Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “I do not know,” said the Tracer gravely, “what balm there may be in a suspension of sensation, perhaps of vitality, to protect the human body from corruption after death. I do not know how soon suspended animation or the state of hypnotic coma, undisturbed, changes into death — whether it comes gradually, imperceptibly freeing the soul; whether the soul hides there, asleep, until suddenly the flame of vitality is extinguished. I do not know how long she lay there with life in her.”

  He leaned back and touched an electric bell, then, turning to Burke:

  “Speaking of pistol range,” he said, “unstrap those weapons and pass them over, if you please.”

  And the young man obeyed as in a trance.

  “Thank you. There are four men coming into this room. You will keep your seat, if you please, Mr. Burke.”

  After a moment the door opened noiselessly. Two men handcuffed together entered the room; two men, hands in their pockets, sauntered carelessly behind the prisoners and leaned back against the closed door.

  “That short, red-haired, lame man with the cast in his eye — do you recognize him?” asked the Tracer quietly.

  Burke, grasping the arms of his chair, had started to rise, fury fairly blazing from his eyes; but, at the sound of the Tracer’s calm, even voice, he sank back into his chair.

  “That is Joram Smiles? You recognize him?” continued Mr. Keen.

  Burke nodded.

  “Exactly — alias Limpy, alias Red Jo, alias Big Stick Joram, alias Pinky; swindler, international confidence man, fence, burglar, gambler; convicted in 1887, and sent to Sing Sing for forgery; convicted in 1898, and sent to Auburn for swindling; arrested by my men on board the S. S. Scythian Queen, at the cabled request of John T. Burke, Esquire, and held to explain the nature of his luggage, which consisted of the contents of an Egyptian vault or underground ruin, declared at the customhouse as a mummy, and passed as such.”

  The quiet, monotonous voice of the Tracer halted, then, as he glanced at the second prisoner, grew harder:

  “Emanuel Gandon, general international criminal, with over half a hundred aliases, arrested in company with Smiles and held until Mr. Burke’s arrival.”

  Turning to Burke, the Tracer continued: “Fortunately, the Scythian Queen broke down off Brindisi. It gave us time to act on your cable; we found these men aboard when she was signaled off the Hook. I went out with the pilot myself, Mr. Burke.”

  Smiles shot a wicked look at Burke; Gandon scowled at the floor.

  “Now,” said the Tracer pleasantly, meeting the venomous glare of Smiles, “I’ll get you that warrant you have been demanding to have exhibited to you. Here it is — charging you and your amiable friend Gandon with breaking into and robbing the Metropolitan Museum of ancient Egyptian gold ornaments, in March, 1903, and taking them to France, where they were sold to collectors. It seems that you found the business good enough to go prowling about Egypt on a hunt for something to sell here. A great mistake, my friends — a very great mistake, because, after the Museum has finished with you, the Egyptian Government desires to extradite you. And I rather suspect you’ll have to go.”

  He nodded to the two quiet men leaning against the door.

  “Come, Joram,” said one of them pleasantly.

  But Smiles turned furiously on the Tracer. “You lie, you old gray rat!” he cried. “That ain’t no mummy; that’s a plain dead girl! And there ain’t no extrydition for body snatchin’, so I guess them niggers at Cairo won’t get us, after all!”

  “Perhaps,” said the Tracer, looking at Burke, who had risen, pale and astounded. “Sit down, Mr. Burke! There is no need to question these men; no need to demand what they robbed you of. For,” he added slowly, “what they took from the garden grotto of Saïs, and from you, I have under my own protection.”

  The Tracer rose, locked the door through which the prisoners and their escorts had departed; then, turning gravely on Burke, he continued:

  “That panel, there, is a door. There is a room beyond — a room facing to the south, bright with sunshine, flowers, soft rugs, and draperies of the East. She is there — like a child asleep!”

  Burke reeled, steadying himself against the wall; the Tracer stared at space, speaking very slowly:

  “Such death I have never before heard of. From the moment she came under my protection I have dared to doubt — many things. And an hour ago you brought me a papyrus scroll confirming my doubts. I doubt still — Heaven knows what! Who can say how long the flame of life may flicker within suspended animation? A week? A month? A year? Longer than that? Yes; the Hindoos have proved it. How long? The span of a normal life? Or longer? Can the life flame burn indefinitely when the functions are absolutely suspended — generation after generation, century after century?”

