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

A Series Of Four Metal Rings On His Fingers.

"Brass Knuckles?" Suggested Herndon,  Looking Hastily At The Body,

Which Showed Not A Sign Of Violence On The Stony Face.

The Coroner Shook His Head Knowingly. Suddenly He Raised His Fist.

I Saw Him Press Hard With His Thumb On The Upper End Of The Metal

Contrivance. From The Other End,  Just Concealed Under His Little

Finger,  There Shot Out As If Released By A Magic Spring A Thin

Keen Little Blade Of The Brightest And Toughest Steel. He Was

Holding,  Instead Of A Meaningless Contrivance Of Four Rings,  A

Most Dangerous Kind Of Stiletto Or Dagger Upraised. He Lifted His

Thumb And The Blade Sprang Back Into Its Sheath Like An

Extinguished Spark Of Light.

"An Apache Dagger,  Such As Is Used In The Underworld Of Paris,"

Broke Out Kennedy,  His Eyes Gleaming With Interest.

The Coroner Nodded. "We Found It," He Said,  "Clasped Loosely In

Her Hand. But It Is Only By Expert Medical Testimony That We Can

Determine Whether It Was Placed On Her Fingers Before Or After

This Happened. We Have Photographed It,  And The Prints Are Being

Developed."

He Had Now Uncovered The Slight Figure Of The Little French

Modiste. On The Dress,  Instead Of The Profuse Flow Of Blood Which

We Had Expected To See,  There Was A Single Round Spot. And In The

White Marble Skin Of Her Breast Was A Little,  Nearly Microscopic

Puncture,  Directly Over The Heart.

"She Must Have Died Almost Instantly," Commented Kennedy,  Glancing

From The Apache Weapon To The Dead Woman And Back Again. "Internal

Hemorrhage. I Suppose You Have Searched Her Effects. Have You

Found Anything That Gives A Hint Among Them?"

"No," Replied The Coroner Doubtfully,  "I Can't Say We Have--Unless

It Is The Bundle Of Letters From Pierre,  The Jeweller. They Seem

To Have Been Engaged,  And Yet The Letters Stopped Abruptly,  And,

Well,  From The Tone Of The Last One From Him I Should Say There

Was A Quarrel Brewing."

An Exclamation From Herndon Followed. "The Same Notepaper And The

Same Handwriting As The Anonymous Letters," He Cried.

But That Was All. Go Over The Ground As Kennedy Might He Could

Find Nothing Further Than The Coroner And Herndon Had Already

Revealed.

"About These People,  Lang & Pierre," Asked Craig Thoughtfully When

We Had Left Mademoiselle's And Were Riding Downtown To The Customs

House With Herndon. "What Do You Know About Them? I Presume That

Lang Is In America,  If His Partner Is Abroad."

"Yes,  He Is Here In New York. I Believe The Firm Has A Rather

Unsavoury Reputation; They Have To Be Watched,  I Am Told. Then,

Too,  One Or The Other Of The Partners Makes Frequent Trips Abroad,

Mostly Pierre. Pierre,  As You See,  Was Very Intimate With

Mademoiselle,  And The Letters Simply Confirm What The Girls Told

My Detective. He Was Believed To Be Engaged To Her And I See No

Reason Now To Doubt That. The Fact Is,  Kennedy,  It Wouldn't

Surprise Me In The Least To Learn That It Was He Who Engineered

The Smuggling For Her As Well As Himself."

"What About The Partner? What Role Does He Play In Your

Suspicions?"

"That's Another Curious Feature. Lang Doesn't Seem To Bother Much

With The Business. He Is A Sort Of Silent Partner,  Although

Nominally The Head Of The Firm. Still,  They Both Seem Always To Be

Plentifully Supplied With Money And To Have A Good Trade. Lang

Lives Most Of The Time Up On The West Shore Of The Hudson,  And

Seems To Be More Interested In His Position As Commodore Of The

Riverledge Yacht Club Than In His Business Down Here. He Is Quite

A Sport,  A Great Motor-Boat Enthusiast,  And Has Lately Taken To

Hydroplanes."

