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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Popular Magazine, 7 Sep 1925, with "The Terrible Thing"
James Francis Dwyer
JAMES FRANCIS DWYER (1874-1952) was an Australian writer. Born in Camden Park, New South Wales, Dwyer worked as a postal assistant until he was convicted in a scheme to make fraudulent postal orders and sentenced to seven years imprisonment in 1899. In prison, Dwyer began writing, and with the help of another inmate and a prison guard, had his work published in The Bulletin. After completing his sentence, he relocated to London and then New York, where he established a successful career as a writer of short stories and novels. Dwyer later moved to France, where he wrote his autobiography, Leg-Irons on Wings, in 1949. Dwyer wrote over 1,000 short stories during his career, and was the first Australian-born person to become a millionaire from writing. —Wikipedia
More than a year ago, we left Robert Henry Blane secure in fortune, and with a prospect of apparently unending future happiness—in a word, he was to conclude his career of daring adventure with the greatest of all adventures—matrimony. But Fate never sleeps, nor does she choose her victims with justice; and we find "The Texan Wasp" unwedded, In the great metropolis of New York where an experience overtakes him, the like of which he had never before encountered.
AT the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, northwest corner, Robert Henry Blane, of Houston, known in many lands as "The Texan Wasp," stood and lazily watched the tide of battle ebb and flow as joyful jay walkers fought with charging chauffeurs for possession of the crossing. Mr. Blane was vaguely amused at the courage which the human beetles exhibited in contesting the strip of road against the hooded horse power of the Avenue.
He wondered what errands urged little mouse-faced men and old ladies to challenge the limousines de luxe, the slinky roadsters and the stately sedans who were all born with the freedom of Fifth tied to their radiators. Great errands, he thought. Great, because those errands had made the throbbing city in which they lived.
The golden dust of the spring afternoon filled the great artery, and Blane, as he watched, made comparisons. In the little windows of memory he put up, one by one, the important streets of the world and judged them beside the Road of Wealth. He had seen them all. Piccadilly, rolling carelessly from the Circus to Hyde Park Corner; the Unter den Linden, sweeping from the Schlossplatz to the Brandenburg Gate; the Avenue de l'Opéra with its faëry charm. Others rose before his mental eyes as he stood half hypnotized by the swirling traffic.
The Rambla at Barcelona; the Prado of Madrid; the Avenida de Liberdade of Lisbon. He smiled as he pictured them. They were little dirt tracks in comparison with the mighty thoroughfare at which he gazed. Old they were without a doubt, hoary with historical associations, picturesque in their way, but they lacked the thunderous force, the splendid pulse, and the overwhelming wallop of old Fifth Avenue!
The Wasp came out of his daydream with amazing suddenness. A thin-legged, quaint and overburdened girl of some fifteen years attempted a jay sprint. A section of unmobilized pantaloon fell from her bundle when safety seemed in sight and, foolishly, she tried to retrieve the piece as a chauffeur with "Hell or Harlem!" in his eye spurred his flivver.
The athletic Blane hurled himself onto the roadway; he seized the thin arm of the girl and swung her clear, leaving the machine free to print a greasy crisscross pattern on the scrap of tweed. The Wasp, by a second dive, recovered the cloth and presented it to the rescued demoiselle.
"Gosh! Wouldn't that give yer an earache?" gasped the girl, as she examined the section of unbuilt pants on which the flivver had wiped its flying tire. "The swine! That'll set mommer back more'n a dollar an' I'll get a lamming!"
Robert Henry Blane smiled. There was an elfin wistfulness about the girl as she contemplated the greasy cloth. She looked up at her tall rescuer and twisted her mouth in a manner that suggested a conflict between comedy and tragedy. A few loungers paused to listen; a traffic policeman, eyes upon the Avenue, wheeled a mammoth ear toward her.
"The cops are with the choffers," said the girl, her large dark eyes upon Robert Henry Blane. "Granny useter hump these pants home, but a choff got granny an' gave her a free ride halfway to Central Park on his bumper. She's had more pains than a whole hospital ever since he hit her. Mommer did it then, but she's gone an' got scared an' now they nearly got me, only you pulled me clear. But this hunk of a pants is all spoiled an' I haven't got the choff's number."
The Texan Wasp stooped and placed a folded bill in the thin hand of the girl. He doubled her fingers around the offering and patted her head. "Never you mind," he said softly, "One of these days you'll ride around in a car that will be all blue and gold and all the folk on foot will have to step swiftly to get out of your way."
The girl took a sly peep at the bill in her hand. A little gasp of astonishment came from her as she discovered that the tall rescuer had presented her with a ten-spot. Hurriedly she gathered up her bundle and prepared for another dash across the Avenue, but a new thought struck her as the smiling cop offered his hand. She turned and rushed toward The Texan Wasp, who had moved away.
"Please tell me yer name?" she cried. "I'd like to tell mommer who it was that gave me the money."
"My name is Blane," answered the tall Texan. "Blane."
"Thank you," said the child. "I'll remember. Thank you again."
Robert Henry Blane sauntered slowly up the Avenue. Tall, handsome and carefully dressed in clothes that showed his athletic figure to perfection he attracted attention from both sexes. Elegantly gowned ladies glanced shyly at him and wondered; men examined him with a puzzled air.
HIS perfectly fitting suit was American, so were his shoes,
the hat was probably made somewhere between Graz and Vienna on
the order of a Fifth Avenue hatter, but in spite of all the proof
his clothing gave to the curious, they felt that there was
something exotic about the tall Texan, something that whispered
"of perilous ports and cities whose copper gates bar out the
stranger." And well they might think so. For the world was a
dog-eared volume to Robert Henry Blane, a volume tattered and
torn.
The Wasp paused before the window of a fashionable jeweler. His strong, shapely left hand stole softly to the top pocket of his vest as he contemplated the choice pieces in the elaborate show cases. The fingers found something and carried it gently forward so that the flashing gray eyes of the adventurer fell upon it.
It was a locket of gold, heavily encrusted with diamonds and adorned with soft traceries that would have done credit to those cunning, old jewelers who worked under the patronage of Lorenzo the Magnificent.
The locket fell open and the eyes of Robert Henry Blane looked down upon the sweet face of his sweetheart of the long ago. Smiling up at him was the wonderful face of Betty Allerton, his affianced bride, who had been stricken down on the eve of her wedding and had passed with appalling suddenness beyond the ken of the man who loved her dearly.
Blane, for a long minute, looked at the glorious face of the girl he had loved greatly, then he detached the locket from its chain and entered the jeweler's. The hinge of the beautiful piece that carried the miniature of Betty was out of order and he wished it repaired.
A large, pompous salesman bowed before the distinguished-looking customer. Blane returned the bow coldly. The pompous one did not look a lovable fellow and, for just a moment, The Wasp had a curious dislike to show the locket to him. He conquered the momentary repugnance and spoke.
"The hinge of this locket has been broken," he said. "I would like to have it repaired promptly."
The salesman took the locket and opened it. His round, piggy eyes fell upon the picture of Betty Allerton and the beauty of the girl held him. Without looking at Blane, he spoke his thoughts.
"Say, what a charming girl!" he observed. "I never saw any one as beautiful as her in—"
He got no farther. Blane leaned across the counter and brought the back of his hand smartly across the fellow's wrist, then, as the salesman spluttered, the same hand deprived him of the locket.
The gray eyes of The Wasp were rapiers that beat down the pompous one's torrent of indignation. He sensed danger and backed away before the angry Texan.
"I—I didn't mean any offense!" the man stammered. "I just meant it in a pleasant way."
"No one asked you for comments," snarled Blane. "I spoke to you as a workman, not as a judge of beauty. If you keep up that habit, some one is going to kill you."
A suave manager showing out a lady customer was attracted by the discussion. He stopped and came closer.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked, then as The Wasp turned, he gave a glad cry of recognition and held out his hand.
"It is Monsieur Blane!" he cried, his voice showing the slightest foreign intonation. "It is years since I have seen you! Years and years! You remember me? You were my very good client when I was on the Rue de Castiglione. Tell me what has annoyed you? Tell me! I am your servant."
