Chapter XXIII

The after-midnight experience, especially the cruel killing of Pat's pet cockatoo, distressed me terribly. I was still feeling nervous and depressed the next morning when, after a hasty breakfast, I caught an early train for the city. I took a taxi-cab at the railroad terminal, and drove straight to the office of the Royal Parchment Paper Company, in Beekman Street, which is in the downtown district.

I did not reveal my identity--there was no reason why I should--simply explaining that I was interested in seeking out the maker of a very interesting scroll that had come into my possession, the parchment paper of which bore the firm's water-mark. In less than ten minutes, a point of high importance was settled. The parchment paper used in the scroll was identified as a heavy grade formerly manufactured by this concern but discontinued about three years before.

As it was a wholesale house, selling its products only in bulk to retailers, I was beginning to lose hope that I should ever be able to track this particular brand of parchment paper when, by great good luck, one of the assistant officials recalled having sold a small quantity of it, from the remaining store-room stock, to an aged, silver-haired man, four months back.

He remembered the transaction very well indeed because the customer explained that he had been looking for some time for this special, heavy grade of parchment paper, as he made it a business of transforming newly manufactured parchment into ancient-looking family and historical documents, for which he found a ready market among dealers in antiques.

He walked out of the office carrying his purchase, leaving no name and no address. As it was raining heavily at the time, the assistant official, because of the customer's age and apparent infirmities, followed him to the door with an umbrella, and politely volunteered to call a taxi. After he had done this, he put the old man into the cab. And now, after an interval of four months, he recalled the address the customer had given the taxi-driver: "Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street."

This remarkable display of memory sent me off at once to another field of inquiry. In a small, musty, corner curio and book shop, at Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street, I found a courteous, white-haired old man, looking rather shaggy and unkempt, who recognized the scroll at once as a sample of his own handicraft. He did not know, of course, he said, for what purpose it was to be used, nor did he seem to care; and he appeared equally unconcerned over the strange inscriptions it contained. He seemed both surprised and grieved when I showed him the water-mark. Apparently, he believed that I had been taken in by some antique dealer, in the purchase of the scroll as an ancient document.

"I do not often make a slip like that," he said, "and I am very sorry indeed if I've caused my customer any embarrassment. He did not specify that it should look old, but just different from the usual run of scrolls. For instance, he requested me to perfume the gum that holds the parchment securely to the ebony roller."

"That's all very interesting," I said, as calmly as I could. "Now, there's just one more question--did your customer reveal his name?"

The old bookseller shook his head. "I have no idea who he is," he replied; "no idea at all of his actual identity. He paid me a pretty stiff price in advance for my work. That's all that interested me."

"Can you describe him?" I asked.

He took off his spectacles, and wiped them carefully on a frayed, white silk handkerchief. "No," he said, finally and slowly. "I'm afraid I can't describe him. My memory and eye-sight are both failing fast. If you were to leave here now, and an hour later, some one was to ask me to describe your appearance, I would be utterly at a loss. I do recall, however, that he was middle-aged, well-dressed, and well bred--a gentleman, I should say."

"And that is all you know of him?" I persisted.

"That's all I know of him," the old man assented. "Well, yes, I do just remember one other thing. The day he called for the scroll, he apologized for his hurried departure, saying that he had only a few minutes in which to keep an important engagement in Radio Center, and make his train."

"Ah!" I breathed. "Did he mention taking a train on any particular railroad?"

"No," was the reply. "But after he'd gone, I found a Long Island Railroad time-table on my desk. Evidently he had left it behind--forgotten it in his haste."

After some further questioning, I went away. At noon, I met McGinity, having promised the night before to join him at lunch, in town, and submit all the evidence I had collected about the water-mark in the scroll. The restaurant was one of his own choosing, a cheerful but obscure eating-place in the Times Square section, noted for its home-cooking and excellent beer, and largely patronized by newspaper reporters working in that district.

The reporter listened to my story with signs of ever increasing interest, as we sat together in a dining nook, and when it came to an end, he exclaimed: "'Middle-aged--well-dressed--well bred!' You see? Olinski! without a doubt."

"No, I don't see it at all," I answered. "The old bookseller's vague description of the man who gave him the order for the scroll, in my opinion, doesn't fit Olinski. True, there's evidence that the man left hurriedly for an important engagement at Radio Center, and later, to catch a train on the Long Island Railroad, but that proves nothing against Olinski. Why should he rush off to keep an appointment in Radio Center, when he spends most of his time in his laboratory there? Besides, he's perfectly familiar with the time schedules of the railroad, so far as Sands Cliff is concerned."