"I Meant," Repeated Kennedy,  "What About Lang And Mademoiselle

Violette. Were They--Ah--Friendly?"

"Oh," Replied Herndon,  Seeming To Catch The Idea. "I See. Of

Course--Pierre Abroad And Lang Here. I See What You Mean. Why,  The

Girl Told My Man That Mademoiselle Violette Used To Go Motor-

Boating With Lang,  But Only When Her Fiance,  Pierre,  Was Along.

No,  I Don't Think She Ever Had Anything To Do With Lang,  If That's

What You Are Driving At. He May Have Paid Attentions To Her,  But

Pierre Was Her Lover,  And I Haven't A Doubt But That If Lang Made

Any Advances She Repelled Them. She Seems To Have Thought

Everything Of Pierre."

We Had Reached Herndon's Office By This Time. Leaving Word With

His Stenographer To Get The Very Latest Reports From La Montaigne,

He Continued Talking To Us About His Work.

"Dressmakers,  Milliners,  And Jewellers Are Our Worst Offenders

Now," He Remarked As We Stood Gazing Out Of The Window At The

Panorama Of The Bay Off The Sea-Wall Of The Battery. "Why,  Time

And Again We Unearth What Looks For All The World Like A

'Dressmakers' Syndicate,' Though This Case Is The First I've Had

That Involved A Death. Really,  I've Come To Look On Smuggling As

One Of The Fine Arts Among Crimes. Once The Smuggler,  Like The

Pirate And The Highwayman,  Was A Sort Of Gentleman-Rogue. But Now

It Has Become A Very Ladylike Art. The Extent Of It Is Almost

Beyond Belief,  Too. It Begins With The Steerage And Runs Right Up

To The Absolute Unblushing Cynicism Of The First Cabin. I Suppose

You Know That Women,  Particularly A Certain Brand Of Society

Women,  Are The Worst And Most Persistent Offenders. Why,  They Even

Boast Of It. Smuggling Isn't Merely Popular--It's Aristocratic.

But We're Going To Take Some Of The Flavour Out Of It Before We

Finish."

He Tore Open A Cable Message Which A Boy Had Brought In. "Now,

Take This,  For Instance," He Continued. "You Remember The Sign

Across The Street From Mademoiselle Violette's,  Announcing That A

Mademoiselle Gabrielle Was Going To Open A Salon Or Whatever They

Call It? Well,  Here's Another Cable From Our Paris Secret Service

With A Belated Tip. They Tell Us To Look Out For A Mademoiselle

Gabrielle--On La Montaigne,  Too. That's Another Interesting Thing.

You Know The Various Lines Are All Ranked,  At Least In Our

Estimation,  According To The Likelihood Of Such Offences Being

Perpetrated By Their Passengers. We Watch Ships From London,

Liverpool,  And Paris Most Carefully. Scandinavian Ships Are The

Least Likely To Need Watching. Well,  Miss Roberts?"

"We Have Just Had A Wireless About La Montaigne" Reported His

Stenographer,  Who Had Entered While He Was Speaking,  "And She Is

Three Hundred Miles East Of Sandy Hook. She Won't Dock Until To-

Morrow."

"Thank You. Well,  Fellows,  It Is Getting Late And That Means

Nothing More Doing To-Night. Can You Be Here Early In The Morning?

We'll Go Down The Bay And 'Bring In The Ship,' As Our Men Call It

When The Deputy Surveyor And His Acting Deputies Go Down To Meet

It At Quarantine. I Can't Tell You How Much I Appreciate Your

Kindness In Helping Me. If My Men Get Anything Connecting Lang

With Mademoiselle Violette's Case I'll Let You Know Immediately."

It Was A Bright Clear Snappy Morning,  In Contrast With The Heat Of

The Day Before,  When We Boarded The Revenue Tug At The Barge

Office. The Waters Of The Harbour Never Looked More Blue As They

Danced In The Early Sunlight,  Flecked Here And There By A Foaming

Whitecap As The Conflicting Tides Eddied About. The Shores Of

Staten Island Were Almost As Green As In The Spring,  And Even The

Haze Over The Brooklyn Factories Had Lifted. It Looked Almost Like

A Stage Scene,  Clear And Sharp,  New And Brightly Coloured.

