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

This Man Found His Daughter,  And To-Day She Is Living With Him. As

For My Hopes Of Getting Assistance From Him,  I Lost Them From The

Moment When I Made My Initial Mistake Of Telling Him Something

Distasteful. The Daughter Hates Me And I Hate Her. I Have Learned

That She Never Ceases Advising The Old Man Against All Schemes For

Investment Except Those Bearing Moderate Interest And Readily

Realised On. Dr. Burnham--I See You Know Him--Has Been Superseded

By Another Doctor,  I Believe. Well,  Well,  I Am Through With That

Incident. I Must Get Assistance From Other Sources. The Old Man,  I

Think,  Would Have Tricked Me Out Of The Fruits Of My Discovery

Anyhow. Perhaps I Am Fortunate. Who Knows?"

A Knock At The Door Cut Him Short. Prescott Opened It,  And A

Messenger Boy Stood There. "Is Professor Kennedy Here?" He

Inquired.

Craig Motioned To The Boy,  Signed For The Message,  And Tore It

Open. "It Is From Dr. Burnham," He Exclaimed,  Handing The Message

To Me.

"Mr. Haswell Is Dead," I Read. "Looks To Me Like Asphyxiation By

Gas Or Some Other Poison. Come Immediately To His House. Burnham."

"You Will Pardon Me," Broke In Craig To Prescott,  Who Was

Regarding Us Without The Slightest Trace Of Emotion,  "But Mr.

Haswell,  The Old Man To Whom I Know You Referred,  Is Dead,  And Dr.

Burnham Wishes To See Me Immediately. It Was Only Yesterday That I

Saw Mr. Haswell And He Seemed In Pretty Good Health And Spirits.

Prescott,  Though There Was No Love Lost Between You And The Old

Man,  I Would Esteem It A Great Favour If You Would Accompany Me To

The House. You Need Not Take Any Responsibility Unless You

Desire."

His Words Were Courteous Enough,  But Craig Spoke In A Tone Of

Quiet Authority Which Prescott Found It Impossible To Deny.

Kennedy Had Already Started To Telephone To His Own Laboratory,

Describing A Certain Suitcase To One Of His Students And Giving

His Directions. It Was Only A Moment Later That We Were Panting Up

The Sloping Street That Led From The River Front. In The

Excitement I Scarcely Noticed Where We Were Going Until We Hurried

Up The Steps To The Haswell House.

The Aged Caretaker Met Us At The Door. She Was In Tears. Upstairs

In The Front Room Where We Had First Met The Old Man We Found Dr.

Burnham Working Frantically Over Him. It Took Only A Minute To

Learn What Had Happened. The Faithful Jane Had Noticed An Odour Of

Gas In The Hall,  Had Traced It To Mr. Haswell's Room,  Had Found

Him Unconscious,  And Instinctively,  Forgetting The New Dr. Scott,

Had Rushed Forth For Dr. Burnham. Near The Bed Stood Grace Martin,

Pale But Anxiously Watching The Efforts Of The Doctor To

Resuscitate The Blue-Faced Man Who Was Stretched Cold And

Motionless On The Bed.

Dr. Burnham Paused In His Efforts As We Entered. "He Is Dead,  All

Right," He Whispered,  Aside. "I Have Tried Everything I Know To

Bring Him Back,  But He Is Beyond Help."

There Was Still A Sickening Odour Of Illuminating Gas In The Room,

Although The Windows Were Now All Open.

Kennedy,  With Provoking Calmness In The Excitement,  Turned From

And Ignored Dr. Burnham. "Have You Summoned Dr. Scott?" He Asked

Mrs. Martin.

"No," She Replied,  Surprised. "Should I Have Done So?"

"Yes. Send Jame Immediately. Mr. Prescott,  Will You Kindly Be

Seated For A Few Moments."

Taking Off His Coat,  Kennedy Advanced To The Bed Where The

Emaciated Figure Lay,  Cold And Motionless. Craig Knelt Down At Mr.