"Then, if it wasn't Olinski, it must have been his accomplice," McGinity persisted. "There's more than one person mixed up in this."

"Undoubtedly you're right," I concurred. "But it would be just as easy and logical to suspect Prince Matani. Personally, I would suspect the Prince of doing anything, short of murder, for money. He's been trying to force Henry's hand for some time, in regard to Pat, and failing, this may have been his revenge. But acting only as a paid agent for a superior intellect, who put the thing over in a much bigger way, perhaps, than the Prince had anticipated."

"If this is true, then it will account for the Prince falling in a fit the first time he set eyes on Mr. Zzyx," the reporter suggested. "He expected to find a small baboon, and he finds a monster. Then, he vanishes. Very odd that he should go off to California--disappear like that."

"You've taken the words right out of my mouth," I rejoined, with a benign smile. "However, as matters are now shaping themselves, it's my opinion that any suspicions we may have regarding either Olinski or the Prince are coming to a quick end. We might as well attach suspicion to Mamie Sparks, our colored laundress."

"Well, at any rate, Mr. Royce," said McGinity, "one thing is pretty well established in my mind, and that is--if the perpetrator of this gigantic fraud isn't a lunatic, he's certainly been carried away by some strange fanatical motive."

"The facts of the case are all very strange, and very puzzling," I observed. "I have been reflecting on the matter for the last hour or so, since leaving the old bookseller, and I'm beginning to feel that we're up against a pretty difficult task--perhaps an impossible one."

"Oh, please, don't say that, Mr. Royce!" the reporter said, earnestly. "We may be all tangled up in this web of mystery, but we've got a start--just a thread of a clue--haven't we? Not such a big one but still a start. If we keep on the alert, we may run into something else that will put us in possession of another thread of a clue. That'll be two threads, won't it?"

"Yes," I replied, lugubriously; "but as far as I can see at present, things look pretty hopeless, and we might as well stop now with our investigations, and let matters take their natural course."

"That I'll never do," said McGinity, bringing his fist down on the table, as though to accentuate his determination to see things through. "You must remember, I've been taken in, as well as your brother Henry, and on my shoulders rests the responsibility of all those printed articles of mine."

"And not inventions, either," I said, "but stories founded on facts. You can excuse--facts."

"Not if they're fictitious facts," said McGinity; "and it's my duty now to expose their falsity to the public. No, Mr. Royce, we can't turn back now!"

As he spoke the last word, a boy selling a special extra of an afternoon paper, entered the restaurant, and came straight to our table. "Want a paper, Mister?" the boy asked me. I shook my head, but as soon as McGinity had glimpsed the big, front page headline he snatched a paper out of the boy's hand.

Within a second he was directing my attention to the glaring headline, which read: "Martian Rocket Disappears--Stolen!" and then to a space in the center of the page, headed: "Very Latest News," under which appeared a few lines, printed in red ink. Together we read them:

"New York police notified today by officials of New York Museum of Science that the Martian rocket, found on Long Island, near the estate of Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, and placed on exhibition in the museum, was stolen from its glass-case during the night. Watchman found bound and drugged. While nothing uncovered so far to establish clue to identity of daring thieves, police have obtained information showing theft was committed by two men, who were seen to leave the museum, carrying the rocket, and drive off in a small van, about three o'clock this morning."

Before I could speak, McGinity jumped to his feet, and made for a telephone booth. Five tense minutes passed, then he burst out of the booth, and came to me.

"Ah!" he said, excitedly; "now, we're getting somewhere."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Just this," the reporter replied. "The theft of this rocket proves conclusively that the superior intellect, the master mind, is back on the job. Something has forced him out of hiding--out of the unknown into which he passed about three months ago. He's getting scared. He realizes that the finger of suspicion, sooner or later, will be pointed at him, and he's trying to destroy all evidence of his guilt."

"That is, of course, a possibility," I agreed. "But this theft of the rocket, now. Why, to me, it makes the whole thing seem more and more of a puzzle."

"It's the best thing that could have happened," McGinity observed. "It will prepare the public for the exposé, which is bound to come now, and put your brother in right. Public sentiment is always with the man who has been duped."

"Does this mean that we will not go on with our investigations?" I inquired.

McGinity shook his head. "My instructions from the Desk," he answered, "which I just received on the phone, are to continue with our private investigations. And my first job is to make contact as soon as possible with your brother Henry. And let me say, right here, that I think it highly important that we keep nothing back from him. We must give him a clear, succinct account of the whole matter as we know it up to this moment."

