“I have to get inside! I must!” James exclaimed.
He ran to get a box of tools from the kitchen. He wanted to get into the office however he could. He seized a pair of pliers and started to work. He still kept his revolver close at hand, since the murderer might at any moment leave suddenly to attack him.
The faithful servant placed the end of his pliers between the door and the door frame and pushed against it with all his strength. Little by little, the panel came apart. Finally James could put his crowbar into the opening. He gave a violent push and the door gave way.
James Billing stood up on the threshold. Then a terrible cry rose to his lips.
His eyes opened wide in horror. He stretched out both his hands as if to push away the atrocious vision open before him. His master was sitting in the chair in front of the desk…his master…decapitated!
The body was leaning backward. A red stain was spreading between the shoulders. The blood had flowed onto the rug and formed a big pool. The victim’s clenched hands were holding onto the desk. The knife with which the assassin had delivered the fatal blow was still planted in the shoulder of the poor man. The scoundrel, his crime accomplished, had still had the sinister courage to cut off the cadaver’s head to carry it away as a trophy.
James remained struck with astonishment for a moment at the sight of this horrible spectacle. The test was too harsh, even for this brave man. He had just experienced terrible emotions and the physical efforts he had made to get into the office had exhausted him.
An inarticulate moan escaped his lips and he fell down unconscious.
The other people in the building had heard the commotion and they hurried to call the police. James had scarcely been unconscious for a few minutes when two policemen came to ring at the door, and getting no answer, forced the lock. Followed by the neighbors, they entered the room and discovered the decapitated body and James, still unconscious.
Those present at that horrible discovery cried out in horror. No one doubted that the body without a head was that of Paul Boyssel. It was known, in the building, that the Frenchman was pursued by implacable enemies and that the police had made, in that regard, several fruitless investigations. Thus the assassins had succeeded in putting their ghastly plot into execution despite everything. They had triumphed and, as the pinnacle of their cruelty, they had carried off their victim’s head.
Naturally, immediate investigations were begun. They searched the house from top to bottom. They made the rounds of the neighborhood, the telephone and the telegraph offices in every direction. An hour later, hundreds of policemen formed a unit and left in search of the head of Paul Boyssel.
As in the former occasions, all that zeal was useless; the searches brought no results. The information obtained from James Billing, whom they had brought back to consciousness, furnished no useful clue. His story only confirmed the general opinion, which was that the body was that of Boyssel. Nevertheless, Inspector Golding couldn’t explain how the murderers had accomplished their goal while Ethel King was investigating the case. What had the famous detective done?
A Sinister Present
Ethel King had remained on the park bench to observe Paul Boyssel’s house. She saw the light go on in the office. She was expecting her client to come back out, but 30 minutes passed and Paul Boyssel still didn’t reappear.
She began to get worried. What could have made the Frenchman decide to return to his house when she had advised him to take refuge in a hotel! She was very curious. Finally, no longer holding back, she resolved to go up to the apartment to get an explanation of that bizarre circumstance. As she was going to get up, she suddenly saw the office window open. A man’s silhouette was framed in the light. The man put his leg across the window sill, grabbed the lightning rod cable and slid to earth.
Ethel King was frozen with horror. The man who had just descended into the street was certainly not Paul Boyssel. He had neither his height nor his shape. He was without a doubt the murderer.
The individual had raised his overcoat collar and turned down the borders of his hat. It was impossible to distinguish his features. He must have gotten in from the back side of the house. Ethel King was very worried. She feared that a crime had been committed, that Paul Boyssel, called back to his apartment by inexplicable motives, had been killed by his enemies. The great detective hadn’t been able to prevent the catastrophe and that was what caused her the most grief.
The man, who had just descended from the window, walked rapidly down the street. Ethel King hesitated a moment. Should she, first of all, enter the apartment to see what had happened? No, the criminal was escaping her. She must take to her heels. She rushed off in pursuit of the fugitive. She was a past master of the art of shadowing criminals. Besides, the criminal didn’t know he was being followed. He walked faster without turning around.