The Wasp told and the manager forgot his lady customer as he listened. She found the exit unattended while the manager begged the Texan to leave the locket for his own personal attention. He would attend to it himself immediately.
Blane, soothed by the other's apologetic manner, gave him the precious locket and departed. Slowly he continued on his way northward, his thoughts of Betty Allerton and the hundred and one adventures that had befallen him in the years before she had promised to be his bride.
He had reached the corner of Fifty-fourth Street when a soft voice coming from the rear halted him.
"Pardon," came the voice, "I heard your name in the jewelry store. The manager was showing me out and I heard him call you 'Monsieur Blane.' Is it—is it possible that you are Robert Henry Blane?"
THE TEXAN WASP turned and examined his questioner. Some bell
upon which the finger of caution had been placed by his inner
self was ringing within his brain as he regarded her. He asked
himself why. Who was the woman and why should he be afraid of
her? An elegant lady as far as the piercing gray eyes could
discover in a lightning scrutiny, yet there was something that
upset the comparison. Something that did not go with the general
run of grand dames that he knew.
He told himself that it was intelligence. Intelligence of a startling kind! Intelligence that ran riot over her chiseled features! Intelligence that flamed from her green-tinted eyes, that flowed over her brow, that showed in the straight nose and the well-formed mouth.
Then memory, like a magician who drags a rabbit from an empty paper bag, handed the solution to Robert Henry Blane. He laughed softly.
"You know me?" asked the woman.
"I have seen your eyes," replied The Wasp cautiously.
"Where?" she inquired.
"At Cherbourg. I was boarding a steamer for New York and I felt that some one was staring at me. I saw your eyes behind a pile of cases. Only the eyes. I had heard of them and I knew who you were."
A smile that was like a flash of pure sunlight fled across the face of the woman. She regarded Blane quietly and The Texan Wasp felt a little thrill of pleasure as he stared at her. He knew that he was face to face with one of the most extraordinary women of the day. A woman whose interest in a wrongdoer pushed him into the very élite of criminality. Ordinary rascals, lightweight crooks, assassins even—of these dilettantes she took no notice.
THE great disturbing units of the world were her prey. Rumor
had it that she had been at the court of Potsdam before the war;
long-tongued gossip said that she had supped with Lenin and sent
his dairy utterances to listening ears in Washington, London and
Paris; she had the entrée to the Kremlin; she had earned the
Grand Cordon of the Order of Leopold and was the only woman to
receive the Cross of the Precious Light.
She was spoken of in council halls, in the salons of kings and presidents. Spoken of in whispers. She was "The Mystery Woman," "The Green-eyed Countess;" "The White Witch" mentioned in the final correspondence of Lenin.
Into the mind of Robert Henry Blane came a question that screamed for an answer. What was the woman doing in New York? What amazing thing was in progress in the United States to warrant her presence? What deep, underground and terrible complot had she been commissioned to unravel?
The woman spoke in a soft whisper.
"Last evening your name was mentioned by a friend of mine," she said. "He is a friend of yours, too. He expressed a desire to see you, but he had no idea where you were."
"Who is he?" inquired Blane.
The woman glanced around. Her flashing eyes swept over a disfigured beggar at the corner, examined a slouching young man balancing himself on the curb and then returned to the face of The Wasp.
She didn't speak, but to Blane, in a startling manner, she conveyed the hint that he should look downward. He did so. In the little dust eddy at her feet, the woman had scratched two figures with the point of her parasol. A three and a seven!
The Texan Wasp, schooled in the art of controlling his features, gave no outward indication of the thrill he received at learning that his old antagonist, No. 37, who later became his admirer and friend, was in New York. But the news brought to him that tingling sensation that one sometimes receives from a bugle call on a spring morning. The information was a bugle call!
It was the clarion of Dame Adventure, bidding him to seek beneath the old-gold flag of romance for an anodyne that would allay the pain within his soul. The pain brought by the loss of Betty Allerton. He desired a drug, a powerful potion which would blot out the pictures that stained his imagination during the long days and nights that he knew since her passing. He realized now that the hashish for his soul was action!
"Where is he?" The Wasp asked.
The woman glanced again at the slouching young man on the curb, then answered in a hurried French patois that would have defied the sharpest listener.
"He is in room No. 74 at the Plaza," she murmured. "He has been hurt. Don't go there till this evening." Dropping back into plain Americanese she said: "It has been a pleasure to meet you. I hope I shall see you again."
The Wasp bowed. The smile that was like a flash of sunlight appeared again on the face of the Green-eyed Countess as she turned and tripped down the Avenue.
THAT evening, Robert Henry Blane eluded the flunkies whose
duty it is to announce the arrival of visitors. He found room No.
74 and knocked softly.
There was no answer. He knocked a second time with like result. Yet he sensed that the room was occupied. In some mysterious way he knew that the great man-hunter was inside.
The Wasp knocked three times with a deliberate pause between each rap, then, after a longer pause, he struck the door seven times. It opened softly and the face of the extraordinary sleuth appeared in the opening. A strong left hand was thrust quickly out and the tall Texan was drawn inside.
"Robert Blane!" cried the detective. "Suffering bobcats! I'm glad to see you!"
The Texan Wasp regarded the man-hunter with a friendly eye. He showed no signs of wear. He was the same No. 37 that Blane had first met in the gilded Shrine of the Spinning Ball at Monte Carlo.
There were the same cold merciless eyes that looked like hard-frozen hailstones, the mouth that was a lipless line with down-turned corners, the big-nostriled nose bred of battles and the chin that had thrust peace to the winds.
The sleuth thrust The Wasp into a chair and stood before him, contemplating him in the manner that a child might view z new and expensive toy that had suddenly appeared in the nursery. After a long minute of silent observation he spoke.
"Something has happened to you," he said kindly. "Something has gone wrong. Is it—is it your marriage?"
"My marriage did not take place," answered Blane. "Miss Allerton died before the formalities could be arranged."
No. 37 stepped forward and took the hand of the Texan.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm awfully sorry. I thought a life of happiness was before you both."
The man-hunter dropped into a seat and for a few minutes they remained without speaking. The song of the city came up to them, a wonder song that the scented breezes of spring carried to the little stars.
It was Blane who broke the silence.
"I want action," he said. "I want something to do that will make me forget all sorts of things that torment me. This afternoon a lady met me on Fifth Avenue and told me that you wanted to see me."
"That's true," agreed No. 37. "I spoke of you last evening and longed for your address. You see"—he paused and tapped his left shoulder—"one of my friends put a hunk of lead into me a few days ago and I am not at my best. That is why I longed for a helper. I thought of you."
"To do what?" asked The Wasp. "To do man's work," snapped the sleuth. "Tell me."
THE great detective stood up and walked to the window. For a
second he stood staring out into the soft night, then he wheeled
and walked toward the Texan. He began to speak, his voice tense,
his eyes lighted by little fires of indignation.
"The world is coming to a point when a single madman will be able to destroy it overnight," he began. "I mean a scientific madman, and the Lord knows there are plenty of them. A scientist who is working for the good of the world is a blessing to mankind; one who is working to destroy and kill is an unchained devil. A devil that we know nothing of till he cuts loose.
"I am in New York because a scientific fiend is here," he went on. "The lady you spoke to this afternoon is here for the same reason. To block him, hunt him down and put him behind bars for the rest of his days is my present work, and in that work I wish to enlist you."
"I am interested," said Blane quietly, "Tell me more."
A queer passion came into the voice of the man-hunter as he went on with his story. There was a note of fierce resentment in his tone, something that the keen ear of a musician might detect in the baying of a bloodhound who has lost the scent of a fugitive. The big nostrils expanded and contracted hurriedly.
"Do you know how many scientific devils are working away in European laboratories to find out means and methods to kill and maim?" he cried. "Do you? No, you don't! Neither do 11 But this much I know, Blane! Those boys are beginning to make good. Quite a number of them! And the biggest fiend of them all has brought his invention to perfection."
The sleuth dropped into a chair and leaned forward.
"Nine months ago the people for whom I work heard of a scientist in Warsaw whose experiments were considered startling," he continued. "So startling that several European powers, fearing that their own subsidized experimenters might be outstripped in deviltry, sent special information seekers to find out what was doing. I was sent because I am employed at different times by a body of good people who wish to preserve civilization. I was sent to report on the stories that came drifting down to Paris and London. Possibly the American government had a spy on the spot. I do not know. Your people are alert.
