewel. The two men were puzzled; they were interested. The jeweller turned to me.
"Would you care to leave it with us for a bit; you have no objection to us taking it out of the ring?"
I had not thought of that. I had business down the street. I consulted my watch.
"In half an hour I shall be back. Will that be enough time?"
"I think so."
It was an hour before I returned. The assistant was standing at the door of the office. He spoke something to the one inside and then made an indication to myself. He seemed excited; when I came closer I noted that his face was full of wonder.
"We've been waiting," said he. "We didn't examine the stone; it wasn't necessary. It is truly wonderful." He was a short, squat man with a massive forehead. "Just step inside."
Inside the office the jeweller was sitting beside a table; he was leaning back in his chair; he had his hands clasped over his stomach. He was gazing toward the ceiling; his face was a study, full of wonder and speculation.
"Well?" I asked.
For an answer he merely raised his finger, pointed towards the ceiling.
"Up there," he spoke. "Your jewel or whatever it is. A good thing we weren't in open air. 'Twould be going yet."
I looked up. Sure enough, against the ceiling was the gem. It was a bit disconcerting, though I will confess that in the first moment I did not catch the full significance.
The jeweller closed one eye and studied first myself and then the beautiful thing against the ceiling.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Really I had not made anything; it was a bit of a shock;
I hadn't grasped the full impossibility. I didn't answer.
"Don't you see, Mr. Wendel? Impossible! Contrary to nature! Lighter than air. We took it out of the ring and it shot out like a bullet. Thought I'd dropped it. Began looking on the floor. Couldn't find it; looked up and saw Reynolds, here, with his eyes popping out like marbles. He was looking at the ceiling."
I thought for a moment.
"Then it is not a gem?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Not if I'm a jeweller. Whoever heard of a stone without weight? It has no gravity, that is, apparently. I doubt whether it is a substance. I don't know what it is."
It was puzzling. I would have given a good deal just then for a few words with Dr. Holcomb. The man, Kennedy, had kept it in his pocket. How had he held it a prisoner? The professor had use for it in some scientific work! No wonder! Certainly it was not a jewel. What could it be? It was solid. It was lighter than air. Could it be a substance? If not; what is it?
"What would you advise?"
In answer the jeweller reached for the telephone. He gave a number.
"Hello. Say, is Ed there? This is Phil. Tell him to step to the phone. Hello! Say, Ed, I want you to come over on the jump. Something to show you. Too busy! No, you're not. Not for this. I'm going to teach you some chemistry. No; this is serious. What is it? I don't know. What's lighter than air? Lots of things? Oh, I know. But what solid? That's why I'm asking. Come over. All right. At once."
He hung up the receiver.
"My brother," he spoke. "It has passed beyond my province and into his. He is a chemist. As an expert he may give you a real opinion."
Surely we needed one. It was against reason. It had taken me completely off my balance. I took a chair and joined the others in the contemplation of the blue dot on the ceiling. We could speculate and conjecture; but there was not one of us deep enough even to start a theory. Plainly it was what should not be. We had been taught physics and science; we had been drilled to fundamentals. If this thing could be, then the foundations upon which we stood were shattered. But one little law! Back in my mind was buzzing the enigma of the Blind Spot. They were woven together. Some law that had eluded the ken of mankind.
