Chapter XXII

There was not much to see when I unrolled the scroll, and inspected it against the lamplight, as McGinity had directed, but what there was assured me that the reporter was right when he said that he had made a find. Now, we knew something.

For a moment, the discovery completely overwhelmed me; I felt a little giddy. It affected me personally, more closely than anything I had ever had to deal with, mainly because of Henry. A sort of vision rose before my eyes. I saw the whole thing about Mars exposed, and my brother crushed in ignominy.

What the reporter had found was in line with what had been running in both our minds, the conviction that a superior intellect was at the bottom of all this Martian mystery, and its various resultants. It revealed a carefully conceived, highly ingenious conspiracy; a cruel and cold-blooded fraud, done in such a fashion as to leave no clue, which would make the tracing of the adroit and utterly unscrupulous perpetrator concerned, very difficult, if not impossible.

But here was a clue, thanks to McGinity's power of observation and reportorial inquisitiveness, even if it was only the ghost of one, that might put us on to the track of the perpetrator. A water-mark, a small translucent design, appeared in the body of the parchment paper, which proved that the scroll had not been made on Mars, but on earth. There it was, as plain as day: "Royal Bond--Made in U. S. A."

McGinity's reportorial and detective instincts combined--all newspaper reporters seem to have been born with a detective complex--quickly sent him again to the secretary, this time to look for a Manhattan telephone book; and while he was thumbing hastily through its pages, I took another squint at the water-mark, in the parchment scroll. I could hardly believe my eyes.

"What we want to find out now," the reporter said, "is the name of the manufacturer of that particular brand of parchment paper. Hello!--here it is. 'Royal Parchment Paper Company, 158 Beekman Street.'"

"Indeed?" I said, as calmly as I could.

"Now, one of us must take the scroll, and call on this firm, the first thing in the morning," he suggested. "They may be able to throw some light on the matter."

"I'll go," I quickly volunteered.

"Good," said McGinity. "Our job now is to find and bring to light the actual perpetrator of this fraud. This water-mark in the parchment may put us on his trail. That's about the situation, isn't it?"

"As far as I'm concerned," I replied, "that is the situation. But I'm afraid we're facing a many-sided problem. You must remember that we are dealing with events so stupendous that they can hardly be conceived by the human mind."

"But we're in possession of one thread now that may guide us through the maze," said McGinity, settling down finally in a chair opposite me. "I admit that what we have to deal with is most extraordinary--almost inexplicable--" he went on; "but here's this much to remember--your own idea, by the way--if this mystery was contrived and worked out by a human mind, then a human mind can discover what it is."

"Quite right," I agreed. "And if the person who made the scroll is the same one who sent those Martian radio messages, and dropped the rocket--"

"Dropped?" McGinity exclaimed, interrupting me. "Of course, that rocket was _dropped_ on the water-front. Dropped! That idea had never occurred to me before. It wouldn't surprise me, Mr. Royce, if you've hit on another clue."

"Yes?" I said, a little bewildered. "Anyway," I began again, "if it is the same person, then I'm sure we can trace him."

"I'll tell you what I think, Mr. Royce," McGinity said; "we shall have to go back--and go back a long way, and find all we can about--Olinski."

"Olinski?" I exclaimed. "Surely, you don't suspect him?"

"He's a radio wizard, isn't he?" the reporter said. "He may have sent those alleged messages from Mars himself. He may have directed them to the moon, round ten o'clock, each night, during the experiments, and they were echoed, or bounced, back to earth. I understand he's quite an inventor besides. Now, he may have invented that rocket--everything--"

"You're forgetting, McGinity," I interrupted. "He couldn't possibly have invented Mr. Zzyx."

"That's so--I'd forgotten Mr. Zzyx," the reporter admitted. "All the same, just to be on the safe side, I think we'd better trace Olinski's career."

"We must remember this," I suggested, "that whoever is at the bottom of this fraud--if it is a fraud--had a definite purpose in putting it over. In criminology, that is called motive. Once you have the motive, the rest comes easier."

