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

Were Waiting To Catch The Midnight "Side-Door Pullman"--The Fast

Freight Out Of New York.

The Fight Was Brief,  For We Outnumbered Them More Than Three To

One. O'connor Himself Snapped A Pair Of Steel Bracelets On The

Thin Man,  Who Seemed To Be Leader Of The Party.

"It's All Up,  Pitts Slim," He Ground Out From His Set Teeth.

One Of Our Men Flashed His Bull's-Eye On The Three Prisoners. I

Caught Myself As In A Dream.

Pitts Slim Was Maloney,  The Detective.

An Hour Later,  At Headquarters,  After The Pedigrees Had Been

Taken,  The "Mugging" Done,  And The Jewels Found On The Three Yeggs

Checked Off From The List Of The Branford Pearls,  Leaving A Few

Thousand Dollars' Worth Unaccounted For,  O'connor Led The Way Into

His Private Office. There Were Mrs. Branford And Blake,  Waiting.

Maloney Sullenly Refused To Look At His Former Employer,  As Blake

Rushed Over And Grasped Kennedy's Hand,  Asking Eagerly: "How Did

You Do It,  Kennedy? This Is The Last Thing I Expected."

Craig Said Nothing,  But Slowly Opened A Now Crumpled Envelope,

Which Contained An Untoned Print Of A Photograph. He Laid It On

The Desk. "There Is Your Yeggman--At Work," He Said.

We Bent Over To Look. It Was A Photograph Of Maloney In The Act Of

Putting Something In The Little Wall Safe In Mrs. Branford's Room.

In A Flash It Dawned On Me--The Quick-Shutter Camera,  The Wire

Connected With The Wall Safe,  Craig's Hint To Maloney That If Some

Of The Jewels Were Found Hidden In A Likely Place In The House,  It

Would Furnish The Last Link In The Chain Against Her,  Maloney's

Eager Acceptance Of The Suggestion,  And His Visit To Montclair

During Which Craig Had Had Hard Work To Avoid Him.

"Pitts Slim,  Alias Maloney," Added Kennedy,  Turning To Blake,

"Your Shrewdest Private Detective,  Was Posing In Two Characters At

Once Very Successfully. He Was Your Trusted Agent In Possession Of

The Most Valuable Secrets Of Your Clients,  At The Same Time

Engineering All The Robberies That You Thought Were Fakes,  And

Then Working Up The Evidence Incriminating The Victims Themselves.

He Got Into The Branford House With A Skeleton Key,  And Killed The

Maid. The Picture Shows Him Putting This Shield-Shaped Brooch In

The Safe This Afternoon--Here's The Brooch. And All This Time He

Was The Leader Of The Most Dangerous Band Of Yeggmen In The

Country."

"Mrs. Branford," Exclaimed Blake,  Advancing And Bowing Most

Profoundly,  "I Trust That You Understand My Awkward Position? My

Apologies Cannot Be Too Humble. It Will Give Me Great Pleasure To

Hand You A Certified Check For The Missing Gems The First Thing In

The Morning."

Mrs. Branford Bit Her Lip Nervously. The Return Of The Pearls Did

Not Seem To Interest Her In The Least.

"And I,  Too,  Must Apologise For The False Suspicion I Had Of You

And--And--Depend On Me,  It Is Already Forgotten," Said Kennedy,

Emphasising The "False" And Looking Her Straight In The Eyes.

She Read His Meaning And A Look Of Relief Crossed Her Face. "Thank

You," She Murmured Simply,  Then Dropping Her Eyes She Added In A

Lower Tone Which No One Heard Except Craig: "Mr. Kennedy,  How Can

I Ever Thank You? Another Night,  And It Would Have Been Too Late

To Save Me From Myself."

By This Time I Was Becoming Used To Kennedy's Strange Visitors

And,  In Fact,  Had Begun To Enjoy Keenly The Uncertainty Of Not

Knowing Just What To Expect From Them Next. Still,  I Was Hardly

Prepared One Evening To See A Tall,  Nervous Foreigner Stalk

Noiselessly And Unannounced Into Our Apartment And Hand His Card

To Kennedy Without Saying A Word.

"Dr. Nicholas Kharkoff--Hum--Er,  Jameson,  You Must Have Forgotten

To Latch The Door. Well,  Dr. Kharkoff,  What Can I Do For You? It

Is Evident Something Has Upset You."

The Tall Russian Put His Forefinger To His Lips And,  Taking One Of

Our Good Chairs,  Placed It By The Door. Then He Stood On It And

Peered Cautiously Through The Transom Into The Hallway. "I Think I

Eluded Him This Time," He Exclaimed,  As He Nervously Took A Seat.

"Professor Kennedy,  I Am Being Followed. Every Step That I Take

Somebody Shadows Me,  From The Moment I Leave My Office Until I

Return. It Is Enough To Drive Me Mad. But That Is Only One Reason

Why I Have Come Here To-Night. I Believe That I Can Trust You As A

Friend Of Justice--A Friend Of Russian Freedom?"

He Had Included Me In His Earnest But Somewhat Vague Query,  So

That I Did Not Withdraw. Somehow. Apparently,  He Had Heard Of

Kennedy's Rather Liberal Political Views.

