Brake bands protesting, Dr. John Lake, a young practicing physician of a nearby suburb, brought his car to a grinding halt.
"Dead man you say? Up at the Thatcher place? That's strange; it's been deserted for two or three years."
He eyed Wheaton with appraising eye; there were a number of road-houses along the highway which took no cognizance of the federal statute framed by a certain Mr. Volstead; the man was not intoxicated.
"I'm a doctor," he added. "I'll go up and see if he is dead."
Wheaton shivered.
"Oh, he's dead all right; I ain't a doctor, but — I saw his face; I think he was — murdered."
"You don't live hereabouts, do you?" queried Dr. Lake. "Well, I would advise you to stick around until the coroner is called; it may save you another trip. Let's go up and look things over."
"I–I've seen enough, thank you," said Wheaton, but, nevertheless, he plodded up the hill at Dr. Lake's heels.
As the two men reached the open spot in the trees. Lake's eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of the luxurious limousine.
"Phew!" he whistled. "This is somewhat out of the ordinary; I thought it was just a common tramp."
He hurried his steps; as he reached the body, the doctor's head jerked forward in astonishment.
"Great Heavens!" he whispered in amazed awe. "Doctor Waugh!"
In the medical world the name of Dr. Kensaw Arlington Waugh was one to conjure with. A specialist of renown, he had lectured at the medical school from which Doctor Lake had been graduated and, although he did not know him except as a student would be expected to know a class instructor, it made death more of a personal matter and, for a moment, shattered his professional calm. He had always had a great admiration for the somewhat eccentric specialist.
"What a horrible death!" shuddered Dr. Lake. "I never saw such an expression on a human face!"
Mastering his emotions, he became at once" his professional self. With deft fingers he searched for signs of violence; to his perplexity there was no wound, no laceration, not a single mark. Even the clothing bore no evidence of a violent struggle.
He decided that some instantaneous poison must have been used, probably cyanide, which, while it acts so quickly that the victim's life is snapped like a tight-drawn thread, seizes the body in one quick, horrible convulsion and leaves the muscles as of stone. But he failed to find the. tell-tale rigidity of tissues which he had expected.
"Not cyanide, that is certain," he said in abstracted monologue. "Confounded queer business, eh, Wheaton?"
Farmer Weaton stood some feet away, back turned; it was apparent that he had no morbid liking for gruesome things.
Dr. Lake bent forward, his attention attracted by a faint abrasion on Dr. Waugh's neck, a place less than two inches long under the chin and slightly below the ear where the skin had been rubbed nearly raw by some rough surface. Shaking his head in frank bewilderment, he walked over to Farmer Wheaton.
"Wheaton," he said sternly, "why did you tell me that this man was murdered?"
Startled by the accusing, suspicious note in the young doctor's voice, the farmer flushed.
"Because," he said angrily, "a man with an expression like THAT on his face never died a natural death. Why — you don't mean to tell me that he wasn't murdered?"
"There's not a single mark of violence, Mr. Wheaton."
"Mebbe not, Doctor, but his face… it looks… it looks—" His voice dropped to a sepulchral whisper."…like he had been scared to death!"
"Nonsense!" snapped Dr. Lake impatiently. "Men aren't scared to death — outside of book covers."
"You're a doctor, sir; I guess you know," admitted the farmer humbly.
Dr. Lake absently creased his leather automobile gauntlets.
"Something devilish mysterious about this." he said. "What could Dr. Waugh be doing out here at an old deserted farmhouse? A first-rate mystery, I call it. I tell you what you do: There's a farm a quarter of a mile or so down the road. You go down there and telephone to Coroner Hopkins. I'll look around a bit and wait for him. I feel quite an interest in this; Dr. Waugh was one of my instructors at medical college. I might be able to help a bit; the coroner is a feeble old man with a brain about as palsied as his hands. I'm afraid that if we depend on him, the law will be a long time in getting this thing solved."
As Farmer Wheaton made his way back to the road again, Dr. Lake began a survey of the premises.
He mounted the rotting porch steps, the boards creaking under his weight. The branches of the trees, moved by a breeze, rustled against the weather-boarding of the old house.
"A fine, cheerful place at night, I'll bet," he muttered. "Somehow this begins to get on my nerves."
The door which led into the tiny reception hall was ajar. From this old-fashioned entrance were three doors leading into as many rooms. As he opened the sagging door to the right, Dr. Lake paused in startled bewilderment, wondering if his imagination was playing him a trick.
The wall between two rooms had been ripped out, making of them one long apartment. The debris, chunks of plastering and scraps of lath, still littered the floor.
Across the length of the enlongated room had been laid what seemed a miniature railway track, perhaps half the width of a standard gauge railroad. The light steel rails were bolted to heavy pieces of lumber which served as cross-ties.
Resting on the rails were two cars, about seven feet in height, apparently constructed of steel. From where he stood in the doorway, Dr. Lake could see the facing end of one of the cars; from it protruded hundreds of sharp points, almost needle-like in their sharpness.
"Now wouldn't this stump you!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll say that is a queer business — damned queer!"
In a confusion of uncertainty he advanced cautiously. The steel cars stood perhaps five feet apart. As he stepped nearer another gasp of surprise escaped his lips. The end of one of the cars, hidden from view until this moment, was caved in; the gaping hole exposed a crude framework of light lumber.
"Just a toy," mused Dr. Lake. "Papier maché, or I miss my guess — just cardboard painted to look like steel."
He examined the sharp steel points; they bent back harmlessly at the touch of his finger — also merely cardboard.
Closer examination showed, geared to the rear wheels of both cars, a toy motor such as might have delighted the heart of a child at Christmas time. The electric current for the motors was supplied by two wires which ran along the floor and connected with the track. The wires led to the wall and contact was completed by means of a massive switch which might easily have carried a high-voltage current instead of the weak stream of electricity which was generated by the dozen dry-cell batteries hidden in an adjoining closet.
Dr. Lake threw in the switch, the tiny motors hummed slowly and the mysterious cars edged forward; edged is the proper word, for the motion was barely perceptible. The cars made a speed of only one foot per minute.
"Huh! Nuttiest outfit I ever saw," Lake mused. "Dr. Waugh dead as a hammer and this — this damned foolishness — I wonder what the answer is?"
As he slowly paced the floor, hands deep in his pockets and his face creased by thoughtful lines, he was suddenly aware of a further detail. Fastened from the ceiling was an iron ring and from the ring dangled a short length of rope, the end frayed as if parted under heavy strain. Fastened to the floor, in direct line with that in the ceiling, was another steel ring.
The young doctor started suddenly.
"By Jove!" he gasped. "Somebody was tied in the middle of that track — feet to the floor, rope from his neck to the ceiling."
He remembered the faint abrasion under Dr. Waugh's chin; a rope could have made that mark!