Chapter XXXI

The visitor turned out to be a stout, middle-aged Italian, rather furtive-looking; a stranger to me, but evidently not unfamiliar to Chief of Police Meigs, who moved towards him the moment he entered the room.

"Oh, hello, Antonio!" the Chief accosted him. "When did you get out of the bastile? You've shaved off your mustache. Trying to disguise yourself?"

"I am no crook," the Italian retorted. "I come to see de lady of de house."

"Oh, that explains your visit, eh?" the Chief said. Then he turned to Mrs. LaRauche. "Do you know this man?"

"Yes," she replied. "He's our former, and particularly objectionable, neighbor, who got ninety days in jail for mistreating the animals he was training."

"Excuse, ma'am," the Italian said, wriggling uncomfortably, "but dat is not true."

"No matter," she rejoined. "I dare say it never struck you, Mr. Ranzetti, that I was made very uneasy and unhappy by members of your menagerie roaming at large on our place."

There was no reply to this, I felt. By that time, I had the visitor all straightened out in my mind.

"At any rate, why have you come to see me?" Mrs. LaRauche continued.

"I don' know what to doa about it, lady," the Italian stammered; "dat's why I coma to you."

"About what?" she asked, her eyes twinkling good-humoredly.

"About--Peter," the man faltered; and then, to our great surprise, the tears began to roll down his prison-pale, furrowed, cheeks.

"What do you suppose is the matter with the poor fellow?" Mrs. LaRauche asked, turning to Chief Meigs.

The Chief shook his head, and then tapped the visitor on the shoulder. "What's on your mind, Antonio?" he inquired.

The Italian swallowed hard, then clutched the Chief by the arm. "Maybe you can helpa me, Meester Policesamans," he wailed. "I search every place since I got out of de jug, for my poor Peter. In the zoo, I find my bears, my seals, my monkeys, but no Peter."

"One of your animals missing? Is that it?" the officer inquired.

"I no can finda Peter," the animal trainer replied, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "Maybe, he escape in de night, after de cops tooka me away."

"And when was that?" I interrogated.

The reply to my question came from Mrs. LaRauche. "I happen to know," she said. "Strangely enough, Mr. Ranzetti was arrested on the very night Rene made his flight into the sub-stratosphere, transmitted that spurious message from Mars, and afterwards dropped the rocket near your beach. He was arrested, and taken to jail, early in the evening."

I caught my breath, rose, and made straight for the visitor. "Who was this--Peter?" I asked. "A chimpanzee?"

"I tought he was a chimpanzee, Meester, when I boughta him, as a baby, in East Africa," the Italian replied, "but he got bigger and bigger, and he done t'ings no chimpanzee never has done. Sometimes, Meester, he looka and acta so mucha lika de biga, reala man, I t'ink I snuffa da coke. I traina him in secret. Teacha him de grand tricks. I mean, someday, to maka de great sensation with my Peter. He maka my fortune. But, now, poor Peter, he gone! I no finda him. I looka every place--every place."

My eyes wandered to McGinity, and he read my thoughts. He jumped from his chair, and moved to the side of the tearful trainer. He handed him a cigarette; even lit it for him.

"T'anka you, Meester," the Italian breathed fervently.

"That's better, now,--what?" McGinity said, patting him on the shoulder. "Well, I think I can tell you what happened to Peter," he went on, "but first you must tell me what tricks you taught him."

The Italian brightened perceptibly. "Oh, Meester!" he exclaimed, proudly, "I teacha Peter to act lika de gentlemans, to sit at de table, and eata and smoka de cigarettes, like de big millionaire, and never to maka de spit on de floor. I teacha him to sleep in de bed, to look at de picture books, to ride de bike, and lock and unlock de door of his cage."

"Was Peter always tractable? I mean by that--did you find it easy to teach him these tricks!"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. "Peter, he was a funny fellow. Sometimes, he doa whata I say, and, sometimes, Meester, he doa nothing at all. He go hide in de closet, or under de bed. He act veery bad."

"Lapses, eh? He did things you didn't want him to do?" McGinity interrogated further.

"Once, Meester, he go nuts--clean nuts. He maka de fight wid de pillow. He tried to smother me--killa me! What doa you say for dat? Killa me! For two days, I lock him up in de dark closet, den he hammer on de door, lika I teacha him to doa, and cry to git out--cry lika a leetle boy cry for his spaghetti."

"Oh! He liked spaghetti, did he?"

"Did my Peter lika de spaghetti?" the Italian echoed rather explosively. "And he lika de good wine too; he drinka plenty, and no git sloused. And, spaghetti--why, Peter, he lika de spaghetti so much he learn to speaka de name. Maybe, you don' believe a big champanzee speaka de Anglish word, spaghetti. Well, Meester, I swear--" he hesitated a moment and reverently crossed himself--"I swear he speaka dat word jist as good as you or me, only, Peter, he say--'spaghet!'"