"It Is About Vassili Saratovsky,  The Father Of The Russian

Revolution,  As We Call Him,  That I Have Come To Consult You," He

Continued Quickly. "Just Two Weeks Ago He Was Taken Ill. It Came

On Suddenly,  A Violent Fever Which Continued For A Week. Then He

Seemed To Grow Better,  After The Crisis Had Passed,  And Even

Attended A Meeting Of Our Central Committee The Other Night. But

In The Meantime Olga Samarova,  The Little Russian Dancer,  Whom Yon

Have Perhaps Seen,  Fell Ill In The Same Way. Samarova Is An Ardent

Revolutionist,  You Know. This Morning The Servant At My Own Home

On East Broadway Was Also Stricken,  And--Who Knows?--Perhaps It

Will Be My Turn Next. For To-Night Saratovsky Had An Even More

Violent Return Of The Fever,  With Intense Shivering,  Excruciating

Pains In The Limbs,  And Delirious Headache. It Is Not Like

Anything I Ever Saw Before. Can You Look Into The Case Before It

Grows Any Worse,  Professor?"

Again The Russian Got On The Chair And Looked Over The Transom To

Be Sure That He Was Not Being Overheard.

"I Shall Be Only Too Glad To Help You In Any Way I Can," Returned

Kennedy,  His Manner Expressing The Genuine Interest That He Never

Feigned Over A Particularly Knotty Problem In Science And Crime.

"I Had The Pleasure Of Meeting Saratovsky Once In London. I Shall

Try To See Him The First Thing In The Morning."

Dr. Kharkov's Face Fell. "I Had Hoped You Would See Him To-Night.

If Anything Should Happen----"

"Is It As Urgent As That?"

"I Believe It Is," Whispered Kharkoff,  Leaning Forward Earnestly.

"We Can Call A Taxicab--It Will Not Take Long,  Sir. Consider,

There Are Many Lives Possibly At Stake," He Pleaded.

"Very Well,  I Will Go," Consented Kennedy.

At The Street Door Kharkoff Stopped Short And Drew Kennedy Back.

"Look--Across The Street In The Shadow. There Is The Man. If I

Start Toward Him He Will Disappear; He Is Very Clever. He Followed

Me From Saratovsky's Here,  And Has Been Waiting For Me To Come

Out."

"There Are Two Taxicabs Waiting At The Stand," Suggested Kennedy.

"Doctor,  You Jump In The First,  And Jameson And I Will Take The

Second. Then He Can't Follow Us."

It Was Done In A Moment,  And We Were Whisked Away,  To The Chagrin

Of The Figure,  Which Glided Impotently Out Of The Shadow In Vain

Pursuit,  Too Late Even To Catch The Number Of The Cab.

"A Promising Adventure," Commented Kennedy,  As We Bumped Along

Over New York's Uneven Asphalt. "Have You Ever Met Saratovsky?"

"No," I Replied Dubiously. "Will You Guarantee That He Will Not

Blow Us Up With A Bomb?"

"Grandmother!" Replied Craig. "Why,  Walter,  He Is The Most Gentle,

Engaging Old Philosopher----"

"That Ever Cut A Throat Or Scuttled A Ship?" I Interrupted.

"On The Contrary," Insisted Kennedy,  Somewhat Nettled,  "He Is A

Patriarch,  Respected By Every Faction Of The Revolutionists,  From

The Fighting Organisation To The Believers In Non-Resistance And

Tolstoy. I Tell You,  Walter,  The Nation That Can Produce A Man

Such As Saratovsky Deserves And Some Day Will Win Political

Freedom. I Have Heard Of This Dr. Kharkoff Before,  Too. His Life

Would Be A Short One If He Were In Russia. A Remarkable Man,  Who

Fled After Those Unfortunate Uprisings In 1905. Ah,  We Are On

Fifth Avenue. I Suspect That He Is Taking Us To A Club On The

Lower Part Of The Avenue,  Where A Number Of The Russian Reformers

Live,  Patiently Waiting And Planning For The Great 'Awakening' In

Their Native Land."

Kharkoff's Cab Had Stopped. Our Quest Had Indeed Brought Us Almost

To Washington Square. Here We Entered An Old House Of The Past

Generation. As We Passed Through The Wide Hall,  I Noted The High

Ceilings,  The Old-Fashioned Marble Mantels Stained By Time,  The

Long,  Narrow Rooms And Dirty-White Woodwork,  And The Threadbare

Furniture Of Black Walnut And Horsehair.

Upstairs In A Small Back Room We Found The Venerable Saratovsky,

Tossing,  Half-Delirious With The Fever,  On A Disordered Bed. His

Was A Striking Figure In This Sordid Setting,  With A High

Intellectual Forehead And Deep-Set,  Glowing Coals Of Eyes Which

Gave A Hint At The Things Which Had Made His Life One Of The

Strangest Among All The Revolutionists Of Russia And The Works He

Had Done Among The Most Daring. The Brown Dye Was Scarcely Yet Out

Of His Flowing White Beard--A Relic Of His Last Trip Back To His

Fatherland,  Where He Had Eluded The Secret Police In The Disguise

Of A German Gymnasium Professor.

Saratovsky Extended A Thin,  Hot,  Emaciated Hand To Us,  And We

Remained Standing. Kennedy Said Nothing For The Moment. The Sick

Man Motioned Feebly To Us To Come Closer.

"Professor Kennedy," He Whispered,  "There Is Some Deviltry Afoot.

The Russian Autocracy Would Stop At Nothing. Kharkoff Has Probably

Told You Of It. I Am So Weak----"

He Groaned And Sank Back,  Overcome By A Chill That Seemed To Rack

His Poor Gaunt Form.

"Kazanovitch Can Tell Professor Kennedy Something,  Doctor. I Am

Too Weak To Talk,  Even At This Critical Time. Take Him To See

Boris And Ekaterina."

Almost Reverently We Withdrew,  And Kharkoff Led Us Down The Hall

To Another Room. The Door Was Ajar,  And A Light Disclosed A Man