The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3) by Arthur B. Reeve (top 10 motivational books .txt) 📕

Was Unlocked I Could See,  In The Moonlight,  A Huge Dog Leap Out

And Lick The Hands And Face Of A Man.

Quickly We Now Crashed Through The Frozen Underbrush. Evidently

Kennedy Was Making For The Station By A Direct Route Across

Country Instead Of The Circuitous Way By The Road And Town. Behind

Us We Could Hear A Deep Baying.

"By The Lord,  Walter," Cried Kennedy,  For Once In His Life

Thoroughly Alarmed,  "It's A Bloodhound,  And Our Trail Is Fresh."

Closer It Came. Press Forward As We Might,  We Could Never Expect

To Beat That Dog.

"Oh,  For A Stream," Groaned Kennedy,  "But They Are All Frozen--

Even The River."

He Stopped Short,  Fumbled In His Pocket,  And Drew Out The Bottle

Of Ether.

"Raise Your Foot,  Walter," He Ordered.

I Did So And He Smeared First Mine And Then His With The Ether.

Then We Doubled On Our Trail Once Or Twice And Ran Again.

"The Dog Will Never Be Able To Pick Up The Ether As Our Trail,"

Panted Kennedy; "That Is,  If He Is Any Good And Trained Not To Go

Off On Wild-Goose Chases."

On We Hurried From The Woods To The Now Dark And Silent Town. It

Was Indeed Fortunate That The Dog Had Been Thrown Off Our Scent,

For The Station Was Closed,  And,  Indeed,  If It Had Been Open I Am

Sure The Station Agent Would Have Felt More Like Locking The Door

Against Two Such Tramps As We Were,  Carrying A Tin Box And Pursued

By A Dog,  Than Opening It For Us. The Best We Could Do Was To

Huddle Into A Corner Until We Succeeded In Jumping A Milk-Train

That Luckily Slowed Down As It Passed Riverwood Station.

Neither Of Us Could Wait To Open The Tin Box In Our Apartment,  And

Instead Of Going Uptown Kennedy Decided It Would Be Best To Go To

A Hotel Near The Station. Somehow We Succeeded In Getting A Room

Without Exciting Suspicion. Hardly Had The Bellboy's Footsteps

Ceased Echoing In The Corridor Than Kennedy Was At Work Wrenching

Off The Lid Of The Box With Such Leverage As The Scanty

Furnishings Of The Room Afforded.

At Last It Yielded,  And We Looked In Curiously,  Expecting To Find

Fabulous Wealth In Some Form. A Few Hundred Dollars And A Rope Of

Pearls Lay In It. It Was A Good "Haul," But Where Was The Vast

Spoil The Counterfeiters Had Accumulated? We Had Missed It. So Far

We Were Completely Baffled.

"Perhaps We Had Better Snatch A Couple Of Hours' Sleep," Was All

That Craig Said,  Stifling His Chagrin.

Over And Over In My Mind I Was Turning The Problem Of Where They

Had Hidden The Spoil. I Dozed Off,  Still Thinking About It And

Thinking That,  Even Should They Be Captured,  They Might Have

Stowed Away Perhaps A Million Dollars To Which They Could Go Back

After Their Sentences Were Served.

It Was Still Early For New York When Kennedy Roused Me By Talking

Over The Telephone In The Room. In Fact,  I Doubt If He Had Slept

At All.

Burke Was At The Other End Of The Wire. His Man Had Just Reported

That Something Had Happened During The Night At Riverwood,  But He

Couldn't Give A Very Clear Account. Craig Seemed To Enjoy The Joke

Immensely As He Told His Story To Burke.

The Last Words I Heard Were: "All Right. Send A Man Up Here To The

Station--One Who Knows All The Descriptions Of These People. I'm

Sure They Will Have To Come Into Town To-Day,  And They Will Have

To Come By Train,  For Their Car Is Wrecked. Better Watch At The

Uptown Stations,  Also."

After A Hasty Breakfast We Met Burke's Man And Took Our Places At

The Exit From The Train Platforms. Evidently Kennedy Had Figured

Out That The Counterfeiters Would Have To Come Into Town For Some

Reason Or Other. The Incoming Passengers Were Passing Us In A

Steady Stream,  For A New Station Was Then Being Built,  And There

Was Only A Temporary Structure With One Large Exit.

"Here Is Where The 'Portrait Parle' Ought To Come In,  If Ever,"

Commented Kennedy As He Watched Eagerly.

And Yet Neither Man Nor Woman Passed Us Who Fitted The

Description. Train After Train Emptied Its Human Freight,  Yet The

Pale Man With The Concave Nose And The Peculiar Ear,  Accompanied

Perhaps By A Lady,  Did Not Pass Us.

At Last The Incoming Stream Began To Dwindle Down. It Was Long

Past The Time When The Counterfeiters Should Have Arrived If They

Had Started On Any Reasonable Train.

"Perhaps They Have Gone Up To Montreal,  Instead," I Ventured.

Kennedy Shook His Head. "No," He Answered. "I Have An Idea That I

Was Mistaken About The Money Being Kept At Riverwood. It Would

Have Been Too Risky. I Thought It Out On The Way Back This

Morning. They Probably Kept It In A Safe Deposit Vault Here. I Had

Figured That They Would Come Down And Get It And Leave New York

After Last Night's Events. We Have Failed--They Have Got By Us.

Neither The 'Portrait Parle' Nor The Ordinary Photography Nor Any

Other System Will Suffice Alone Against The Arch-Criminal Back Of

This,  I'm Afraid. Walter,  I Am Sore And Disgusted. What I Should

Have Done Was To Accept Burke's Offer--Surround The House With A

Posse If Necessary,  Last Night,  And Catch The Counterfeiters By

Sheer Force. I Was Too Confident. I Thought I Could Do It With

Finesse,  And I Have Failed. I'd Give Anything To Know What Safe

Deposit Vault They Kept The Fake Money In."