The word, as the Italian pronounced it, or rather hissed it, with emphasis on the last syllable, brought Henry instantly to his feet, out of a sort of dozy quietude.

"You think it's possible?" he gasped, his gaze fixed on the reporter.

"I think so," McGinity replied.

The word, indeed, carried such convincing evidence that it was impossible to think otherwise than that Mr. Zzyx was no other than Peter, Antonio Ranzetti's missing chimpanzee.

McGinity began to walk up and down the room, hands in pockets, while I explained to Mrs. LaRauche, and Chief Meigs, the new evidence we had just succeeded in getting from the Italian animal trainer.

"Oh, Mr. McGinity!" exclaimed Mrs. LaRauche in astonishment. "Is it possible that you've solved the mystery of Mr. Zzyx? What is your theory? Tell us, quickly, what you think happened?"

"Well," said McGinity, after a pause, "Antonio has just given us some important information, but whether it'll clear up matters, I can't say. Anyhow, here it is:

"Now, we've got to guess what happened. In my opinion, Peter, the missing chimpanzee, answers Mr. Zzyx's description in every detail. He probably got out of his cage--he knew how to operate a lock--and escaped from his keeper's house after Antonio had been arrested. He roams about in the dark, finally reaching LaRauche's flying field. Somehow, he gets into the hangar. Nosing about curiously, he climbs up on the rocket. Finding the door into the projectile open, he creeps inside, curls up, and goes to sleep. According to Antonio, the chimpanzee was accustomed to doing things like that, hiding in queer, dark places, like a closet, or under the bed.

"Now, he's still fast asleep when LaRauche returns from his sub-stratosphere flight," McGinity continued. "No doubt LaRauche had inspected the interior of the rocket, and placed the box containing the scroll inside, earlier in the evening. It was all ready to be hooked on to the plane; the only thing left to be done was to seal it. This LaRauche could accomplish in a few minutes, using a torch-blower to fuse the metal-catch that secured the door. If the noise awakened Peter, well, it was just too bad! He couldn't get out, and he couldn't make himself heard.

"How he ever survived the concussion, when the rocket was dropped from the plane to the beach, or escaped suffocation during the night, is something beyond me. But he did survive, and he had strength and sense enough to attract outside attention by hammering against the metal sides of the rocket. This trick of hammering, when he wanted to get out of a dark place, like a closet, he had been taught by his master, Antonio."

McGinity's summing-up brought matters towards a conclusion. We had come to the end of this drama of mystery, which, in its twisted course, involved the loss of three lives--perhaps four, for LaRauche was still to be accounted for.

The interview had no sooner ended when McGinity became very restless, and wanted to get back to the castle. A state of nerves which I could not but regard as possessing a certain significance. He was anxious to get back to Pat.

* * * * *

The next day we learned how Orkins had met his death, showing both McGinity and I, and Police Chief Meigs, were wrong in our idea that he had been shot in the back by LaRauche as he ran up the stairs. The autopsy disclosed that he had shot himself.

There was a fight between the two men, that was sure, after LaRauche had surprised his manservant at the telephone, in the act of betraying his master to the police for a price, in connection with the theft of the rocket. Maybe there was murder in the mad scientist's eye; maybe he tried to down Orkins and strangle him to death. He must have put a terrible fear in his servant's heart.

But it's pretty hard to kill a strong and active man like Orkins, unarmed. The powder marks on his chest showed the bullet had been fired at close range. Still, there was no sign of a revolver.

It was a fat-headed policeman, assigned by Chief Meigs to guard the house for the night, after our interview with Mrs. LaRauche, who found something in the bottom of the antique grandfather's clock which stood on the first landing of the stairs. He called up the Chief, and said: "Looks like this is what we're after."

It was, Chief Meigs discovered. A little plated revolver bearing the monogram "O," which Orkins no doubt kept safely hidden away on his person. The implication was that after he had run away from LaRauche and dashed up the stairs, he had stopped on the landing, where, seized with sudden remorse for his act of betrayal, he had shot himself through the heart.

It is easy to imagine the small revolver slipping from his grasp as he fell backwards, his body plunging down the stairs, and being flung with such force that it hurtled across the landing and fell in the bottom of the clock. There was no glass in the door of the clock, so it must have worked that way.

* * * * *

Rene LaRauche was never seen again. In my opinion the poor old man, terrified at the sudden turn of events, and rational enough to realize that he would be involved in the death of Orkins, made his reckless escape by plane. No one will ever know, I dare say, and it doesn't matter now.

A week after he had winged his way into the night, portions of his plane were washed ashore at Cape Henry, in Virginia. He had set out on his night flight, apparently purposeless, and had perished at sea. All very sad and regrettable, but out of his tragedy, buried deep in the dark waters of the Atlantic, his fame survived, and rose transcendently to heights he had never attained while alive.

Henry knew how to take advantage of his opportunities. Immediately he founded and sponsored a nation-wide movement among scientists to glorify and immortalize the name of Rene LaRauche. Thus, strange as it may seem, the perpetration of the greatest hoax known within living memory became the crowning achievement of the scientist's career.