"I think that of all the watchers I was the only one to see anything," he went on. "I mean, to see anything that would give proof to the tales that we heard. I am sure that I was the only one. For nine weeks I watched the laboratory and trailed the spectacled devil who worked there. Trailed him night and day. I am thorough. If I am set to watch a man I know what he eats and drinks, when he goes to bed and when he gets up. This matter was a big business and I did not let up for a minute.
"Listen! I will tell you something that will surprise you. If you did not know me, you would not believe me. I would not blame you for disbelieving me now. No, I wouldn't. One afternoon I followed that fellow across the Vistula to Praga, the suburb on the right bank of the river. He met another man and they strolled in a park. I followed them, taking cover behind the bushes.
"I knew that something was going to happen. Knew it by the manner in which they walked, knew it by the backs of their heads, by the swing of their coats, by the way they lifted their feet. Their nervousness came out to me so that I caught it on the tips of my fingers as I followed. What do you think I knew? It was this. The spectacled fiend was going to give his friend a test of the thing he had discovered.
"They found a seat before a small iron table. One of those three-legged tables that you see in cafes. They sat down before it and I crept up through the shrubbery till I was within ten yards of the spot where they were sitting. I waited, and I did not blink my eyes while I waited. Not at all. The people who had sent me told me to expect anything. They said that they had heard it was something to do with atomic energy, something connected with the slicing of the atom. Do you understand?"
THE TEXAN WASP made a quick gesture with his head. The way in
which the sleuth told the story held him speechless. It seemed
that there had come into the room a listening presence, a queer
ghostly presence that set him wondering. In the interval before
the great detective went on with his narrative, Blane had an idea
that the phantom listeners were the long-dead master builders
of that great and wondrous civilization which the insane
scientists were attempting to destroy.
"The park was deserted," continued No. 37. "The afternoon was cold; there was a little fog. The scientist and his friend sat there for nearly an hour and nothing happened. Then the spectacled man that I was trailing took something from his pocket. I couldn't see what it was. A vessel of some kind, I think—I do not know.
"He tilted it above the iron table, at the same moment he pushed his companion back. I got to my feet and thrust my head forward. I was mad with a desire to see what would happen. And I saw! I saw, Blane! The two of them got to their feet hurriedly and I had a clear view of what took place. I saw it all. The three-legged iron table at which they had been sitting started to disappear!"
The prince of man-hunters paused and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. The recollection of what he had seen stirred him greatly. The Wasp, who had wondered always at the calm self-control of the man, was surprised to see this exhibition of emotion. He waited, his curiosity keyed to a high pitch by the story.
"It disappeared from the top," went on the sleuth. "That is, the flat sheet of iron to which the legs were attached was the first part of it to go. The legs fell to the ground, but each leg was consumed swiftly. Consumed by what, you ask? I do not know. Wait and I will tell you what others think. What the greatest chemists of Europe think. Wait!
"The scientist and his friend stood and watched the thing go," he continued. "I should say that it was a matter of three minutes. It was no more, I am sure. Less, I think. The friend seemed dazed. His arms were thrust out and his head was pushed forward. I too was dazed.
"The scientist laughed, clapped the friend on the back, then they both walked hurriedly away. Walked toward the park entrance. I waited till they were out of sight, then I came out of the bushes and ran to the place where the table had stood. There were no signs of it, but on the ground I found a little heap of red rust. Not more than a teaspoonful. I scooped it up in a piece of paper and put it in my pocket, then I sat down on the seat that the two had occupied.
"I sat down to think the thing over. I told myself that something had happened to my brain. I told myself that the table had never been there.
"'You are a fool,' I said to myself. 'There was no table there when they sat down. A wheel in your brain has gone wrong and you are seeing things that do not exist.'
"I must have sat there for hours," he continued. "It came time to close the gates of the park and a keeper went round to see that no one would be locked up for the night. He spoke to me, telling me of the hour, then he stopped and stared at the place where the table should have been.
"'Where is the table?' he asked.
"'What table?' I snapped.
"'The iron table that is always here,' he replied.
"'There was no table here when I sat down,' I answered.
"'Then some one has stolen it,' he said, and he rushed off to tell the head keeper.
"The head keeper came in a hurry and the two searched the shrubbery. Of course they found nothing and when they were tired of searching I left them, carrying in my vest pocket the spoonful of red rust that I had scooped from the ground.
"That night I sent the rust to London and two days later I received a wire that the fiend I was watching should not be allowed out of my sight. The wire came too late. On the evening before, I had trailed him home to his laboratory and had seen the light go out in his bedroom. Then I went back to my hotel. That was the last I saw of him. He disappeared in the night. Disappeared without leaving a trace."
"And the red rust?" asked The Wasp. "That is the point!" cried the sleuth.
"The red rust! In the letter that contained it I took a chance and told of all that I had seen. Everything! I told of the disappearance of the table after the scientist had uptilted a vessel above it. It was my story that brought the urgent wire.
"The people who employed me were certain that the devil had found out something that was extraordinary. Something that would upset the world. Something that in the hands of a fiend would wreck civilization. Queer that a power like that would fall into the hands of a chemist in Warsaw. Strange that a fellow—"
"But what in thunder was it?" interrupted Blane.
THE man-hunter smiled at the Texan's desire to learn the
mystery. "My people think, Blane, that the fellow has discovered
a solvent of metal, a powerful acid that, speaking plainly,
consumes the atoms at an extraordinary speed. It releases them,
feeds on them, and leaves the little heaps of red rust as the
sole proof that they ever existed. They do not think this. They
are sure of it. They think it one of the greatest forces for evil
that has ever come into the world. For evil, mind you! For it
destroys! It destroys!"
Into the room as the great detective finished his amazing story came the wonder song of the city. The song of Manhattan! A song of happiness, of content, of endeavor, of honest toil. The Texan Wasp, as he sat watching the sleuth whose stubby fingers opened and shut as if seeking something to clutch and strangle, was possessed of a strange belief. He thought that the clean, sweet song of New York and of all the big cities of America went up and up to the little stars that swung in space.
In other lands hate and greed and envy were plaited into the whisperings that went upward, but in America this was not so. For just an instant he had a belief that the spiritual song of America reached the door of heaven, the heaven in which he was certain Betty Allerton occupied an honored place. The belief brought him a great contentment. He felt that he was dimly in touch with the girl he loved.
No. 37 took up his tale.
"Since the day the fiend slipped away from me, I have hunted Europe to find him," he said, his voice curiously quiet now that he had told of the incident in the park. "Here and there I have heard scraps of news, but I have never laid my eyes on him. This only I was sure of: there was something for sale at a tremendous price. Something! It was for sale at a price that the impoverished countries of Europe could not consider. It was offered to France, I believe. I mean that there were whispers of a force that would make junk out of battleships, eat up hundreds of miles of railway track in a night, gnaw the iron ribs out of a skyscraper in an hour.
"Later," he went on, "I heard that it was offered to Japan. Possibly in all Europe half a dozen men knew of the existence of something which was spoken of as 'The Terrible Thing.' No one had seen a trial of it except myself and the man who was with the fiend in the park at Praga. I have cursed myself for months in letting him escape me. If I had shot him on that day when an iron table turned into a spoonful of red rust, I would have done the greatest service that a man could do to the world."
"And now?" asked The Wasp. "Is he here in New York?"
"I think so," said the sleuth. "Two weeks ago I picked up a trail in Paris. Three men were grabbed for forging American passports and on the lists that were found in their possession I found a name that my scientific friend had used. The name is Thugutt—Stanislas Thugutt.
"Fourteen days ago a man of that name landed here from the Leviathan. He gave an address, but he did not go there. Somewhere in New York to-night he is plotting with the men who have made him an offer for his secret, an offer much greater than the war-ridden leaders of Europe could offer. And the buyers are as bad as the fiend who has the secret. That much I know. They are against the government, against the law, against everything that tends to cleanse and purify the world."
The telephone tinkled in a nervous, hesitating manner. The man-hunter looked at it, but did not move. It rang again, disjointedly, apprehensively.