"I agree on that, Mr. Royce," said McGinity. "But the thought has just come to me that the perpetrator of this hoax--and I'm convinced now it is a hoax--has got nearly three months' start. Let's suppose, as you suggested, that he's a man who had some definite purpose in putting it over, the man we want to find. Very well, he pulls his two big tricks late in August, the Martian radio message in code, and the rocket from outer space, both occurring on the same night; and from that time, he passes into the unknown. No more messages from Mars. Everything cleaned up in one night."

"On that supposition," I said, "we shall, of course, have to eliminate Olinski, for which I shall be very glad."

"But suppose Olinski is the man we want," McGinity said, vehemently. "What about his having an accomplice? Olinski could be doing something else. And here's something that seems to have struck nobody. How could Olinski decode, so easily and expertly, those radio signals, and the cuneiform writing on the scroll? Besides, he's held on to this scroll like grim death, and never once allowed it to pass out of his hands until tonight, when I wheedled him into lending it to me, to be photographed for a Sunday article I'm writing for the Recorder."

"If you're convinced of Olinski's complicity in this, I'm not," I said, a little heatedly. "I've every confidence in him, and I've got to be shown. So, before we start in pursuit of knowledge of Olinski, you'd better let me follow up this clue of the water-mark, which may lead us to something in the way of success."

McGinity, after some hesitation, agreed to this, and after remaining silent for a few minutes, he said: "You have, of course, no idea who this perpetrator might be?"

"No idea whatever," I promptly replied.

The thing to do, we decided after some further discussion, was to keep everything to ourselves, while we combed out things that might give us a further clue. Above all, neither Henry, nor Olinski, were to know anything whatever about our mistrust.

Meantime, McGinity was to acquaint the editorial executives of his paper with our suspicions, and to ease up on his sensational stories about Mars. On this subject, I felt pretty much at a loss at to what to suggest, but McGinity seemed to know his business. Before we parted for the night, he convinced me that slowing up on a newspaper story, removing it from the front page, reducing it to a few paragraphs, and finally dropping it altogether, was a much easier thing to do than most folk imagine. Besides, he said, the public forgets so easily and quickly.

It was in my mind to make a good start in the morning. I felt sure that the Royal Parchment Paper Company could tell me something that might be of great importance in guiding us to the solution of one of the most devilishly contrived plots I've ever known of.

All that the reporter and I had discussed was passing through my mind, after I had said good-night to him, and was heading down the hall to my own apartment. It was long after midnight. The castle was in darkness, and as quiet as a tomb. But just as I was about to enter my door, Pat came running down the hall, after me. Nearly breathless, she panted out her message. Would I go back to her room, at once? We hurried back, to find Jane there, all in a tremble, and her face showing ashen.

"It's that dreadful thing again," Jane exclaimed. She gave a little shudder, and turned away to get her smelling salts.

"What's up?" I asked. "Everything about the castle seems perfectly normal."

"But they're not," Pat said, miserably. "If you hadn't slept so soundly last night, you might have heard Mr. Zzyx, as I did, sneaking along the hall. Auntie wouldn't believe it when I told her. She said it was impossible for him to get out of his locked room without Niki knowing it."

"Now, dear Pat," I said reassuringly; "haven't you been having another nightmare? I'm positive that Mr. Zzyx was locked in his room, and asleep, at this hour last night, as he is now, tonight--tired out, like all of us, after a very exacting night at the banquet."

"But I'm certain he's not in his room, now," said Pat. "In fact, I've proved he's out, and wandering about."

"Proved?" I asked, amazed, as Jane moved to my side.

"Yes, proved, dear Livingston," Jane whispered. "She tied a silk thread across the hall, between her door and mine, after we came home from the banquet."

"Oh, I see!" I remarked, lightly.

"Nothing to be amused about," said Pat, with a wan, twisted smile. "I did it to prove to Aunt Jane that Mr. Zzyx was snooping about. She stayed in here with me, and we waited to see if anything happened."

"And nothing happened for half an hour," Jane supplemented, taking a good sniff of her sal volatile.