"Whew!" I exclaimed. "You don't know Henry. He would consider any move like that, on our part, as highly meddlesome, even offensive."

"But in enlisting his services in tracking down the stolen rocket--ten to one, it's been dumped in the East River, which is only a few blocks from the museum--we must acquaint him with all the particulars that have come to light. Tell what we know and suspect in the matter. He's got to know sometime--why not now?"

"Very well, then," I assented; adding, with an amused chuckle: "Looks like we've got a very busy afternoon ahead of us."

"Busy isn't the word," McGinity rejoined, as he began making some hasty notes on a bunch of copy-paper, which he always kept handy in his coat pocket. "However, this is only the beginning."

"What are you making notes for?" I asked, curiously. "Are they for your paper, or the police?"

"Neither," replied McGinity. "They are intended for broadcasting. After I'd talked to my City Editor, I got Mr. Scoville of the NRC on the phone, and he's promised to have a good description of the rocket put on the air at three o'clock this afternoon, again at six, and at nine this evening."

"Excellent idea," I said, enthusiastically. "I only wish there was something I could do. What can I do?"

"Well, Mr. Royce," replied McGinity, as he finished making his notes, and gave me a smile and roguish wink that meant much, "a reward is always useful in these matters. Money can do things that mere words can't do."

"I see what you mean," I responded slowly. I thought a moment, and then said: "If my belief's correct, the sooner we lay hands on the two men who stole the rocket the better! Yes? Well, Mr. McGinity, I'm quite willing to help out on this, in a small way, of course. I'll offer a reward of $5,000--"

"Five thousand dollars!" McGinity interrupted, gleefully. "That's a whole lot of money, Mr. Royce, and I'm sure it's going to help solve the mystery. And say--here's an idea that occurs to me. Why not phone Olinski now, at once, and get a detailed description of the rocket from him. And then ask him--also for me--if he ever visited a certain curio and bookseller's shop at the corner of Stuyvesant Place and Twelfth Street. If he doesn't answer you directly, and begins to question you--well, just hang up. Better hurry now!"

I am easily excited, and I certainly felt my heart thump as I hurried into one of the compartments of the telephone booth, to carry out the reporter's suggestions, while McGinity stepped quickly into the adjoining section, to conclude the necessary arrangements by telephone for broadcasting the $5,000 reward.

I smiled to myself as I impatiently awaited a response to my call. There I was, a staid member of society, a pillar of the church, holding dignified offices in at least a dozen of the most exclusive and conservative clubs of New York--tracking down an ingeniously concocted scheme to ruin my brother's reputation as a scientist, with the self-possession of a Hercule Poirot, or any other equally distinguished detective of fiction; lunching at a reporters' hangout, and, now, about to perform a rather dirty trick on my good friend, Olinski--altogether putty in the hands of a very audacious but ingratiating reporter.

Luckily for me, Olinski was reported "out" at his laboratory. In fact, he hadn't been in for two days; obviously his staff was worried.

"Of course, Olinski's out," muttered McGinity, when I told him; "he's got other business to attend to--pressing business." And then he proceeded to begin preparations to leave. "Now, we'd better get along to Sands Cliff--quick! Our next job's there."

The reporter's car was waiting for us, and in less than an hour we were outside our lodge-gate. The big iron gate is usually kept open during the day-time, but now it was closed. As there was no sign of the lodge-keeper, McGinity got out and opened the gate. When we rolled through, the radiator was spouting hot water and steam like a miniature Yellowstone Park geyser. The reporter had whirled me along country roads and through villages, in the drab light of a cloudy November afternoon, at a speed not at all to my liking.

Parking the car just inside the gate, we drew near the gray-walled castle. Something ominous was in the air. A deadly chill, floating in across the terrace from the dark waters of the Sound, seemed to penetrate to our very bones. Everything was weirdly silent. No sign of life. I grew very anxious and uncomfortable, although the incredible truth did not dawn upon me. Why was everything so horribly silent? Where were the usual sounds and stir of a big country estate? Why this tomb-like castle?

I was surprised to find the front door open. Within a few seconds we had entered, and were standing in the great, vaulted entrance hall, now dark and gloomy. Not a sound, nor a movement!

And then, suddenly, in the gloom and silence, we saw something that struck terror in our hearts. Jane--dear, lovable old Jane--lying, still as death, face downward, on the floor, at the base of the great staircase. Showing vividly on the stone steps, from top to bottom, were blotches of dark red. They looked like bloody footprints.