Ethel King noted a fact that heightened her fears. The stranger was carrying a packet under his arm. The object was wrapped in a piece of oilskin. Several times, the man readjusted the folds of the canvas, as if to keep something from falling out of the package. But he didn’t completely succeed.
Ethel King suddenly noticed drops of blood on the sidewalk pavement in front of her, and from this moment she saw more as she continued her pursuit. Passing down a dark street, the criminal stopped, put his packet down on a bench and wrapped it with more care. That time his efforts were successful, since Ethel King saw no more drops of blood on her way.
The man reached the railroad station on Girard Avenue. Ethel King entered the ticket area almost at the same time as he did and heard him ask for a ticket to Wynnefield, a suburb of Philadelphia. The train was supposed to depart in 15 minutes. As there were some travelers on the quay, Ethel King took the opportunity to look closely at the criminal. She saw that he wore a long black beard and that he had long hair.
He was seated on a bench and hugging his packet as if it was a precious object. Ethel King walked slowly up and down the quay without seeming to notice the criminal. He appeared very sure of himself. He didn’t think he was being watched.
When the train came into the station, he waited until everyone had boarded, then he sat down in a second-class compartment. Ethel King was in the same car as he. She was watching him while appearing to read a newspaper. The man’s eyes were gleaming with triumph.
Ethel King was devastated, which rarely happened to her. If her conjectures were correct, if the unfortunate Frenchman had been murdered, she felt herself, in a certain measure, responsible for his death. He had contacted her with confidence and she had promised to protect him. And nevertheless she had not prevented his enemies from striking him down. If she had listened only to her indignation, she would have aimed her revolver at the scoundrel and she would have invited him to open his package. But she controlled herself, knowing very well that the man was only an instrument in the hands of Wanda Baranowsky. He was without a doubt going to see that woman with a demon’s heart.
At the end of 20 minutes, the train stopped at the Wynnefield station. The stranger got off. Naturally Ethel King continued to shadow him at a distance. The man walked across the whole suburb and finally stopped in front of a pretty country house surrounded by a large garden and with a conservatory beside it. He opened the wrought iron gate with the key he had on him. Ethel King made a quick tour of the garden and scaled the fence which separated the villa from an empty field.
The detective had not noticed that she herself had been followed from Philadelphia by a man who kept himself cautiously at a very great distance. This man had also come to Wynnefield by the train, but he had gotten into another compartment. He got into the garden through the same pathway as Ethel King, who was cautiously slipping toward the house, hiding behind trees and bushes. She saw the criminal ring the bell at the front steps.
It was already becoming daylight, the heavens turning pale and the first rays of sunlight coloring the east. A maid came at the end of several minutes, answering the doorbell.
/> “Ah! Mr. Petroff, it’s you,” she said, on opening the door. “What is it you wish?”
“I must speak to Wanda Baranowsky. Announce me.”
“But Madam is in bed. She’s asleep,” the maid objected.
“That doesn’t matter. Wake Miss Baranowsky. Tell her that it’s I and that I’m bringing total victory. I guarantee you that she’ll get up immediately and will even give you a good tip.”
Ethel King hadn’t lost a word of that conversation. She judged by the stranger’s accent that he too was Russian and she told herself that he must be one of those seeking the dancer’s hand. She wanted at any cost to get into the house. This was not easy to do. The servants were already awake and she greatly risked being surprised if she tried to enter through a door.
While walking around the villa, looking for an entry, she found a window in the conservatory open. She climbed across the window sill and hid behind a huge plant. She remained motionless a long time, listening. The conservatory’s decoration denoted great luxury. The paths, covered with colored gravel twisted between beds of rare flowers which gave off delightful perfume. A statue rose here and there among the greenery. Jets of water gushed from fountains where gold fishes were swimming.