  Burke, ghastly white, straightened up, quivering in every limb; the Tracer, as pale as he, laid his hand on the secret panel.

  “If — if you dare say it — the phrase is this: ‘O Ket Samaris, Nehes!’— ‘O Little Samaris, awake!’”

  “I — dare. In Heaven’s name, open that door!”

  Then, averting his head, the Tracer of Lost Persons swung open the panel.

  A flood of sunshine flashed on Burke’s face; he entered; and the paneled door closed behind him without a sound.

  Minute after minute passed; the Tracer stood as though turned to stone, gray head bent.

  Then he heard Burke’s voice ring out unsteadily:

  “O Ket Samaris — Samaris! O Ket Samaris — Nehes!”

  And again: “Samaris! Samaris! O beloved, awake!”

  And once more: “Nehes! O Samaris!”

  Silence, broken by a strange, sweet, drowsy plaint — like a child awakened at midnight by a dazzling light.

  “Samaris!”

  Then, through the stillness, a little laugh, and a softly tremulous voice:

  “Ari un āhā, O Entuk sen!”

  CHAPTER XXI

  “What we want to do,” said Gatewood over the telephone, “is to give you a corking little dinner at the Santa Regina. There’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Tommy Kerns, Captain and Mrs. Harren, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Burke, Mrs. Gatewood, and myself. We want you to set the date for it, Mr. Keen, and we also wish you to suggest one more deliriously happy couple whom you have dragged out of misery and flung head-first into terrestrial paradise.”

  “Do you young people really care to do this for me?” asked the Tracer, laughing.

  “Of course we do. We’re crazy about it. We want one more couple, and you to set the date.”

  There was the slightest pause; then the Tracer’s voice, with the same undertone of amusement ringing through it:

  “How would your cousin, Victor Carden, do?”

  “He’s all right, only he isn’t married. We want two people whom you have joined together after hazard has put them asunder and done stunts with them.”

  “Very well; Victor Carden and his very lovely wife will be just the people.”

  “Is Victor married?” demanded Gatewood, astonished.

  “No,” said the Tracer demurely, “but he will be in time for that dinner.” And he set the date for the end of the week in an amused voice, and rang off.

  Then he glanced at the clock, touched an electric bell, and again unhooking the receiver of the telephone, called up the Sherwood Studios and asked for Mr. Carden.

  “Is this Mr. Carden? Oh, good morning, Mr. Carden! This is Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons. Could you make it convenient to call — say in course of half an hour? Thank you. . . . What? . . . Well, speaking with that caution and reserve which we are obliged to employ in making any preliminary statements to our clients, I think I may safely say that you have every reason to feel moderately encouraged.”

  “You mean,” said Carden’s voice, “that you have actually solved the proposition?”

  “It has been a difficult proposition, Mr. Carden; I will not deny that it has taxed our resources to the uttermost. Over a thousand people, first and last, have been emp
loyed on this case. It has been a slow and tedious affair, Mr. Carden — tedious for us all. We seldom have a case continue as long as this has; it is a year ago to-day since you placed the matter in our hands. . . . What? Well, without committing myself, I think that I may venture to express a carefully qualified opinion that the solution of the case is probably practically in the way of being almost accomplished! . . . Yes, I shall expect you in half an hour. Good-by!”

  The Tracer of Lost Persons’ eyes were twinkling as he hung up the receiver and turned in his revolving chair to meet the pretty young woman who had entered in response to his ring.

  “The Carden case, if you please, Miss Smith,” he said, smiling to himself.

  The young woman also smiled; the Carden case had become a classic in the office. Nobody except Mr. Keen had believed that the case could ever be solved.

  “Safe-deposit box 108923!” said Miss Smith softly, pressing a speaking tube to her red lips. In a few moments there came a hissing thud from the pneumatic tube; Miss Smith unlocked it and extracted a smooth, steel cylinder.

  “The combination for that cylinder is A-4-44-11-X,” observed the Tracer, consulting a cipher code, “which, translated,” he added, “gives us the setting combination, One, D, R-R,-J-’24.”