In the deviltries of a deranged mind, prompted by his insane jealousy and hatred of Henry, LaRauche had made the world Mars-conscious to a degree greater than ever before in its history. Through his original and astounding conceptions of life and conditions on that planet, he had brought within the bounds not merely of possibility, but of almost immediate probability, the establishing of direct radio communication between Mars and the earth. All this had made a tremendous and lasting impression on the people.

He had proved almost conclusively that life, as we know it, exists on Mars. Actually, he had created a new Mars, and brought it within neighborly distance from the earth. The American people especially were anxious to preserve the feelings of friendliness and sympathy towards a kindred race which he had aroused in their hearts by his Martian revelations, however false. But were they false? Were they not rather prophetic of the true revelations that are destined to come in time?

Now and then I visit the Museum of Science, to see his portrait bust, which adorns a special niche in the museum's hall of fame, and to again survey, with varying emotions, the Martian rocket and the scroll, reposing under glass.

Only recently I drove along the lonely road that winds through the desolate hills which encompass his estate. The old house is closed, doors and windows boarded up, the whole place in utter decay, with a "For Sale" sign, swinging and creaking in the wind, over the front gate. Mrs. LaRauche lives in southern France; we hear she is about to publish a new mystery novel.

* * * * *

Winter has gone, and once again we are ensconced for the summer in the spooky-like castle at Sands Cliff, with the difference that it is no longer spooky. Our heritage of privacy and seclusion regained, life goes on much as before, in peaceful and ordered living.

But still everything is not quite the same. As a family we seem to have outgrown our weak spots. At least, some good has come out of all the exciting and horrible events through which we passed. Our arrogant detachment from the outside world, for one thing, has given way to a more neighborly feeling. We are trying to think more of others than we do of ourselves; we are sharing our inherited benefits with those less fortunately placed, whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Henry Royce, millionaire scientist, no longer exists for the world; rather, Henry Royce, philanthropist and amateur gardener. It is strange how Henry took so naturally and intensively to gardening, and he has covered his tracks as an amateur scientist so completely by his new hobby that no one would possibly suspect that the white-haired, old gentleman, wearing overalls, and a healthy sun-bronze, and hoeing and raking in his garden of herbs, once thrilled the world with his scientific exploits.

Scientific matters are taboo in his presence; the slightest reference to Mars, a painful subject; his splendidly equipped observatory stripped of its astronomical fittings. Nevertheless, after all the evidence presented, which proved beyond all doubt that the Martian revelations were a hoax, I have good reasons to believe that deep down in his inner self, he still clings stoutly to his fanciful theory that the radio messages, the rocket and even Mr. Zzyx, did actually come from Mars. I think he still believes that he was right, and the rest of us all wrong.

And in this secret belief he does not play a lone hand, judging from the spirited correspondence he carries on with Olinski, who is now in Russia, employed as a radio engineer by the Soviet Government. After the bursting of the Martian bubble, Olinski resigned from the National Radio Corporation; he brooded, and as a result, lost his health. He was terribly down-at-the-heel when Henry paid his way back to Russia, by way of the Orient; and in pure justice to the memory of Niki, commissioned him to find the valet's relatives, in the Philippines, and turn over to them the full amount of the reward Niki had won by finding the Martian rocket.

Some months later, Henry received a very sad letter from Niki's old mother, in the Philippines, expressing her mingled grief and gratitude. About the same time, he had a cheerful note from Antonio Ranzetti, who has returned to Italy, to live in ease for the remainder of his life, on the generous contribution Henry made to the animal trainer, as a consolation prize for the loss of Peter, his performing chimpanzee, although Henry would never admit that Mr. Zzyx was really Peter.

Out of the Californian void, into which Prince Matani had disappeared, there came at last an account of his marriage to a beautiful screen star of the first magnitude. By this time, I was past wonder and all power to feel astonishment, but the description of the wedding, as given in the newspapers, gave me food for speculation.

He was married quite recently, only a month or so ago, and the ceremony was performed, at the bride's request, on the lot of one of the big producing corporations, where she was appearing daily in an African jungle story, the filming of which was being rushed to completion. A very informal wedding, in a most unique setting. The minister had just pronounced them man and wife when a fierce, giant gorilla, used as local color in the picture, escaped from its cage, and turned the wedding party into a panic.

Before His Highness had time to kiss his bride, according to the papers--pst!--he passed out, and did not emerge from his strange coma until the following morning.

This second attack puzzled the family. It was pointless for me to confess that I knew the reason, never having disclosed what Olinski had told me in secret, of the Prince's family's hereditary affliction. And just a day or so ago, came further news that the Princess Matani had flown to Mexico, to seek a divorce. Fate seems to have done its worst for the Prince.

None of us really cared much what happened to His Highness, all interest in him in its bearing on Pat having ceased entirely. Which brings me to the last remaining piece of news.