“What?” roared Alf.
“Yes. And he carried a bag in which were some valuable jewels he had just acquired by rather doubtful methods. In that bag, also, were some clothes very similar to yours. He’d worn them when committing the theft, in the hope that you would be suspected — as you were.”
“This beats me,” muttered Alf venomously, while the others stared. “Are you tellin’ me that Tod’s done the double cross on me?”
“I am afraid Tod tried to, but it didn’t quite come off,” replied Detective Crook. “Dressed and disguised as you, he stole the car from Dixon Street, a by-street near the jeweler’s shop, made himself and the car prominent, committed the theft, and then, cleverly eluding the police, transformed himself into the toff who eventually drew up at a house in your ‘nice, quiet street.’
“This house was sufficiently near the jeweler’s shop to make it reasonably certain you would be caught after you had taken the car — for the chase would already be in progress, you see — and your doubtful record was to complete the evidence against you. Meanwhile, he meant to slip away with his precious brown bag, and make his escape.”
“But, unluckily for Tod,” interposed Constable Biggs, “we slips after ’im. We caught ’im as he was leaving the house after a bogus call. We’ve got ’im ’and-cuffed outside — and ’ere’s the evidence against ’im, in this bag.”
“Is my jewelry there?” exclaimed the jeweler excitedly.
“It is,” the detective assured him. “So you see, Mr. Wheeler, one can never be quite sure and positive, can one?”
“Blimy, one can’t,” cried Alf vehemently. “If Tod comes out after me, ’e’ll find me waitin’ for ’im!”
The Hand of Horror[1]
by Owen Fox Jerome
“We didn’t just stumble onto this ghastly affair,” remarked Martin. “We were sent here for a strange reason.”
The star reporter of the Washington Times-Journal, Fred Martin, is sent to interview the South American celebrity. Professor Debara at his apartment in Kensington Mansions. Accompanied by a Times-Journal photographer, Tracy by name. Martin calls at Kensington Mansions, but instead of finding the professor, to his horror, he discover a young woman who has been murdered by the breaking of her neck. She is the wife of the diplomat. Palmer Hollisworth. Martin had stumbled upon this tragedy through a misunderstanding of Professor Debara’s address, which was Kingsley Mansions instead of Kensington Mansions. But apparently some one had a hand in the misunderstanding.
Philip MacCray, well known Chicago detective, who has been summoned by Mrs. Hollisworth, learns that his client has been murdered. He assumes the responsibility of investigation and enlists the aid of Reporter Martin. They learn that the finger-prints about the room in which Mrs. Hollisworth was killed are those of her missing husband. But it is apparent that the chair with which the deed was done was wielded by a left-handed man, and Hollisworth is not left-handed.
Martin and Detective MacCray continue the hunt for Hollisworth, but a week drags by and still they have found no trace of him. In a traffic accident Martin meets Professor Debara s daughter, Celia, and the two become good friends. Then when Martin boards a Florida-bound steamer with a reporter friend he suddenly comes upon the missing Hollisworth, who apparently has been suffering from some strange mental lapse.
Hollisworth dies, but not before he reveals a Dr. Dax as the man under whose hypnotic influence he murdered his wife. The doctor, it is learned by Martin, frequents the Palace Nocturne, a “high-class” gambling joint. Martin visits the place and is surprised to come upon Celia Debara there. The two wander about until they find themselves in a secret chamber. They imagine it is the lair of the fiendish Dax. But before they can leave the latch dicks and they are forced to await the caller concealed behind the room’s heavy draperies. Dr. Dax enters, finds them, and attempts to hypnotize the two. In the midst of a great mental struggle, Martin shoots twice, and the light goes out.
Chapter XLIII (Continued)
The Arch Fiend
Martin snatched open the door, gathered the unconscious woman up in his arms, and staggered blindly through the opening. He found himself in the dead rose garden of the Palace Nocturne.
Panic-stricken with the fear that the awful being was at his heels, he ran like a deer toward the front of the house, crashing through bushes and shrubbery, dodging trees and stone benches.
Behind him he could hear confused sounds in the house which told that his shots had aroused people on the first floor.
But he did not stop. Scarcely conscious of the weight of his burden, he continued to flee across the muddy and snow-spotted garden. He despaired of escape if the attendants of the casino joined forces with the hypnotist, but he ran on.
His breath was coming in gasps now, and sharp pains gripped his chest. He stumbled and staggered, but continued to run without loosening his hold on girl or gun.
Finally he stumbled onto the curving, graveled walk which led to the front veranda. Here the going was easier. He heard a shout from the rear of the garden, and a light flashed.
Reason told him that this was not Dr. Dax, but it was a pursuer. Perhaps it was an outer guard of the place to prevent a holdup of the house. Whoever it was it meant trouble.
And then his desperate eyes caught the glint of starlight on the body and fenders of a motor. It was a limousine waiting for the egress of its owner, and, blessed luck, a chauffeur slumbered at the wheel, wrapped up in a greatcoat. Rather, the man had been dozing. He was now rousing himself at the unusual sounds from the garden.
With the agility of a hunted man Martin twisted open the nearest door and stumbled into the interior of the car, burden and all. Like a flash, he was on his knees with his gun jammed against the neck of the startled driver.
“Get going!” he snarled. “Open her up — wide!”
The chauffeur was a prudent man. He could tell when a man’s voice was desperate. Besides, the nose of the still warm automatic was a mighty inducement. With the ease of one perfectly familiar with his car, he flipped a switch or two and stepped on his starter.
The motor roared into life, the powerful headlights stabbed through the night, and the big car lurched violently forward with spinning, whining tires as he threw the clutch in mesh with the flywheel.
Careening wildly, the machine sped down the driveway, while Martin jerked the door shut and peered through the rear window for signs of pursuit.
But there was none. It was almost a perfect get-away, thanks to the splendid promptness of the chauffeur. The sedan skidded through the gate and onto the concrete road before the amazed gatekeeper was out of his lodge.
“Where to, boss?” the driver shot back over his shoulder.
“Washington,” said Martin. “Police headquarters!”
Then he turned his attention to his companion. Tenderly he lifted the girl to the seat of the swaying car. They had made their escape without wraps of any kind. He knew she must be cold. He held her close in his arms and proceeded to wrap the lap-robe about her figure.
She stirred in his clasp and seemed to snuggle closer. He was reminded of that other time — it seemed months ago — when he had held her thus and she had murmured in a never to be forgotten voice, “Only here, señor.”