Doctor Lukens settled the question.
“Break through the door,” he ordered. Paget sprang to action. With surprising strength, he flung his body against the door but it did not yield. Oscar hurried away and returned with a heavy hammer.
Paget seized the tool and directed a series of well-aimed blows upon the lock. He battered the metal with no result. Then, changing his tactics, he drove the hammer through the wooden panel above the lock.
Reaching through the opening that he had made, Paget released the lock from the inside and the door swung open.
Willis, unable to restrain himself, pushed the others aside as he dashed into the room.
Henry Marchand was seated in a chair before his desk. His head and shoulders rested on the top of the desk. His left hand was outstretched, with widespread fingers. His right arm lay limp at his side.
A shallow drawer was opened in the desk, just beneath the top. In it lay a sealed envelope.
Doctor Lukens bent over the huddled form of Henry Marchand. The others stepped back.
Willis, with wild, staring eyes, gazed about the room, as though inspecting the heavily-shuttered windows.
Paget stood silently by, his cigarette holder in his hand.
The physician raised his head and turned to the waiting group. He scarcely seemed to see them or to observe their apprehension. His lips quivered as though he wished to speak but could not utter words.
Then, suddenly, he regained his voice and spoke. Slowly uttered, his words carried the grief of a friend mingled with the announcement of the professional physician.
“Henry Marchand is dead!”
CHAPTER II. THE HOLLOW NEEDLE
THE body of Henry Marchand had been removed, otherwise the room was the same. Its antiquated lights still cast their ghoulish gleam upon the scene.
Beyond the door through which the four men had forced their way, a dim hall light revealed a short, dark-visaged man who seemed to be awaiting some one. This was Detective Joe Cardona, of the New York police.
Footsteps came from the stairway. The detective became alert. He raised his hand in greeting to a tall, broad-shouldered individual who arrived at the top of the stairs.
The newcomer was Cardona’s superior, Inspector Timothy Klein.
The two men entered the room. In brief, matter-of-fact tones, Cardona gave the circumstances of Henry Marchand’s death. Then he pointed to the open drawer in the top of the desk. He removed the envelope from the drawer, and extracted a folded paper.
“The envelope was sealed,” explained the detective. “I opened it. Here’s what I found inside.”
Inspector Klein studied the paper. It was thickly inscribed with a series of curious, unintelligible marks.
“A code,” remarked the inspector.
Cardona nodded. “But I can’t make anything out of it.”
The inspector handed the paper to Cardona, who pocketed it, with the envelope.
“What else have you found out?” asked Klein.
Cardona referred to a written report.
“Four men were here when Marchand died,” he said. “They all entered the room together. We have gone over the place thoroughly. It seems impossible that any one else could have been in the house.
“Marchand died here, alone. I have quizzed all the witnesses, separately and together. I have also learned facts regarding each of them. They all appear reliable.”
CARDONA paused and laid four separate sheets of paper upon the desk. He took a chair and proceeded with more detailed information:
“Oscar Schultz,” he read. “Servant of Henry Marchand for more than twenty years. Considered faithful and honest. Says very little and answers questions readily, though briefly.”
The detective read from references on the second sheet.
“Harvey Willis,” he said. “Age twenty-eight. Secretary to Henry Marchand for two years. Seems genuinely broken up by his employer’s death. A weak type, but very conscientious. Has always followed Marchand’s instructions to the letter.”
Klein raised his eyebrows as Cardona read the third name.
“Rodney Paget,” said the detective. “A friend of Henry Marchand—”
“You mean the young clubman?” interrupted Klein. “The polo player?”
Cardona nodded. “He’s not so young, though. About forty.”
“I’m going back a few years,” returned the inspector, with a smile. “Young Paget comes from a good family. I knew his father thirty years back. Always well liked.
“This is Rodney, Junior, eh? He has good connections, but I don’t think he inherited much wealth. What’s his connection with Marchand?”
“Paget is connected with a brokerage house. He handled stocks and bonds for Marchand. He came here tonight to see the old man.”
“All right. Who’s the fourth?”
“Doctor George Lukens.”
“Of the Telman Hospital,” grunted the inspector.
“He was Marchand’s physician,” explained the detective. “He came here tonight after receiving a telegram from Marchand. The old man was not well. He wanted the doctor to be here when he arrived.”
“A good group of witnesses,” commented Klein.
“More than that,” declared Cardona. “They were instrumental in bringing the police immediately upon Marchand’s death.
“This case puzzles them as much as it does me. If there are clews to Marchand’s death — whatever may have caused it — they have supplied important items of information that will prove valuable.”
“For instance?”
“Lukens, to begin with.”
“Marchand had a weak heart. He had returned from a long trip. Lukens, as his physician, thought at first that heart failure was the cause of Marchand’s death.
“With another doctor, that would probably have ended the matter. But Lukens is so thorough that he looked for something else.
“He conferred with the police surgeon. They brought in a toxicologist. They are convinced that Marchand’s death was caused by some unusual poison. They have not yet discovered the mode of application.”
INSPECTOR KLEIN looked around the room as though seeking some spot in which a concealed person might be present. The detective smiled.
“We’ve searched this place thoroughly,” he said. “Willis and Oscar helped us. It’s lucky that they did. See that closet door?”
The inspector nodded.
“Unless you turn the knob twice before you pull the door,” said Cardona, “you will get a face full of tear gas. Just a little idea of Marchand’s. He has an alarm wired to the knob of the safe.”
“This desk?”
“Unprotected. But look at the clever construction of this drawer.”
Cardona pressed the drawer inward. There was a sharp click. The detective jumped back instinctively.
Then he looked closely at the desk.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “It’s cleverer than I thought! What happened to the drawer, anyway?”
The compartment had closed so perfectly that neither the inspector nor the detective could find its outline in the woodwork.
“Neither Oscar nor Willis knew about this drawer,” said Cardona. “I pushed it in before, but not all the way.
“Now I’ve locked it. How in blazes are we going to open it?”
“We’ll try later,” said the inspector, dryly. “Anything more?”
“Yes,” returned Cardona, turning away from the desk. “It was Willis who called the police. He and Oscar believe that the house was entered twice during Marchand’s absence.
“The first time, Oscar heard a noise downstairs. The second time, they discovered a man in this room.
The burglar escaped through an open window on the first floor. They gained no description of him.
“The second attempt caused them to summon Marchand home.”