Ethel King walked on the edges of the flower beds to avoid the sound of gravel crunching under her feet. She slipped to the door separating the winter garden and the house. She was about to enter the house when she heard footsteps. She jumped quickly backward and crouched behind a plant.
It was just in time. Petroff had just entered. He still had his packet under his arm, but he had taken off his overcoat and hat. He held in his left hand a silver platter like those used to serve drinks. Ethel King was very curious. The Russian disappeared behind a huge plant and she didn’t dare approach to see what he was doing. In a few moments, Petroff reappeared and began to walk about in the pathway. He was smiling and murmuring unintelligible words, as if experiencing diabolical joy and could hardly wait for the arrival of the mistress of the house.
Finally the door to the winter garden opened. A tall and elegant woman entered. It was Wanda Baranowsky. She was really a first class beauty and Ethel King immediately realized that that woman was perfectly capable of making a man insane with love. An inflexible will could be read in her dark eyes. Her whole aspect expressed cruelty, but that only made her more exciting. In all her bearing, that woman had something majestic. You felt she was accustomed to commanding. She approached her morning visitor haughtily and greeted him with condescension, like a princess.
“Ah! Good Morning, my dear Petroff,” she said. “You had my maid awake me by announcing total victory.”
He took her hand and placed ardent kisses on it. Then he looked at her, his eyes shining with triumph and replied:
“Yes, I have indeed been victorious, my dear Wanda.”
The dancer sat down on a bench and looked at the Russian with curiosity.
“It’s very daring on your part to affirm such a thing. You know what I mean by victory.”
The scoundrel burst out laughing.
“Yes, I know, naturally,” he answered.
Then he approached the young woman and said to her, his voice hoarse with emotion:
“Do you remember, Wanda, when we were seated side by side on this same bench two months ago and I begged you to give me your love? You spurned me and your cruelty plunged me into despair.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And when you saw to what mental tortures I was prey to, you told me there was one way to conquer you, body and soul.”
“I remember that.”
“Is it true? Repeat to me what you said then.”
The Russian woman stood up. Her face took on a hard, haggard look, which brought to mind the head of Medusa.
“Yes, I’m going to repeat it,” she replied. “I shouted to you then: ‘Bring me the head of my mortal enemy, the Frenchman, Paul Boyssel, who abandoned me and who killed my brother, and I will belong to you, body and soul.’ ”
“Yes, that’s what you said to me, and it was for me like an order from on high. I don’t hold back from anything to conquer you, because you are everything on earth for me. Will you keep your word, today, Wanda?”
“Do you doubt it? I will love passionately the man who avenges me on my mortal enemy.”
The criminal let out an exclamation of joy.
“Is that the truth?” he cried out with rapture.
“The truth,” she assured him. “Go and accomplish the mission I gave you. Then I will belong to you. But I must tell you that another like you is looking to merit that prize. The actor, Fortino, also wishes to earn my love. He has sworn to me to kill the damned Frenchman.”
“He won’t succeed in doing that because I have already fulfilled my mission.”
The young woman stood up excitedly.
“Petroff…you…you were able to do that?” she cried out. “I don’t dare believe it.”
“I have taken vengeance on Paul Boyssel!”
“When?” the Russian woman asked in a state of unimaginable excitement.
“Tonight. He was seated at his desk. I plunged a knife into his heart and I’ve brought the proof of what I claim.”
The young woman fell back onto the bench and said:
“That’s good. Show me that proof.”
He went to get something behind the huge plant and came back, carrying his victim’s bleeding head on the silver platter.
“Here’s the head you asked me for, dear Wanda.”
The Russian woman had turned pale, but soon the color returned to her cheeks; her eyes were shining; a diabolical smile formed on her lips.
“Finally,” she murmured, “finally my vengeance is satisfied.”
Ethel King couldn’t wait any longer. She jumped out from her hiding place. She shook with horror at the sight of the spectacle before her. It was a second Salomé that she had in front of her.