  Miss Smith turned the movable disks at the end of the cylinder until the required combination appeared. Then she unscrewed the cylinder head and dumped out the documents in the famous Carden case.

  “As Mr. Carden will be here in half an hour or so I think we had better run over the case briefly,” nodded the Tracer, leaning back in his chair and composing himself to listen. “Begin with my preliminary memorandum, Miss Smith.”

  “Case 108923,” began the girl. Then she read the date, Carden’s full name, Victor Carden, a terse biography of the same gentleman, and added: “Case accepted. Contingent fee, $5,000.”

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Keen; “now, run through the minutes of the first interview.”

  And Miss Smith unrolled a typewritten scroll and read:

  “Victor Carden, Esquire, the well-known artist, called this evening at 6.30. Tall, well-bred, good appearance, very handsome; very much embarrassed. Questioned by Mr. Keen he turned pink, and looked timidly at the stenographer (Miss Colt). Asked if he might not see Mr. Keen alone, Miss Colt retired. Mr. Keen set the recording phonograph in motion by dropping his elbow on his desk.”

  A brief résumé of the cylinder records followed:

  “Mr. Carden asked Mr. Keen if he (Mr. Keen) knew who he (Mr. Carden) was. Mr. Keen replied that everybody knew Mr. Carden, the celebrated painter and illustrator who had created the popular type of beauty known as the ‘Carden Girl.’ Mr. Carden blushed and fidgeted. (Notes from. Mr. Keen’s Observation Book, p-297.) Admitted that he was the creator of the ‘Carden Girl.’ Admitted he had drawn and painted that particular type of feminine beauty many times. Fidgeted some more. (Keen’s O.B., p-299.) Volunteered the statement that this type of beauty, known as the ‘Carden Girl,’ was the cause of great unhappiness to himself. Questioned, turned pinker and fidgeted. (K.O.B., page 300.) Denied that his present trouble was caused by the model who had posed for the ‘Carden Girl.’ Explained that a number of assorted models had posed for that type of beauty. Further explained that none of them resembled the type; that the type was his own creation; that he used models merely for the anatomy, and that he always idealized form and features.

  “Questioned again, admitted that the features of the ‘Carden Girl’ were his ideal of the highest and loveliest type of feminine beauty. Did not deny that he had fallen in love with his own creation. Turned red and tried to smoke. (K.O.B., page 303.) Admitted he had been fascinated himself with his own rendering of a type of beauty which he had never seen anywhere except as rendered by his own pencil on paper or on canvas. Fidgeted. (K.O.B., page 304.) Admitted that he could easily fall in love with a woman who resembled the ‘Carden Girl.’ Didn’t believe she ever really existed. Confessed he had hoped for years to encounter her, but had begun to despair. Admitted that he had ventured to think that Mr. Keen might trace such a girl for him. Doubted Mr. Keen’s success. Fidgeted (K.O.B., page 306), and asked Mr. Keen to take the case. Promised to send to Mr. Keen a painting in oil which embodied his loftiest ideal of the type known as the ‘Carden Girl.’ (Portrait received; lithographs made and distributed to our agents according to routine, from Canada to Mexico and from the Atlantic to the Pacific.)

  “Mr. Keen terminated the interview with characteristic tact, accepting the case on the contingent fee of $5,000.”

  “Very well,” said the Tracer, as Miss Smith rolled up the scroll and looked at him for further instructions. “Now, perhaps you had better run over the short summary of proceedings to date. I mean the digest which you will find attached to the completed records.”

  Miss Smith found the paper, unrolled it, and read:

  “During the twelve months’ investigation and search (in re Carden) seven hundred and nine young women were discovered who resembled very closely the type sought for. By process of elimination, owing to defects in figure, features, speech, breeding, etc., etc., this list was cut down to three. One of these occasionally chewed gum, but otherwise resembled the type. The second married before the investigation of her habits could be completed. The third is apparently a flawless replica of Mr. Carden’s original in face, figure, breeding, education, moral and mental habits. (See Document 23, A.)”

  “Read Document 23, A,” nodded Mr. Keen.