Haswell's Head And Took The Inert Arms,  Raising Them Up Until They

Were Extended Straight. Then He Brought Them Down,  Folded Upward

At The Elbow At The Side. Again And Again He Tried This Sylvester

Method Of Inducing Respiration,  But With No More Result Than Dr.

Burnham Had Secured. He Turned The Body Over On Its Face And Tried

The New Schaefer Method. There Seemed To Be Not A Spark Of Life

Left.

"Dr. Scott Is Out," Reported The Maid Breathlessly,  "But They Are

Trying To Locate Him From His Office,  And If They Do They Will

Send Him Around Immediately."

A Ring At The Doorbell Caused Us To Think That He Had Been Found,

But It Proved To Be The Student To Whom Kennedy Had Telephoned At

His Own Laboratory. He Was Carrying A Heavy Suitcase And A Small

Tank.

Kennedy Opened The Suitcase Hastily And Disclosed A Little Motor,

Some Long Tubes Of Rubber Fitting Into A Small Rubber Cap,

Forceps,  And Other Paraphernalia. The Student Quickly Attached One

Tube To The Little Tank,  While Kennedy Grasped The Tongue Of The

Dead Man With The Forceps,  Pulled It Up Off The Soft Palate,  And

Fitted The Rubber Cap Snugly Over His Mouth And Nose.

"This Is The Draeger Pulmotor," He Explained As He Worked,

"Devised To Resuscitate Persons Who Have Died Of Electric Shock,

But Actually Found To Be Of More Value In Cases Of Asphyxiation.

Start The Motor."

The Pulmotor Began To Pump. One Could See The Dead Man's Chest

Rise As It Was Inflated With Oxygen Forced By The Accordion

Bellows From The Tank Through One Of The Tubes Into The Lungs.

Then It Fell As The Oxygen And The Poisonous Gas Were Slowly

Sucked Out Through The Other Tube. Again And Again The Process Was

Repeated,  About Ten Times A Minute.

Dr. Burnham Looked On In Undisguised Amazement. He Had Long Since

Given Up All Hope. The Man Was Dead,  Medically Dead,  As Dead As

Ever Was Any Gas Victim At This Stage On Whom All The Usual

Methods Of Resuscitation Had Been Tried And Had Failed.

Still,  Minute After Minute,  Kennedy Worked Faithfully On,  Trying

To Discover Some Spark Of Life And To Fan It Into Flame. At Last,

After What Seemed To Be A Half-Hour Of Unremitting Effort,  When

The Oxygen Had Long Since Been Exhausted And Only Fresh Air Was

Being Pumped Into The Lungs And Out Of Them,  There Was A First

Faint Glimmer Of Life In The Heart And A Touch Of Colour In The

Cheeks. Haswell Was Coming To. Another Half-Hour Found Him

Muttering And Rambling Weakly.

"The Letter--The Letter," He Moaned,  Rolling His Glazed Eyes

About. "Where Is The Letter? Send For Grace."

The Moan Was So Audible That It Was Startling. It Was Like A Voice

From The Grave. What Did It All Mean? Mrs. Martin Was At His Side

In A Moment.

"Father,  Father,--Here I Am--Grace. What Do You Want?"

The Old Man Moved Restlessly,  Feverishly,  And Pressed His

Trembling Hand To His Forehead As If Trying To Collect His

Thoughts. He Was Weak,  But It Was Evident That He Had Been Saved.

The Pulmotor Had Been Stopped. Craig Threw The Cap To His Student

To Be Packed Up,  And As He Did So He Remarked Quietly,  "I Could

Wish That Dr. Scott Had Been Found. There Are Some Matters Here

That Might Interest Him."

He Paused And Looked Slowly From The Rescued Man Lying Dazed On

The Bed Toward Mrs. Martin. It Was Quite Apparent Even To Me That

She Did Not Share The Desire To See Dr. Scott,  At Least Not Just

Then. She Was Flushed And Trembling With Emotion. Crossing The

Room Hurriedly She Flung Open The Door Into The Hall.