So the scoundrels had managed to assassinate the unfortunate Paul Boyssel!
Wanda and Petroff didn’t notice the detective. The Russian was contemplating Wanda Baranowsky and the dancer couldn’t take her eyes off the bleeding head. Then Ethel King brandished her revolver at the two scoundrels and shouted to them in a harsh voice:
“Don’t make a move! In the name of the law, I arrest you! You’ll pay for this atrocious crime on the gallows.”
Petroff dropped the silver tray with his horrible trophy. Wanda turned pale and was dumbfounded on seeing the detective. Ethel King was herself terribly excited, because she now had the proof that Paul Boyssel had been murdered.
“Scoundrels,” she said, “I couldn’t keep you from killing your victim, but I will at least watch to see that you receive the punishment you deserve for your crime.”
At this moment a male voice was heard through the winter garden window.
“There’s a mistake, Miss King; I’m still alive. That’s not my head!”
At these words, Paul Boyssel jumped through the window.
Ethel King looked at him, mute with astonishment. She didn’t understand how that man could be standing safe and sound before her, when a decapitated head whose features so much resembled his, was lying there on the path.
Wanda Baranowsky had become sick. Petroff was trembling all over. Suddenly he jumped toward the head and picked it up. He tore at the hair, which came lose, the beard, which came off.
“Great gods!” the scoundrel stammered. “I made a mistake. That’s Fortino, the actor.”
He dropped his victim’s head and did not try to defend himself when Ethel King came forward to put handcuffs on him. Ethel also handcuffed Wanda Baranowsky and asked Paul Boyssel to go for the police.
The two prisoners, against whom the severed head constituted an overwhelming charge were soon behind bars. The next day they found Wanda Baranowsky lifeless in her cell. She had taken poison to escape hanging. Petroff’s confessions finished clarifying the circumstances of the drama. Wanda Baranowsky had
two men who loved her with an insane passion. That hellish woman had known how to nourish her two lovers’ passion without giving anything to either of them.
The two worshipers were Wassily Petroff, an enormously rich Russian, and Fortino, the actor. Wanda wanted to make them the instruments of her vengeance. She had sworn that she would belong to the one who brought her Paul Boyssel’s head. The two insane men had tried everything to satisfy the horrible caprice of their mistress. The Russian had first of all shot at Paul Boyssel in the lobby of the Mercantile Bank. The first attempt having failed, he posted himself in a vacant apartment in a house across from that of the Frenchman. He had shot at James, that he had seen at his master’s desk and that he had taken for Boyssel.
As for the actor, Fortino, he had slipped into Boyssel’s apartment and put the two poisonous snakes in his bed, and then hidden in the bathroom. Fortino had taken imprints of the locks of the house and had false keys made. His first plan abortive, he had conceived a refined one. The same night he had disguised himself to look like Paul Boyssel, put on a false beard and a wig, and with clever make-up made his face to resemble that of the Frenchman. In this way he counted on being able to enter the house without any obstacle. The butler himself would take him to be his master. If he didn’t find Boyssel, he would wait for him and his victim could no longer escape him.
The actor had been the victim of his own stratagem. Petroff had entered from the back of the house and had murdered Fortino, whom he took to be Boyssel.
Wassily Petroff was condemned to death and finished with a rope around his neck.
As for Paul Boyssel, he was forever rid of his dangerous enemies. He adequately proved his gratitude to Ethel King, the great detective.
6. A CRIMINAL ASSOCIATION
Dreaded Enemies
Ethel King was at an evening gathering in the home of Mr. Dooner, a rich Philadelphia industrialist who was giving a brilliant reception at his private townhouse on 35th Street. The famous detective, who had for many years maintained an excellent, friendly relationship with the Dooner family, had gladly accepted an invitation to the party. Our heroine was the object of great consideration by the hosts and their guests, because everyone had heard her exploits praised.
The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter Page 14