  And Miss Smith read:

  ROSALIND HOLLIS, M.D.

  Age . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

  Height . . . . . . 5 feet 9 inches

  Weight . . . . . . . . 160 pounds

  Thick, bright, ruddy

  Hair . . . . . . golden, and inclined

  to curl.

  Teeth . . . . . . . . . Perfect

  Eyes . . . . . . . Dark violet-blue

  Mouth . . . . . . . . . Perfect

  Color . . . . Fair. An ivory-tinted

  blonde.

  Figure . . . . . . . . . Perfect

  Health . . . . . . . . . Perfect

  Temper . . . . . . . . . Feminine

  Austere, with a

  Habits . . . . resolutely suppressed

  capacity for romance.

  Business . . . . . . . . . None

  Profession . . . . . . . Physician

  Mania . . . . . . . . A Mission

  “NOTE. — Dr. Rosalind Hollis was presented to society in her eighteenth year. At the end of her second season she withdrew from society with the determination to devote her entire life to charity. Settlement work and the study of medicine have occupied her constantly. Recently admitted to practice, she spends her mornings in visiting the poor, whom she treats free of all charge; her afternoons and evenings are devoted to what she expects is to be her specialty: the study of the rare malady known as Lamour’s Disease. (See note on second page.)

  “It is understood that Dr. Hollis has abjured the society of all men other than her patients and such of her professional confrères as she is obliged to consult or work with. Her theory is that of the beehive: drones for mates, workers for work. She adds, very decidedly, that she belongs to the latter division, and means to remain there permanently.

  “NOTE (Mr. Keen’s O.B., p-18). — Her eccentricity is probably the result of a fine, wholesome, highly strung young girl taking life and herself too seriously. The remedy will be the Right Man.”

  “Exactly,” nodded Mr. Keen, joining the tips of his thin fingers and partly closing his eyes. “Now, Miss Smith, the disease which Dr. Hollis intends to make her specialty — have you any notes on that?”

  “Here they are,” said Miss Smith; and she read: “Lamour’s Disease; the rarest of all known diseases; first discovered and described by Ero S. Lamour, M.D., M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H., in 1861. Only a single case has ever been observed. This case is fully described in Dr. Lamour’s superb and monumental work in sixteen volumes. Briefly, the disease a
ppears without any known cause, and is ultimately supposed to result fatally. The first symptom is the appearance of a faintly bluish circle under the eyes, as though the patient was accustomed to using the eyes too steadily at times. Sometimes a slight degree of fever accompanies this manifestation; pulse and temperature vary. The patient is apparently in excellent health, but liable to loss of appetite, restlessness, and a sudden flushing of the face. These symptoms are followed by others unmistakable: the patient becomes silent at times; at times evinces a weakness for sentimental expressions; flushes easily; is easily depressed; will sit for hours looking at one person; and, if not checked, will exhibit impulsive symptoms of affection for the opposite sex. The strangest symptom of all, however, is the physical change in the patient, whose features and figure, under the trained eye of the observer, gradually from day to day assume the symmetry and charm of a beauty almost unearthly, sometimes accompanied by a spiritual pallor which is unmistakable in confirming the diagnosis, and which, Dr. Lamour believes, presages the inexorable approach of immortality.

  “There is no known remedy for Lamour’s Disease. The only case on record is the case of the young lady described by Dr. Lamour, who watched her for years with unexampled patience and enthusiasm; finally, in the interest of science, marrying his patient in order to devote his life to a study of her symptoms. Unfortunately, some of these disappeared early — within a week — but the curious manifestation of physical beauty remained, and continued to increase daily to a dazzling radiance, with no apparent injury to the patient. Dr. Lamour, unfortunately, died before his investigations, covering over forty years, could be completed; his widow survived him for a day or two only, leaving sixteen children.

  “Here is a wide and unknown field for medical men to investigate. It is safe to say that the physician who first discovers the bacillus of Lamour’s Disease and the proper remedy to combat it will reap as his reward a glory and renown imperishable. Lamour’s Disease is a disease not yet understood — a disease whose termination is believed to be fatal — a strange disease which seems to render radiant and beautiful the features of the patient, brightening them with the forewarning of impending death and the splendid resurrection of immortality.”