No. 37 rose and took the receiver. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes. Go ahead."
THE TEXAN WASP, his eyes upon the man-hunter, saw the
shoulders hunch themselves suddenly forward in a manner that
suggested a terrible desire to absorb the information that came
over the wire. The fierce spirit of pursuit was noticeable in the
way the man listened. Ears alone were not detailed for the duty;
the watching Texan thought that every inch of skin on the
sleuth's sturdy body was helping to gather in the message.
"Yes, yes!" he cried, and the words were gasped out as his throat dried with the ash of expectancy. "Go on! Go on! I hear!"
The listening crouch became painful to watch. Blane wondered what precious clew was winging its way to the extraordinary man who wielded the lariat of Madame Justice in a manner that made his numerical nom de plume a terror to evildoers on three continents.
The man-hunter gave voice to a queer gurgling cry of delight that was akin to the happy yelp of a hound who has picked up a lost trail. He thrust the receiver into place and wheeled upon Robert Henry Blane.
"You're going to help, Blane?" he cried. "You didn't pledge yourself, but you will! You will! It's your country, man! The country that you love!"
"I'm with you," said The Wasp quietly.
"Good! Come on! I'll tell you as we ride along."
In the taxi that carried them down Fifth Avenue the man-hunter told in short clipped sentences the message he had received.
"It's just a clew," he growled. "The lady who spoke to you this afternoon found it. We learned that the head of the gang that forged the passport for Stanislas Thugutt had a brother in New York. Fellow named Yananski. Russian. The directory showed five of them. We took a long shot and watched them all.
"This one we're going to has been signaling," he continued. "At least we think so. Stockings strung across an open window. Whole words spelled out by the number of black stockings strung between the reds. Three blacks, one red, stands for 'c;' one black, one red, 'a;' twelve blacks and one red, 'l.' That's what he's got up now. It's his way of spelling call. He's telling some one that the coast is clear."
"Where is he?" asked The Wasp.
"Third Avenue between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth," answered the sleuth. "Be there in a minute. Wish my arm was right. Troubles me a little. Glad you're with me, Blane."
They rode on in silence. Robert Henry Blane had a strange feeling regarding the man at his side. He thought that the tremendous passion of pursuit came out from the man-hunter and charged the atmosphere around him. He was a human bloodhound, fierce and relentless pursuer of evildoers.
There came into the mind of the Texan the words of Pierre Chabanier, the French convict, who had secured a lengthy engagement at the nickel mines of New Caledonia through the activities of No. 37. Chabanier was certain that the man-hunter could run a trail like a dog. He had whispered fearfully of the power possessed by the big-nostriled nose. And Blane, sitting beside the man without a name, felt that Chabanier was right.
No high powers of deduction, no elaborate reasoning processes, no cleverly worked-out plans showed in the captures made by No. 37. He had, on the contrary, a contempt for the intellectual student of crime who builds a weak-backed theory on some clew the size of a fly's hind leg. Instinct, swift and animal-like pursuit, the leopard-like spring, the extraordinary belief that no mistake had been made—all these traits were identified with his work.
The taxi halted at the corner of Twenty-ninth and Fourth Avenue. The sleuth and Robert Henry Blane descended. Without speaking they walked swiftly to Third Avenue. Before reaching the corner, No. 37 halted The Wasp and spoke in a hurried undertone.
"Listen, Blane," he said, "we have no plan. We know nothing outside what I have told you. The house is on the middle of the block, east side. Second-floor apartment, two windows on the avenue. You'll see the stockings. We'll separate.
"You'll do your best," he went on. "No man in the world can give you instructions. What we want to find out is the address of the fiend who has invented this stuff or the address of those to whom he has sold the invention. Go to it. I'll be around. You might see the first chance."
ROBERT HENRY BLANE turned southward along the avenue. He felt
delighted with the adventure. Life had become dull and tiresome;
the thrill of the old days in the capitals of Europe seemed far,
far away. Thoughts of high adventures in Paris, Seville, Venice,
and a score of other places rose within his mind. He remembered
the Roost of the Ladrones in Barcelona, the affair with the chief
of the Scarlet Jackals at Seville, the tilt with the Mystery Man
of Prague and many other episodes in his romantic and colorful
past.
And now New York, the most wonderful city in the world, offered him an opportunity to gather up the excitement he craved, the fierce stimulant that his nature demanded. He blessed his old-time antagonist, No. 37.
Blane located the apartment of Yananski. The line of stockings could be plainly seen strung before the illuminated window. The swift glance of the Texan told him that they still carried the message of which the detective had spoken.
Blane crossed Twenty-eighth. He looked at his watch and found that it was nine forty-five. The warm spring night had lured many folk out of doors. The air seemed incense laden, intoxicating.
He pondered over the task for which the man-hunter had recruited him. What chance was there of locating the mad scientist who had brought a new and terrible force into the world?
On the southeast corner of Twenty-eighth a well-built cop made his stick into a bull roarer as he whirled it meditatively. His glance fell upon Robert Henry Blane, followed him as the Texan passed. Possibly the cop thought the tall, debonair adventurer was out of place.
'THE policeman's stare annoyed Blane.
He wheeled and walked toward the house that sheltered Yananski. The man-hunter had given no caution regarding precipitate action and The Wasp had a great desire to speed things up.
He came to the door. It was shut tight, but four push-buttons, each with a name attached, offered a means of entry. Blane chose the top button under which was the classical name of Mulligan. He pushed it and the latch clicked spasmodically.
The Texan pushed the door, entered, closed it softly and waited in the dark hall. From high above him came a hail. A voice with a thick brogue inquired who it was, then, as no answer came up from the hallway, the inquiry was followed by a neatly expressed wish that the bell ringer would take himself to a hotter clime than that of Manhattan. A door banged fiercely.
Blane felt his way to the rear of the stairs and waited in the darkness. From the cellar drifted up an assortment of odors that fought for supremacy in the hall. The Wasp had an opinion that the apartment house of "Yananski, Mulligan & Co." was not one that he would choose for his own residence.
Ten minutes passed, twenty, then a bell pealed loudly. Blane became alert. A door on the second landing opened, a voice called in Russian for a light.
The Wasp sprang to the street door. As he touched it, the latch started to click madly. Some one from without pushed against the door; Blane threw his shoulder against it. Looking out through an aperture of some six inches he saw four men who were evidently anxious to get inside the house.
For the moment The Wasp had no definite line of action, but the Fates were kind. As he peered into the bearded face of the man nearest to him, the fellow spoke. He barked out a word, barked it out in a manner that suggested it possessed a magic power.
"Praga!" he cried. "Praga!"
Into the quick brain of the Texan flashed the story of No. 37. The test of the extraordinary solvent had been made in a park at Praga, the suburb of Warsaw, and The Wasp had an intuition that the name of the suburb was being used as a password for the evening.
He took full advantage of the information that had come to him. He stepped back from the door, leaving the four to stumble after him, then, not waiting for them, he leaped up the stairs to where a candle on the landing showed dimly the tall and bulky figures of two men. Robert Henry Blane was making a daring attempt to incorporate himself in the visiting party.
One of the two men thrust himself forward to meet Blane. The fellow lifted the candle so that its light fell on the face of the Texan. Deep-set and vicious eyes showed no welcome.
The Wasp paused, waited for an instant in the hope that the other would speak, then barked out the word that had been thrown at his own ears by the quartet climbing the stairs behind him.
"Praga!" he cried. "Praga!"
The man with the candle nodded. In Russian he put a question. "How many?" he asked.
Robert Henry Blane blessed his linguistic powers. "Five," he answered, and the lucky stumble of one of the four prevented them from hearing the reply intended only for the ears of his questioner.
The two turned and led the way into the apartment. Blane and the four newcomers followed. A thrill of delight possessed the adventurous Texan. The simple ruse had been successful. The two in the apartment looked upon him as one of the visiting band; the visitors looked upon him as a friend of the two!
It was a large room, rather poorly lighted by a feeble gas jet and a large oil lamp, into which the seven passed. The quick eye of The Wasp examined it. The nationality of Yananski was made clearly evident. Immediately facing the door was a huge, highly colored portrait of Lenin, the frame that inclosed it draped awkwardly in crape.