Perhaps The Least Known And Certainly One Of The Least Recognised

Of The Government Services Is That Which Includes The Vigilant

Ships Of The Revenue Service. It Was Not A Revenue Cutter,

However,  On Which We Were Ploughing Down The Bay. The Cutter Lay,

White And Gleaming In The Morning Sun,  At Anchor Off Stapleton,

Like A Miniature Warship,  Saluting As We Passed. The Revenue Boats

Which Steam Down To Quarantine And Make Fast To The Incoming Ocean

Greyhounds Are Revenue Tugs.

Down The Bay We Puffed And Buffeted For About Forty Minutes Before

We Arrived At The Little Speck Of An Island That Is Quarantine.

Long Before We Were There We Sighted The Great La Montaigne Near

The Group Of Buildings On The Island,  Where She Had Been Waiting

Since Early Morning For The Tide And The Customs Officials. The

Tug Steamed Alongside,  And Quickly Up The High Ladders Swarmed The

Boarding Officer And The Deputy Collectors. We Followed Herndon

Straight To The Main Saloon,  Where The Collectors Began To Receive

The Declarations Which Had Been Made Out On Blanks Furnished To

The Passengers On The Voyage Over. They Had Had Several Days To

Write Them Out--The Less Excuse For Omissions.

Glancing At Each Hastily The Collector Detached From It The Slip

With The Number At The Bottom And Handed The Number Back,  To Be

Presented At The Inspector's Desk At The Pier,  Where Customs

Inspectors Were Assigned In Turn.

"Number 140 Is The One We Want To Watch," I Heard Herndon Whisper

To Kennedy. "That Tall Dark Fellow Over There."

I Followed His Direction Cautiously And Saw A Sparely Built,

Striking Looking Man Who Had Just Filed His Declaration And Was

Chatting Vivaciously With A Lady Who Was Just About To File Hers.

She Was A Clinging Looking Little Thing With That Sort Of Doll-

Like Innocence That Deceives Nobody.

"No,  You Don't Have To Swear To It," He Said. "You Used To Do

That,  But Now You Simply Sign Your Name--And Take A Chance," He

Added,  Smiling And Showing A Row Of Perfect Teeth.

"Number 156," Herndon Noted As The Collector Detached The Stub And

Handed It To Her. "That Was Mademoiselle Gabrielle."

The Couple Passed Out To The Deck,  Still Chatting Gaily.

"In The Old Days,  Before They Got To Be So Beastly Particular," I

Heard Him Say,  "I Always Used To Get The Courtesy Of The Port,  An

Official Expedite. But That Is Over Now."

The Ship Was Now Under Way,  Her Flags Snapping In The Brisk

Coolish Breeze That Told Of Approaching Autumn. We Had Passed Up

The Lower Bay And The Narrows,  And The Passengers Were Crowded

Forward To Catch The First Glimpse Of The Skyscrapers Of New York.

On Up The Bay We Ploughed,  Throwing The Spray Proudly As We Went

Herndon Employed The Time In Keeping A Sharp Watch On The Tall,

Thin Man. Incidentally He Sought Out The Wireless Operator And

From Him Learned That A Code Wireless Message Had Been Received

For Pierre,  Apparently From His Partner,  Lang.

"There Is No Mention Of Anything Dutiable In This Declaration By

140 Which Corresponds With Any Of The Goods Mentioned In The First

Cable From Paris," A Collector Remarked Unobtrusively To Herndon,

"Nor In 156 Corresponding To The Second Cable."

"I Didn't Suppose There Would Be," Was His Laconic Reply. "That's

Our Job--To Find The Stuff."

At Last La Montaigne Was Warped Into The Dock. The Piles Of First-

Class Baggage On The Ship Were Raucously Deposited On The Wharf

And Slowly The Passengers Filed Down The Plank To Meet The