Chapter IV

In the darkened music-room Thornley Colton’s fingers wandered idly over the keys, now improvising, now filling the room with the ever-living soul of Beethoven, now swinging crashingly into Wagner; then his fingers on the upper treble brought forth a strange discord of notes through which ran a weird minor melody. The last seemed to please him, for he repeated it, until Sydney Thames, who had been nervously pacing the room, stopped in his tracks.

“What the deuce do you call that?” he demanded, the discords still ringing in his ears. “It’s horrible!”

“Because it doesn’t agree with your orthodox ideas of music,” declared Colton seriously. “That is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I know. It is a Hindustan adaptation of the ‘Chinese Flute Song’ of _Siao She_. It is a fitting accompaniment for this latest case of ours.”

“And just as understandable,” observed Sydney, walking up and down the room again. Colton turned again toward the keys, and Sydney broke out impatiently: “Why don’t you do something, Thorn? Two whole days have passed since you found the man who stole the ruby, and you haven’t done a thing! Osmuhn suspects Mrs. Marle, and she is on the verge of collapse. You haven’t made an attempt to clear up the mystery. It isn’t right! Osmuhn is rapidly losing his patience; his son must stand helplessly by and see the mother of the girl he loves suspected; and the thing is making a nervous wreck of Norvel. It is only a matter of days when he will have to leave the business for good.”

“Osmuhn’s patience became exhausted last night,” Thornley Colton said. “He advised me that he had lost faith in my efforts, and that he was going to call in the police.”

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Sydney. “That means that they will arrest Mrs. Marle!” It only needed a woman in trouble to put the susceptible Sydney Thames at sixes and sevens.

“I think even the police will hesitate before arresting a woman like Mrs. Marle on mere suspicion,” the blind man declared.

The electric bell at the front door sent out its announcement.

“See who it is, will you? Shrimp is out on a little job for me.”

Sydney hurried out, and the problemist’s sensitive finger-tips felt the face of the crystalless watch in his pocket. A frown furrowed his forehead for a minute. He went into the library, and was sitting at the desk which held the telephone when Sydney came back, followed by Henry Osmuhn, junior.

“They are going to arrest Helen’s mother!” burst out Osmuhn the instant he crossed the threshold.

Colton’s mobile face expressed sympathy. “I don’t think they will,” he assured quietly.

“But they’re going to!” cried Osmuhn fiercely. “My father put the thing into the hands of the police yesterday afternoon. The days of brooding over the loss of the Thousand Facets of Fire have driven him half crazy. The finding of the imitation ruby in Mrs. Marle’s possession, and your refusal to explain what you are waiting for, have driven every bit of commonsense from him. Detectives badgered her for two hours last night. She is on the verge of hysteria. And Helen----.” He paced up and down the room like a caged tiger, each word tumbling over the other as it came from his lips; his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The sensitive-nerved Sydney Thames caught the contagion.

“It’s a crime to let those innocent women suffer, while you sit there, calmly smoking a cigarette!” charged the secretary bitterly. He turned away as the blind man’s lips curved in a smile. “He has known the thief for two days!” he told Osmuhn, beside himself at the injustice of the problemist.

“He knows the thief!” Osmuhn stopped dead in his tracks, staring incredulously at Sydney. Then he whirled to face the blind man, who sat quietly back in his chair, blowing smoke-rings towards the ceiling. “Why don’t you have him arrested?” he demanded, voice high with excitement.

“Because I want to get the jewels,” answered the blind man.

“But a search, a confession, will----.”

“Do you suppose that a man with the daring and cleverness necessary to accomplish those robberies would either confess or hide the stones where they could be found?” he asked, a trifle impatiently. “I’m waiting for the thief to hide the jewels in a place where I can find them. That will be when he is about to start away. To arrest him before would mean an endless search. You must understand that the thief who could commit robberies like those is a wonderfully clever man. I know that he is marvellous, for he is the only man I ever saw whose heart-beats failed to show any emotion whatever.”

“Who is the thief!” asked Osmuhn soberly. All the excitement and incredulity had gone from his voice now.