Supporting the arch-priest of Bolshevism were smaller portraits of his chiefs; Trotsky, Chicherin, the butcher Artamonovitch, and others. A big table in the center of the room was covered with pamphlets and newspapers; half a dozen wooden chairs were scattered around.
The four new arrivals, the two men who received them and Robert Henry Blane grouped themselves around the table. No one spoke. An air of great tensity was upon the six, while The Wasp himself was keyed up to an unusual pitch of curiosity. He felt that some one was expected, some one whose arrival was a matter of great concern to the others.
The man to whom the Texan had given the password looked at his watch. He glanced around the group and spoke, still keeping to the Slav tongue. "He will be here in five minutes," he said quietly.
The four visitors bowed their heads, Blane followed their example.
The five minutes passed, then the man with the watch spoke again.
"He comes now," he said, and as he uttered the words the doorbell pealed violently.
The two men who appeared to be residents of the flat returned to the landing with the candle; the four visitors and Blane turned and watched the door. From below came the sounds of stumbling feet, a petulant complaint regarding the gloom.
The acute ears of Robert Henry Blane gathered up the few words that were addressed to the unseen visitors. They were told that "the others" had arrived and were waiting for them. There was much shuffling of feet, then the two residents of the untidy rooms brought in a tall man who was followed by a woman whose intensely masculine face seemed to challenge her feminine attire.
It was the tall man that held the eyes of The Texan Wasp. Blane knew instinctively that the fellow was the scientist from Warsaw who had invented the tremendous solvent that was known to a few as "The Terrible Thing." The belief settled down on him the moment the tall man entered the room, evicting all doubts.
Curiously the man, although of weak frame, carried about him an air of enormous and horrifying power that was beyond analysis. Possibly the possession of the dreadful secret had bred a peculiar kind of egoism, a strange form of megalomania that uplifted him.
His black, shining eyes darted from one to the other of the group that awaited him. They fell upon the face of Robert Henry Blane like flaming pin points. They drifted away, came back again for a fresh scrutiny, then, to the relief of The Wasp, were turned upon his companions.
One of the four, a bulky, bearded man, spoke, addressed himself to the scientist. He spoke with a queer sort of humility, using the Russian tongue.
"We have brought it," he said. "Everything that you have asked."
The thin hands of the scientist came from the pockets of his long overcoat; he made a gurgling noise that suggested an animal in an advanced state of hunger. He took a step forward; the man with the candle brushed the papers and pamphlets from the table; the quartet to which The Wasp had attached himself became active.
The motion of the scientist's lean paws and the drooling noise he had made with his lips had the effect of a command. It swept away the feeling of constraint, the inaction, the strange torpor that had held them while they waited the arrival of the fellow.
Robert Henry Blane, as watchful as a panther, pushed forward to the table. The four first callers, the two residents, the scientist, the woman, and The Wasp made an expectant circle; all eyes were upon the man who had intimated that everything that the scientist demanded had been brought.
Solemnly the bearded man stripped back his coat, revealing a long black cloth bag that was suspended from his shoulder. He swung this to the front and from it he commenced to take packages of bills, neatly wrapped packages that he placed one beside the other on the table.
The Wasp was astounded. Leaning forward he noted the denomination of the notes that were uppermost. They were thousand-dollar bills!
One, two, three! Each package, so Blane reasoned, contained ten notes. Four, five, six! The drooling noise of the scientist increased Seven, eight nine! The big, hairy hand of the magician was again thrust into the bag, then with a dramatic gesture he banged another package on the board!
The old predatory instincts of The Texan Wasp were aroused by the sight One hundred thousand dollars! He had difficulty in controlling a little whistle of amazement. And the enormous sum was evidently brought in payment for the secret possessed by the scientist with the darting eyes and the chalky, unwholesome face!
For just a moment the Texan forgot the story of No. 37 regarding the terrors to which the world would be exposed if the man from Warsaw unloosed the power that he possessed. Mr. Blane was thinking of the money. Thinking of a means of transferring it into his own possession. It was money used for the purchase of a terrible power that was inimical to law and order, therefore the hijacking possibilities that flitted through the brain of the tall adventurer were not altogether in bad taste.
The Blane of other days urged an immediate raid on the treasure, pictured a quick dash to the door, a wild leap down the stairs, a get-away that would fool the well-built cop who was flailing the night air on the corner.
The scientist made a gesture to the woman at his side. The two advanced a step, thrust out their hands and clutched the packages. Swiftly they dropped them into capacious pockets, their eyes as they did so glancing from one to the other of the faces around the table.
POSSIBLY Robert Henry Blane showed at that moment upon his
face the whimsical thoughts that had entered his mind. It must
have been so. In some way the woman detected a difference between
his semi-serious gaze and that of the crazed fanatics beside him.
Her eyes clung to his face; she thrust the last package of bills
into her pocket and walked toward him.
The Wasp pulled himself together as he saw suspicion flame upon her face. The woman spoke.
"What do you wish, little brother?" she asked, the Slavic words harsh and threatening as she flung out the question.
"Destruction," answered the adventurous Texan.
"When?" cried the woman.
"Now!" snapped Blane, and his swift glance at the table told him that he had answered in a manner that was not displeasing to the group.
For the space of half a minute the woman remained silent, her keen eyes upon The Wasp. Then, in a louder tone, she flung another question at him.
"Where!" she cried. "Where?"
Robert Henry Blane felt that he was up against a problem. He knew that the swift-flung query had an effect upon the group at the table. Without glancing at them he knew that their bearded faces had been thrust toward him in an effort to absorb his answer the moment he had uttered it.
The harsh Russian word fled through the brain of The Wasp, screaming for an answer. And he had no answer to give. He had blundered luckily upon suitable replies to the first two queries, but the whole United States sprang up before his mental eyes as he tried to think of an answer to the third.
"Where?"
Ten thousand cities and towns offered him a choice. Places from Pelham Manor to San Luis Obispo and from Galveston to Duluth rose from their mental cache and made signs to him. Never before was he so impressed with the greatness of his country. One hundred thousand places offered themselves as a solution to the question.
The careless deviltry of Robert Henry Blane made him choose a name that would be altogether new to the ears of the group he confronted.
"Pottawatomie!" he cried, and as he yelled out the name he acted with a suddenness that was startling to their slow intellects.
The Wasp stooped quickly as he called out the name. A bundle of the pamphlets upon the floor was hurled at the gas jet, another bundle traveling at a terrific rate crashed into the lamp and sent it flying. The room was plunged into utter darkness.
A wicked knife ripped the sleeve of Mr. Blane's coat. He repaid the little attention by sending out a stiff left into the darkness and miraculously finding a jaw to obstruct it, then, with a quick leap, he was upon the table. Curses, cries of alarm, high-pitched questions came from the eight around the table. They groped for the outsider and cannoned wildly into each other.
A match flamed in the darkness. Blane stooped, seized a felt hat and hurled it at the pin point of flame. Then, leaping lightly over the heads of two of the plotters, he reached the door. He unlocked it swiftly, reached the landing, turned and sped upward into the gloom. As he mounted he heard the rush of heavy feet on the stairs leading down to the street door.
The Wasp wasted no time. He reached the roof, found the fire escape and scuttled down it to the first floor. A wall showed up within a few feet of the escape. He leaped at it, clutched the coping, dragged himself to the top and dropped over. The retreat by the roof seemed the most desirable when he left the room, now a tremendous desire to reach Third Avenue in time to pick up the trail of the plotters drove him forward.
A dark door showed in the tiny walled space into which Blane had fallen. He pushed it open. A long black tunnel led to a yellow gleam. The Wasp reasoned that the light came from the janitor's quarters. He ran toward it.
Without ceremony he thrust open a glass door and found himself in a kitchen-living room. Two women sat with bowed backs at the table, their fingers busy with needles and thread on a pile of job work that lay between them; a man dozed before the stove.
"Pardon," said The Wasp, advancing, "I dropped into your back yard and I want to reach the street in a hurry. Can I pass through?"
The man seated before the stove was on his feet before Blane had finished his request. The two women had also risen. Their faces expressed anything but welcome.
'"THE man, big and truculent looking, growled out a negative
as he thrust himself directly in the path that his visitor wished
to go.