"When, suddenly, we heard something moving outside, in the hall," Pat resumed. "After a few minutes, and we didn't hear anything more, I switched off the lights in here, opened the door a few inches, and looked out. The hall was dark. I could hear the muffled sound of your voice, and Bob's, in his room. That gave me courage, so I stole outside to investigate. I found the thread had been broken."

"That's queer," I observed. "Still, it might have been broken by the butler. Schweizer suffers terribly from insomnia, and has a habit of roaming about the place at night, at unearthly hours. I really don't understand."

"But I do," Jane said, in a low, guttural voice; "and it's your business, Livingston, to rid this place of that terrible creature at once. If you don't, and I should see him roving about, in the dark, I know I'll die of heart failure, instantly." She placed strong emphasis on the last word, and took another strong whiff of her smelling salts.

At that Pat turned to me, the tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Uncle Livingston!" she said, earnestly and pleadingly; "isn't there any chance at all of ending this terrible mystery business about Mr. Zzyx and Mars? Uncle Henry must be losing his mind, or he wouldn't be associated with anything so unearthly and--spooky!"

"While we are still utterly in the dark, my dear," I said, consolingly, "I have a feeling that it's only a question of time when the whole matter will be cleared up." I wished then I could have taken her into my confidence, and told her what McGinity had discovered, about the scroll, but I knew it would be unwise to make any announcement at that stage of the proceedings, when we had only the wildest suspicions to go on. "And, now," I concluded, "I think we'll get to business at once."

"What are you going to do?" Pat asked, eagerly.

"I'm going to rouse McGinity," I replied, "and if your suspicions are correct, we'll find Mr. Zzyx, and put him back where he belongs."

"Lock him up!" Jane exclaimed. "And, for heaven's sake, keep him locked up!"

"Now, you two compose yourselves, and go to bed," I admonished gently but firmly. "You're both quite safe now."

I left the room, and went to my own apartment, where I got my flashlight. A few minutes later, I knocked at McGinity's door. Fortunately, he had not gone to bed. He was still pacing the floor and smoking furiously. The first thing he did, after I had poured out Pat's story to him, was to slip a small revolver in his hip pocket.

"There's no time to lose," I murmured, as we crept out into the hall. "Follow me--and not a sound."

I led the way to the State Apartment. Our difficulty was to effect an entrance into Mr. Zzyx's bedroom without awakening Niki, who slept in the adjoining room. As I stood racking my brains how to get into the creature's room, McGinity, on impulse, tried the door knob. To my amazement, the door opened. We walked into the room. As I trained my flashlight on the bed, he chuckled low, and said: "There's the bed, and, as you see, Pat's right. There's nobody in it."

The bedclothes were in disorder, showing that the bed had been recently occupied. Immediately, we turned our attention to the lock on the door, and found that it was not in working condition. A long brass bolt, on the inside, fitted into a deep groove in the jamb, and that was all there was to fasten the door. This would account for Mr. Zzyx's freedom of egress and ingress, and I smiled to myself at our utter stupidity in not having the lock examined. I wondered why Niki had not informed us about it, long before this. In many things, he was just plain dumb.

After creeping quietly upstairs, we explored the two upper floors, including Henry's observatory. We searched in many queer places, and looked into all the cavernous and gloomy chambers. And then we stumbled on something.

A room at the end of the corridor, on the third floor, used mostly for storage of furniture, bore traces of recent occupancy. A chair had been drawn up to a small table, on which there was a half-burned candle, a picture magazine of quite recent date, and an ash tray containing charred cigarette ends.

As I was examining the room and its contents in the light of my electric torch, a quick exclamation from McGinity directed my attention to a French window, which gave on to an iron-railed, stone balcony.

"There he is!" whispered the reporter; "out on the balcony."

I quickly turned off the flashlight. All I could discern was a black something standing on the balcony, silhouetted against a bright, starlit sky. The next moment, the shadow started to move towards the window. It was perhaps a little foolish of me, but I dashed forward, threw the window open wide, and turned a flood of light upon--Schweizer.

The butler, I immediately recalled, was occupying a bedroom a few doors down the hall from the one we were exploring. After he had explained that he often read and smoked in this room, and walked out on the balcony for fresh air, when he was troubled with insomnia, I dismissed him, without telling him what we were searching for. But he must have guessed it, for I heard him running down the hall to his bedroom.