"I Am Sure," She Cried,  Controlling Herself With Difficulty And

Catching At A Straw,  As It Were,  "That You Gentlemen,  Even If You

Have Saved My Father,  Are No Friends Of Either His Or Mine. You

Have Merely Come Here In Response To Dr. Burnham,  And He Came

Because Jane Lost Her Head In The Excitement And Forgot That Dr.

Scott Is Now Our Physician."

"But Dr. Scott Could Not Have Been Found In Time,  Madame,"

Interposed Dr. Burnham With Evident Triumph.

She Ignored The Remark And Continued To Hold The Door Open.

"Now Leave Us," She Implored,  "You,  Dr. Burnham,  You,  Mr.

Prescott,  You,  Professor Kennedy,  And Your Friend Mr. Jameson,

Whoever You May Be."

She Was Now Cold And Calm. In The Bewildering Change Of Events We

Had Forgotten The Wan Figure On The Bed Still Gasping For The

Breath Of Life. I Could Not Help Wondering At The Woman's Apparent

Lack Of Gratitude,  And A Thought Flashed Over My Mind. Had The

Affair Come To A Contest Between Various Parties Fighting By Fair

Means Or Foul For The Old Man's Money--Scott And Mrs. Martin

Perhaps Against Prescott And Dr. Burnham? No One Moved. We Seemed

To Be Waiting On Kennedy. Prescott And Mrs. Martin Were Now

Glaring At Each Other Implacably.

The Old Man Moved Restlessly On The Bed,  And Over My Shoulder I

Could Hear Him Gasp Faintly,  "Where's Grace? Send For Grace."

Mrs. Martin Paid No Attention,  Seemed Not To Hear,  But Stood

Facing Us Imperiously As If Waiting For Us To Obey Her Orders And

Leave The House. Burnham Moved Toward The Door,  But Prescott Stood

His Ground With A Peculiar Air Of Defiance. Then He Took My Arm

And Started Rather Precipitately,  I Thought,  To Leave.

"Come,  Come," Said Somebody Behind Us,  "Enough Of The Dramatics."

It Was Kennedy,  Who Had Been Bending Down,  Listening To The

Muttering Of The Old Man.

"Look At Those Eyes Of Mr. Haswell," He Said. "What Colour Are

They?"

We Looked. They Were Blue.

"Down In The Parlour," Continued Kennedy Leisurely,  "You Will Find

A Portrait Of The Long Deceased Mrs. Haswell. If You Will Examine

That Painting You Will See That Her Eyes Are Also A Peculiarly

Limpid Blue. No Couple With Blue Eyes Ever Had A Black-Eyed Child.

At Least,  If This Is Such A Case,  The Carnegie Institution

Investigators Would Be Glad To Hear Of It,  For It Is Contrary To

All That They Have Discovered On The Subject After Years Of Study

Of Eugenics. Dark-Eyed Couples May Have Light-Eyed Children,  But

The Reverse,  Never. What Do You Say To That,  Madame?"

"You Lie," Screamed The Woman,  Rushing Frantically Past Us. "I Am

His Daughter. No Interlopers Shall Separate Us. Father!"

The Old Man Moved Feebly Away From Her.

"Send For Dr. Scott Again," She Demanded. "See If He Cannot Be

Found. He Must Be Found. You Are All Enemies,  Villains."

She Addressed Kennedy,  But Included The Whole Room In Her

Denunciation.

"Not All," Broke In Kennedy Remorselessly. "Yes,  Madame,  Send For

Dr. Scott. Why Is He Not Here?"

Prescott,  With One Hand On My Arm And The Other On Dr. Burnham's,

Was Moving Toward The Door.

"One Moment,  Prescott," Interrupted Kennedy,  Detaining Him With A

Look.