“A man who calls himself Davidson; an invalid who is wheeled around by a Hindu servant for an hour or so each afternoon. He is never seen at other times. He lives next door to Mr. Norvel, your diamond-expert.”

“So that’s how he knew!” cried Osmuhn, eye alight with understanding. “Was he in France when Mr. Norvel’s accident occurred?” The question Colton had put at the time of the ruby robbery flashed back in his mind.

The blind man nodded. “I am going to see him the minute my boy calls me up and tells me that he is getting ready to start to the steamer _Paris_, which sails at noon to-day.”

The jangling telephone-bell came as a period to the sentence. Colton removed the receiver, listened a moment, said a single “All right, Shrimp,” and rose. “The curtain is up for the last act,” he said soberly. He pulled open a drawer of the desk and took out a wicked-looking blued-steel automatic and slipped it into his side coat-pocket.

“There won’t be any need of that?” Osmuhn asked nervously.

“The man we are going after isn’t the kind that holds his hands out for the steel bracelets,” replied the problemist grimly.

“But you are blind!” cried Osmuhn. “You can’t see!”

The blind man’s smile was one of amusement as he answered: “If I had not been blind, I wouldn’t have solved this case, and, if I’m not mistaken in my man, my lack of eyes is going to do more toward his actual capture than your keen ones. I have an idea you’ll see another mysterious disappearance--of men this time.”

He slipped on his overcoat and led them out of the house and into the waiting car, which had stood at the curb for the last half-hour. There was not a word spoken by the three men until the car turned into Ninety-first Street.

“Hadn’t we better stop at the corner and walk?” asked Osmuhn, as the car continued on and swerved in toward the curb before the brownstone house.

Colton flicked his cigarette away and shook his head. “I guess Mr. Davidson is expecting us. I’ve had Shrimp working pretty openly in the last day or two. I think the thief will want to pull off one last grand-stand play before he leaves.”

The red-haired boy who had been leaning against a tree at the other side of the street ran over and hopped on the run-board.

“Kin I go in with yuh, Mr. Colton?” he asked eagerly, eyes shining with excitement.

The blind man shook his head. “No, Shrimp,” he denied. “You go over and telephone for the police. We’ll need them in a few minutes.”

The boy’s face showed his disappointment, but he tried bravely to keep it out of his voice. “All right, sir,” he said, with an assumed cheeriness that was pathetic.

Sydney opened the tonneau-door, and Colton alighted, his slim stick before him locating the way up the wide stone steps. His lips were a grim, straight line as he pushed the button, and Osmuhn saw him put his hand in his pocket to assure himself that the automatic was ready for instant use. The nerves of the junior Osmuhn were taut, and his muscles tensed as the door swung back and the grave-faced Hindu that the disguised Shrimp had bowled over two days before stood looking at them gravely.

“What wish the Sahibs?” His voice was deep and rich. He had only muttered when they had seen him last.

“Is Mr. Davidson in?” asked Colton politely. Sydney thought he saw a gleam of fire in the Hindu’s dark eyes for an instant.

“Sahib Davidson is busied. He starts for the German baths at noon on the boat.”

“It is highly important.” The blind man’s voice was suave.

From somewhere in the rear of the house came the piping, querulous voice of the invalid: “Who the devil is it, Pinjur?”

“I know not, Sahib,” called the Hindu, in reply.

“The blind man who spoke to him two days ago when the boy of the street nearly upset his chair,” enlightened Thornley Colton, and the ears of the old man were keen, for they heard.

“Send him in!” snapped the squeaky voice. “And come in yourself. There’s a very devil of a draft!”

The Hindu stood aside gravely as they entered, closed the door carefully behind them, and, with a bowed invitation to follow, led the way down the hall toward the library.

Osmuhn’s tense muscles relaxed, and a gasp of amazement came to his lips as they stepped inside the semi-darkened room, and he saw the white-haired, white-bearded old man Thornley Colton had declared was the thief who had stolen the Thousand Facets of Fire and the diamond necklace. Could this be the man, who, by some infernal magic, had caused three-quarters of a million dollars’ worth of jewels to disappear while people watched them?