"You'll stay here till I get a cop!" he cried. "Just wait till I call one!"
He backed toward the door at the other end of the room and his heavy shoes clumping along the boards roused a little girl sleeping upon a pile of rags in the corner. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stared at The Wasp. A strange, elfin-like child with pipestem arms.
For a few seconds her big dark eyes were fixed upon the intruder, then she sprang to her feet and rushed toward him. She cried out to the three adults as she ran.
"Mommer! Granny! Daddy!" she screamed. "This is the gentleman who gave me the ten dollars! The gentleman who pulled me from under the auto when that swine of a choffer ran over the pants leg. This is him!"
Robert Henry Blane smiled at the child's enthusiasm. He shook her hand but he didn't wait for the thanks of the astonished grown-ups. Somewhere outside, the eight persons whose company he had left in such a hurry were dispersing, so he ran through the quarters of the janitor and dashed up the steps into Twenty-eighth Street.
The Wasp ran toward the avenue. He reached the corner and paused for a second to look around. A taxi was swinging out from the curb, its nose thrust northward. Blane rushed forward. Thoughts of No. 37 and "The Mystery Woman" flashed through his mind. He wondered if they had picked up the trail after the stampede from the house.
An arm shot out of the taxi to grab the door that had swung open and The Wasp running swiftly along the pavement gave a little yelp of delight. The woman who had taken one half of the money paid over by the four had worn a plaid coat, and the sleeve of which he had a glimpse was of the same material! How many of the others were in her company he could not tell, but her trail at least was fresh enough to follow.
The Wasp dashed across Twenty-ninth, the taxi containing the woman gathering speed as it streaked northward. Before the door of a cheap restaurant stood an empty cab, its driver busy within.
Blane rushed to the door and shouted. The driver, with a section of pie across his face, waved a hand to show that there was nothing doing. A humorous fellow was the driver. He turned to wink at the waitress, then, as he again looked toward the street to see the effect of his refusal, he dropped the section of pie and unloosed a yell of rage. His machine had come to life with surprising suddenness and was shooting northward with Robert Henry Blane at the wheel.
THE TEXAN WASP was an expert driver. He was more. He was a
wizard. He had driven racing cars at Santa Monica and Daytona;
once to uphold the honor of America he had taken the wheel at the
famous Monza track outside Milan and had made spectators gasp by
his daring.
He was in sight of the car at Thirty-third. He clung to it as it swung eastward at Forty-second and rolled down Second Avenue as it doubled on its tracks and made southward. The sprint uptown had been made to throw possible pursuers off the track.
The Wasp reviewed the happenings of the evening. He wondered about the four who had brought the enormous sum of money to the scientist. It was a payment. Payment for what? He recalled the cold eyes of the woman as she had flung the first question at him, that "What do you wish, little brother?" to which he had replied, without a moment's hesitation, "Destruction." He asked himself why he had answered so promptly.
Why had the word "destruction" sprung to his lips? It was easy to guess. In the bare room whose walls were decorated with the sinister faces of the apostles of destruction, it was reasonable to think that those who plotted under the Mongol eyes of Lenin & Co. longed to destroy and shatter the things that held them in check.
The taxi carrying the woman crossed Fourteenth and halted. The Wasp on the uptown side pulled into the curb and watched. From the machine he was following stepped the woman who had questioned him and the big man to whom he had given the password "Praga" at the head of the stairs. Their manner as they turned from the car suggested that there were no other occupants, so Blane slipped from his seat and started after them as they crossed the avenue diagonally.
"Here, you!" cried a policeman as Robert Henry Blane deserted his stolen taxi. "Where are you going? You can't leave' your garbage can there."
The Wasp turned, stared at the officer for a moment, then rushed back to him as if impelled by a sudden desire to communicate a secret. To the Texan it was a ticklish moment. The taxi was a stolen one and this fact might be made known to the law at any moment.
"What's your name?" gasped Blane. "Quick! Your name?"
The look of simulated interest on the face of the tall Texan startled the policeman. There was authority in the tone of Robert Henry Blane. From the position of an impertinent investigator the cop was thrown into that of a stammering information seeker.
"What's wrong?" he cried. "Why-why, my name is Gilligan!"
The Wasp took u chance, gambling on the reproductive qualities of the Gilligans. "Your brother has been killed!" he shouted.
"Paddy!" screamed the officer. "Is it Paddy that works at Macy's?"
"It's Paddy," said Blane. "Hustle now! I've been hunting for you. Get the station and tell them to send a spare bull to do your work. I'll run you home in the machine."
The policeman turned and rushed for the phone, The Wasp wheeled and dashed across Fourteenth Street in pursuit of the woman and the man. He felt a little sorry for Gilligan. He wished that he had the time to scribble a line to tell the fellow that it was a hoax, but he hadn't a minute to spare. The two he was trailing had already disappeared around the corner of Thirteenth, heading eastward.
Blane picked up the couple on the block between Second and First Avenues. They were moving at a jog trot. Heads thrust forward they plowed across First Avenue, turned into Eleventh Street and, their speed increasing, ran southward along Avenue A.
The Wasp was some fifty paces behind them at Tompkins Square. They scurried along East Eighth and swung into Avenue B. For the space of ten seconds they were out of sight of the Texan as he rushed to the corner. When he reached it he found that they had disappeared. Disappeared completely!
Blane ran along the block. There were no signs of the two. He doubled on his tracks, his keen eyes upon the dwellings, one of which he was certain had given shelter to the two. He was a very angry Blane at the moment, angry because the pair that he had trailed over fifty blocks had ducked into their hole without being seen.
A woman whose dress suggested a social outcast whispered something as he passed her hurriedly. The voice seemed familiar. He turned quickly and stared at her. A shawl covered her head and the lower part of her face, but Blane knew the eyes.
They were the eyes that had examined him as he stepped aboard the steamer at Cherbourg, the eyes of the woman who had spoken to him on Fifth Avenue. The woman who was known to kings and presidents—"The Mystery Woman," "The Green-eyed Countess," "The White Witch."
There was no need for Blane to explain his predicament. She knew. In swift, short sentences she explained the perilous situation.
"It is the house beyond the coal-and-ice sign," she said. "After the stampede from the place in Third Avenue I followed one of them here. I saw your two go in a few minutes ago. We have lost the real man, the person we want more than any one else. The woman is his friend. Who stampeded them? You?"
Hurriedly Blane told of what had happened in the room on Third Avenue. He told of the payment of the immense amount of money to the scientist, of the questions which had been put by the woman, the manner in which he had escaped.
The woman listened attentively. "He should know of that," she cried. "You mean No. 37?" asked The Wasp. "Yes, yes."
"Where is he?" questioned Blane.
"In the house," replied the woman. "The door is open, I believe. Do you think you could find him?
"I'll try," said Blane.
"Tell him of the third question," whispered the Green-eyed Countess. "That is important Very important. If we could find the place where the attack is to be made. If we knew that much! Why, it might be to-night and Hurry! Tell him what you know!"
ROBERT HENRY BLANE walked swiftly to the corner, crossed the
avenue and approached the house which the woman indicated. The
great man-hunter was somewhere inside the building and from what
the woman said it was necessary that he should be informed of the
questions that had been put to The Wasp.
Blane skipped up the worn steps and pushed the door. It opened, admitting him into a hallway, the darkness of which seemed to be of a concrete quality. He moved forward cautiously, every faculty alert. Somewhere in the dark, smelly building was the woman who had badgered him with questions, also two of her companions.
Close to them was the extraordinary man-hunter whose passionate desire to capture the scientific devil who had invented a power that was appalling had led The Wasp to volunteer in the pursuit.
The outstretched hand of the Texan touched a scarred newel post. He stood listening intently. From above there came down to him scraps of conversation, an occasional laugh, the yelp of an infant. He decided to ascend.
Blane reached the first landing. He paused outside a door and listened. The landing reeked with odors, odors that carried the Texan to places far away. The fumes of a defunct risotto that had been heavily charged with saffron and cheese swept The Wasp back to the Via Carlo Alberto at Genoa, where all the damnable odors of the old town, with its crooked narrow streets, stream down to the harbor, The risotto had been consumed hours before, but its breath remained.