I Said Nothing As We Strolled Away,  Leaving Burke's Man Still To

Watch,  Hoping Against Hope. Kennedy Walked Disconsolately Through

The Station,  And I Followed. In A Secluded Part Of The Waiting-

Room He Sat Down,  His Face Drawn Up In A Scowl Such As I Had Never

Seen. Plainly He Was Disgusted With Himself--With Only Himself.

This Was No Bungling Of Burke Or Any One Else. Again The

Counterfeiters Had Escaped From The Hand Of The Law.

As He Moved His Fingers Restlessly In The Pockets Of His Coat,  He

Absently Pulled Out The Little Pieces Of Sponge And The Ether

Bottle. He Regarded Them Without Much Interest.

"I Know What They Were For," He Said,  Diving Back Into His Pocket

For The Other Things And Bringing Out The Sharp Little Knives In

Their Case. I Said Nothing,  For Kennedy Was In A Deep Study. At

Last He Put The Things Back Into His Pocket. As He Did So His Hand

Encountered Something Which He Drew Forth With A Puzzled Air. It

Was The Piece Of Paraffin.

"Now,  What Do You Suppose That Was For?" He Asked,  Half To

Himself. "I Had Forgotten That. What Was The Use Of A Piece Of

Paraffin? Phew,  Smell The Antiseptic Worked Into It."

"I Don't Know," I Replied,  Rather Testily. "If You Would Tell Me

What The Other Things Were For I Might Enlighten You,  But--"

"By George,  Walter,  What A Chump I Am!" Cried Kennedy,  Leaping To

His Feet,  All Energy Again. "Why Did I Forget That Lump Of

Paraffin? Why,  Of Course--I Think I Can Guess What They Have Been

Doing--Of Course. Why,  Man Alive,  He Walked Right Past Us,  And We

Never Knew It. Boy,  Boy," He Shouted To A Newsboy Who Passed,

"What's The Latest Sporting Edition You Have?"

Eagerly He Almost Tore A Paper Open And Scanned The Sporting

Pages. "Racing At Lexington Begins To-Morrow," He Read. "Yes,  I'll

Bet That's It. We Don't Have To Know The Safe Deposit Vault,  After

All. It Would Be Too Late,  Anyhow. Quick,  Let Us Look Up The Train

To Lexington."

As We Hurried Over To The Information Booth,  I Gasped,  In A Whirl:

"Now,  Look Here,  Kennedy,  What's All This Lightning Calculation?

What Possible Connection Is There Between A Lump Of Paraffin And

One Of The Few Places In The Country Where They Still Race

Horses?"

"None," He Replied,  Not Stopping An Instant. "None. The Paraffin

Suggested To Me The Possible Way In Which Our Man Managed To Elude

Us Under Our Very Eyes. That Set My Mind At Work Again. Like A

Flash It Occurred To Me: Where Would They Be Most Likely To Go

Next To Work Off Some Of The Bills? The Banks Are On,  The

Jewellery-Houses Are On,  The Gambling-Joints Are On. Why,  To The

Racetracks,  Of Course. That's It. Counterfeiters All Use The

Bookmakers,  Only Since Racing Has Been Killed In New York They

Have Had To Resort To Other Means Here. If New York Has Suddenly

Become Too Hot,  What More Natural Than To Leave It? Here,  Let Me

See--There's A Train That Gets There Early To-Morrow,  The Best

Train,  Too. Say,  Is No. 144 Made Up Yet?" He Inquired At The

Desk.

"No. 144 Will Be Ready In Fifteen Minutes. Track 8."

Kennedy Thanked The Man,  Turned Abruptly,  And Started For The

Still Closed Gate At Track 8.

"Beg Pardon--Why,  Hulloa--It's Burke," He Exclaimed As We Ran

Plump Into A Man Staring Vacantly About.

It Was Not The Gentleman Farmer Of The Night Before,  Nor Yet The

Supposed College Graduate. This Man Was A Western Rancher; His

Broad-Brimmed Hat,  Long Moustache,  Frock Coat,  And Flowing Tie

Proclaimed It. Yet There Was Something Indefinably Familiar About

Him,  Too. It Was Burke In Another Disguise.

"Pretty Good Work,  Kennedy," Nodded Burke,  Shifting His Tobacco

From One Side Of His Jaws To The Other. "Now,  Tell Me How Your Man

Escaped You This Morning,  When You Can Recognise Me Instantly In

This Rig."

"You Haven't Altered Your Features," Explained Kennedy Simply.

"Our Pale-Faced,  Snub-Nosed Peculiar-Eared Friend Has. What Do You

Think Of The Possibility Of His Going To The Lexington Track,  Now

That He Finds It Too Dangerous To Remain In New York?"

Burke Looked At Kennedy Rather Sharply. "Say,  Do You Add Telepathy

To Your Other Accomplishments?"

"No," Laughed Craig,  "But I'm Glad To See That Two Of Us Working

Independently Have Arrived At The Same Conclusion. Come,  Let Us

Saunter Over To Track 8--I Guess The Train Is Made Up."

The Gate Was Just Opened,  And The Crowd Filed Through. No One Who

Seemed To Satisfy Either Burke Or Kennedy Appeared. The Train-

Announcer Made His Last Call. Just Then A Taxicab Pulled Up At The

Street-End Of The Platform,  Not Far From Track 8. A Man Jumped Out

And Assisted A Heavily Veiled Lady,  Paid The Driver,  Picked