The old man drew himself closer to the desk, with his white hands on the wheels of his steel-framed chair, and peered at them short-sightedly.

“What do you want, gentlemen?” he piped. “I haven’t but a minute. Have I, Pinjur?” He darted a queer, bird-like glance toward the Indian servant, who stood, straight-backed, before the one window that broke the lines of high bookshelves surrounding the room. The Hindu bowed.

Colton advanced half a step toward the desk. “We want,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “the Thousand Facets of Fire and the diamond necklace!”

The old man’s cackling laugh came from the white beard even before the last word had been uttered. “You want the ruby, eh?” he squealed, his hand falling on the desk before him. “He wants the necklace, too, Pinjur.”

Osmuhn’s eyes turned toward the Hindu; he saw the Indian lift one hand--then a rising curtain of mist seemed to hide him! Another rose over the desk! In an instant the two had joined, and a solid wall of fog, dense, impenetrable, hid half of the room.

“The mist!” he cried, falling back a step, the fear of the supernatural in his eyes.

He saw Thornley Colton leap forward; saw him swallowed up--vanish utterly. He could not move, nor could Sydney Thames beside him. They both heard a weird, gurgling cry, an oath in a strange language. Then the report of a pistol echoed through the room; the flash showed yellow-pink through the mist.

Thornley Colton’s voice rang out:--

“Fling open the door!” The words loosed the leaden muscles of Sydney Thames. He sprang to obey. The current of air seemed to tear the mist to shreds instantly. Osmuhn took a half-step forward--stopped. Horror showed on his face for an instant; then amazement.

On the floor beside the bookcase lay the Hindu. The blood from his wound was staining the carpet. Beside him was a curious-looking knife, with the point stained a dull green. But Thornley Colton and the invalid had vanished utterly!

The line of bookcases was still unbroken. The wheel-chair was where it had been before, but the occupant and the blind man were gone!

Fascinated, horror-stricken, the two men gazed at the empty chair and the silent form of the Indian. A soft click sounded like a pistol-shot in the death stillness of the room. A section of the case swung outward, and Thornley Colton, his overcoat slashed from shoulder to waist, stood before them, smiling grimly.

“My God, Thorn!” gasped Sydney, his strictured heart beating once more.

“Is there any blood on that knife-point, Sydney?” asked the blind man quietly.

Thames picked up the knife to examine it.

“Careful,” warned the problemist. “By the way he slashed at me I think there is one of the devilish Indian poisons on the point.”

Osmuhn and Sydney looked at the green-stained point, the slashed coat of the man who stood before them, smiling calmly, as he awaited the verdict of life or death.

“No,” choked Sydney. He staggered against the wall. “Thank God! Thank God!” he prayed, eyes on the man who had been the only father he had ever known.

Thornley Colton dismissed his escape with a nod and spoke to the white-faced Osmuhn. “I think I told you that eyes would be of very little use in the _denouement_. I knew the man, and the chances he’d take. I expected the fog. The game was to spring open the secret door, wheel the man and the chair inside, and leave us gaping idiotically. Would you like to see the thief; the cleverest, most daring I have ever encountered?”

He stepped aside. Dazedly Osmuhn and Sydney followed, only to stop at the doorway.

Manacled on the floor was the thief. Beside him, in a little heap, was the white wig and beard.

The thief was Norvel, the diamond expert!

“No,” said Thornley Colton, “it isn’t Norvel. It is the man who has been impersonating him for months. The man who lay in a French hospital learning every secret of the real Norvel, as he raved in delirium following the accident. Where Norvel is----.” He paused significantly.

“His carcass is feeding fishes in the Seine!” snarled the crippled man. Then he burst into a vicious, sneering laugh. “Find the jewels?” he taunted.

“Easily.” Colton went through the door that Sydney and Osmuhn now knew connected Norvel’s house with the one next door. He wrenched off one of the knobs at the end of the wheel-chair handle. They saw the red flash of the ruby as he held it up to the light.

“The necklace and the dozen other jewels that haven’t yet been missed are in the hollow handle,” he said quietly.