Blane listened at the first door. A man was berating his wife for extravagance, using the soft Italian of Piedmont The Wasp moved to the second door. A boy's sleepy voice questioned some one regarding a lost shoe and the sharp answer to his query came in a Catalonian patois. Again the listener moved.
From the third flat came loud, irregular snores. The occupants had retired and the sounds they were making gave no definite clew to their nationality. The Wasp climbed silently to the floor above.
He reached the landing and crept quietly toward a door from beneath which cam$ a faint gleam. He had covered half the distance when he paused. Some one wad on the landing. Some one whom the Texan could not see, but whose presence was made known to him in a peculiar manner. Blane felt that the unseen one was making a tremendous mental effort to find out his, Blane's, identity, and this effort made itself felt.
There flashed through the mind of The Wasp the amazing stories that he had! heard regarding the bloodhound qualities of No. 37. He waited, motionless. If the unseen one was the sleuth, he would; quickly discover that it was a friend who shared the landing with him.
And No. 37 did. By what means he made himself certain that it was The Wasp who had mounted the stairs were not apparent to the Texan, but a soft whispered "Blane!" came from the darkness.
Robert Henry Blane crept toward the' spot from which the whisper had come The man-hunter was crouched behind a ladder in one corner of the landing and he had built himself a shelter by means of a few lime bags and some buckets left by a whitewash artist. He reached out a hand and guided Blane to the hiding place.
With mouth close to the ear of the sleuth, The Wasp told swiftly of the payment of the hundred thousand dollars and the questions that had been put to him. Blane knew that the information affected the man-hunter greatly. In the stampede from the Third Avenue house the master mind of the group whose slogan was "Destruction" had been lost sight of, and now the sleuth was wondering as to the answer of that third question which the woman had put to The Wasp.
COMMON sense suggested that the persons who had paid the sum
to the scientist would be keen to have an immediate return in fat
deviltry for the money they had paid out. They would not wish
to postpone the gratification of their unholy desires.
They hungered for destruction, for chaos, disorder and ruin. The answer "Now!" which Blane had given to the woman, and which had evidently been satisfactory, proved that an early trial of the strange power was to be made, but where would that trial take place?
Crouched in the dark of the landing there flashed through the minds of Blane and the man-hunter the immense field that offered itself for the fiendish activities of the scientist from Warsaw. The city ran before their eyes like a great film. From the Battery to Van Cortlandt there were ten thousand great nerve centers that might be paralyzed or destroyed.
Silently, malignantly, fiendishly the human rattlesnake who had formulated the dreadful compound whose destructive powers the detective had witnessed could maim the city. The city that Blane loved! The city whose voice went up to the low-hanging stars so that he felt that he was in communion with the girl who had passed so swiftly beyond his ken!
No. 37 leaned toward The Wasp and the Texan knew that the great sleuth had decided upon some definite action in an endeavor to find an answer to that "Where?" that the woman had barked harshly in testing the bona fides of the adventurer.
"We must find out at once where this job is to be pulled off," whispered the sleuth. "At once, Blane! I know what they can do because I have seen! They—they could make a ruin of this city! Of New York! Come! I'm going to burst the door in."
The door was a flimsy thing. The strong shoulder of No. 37 shattered a panel and tore the lock from its fastenings. An unleashed bloodhound was the man-hunter. The immediate necessity of finding out the place where the crazy scientist would operate stirred in him some force that made him rather terrifying.
For an instant the two intruders stood at the entrance, then they sprang forward to the door of an inner room that led from the first. Two men had rushed the window leading to the fire escape when the crash of the falling door came to their ears, but their hatred of fresh air foiled their escape.
They were still fumbling with the catch of the window when the sleuth and Robert Henry Blane fell upon them. A pair of invincible fighters were No. 37 and the Texan at that moment. There was no necessity to use guns. They beat down the two men with terrific blows and the detective neatly tripped up the woman, who had seized the opportunity to make a rush for the stairs.
Robert Henry Blane was impressed with the cool deftness of the man-hunter. No. 37 trussed up the two men with a speed that would have done credit to a bulldogging cowboy, performed with less brutality the same service for the woman, then stood back and cautiously examined the capture.
"We must make one of them squeak," he growled. "Give me a hand to drag this fellow into the other room."
The Wasp helped, a little curious to know what methods the great detective would take to secure a confession. They tossed the fellow onto a couch in the front room, thrusting the door to the landing back into place so that the operation would not be observed.
The man had recovered consciousness and was glaring at No. 37 through slitted eyes that suggested Tartar origin. The man-hunter spoke.
"Now, my lad," he said, "something is coming off to-night or to-morrow or some other old time and we've got to know where. Understand? Tell us as quick as you can where the performance takes place."
A demoniacal grin spread over the face of the man. He shook his head. Blane, thinking that the fellow might not speak English, translated the demand of the man-hunter into Russian. The grin on the face of the prisoner widened.
"Well, we must make you talk," growled No. 37. "Got to know, old chap. Untie his right arm, Blane, while I slit his sleeve."
THE snakelike eyes of the captured one watched with interest
the actions of the sleuth. No. 37 ran a sharp knife along the
seam of the man's coat, exposing a thin, white arm.
"Quick!" he growled. "We want the place where the trouble is going to start. Cough it up!"
The grin fled from the face of the prisoner. There was something in the voice and manner of the great sleuth that would chase the smile from the face of a faun. The cold eyes, the grim mouth, the nose and battling chin told of a determination that trampled on difficulties.
There was a moment of inactivity while the sleuth waited for an answer, then a yelp of pain came from the prisoner. The strong hand of the-hunter of criminals had come smartly down upon the funny bone of the fellow's arm. Cunningly and accurately No. 37 had smitten that sensitive ulnar nerve that when struck sends exquisite pains through the arm and fingers.
The Texan Wasp watched with some astonishment. The man-hunter struck again—again and again. From the yelps of the prisoner it seemed that each succeeding tap on the delicate nerve increased the agony. The torture was multiplied by the continuous application of the sleuth's hand.
The prisoner screamed. The Wasp, at a signal from No. 37, thrust a cloth into the fellow's mouth.
"Nod your head when you are ready to tell," growled the man hunter, addressing his victim, then to Blane he added: "The French police have found this a most efficacious way of loosening the tongues of tough scoundrels. You must know how to do it properly or it doesn't work. Watch! He'll talk directly."
The man-hunter was correct in his diagnosis of the prisoner's inability to withstand the stinging pains produced by the smart blows delivered cunningly to the nerve. The fellow nodded his head vigorously and Blane removed the cloth from his mouth.
"Quick!" cried the sleuth. "Tell us! Where are they going to do it?"
"At the bridge!" gasped the man.
"At what bridge! Hurry now!"
The prisoner was silent for a moment; the great pursuer of criminals lifted his hand.
"The big bridge!" gurgled the fellow. "The big bridge that goes to Brooklyn!"
Robert Henry Blane startled the sleuth by a little cry of alarm. No. 37 glanced at him. The face of the adventurous Texan had become suddenly gray with horror. The slight scar on his right jaw showed like a streak of chalk in the wash of nausea brought by the confession.
"Brooklyn Bridge!" screamed Blane, his strong hands clutching the shoulders of the prisoner. "Brooklyn Bridge?"
The prisoner saw the light of murder in the gray eyes of The Texan Wasp and tried vainly to wriggle out of his grip. He dropped into the Slavic tongue, screaming protests regarding his own innocence in the plot.
"When is it to happen?" roared The Wasp. "When? When? Speak, you hound, or I'll throttle you!"
"To-night at midnight!" screamed the frightened devil on the couch. "At mid-night! At—at Don't choke me! Don't!"
No. 37 restrained The Wasp. He pushed the Texan aside and took up the questioning.
"Where do they meet?" he cried. "Out with it! It's twenty minutes to midnight now. Talk, damn you! Talk!"
The terrified believer in the gospel of destruction had difficulty in expressing himself. In mixed Slavic and stammering Americanese he explained. There was to be a meeting at a house on Greenwich Avenue and later, some minutes before midnight, the scientist from Warsaw would meet the other conspirators at the corner of Bank and Hudson and ride with them to the Brooklyn side of the bridge where the attempt would be made.