He had no sooner gone when I was struck by a sudden idea. "It's possible," I suggested, "that Mr. Zzyx, in his after-midnight excursions, visits the butler's pantry, and makes a raid on our refrigerator. He has the appetite and stomach capacity of an ostrich. What do you say?"

"Possible," McGinity concurred. "Let's go."

As I crept stealthily downstairs, with the reporter at my side, I fully expected, at any moment, to be confronted with a long hairy arm, stretching out from some dark corner, to clutch at my throat. My feeling of nervousness increased when, in the midst of our search on the ground floor, my flashlight suddenly failed. We had just stepped into the dining room. I was reluctant to switch on the wall, or ceiling lights, for fear of alarming the servants, or attracting the attention of the night watchman who patrolled the grounds. Under no consideration could we afford to arouse the household, especially Henry.

So we elected to sit down in the darkness and wait for something to happen, possibly the discovery of the prowling Mr. Zzyx. I marveled at the instinct which enabled him to move about so freely in the dark. It was so quiet in the dining room that we could hear the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the library. There we sat, waiting, in the utter silence of the night. One o'clock struck--then half-past.

All the time we were seated there, I fancied I heard a sound quite distinct above the ticking of the clock; a faint, crackling sound, like a dog makes when it is crunching bones between its teeth. I made no mention of it to McGinity, but my heart was going in great sickening thumps. Another ten minutes of strained silence in the darkness, and my nerves were stretched to the limit.

As it turned out, McGinity had heard the same mysterious sound. Also, his eyes becoming more quickly adjusted to the darkness, being so much younger than mine, he saw something that had so far escaped my notice. Flecks of white on the floor, just to the right of us, in front of the heavily curtained French window.

Suddenly, he put his hand on my arm warningly. I heard him draw his breath sharply as he slowly rose, and tiptoed a few steps beyond where we were seated. As I craned forward to try to see what he was up to, he lit his cigarette lighter.

"My God! Look!" I heard him breathe; and, rising, I saw, in the flickering glimmer, a lot of white feathers on the floor. As his lighter quickly burned itself out, the room once more was in darkness. But I had seen enough in that momentary flash to realize that at last we had found something we were waiting for.

"What do you make out of those white feathers?" McGinity whispered, gripping my arm.

"It wouldn't surprise me a bit," I replied, "to find that Mr. Zzyx has killed Pat's white cockatoo."

"Yes; and I'll bet you anything he's somewhere close by, in one of these rooms, enjoying a cold bird, bones and all," his quick whisper came back. "That will account for the funny sound I've been hearing all the time we've been sitting here. Let's turn on the light--take a chance. What do you say?"

My memory of what immediately followed is rather blurred and confused. I have some memory of feeling my way through the library doorway, although how I accomplished it in the dark is more than I can figure out. What I most remember clearly is the strange, eerie sight that met our startled gaze after I had turned on the lights.

Crouching on the floor of the library, confronting us, was Mr. Zzyx, in his pajamas, and surrounded by feathers and bits of bone of the cockatoo, which obviously he had so cruelly slaughtered and devoured. And as we stood there gazing at him, he snarled at us like a wild beast defending its spoils.

Quick as a flash, McGinity's hand went to his hip pocket, but I restrained him. "Leave him alone," I advised. "Let him finish his feast."

"Pat's heart will be broken," McGinity sighed. "How could he do such a horrible, cruel thing?" He lit a cigarette.

"Because he's more animal than man," I answered; "a very dangerous and vicious animal."

We continued to watch him in silence until he had finished crunching the last bone. Then he got to his feet, and started to walk towards McGinity, round whose head spirals of tobacco smoke were curling. There was a dark stain all around the creature's mouth, which made him more repellent and disgusting.

"He wants a cigarette," I suggested.

McGinity gave him one, and lit it. And then, to our amazement, he followed us meekly as we led the way upstairs, and opened the door of his bedroom. He climbed into bed, and pulled the bedclothes over his head, like a child who has been caught in the act and is ashamed of his wrong-doing. Presently he was fast asleep.