“The mantelpiece looks empty,” remarked Cranston, in a thoughtful tone.
“Yes,” laughed Edkins. “A man called for an old clock that had been sent here by mistake. He took it out just before you came in.”
“The absence of smoke stains on your mantelpiece is interesting,” said Cranston, in an idle tone. “I take it that the fireplace does not smoke.”
“I burn a fire there about once a year,” explained Edkins. “That’s why there are no smoke marks on the mantelpiece.”
“Those ashes are from the last fire?” queried Cranston, in surprise.
“Yes,” laughed Edkins. “Four months ago.”
“Odd,” said Cranston. “Those ashes have a smoothness that is unusual. Did your servant rake them?”
Cranston laid his cigarette aside and stepped forward to the fireplace. Edkins was rather puzzled as he watched his visitor remove the screen. Cranston, staring toward the ashes, held up his hand, as a sign for Edkins to stand back.
“What is it?” exclaimed Edkins.
Cranston moved backward. He grasped his host’s right wrist, restraining the hand in which Edkins held his freshly lighted cigarette.
“Do you notice those silvery flakes among the ashes?” inquired Cranston. “You can see them — when the screen is out of the way.”
Edkins did see the sparkle. He was more perplexed than before.
“What do they mean?” he inquired.
“We shall find out,” asserted Cranston quietly. “I have seen granulations of that sort before. Come out to the hallway. Watch from there.”
Cranston picked up his cigarette and led the way. In the hall, he closed the door until it was but slightly ajar. Holding, his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it toward the fireplace with expert precision. While the tiny object was still in the air, Cranston pulled the door tightly shut.
A MOMENT’S silence. Then, from beyond the barrier came a sighing, explosive puff — a gigantic sob that resembled a discharge of a photographer’s flash powder. Edkins, alarmed, leaped toward the door.
Cranston held him.
“Keep away!” Cranston’s tone was commanding. “Back — to the stairway!”
As Edkins moved bulkily to the safety spot, Cranston turned the knob and pulled the door open. He sprang swiftly to the point where Edkins stood. The interior of the den was revealed.
The room was filled with a settling cloud of thick green smoke. The cloudy vapor had penetrated every crevice of the den. The walls were smudged with blackish streaks.
“Downstairs,” suggested Cranston. “We’re away from the danger zone, but it’s best to be farther off until the gas has cleared away.”
“What — what is it?” stammered Edkins.
“Poison gas,” announced Cranston abruptly. “I know a lot about it — through my war experience. It was a trap set to kill you, Edkins. One cigarette into that powder which lay in the ashes — that would have been all.”
“A trap — to — to kill me?”
“Apparently,” remarked Cranston dryly. “You would do best to call the police at once.”
Holbrook Edkins picked up the telephone. Bewildered thoughts ran through his brain. He mentioned a subject that disturbed him.
“When Eric Veldon arrives,” he said, “he will wonder why the police are here—”
“You mean if Eric Veldon arrives,” returned Cranston, with a quiet smile. “The possibility, however, is remote. Eric Veldon has already come and gone — by proxy. He, himself, will not visit this house tonight!”
Holbrook Edkins did not understand. Dully, he called detective headquarters. Confused thoughts still dominated his mind. Amid them, he realized that he owed his life to Lamont Cranston’s amazing observation.
CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA’S TURN
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood in the room where death had failed. The greenish gas had long since settled. Only black-streaked walls and sooty fixtures remained as evidence of the tragedy that might have been.
With the detective were Holbrook Edkins and Lamont Cranston. The story had been told. It was Cranston, now, who was adding pointed comments.
“I noted the ashes accidentally,” he said. “I had seen powdered preparations which produced deadly gases. I suspected that this might be one. After the test, another thought occurred to me — namely, that this man, Eric Veldon, might have been involved.”
“Do you know anything about Veldon?” questioned Cardona.
“No,” said Cranston smoothly. “I have never met him. But when Mr. Edkins first told me about Veldon, and stated that he was a man who played between inventors and financiers, I suspected that the fellow might be a crook.”
“Swindlers are seldom murderers,” remarked Cardona sagely.
“I am probably mistaken,” admitted Cranston, in an absent-minded tone. “Perhaps, the circumstances startled me. I jumped to a fantastic conclusion, probably induced — ah, now I have it — by something that I read in the papers.
“You see, Mr. Edkins and I had been talking about X-ray inventions — electrical appliances. The blackened marks upon the walls brought up the suggestion of carbon monoxide. I remembered something about an electrical inventor, killed by carbon-monoxide poison—”
As Cranston’s subtle suggestion ended, Joe Cardona’s face lighted with sudden understanding. Before the detective could speak, however, Cranston added another thought.
“X-rays,” he remarked, “generate terrific heat. I read another odd item in the newspaper about a chemist — a man experienced in the study of deadly gases — who died from a strange, burning fever—”
This time Cardona’s interruption came. The detective brought one fist against the open palm of his other hand, as be saw a connection which he had not previously noted.
“Merle Clussig!” he cried. “Wycroft Dustin! Say — do you think this bird Veldon knew those men?”
“Clussig?” questioned Cranston, as though the name meant nothing. “Dustin?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Cardona. “They were the two whom you read about in the newspapers.”
“I didn’t recall the names,” said Cranston. “The only name I remembered recently was that of a physician — a Doctor Barratini—”
“Maybe he was mixed in it, too!” blurted Cardona. “Look here, Mr. Edkins” — he turned to the bluff-faced millionaire — “can you tell me anything about this Veldon? Where he lives? What he does?”
“He is a promoter,” said Edkins. “But I never knew where he made his home. I never had correspondence with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“We can look through my file of recent letters.”
“Good,” decided Cardona. “Get them out.”
A SERVANT came into the room. He announced that there was a call for Mr. Cranston from the Cobalt Club. While Edkins was talking with Cardona, Cranston sauntered downstairs. He spoke quietly over the telephone. Burbank’s voice answered.
“Report from Burke,” informed the contact agent. “He followed the car to its destination. Old mansion, at Turnerdale, Long Island. Burley Road, west of Graypoint Highway.”
No one was in the lower hall. From his pocket, Lamont Cranston produced a printed calling card. It bore the name:
ERIC VELDON.
With a pencil, Cranston scrawled the address that Burbank had given him. Pocketing the card, he strolled upstairs and joined Edkins and Cardona. The detective was going through a pile of papers, which included letters, paid bills, and other memoranda.