"Steady, Blane! Steady!" cried the sleuth. "Something has rattled you. Pull that door aside. We'll take this baby along with us and go. Give me a hand to get him on my shoulder."
BUT Robert Henry Blane forestalled the action of the man
hunter. The strong arms of The Wasp wound themselves around the
waist of the prisoner, jerked the fellow onto the broad shoulders
and held him there without apparent effort as the detective
pulled the door away to let him pass. A fighting fury was The
Wasp. Down the dark stairway he stumbled, the weight of the man
on his shoulder unnoticed as the wave of horror produced by the
confession swept through him.
The detective was the first to reach the avenue. Behind him came Blane with his burden, the prisoner uttering little squawks of fear. There was a terrible earnestness about the man who carried him, a fearful earnestness that crumpled the spirit of the rat and shot him through and through with the darts of fear.
The Mystery Woman rushed across the street when she saw the little procession emerge. Hurriedly No. 37 gave her an explanation of what had taken place.
"Go up and guard them," he cried. "Get a policeman to help. I'll be back. Don't worry! We'll beat them!"
The detective marveled at the strength of Robert Henry Blane as he followed the Texan at u jog trot to the corner. Blane carried the prisoner without an effort. He ran with his burden, ignoring his companion's offers of help.
"Round here!" cried The Wasp, swinging toward St. Mark's Place. "We've got a better chance of getting a machine."
A home-going chauffeur, halted by the yell of No. 37, swung his machine to meet them. He saw the prisoner on the back of The Wasp as the Texan came closer and he immediately objected.
"Huh! Kidnapin'!" he cried. "Nothin' doin'. Tell it to the cops. Here's one now."
A policeman came around the corner and the man-hunter hurried toward him. The interview was short. The offices rushed the machine, helped The Wasp to load his prisoner into the body of the cab, then sprang up beside the driver.
"Let her whoop!" he cried. "Corner of Bank and Hudson and everything goes!"
The chauffeur showed himself a repressed speed maniac. He tore across the town with that splendid contempt for life and limb that grips a driver who has the law at his side. He gurgled with delight as he smashed up friendly formations and made night birds hop for the pavement. Ordinarily he hated the police, but he found himself glancing affectionately at the officer who sat beside him.
The taxi swung into Hudson and drove toward the place of meeting. The man-hunter, watch in hand, leaned forward and peered ahead. Midnight was chiming.
It was Robert Henry Blane that gave the little groan of anguish as they swung across the street. The Wasp saw defeat. A black roadster sprang away from the curb as the taxi tore down upon the corner. It was a slinky, belly-to-the-ground roadster that talked speed with all cylinders. It flung back a snort of defiance as it straightened out along Hudson, leaping southward at a speed that made the taxi driver curse.
Blane glanced at the man-hunter as the taxi followed bravely. There was no despair visible on the face of the great hunter of criminals. The eyes, hard as frozen hailstones, looked directly ahead; the thin lips, right-drawn, hardly showed the line of the mouth; the chin was thrust forward belligerently. In the mind of No. 37 there was a fixed conviction that the criminal never won.
THE cop on the front shouted encouragement to the driver of
the taxi. The chauffeur crouched over the wheel and prayed to the
little tin gods that look after taxicabs. But the roadster was a
monster kangaroo that drove triumphantly through the night, each
leap widening the distance between it and the lumbering
pursuer.
And then Fate, heavy-footed, triple-armored Fate, interfered.
A lumbering milk truck, loaded with empty cans, came stumbling down Tenth Street. It was a roughneck camion, gruff and greasy, a street hooligan in its way, chock-full of a belief that roystering roadsters and willy-boy sedans would keep their groomed carcases out of its path.
It bellowed to the oncoming roadster, but the roadster unloosed an hysterical yelp and held to its path. The camion was astounded. For a second it looked as if the impudence of the roadster had left the big truck powerless to defend its street rights, then it recovered itself, waddled forward like a tank going into battle, and struck.
There was an appalling crash. The roadster squealed. It was lifted suddenly upward like a decorated matador hoisted on the horns of an angry bull, then it staggered forward with strange, epileptical movements, struck the curb and capsized with a crazed spluttering of shattered parts.
No. 37, the policeman, and Robert Henry Blane were the first upon the scene. The officer, dragged the driver of the roadster from the wreckage; Blane pulled out a badly injured man that he immediately recognized as the person who had paid the hundred thousand dollars to the scientist, but it was left to the man hunter himself to get the madman from Warsaw who had found the terrible destructive force.
The scientist had been thrown from the car at the moment of the collision and driven with great force into the regiment of empty milk cans that filled the camion. His head had struck the containers and it was a lifeless form that the sleuth carried to the sidewalk.
The driver of the roadster was alive; so was the man who had hired the scientist; but the great inventor had passed on, knocked out by a little tap from the paw of fate as he was preparing to astonish the world by a campaign of frightfulness.
A crowd gathered. Police arrived. The driver of the hooligan camion denied negligence and sought witnesses.
"The roadster had cut in under me nose an' had got wot wuz comin' to it." He called upon the stars to witness his innocence. He was kind to small machines. Always!
An ambulance clattered up. The crowd milled around, tossing scraps of news to late comers sucked toward the group that grew like a cluster of bees in swarming time. It was great stuff for the crowd—two dead and one knocked unconscious.
Suddenly the voice of the camion driver was lifted up in a great shout of rage, a shout that was so impregnated with fierce indignation that it broke the mussel-like formation of packed humans clustered around the bodies. Heads swung swiftly as the fellow screamed.
"Me cans!" roared the driver. "What thievin' blighter has gone an' stolen me milk cans?"
The cry came to the ears of No. 37. It flicked him like a whip. An unsatisfied hunger within his brain drooled as the shout of anguish came to him. He turned and rushed to the camion.
The milk cans from between which the man-hunter had hauled the dead scientist had disappeared. Disappeared completely. At the moment of the collision they had stood valiantly together, handle to handle, now only one solitary can that had stood by itself at the rear of the camion was left out of the battalion.
The hands of the sleuth pawed the floor of the camion. His fingers found little mounds of red rust. Red rust and the broken fragments of a bottle made of some peculiarly hard substance that resembled jade! The terrible solvent which the scientist was carrying had been spilled at the moment when he was hurled into the milk cans and it had hurriedly devoured the containers during the minutes of excitement that followed the accident.
The man-hunter spoke to the driver of the camion.
"Take the machine to your depot," he ordered. "Don't let any one touch it. I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't worry. There will be no trouble for you and I'll pay for the loss of the cans. On your way."
Hours later Robert Henry Blane sat at breakfast in the elegant bachelor apartment that he occupied in The Montespan. The room reflected the character of the distinguished adventurer who occupied it. It was furnished with excellent taste, so that pieces whose points of origin were separated by thousands of leagues were skillfully placed in harmony.
A pleasant, smiling colored valet served Robert Henry Blane. A deft colored man who cooked and tended for the master that he loved. As he placed the hot sausages and toast upon the table, he spoke.
"Mistah Henny Blane, yo' uncle tally-phoned jest after twelve, suh," he said. "He jest wanted to tell you that he an' yo' cousin, Miss Kitty, had motored back from Brooklyn after the darnce at the Hotel Margaret. Yessuh. Miss Kitty spoke up an' says I wuz to tell you that she jest darnced her head right off. Yessuh. It was jest thutty minutes after twelve when they tallyphoned."
Robert Henry Blane smiled softly. "That's good, Peter," he said quietly. "I thought of them in the evening and wondered a little about their safety. I knew they would come back over Brooklyn Bridge."
"Yessuh," murmured Peter.
BLANE paused in his eating, thrust a hand into a pocket of his
coat and brought forth five packages of bills which he placed
beside his plate.
"Yes, I worried a trifle," continued The Wasp. "You see, Peter, there was a real bad man out on a rampage. A fellow who thought he could destroy the city. Fools paid him some money to do it. He fell in, Peter. The Lord grabbed him, and I managed to grab half the money that had been paid to him. It's quite a bunch of money."
The negro stared open-mouthed at the packages of thousand-dollar bills. "Gollyhop!" he murmured. "Gollyhop!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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