American Sherlocks by Nick Rennison (reading like a writer .TXT) 📕

Bradley, the keeper, was still unconscious, and nobody seemed to know what was the matter with him. Nick had a theory, which almost amounted to a certainty; but it remained to confirm it by a personal examination.

The warden presently led the way to the prison hospital, where the unfortunate keeper lay. No second glance was necessary to convince the detective that he had been right.

The man was in a sort of semi-rigid state, curiously like that of a trance. All ordinary restoratives had been tried and had failed, yet there did not appear to be anything alarming about his condition.

The prison physician started to describe the efforts which had been made, but Nick interrupted him quietly.

‘Never mind about that, doctor,’ he said. ‘I know what is the matter with him, and I believe I can revive him – unless Grantley has blocked the way.’

‘Is it possible!’ exclaimed Kennedy and the doctor, in concert. ‘What is it?’ added the former, while the latter demanded: ‘What do you mean by “blocking the way”?’

‘Your ex-guest hypnotized him, Kennedy,’ was the simple reply, ‘and, as I have had more or less experience along that line myself, I ought to be able to bring Bradley out of the hypnotic sleep, provided the man who plunged him into it did not impress upon his victim’s mind too strong a suggestion to the contrary. Grantley has gone deep into hypnotism, and it is possible that he has discovered some way of preventing a third person from reviving his subjects. There would have been nothing for him to gain by it in this case, but he may – out of mere malice – have thrown Bradley under a spell which no one but he can break. Let us hope not, however.’

‘Hypnotism, eh?’ ejaculated Kennedy. ‘By the powers, why didn’t we think of that, doctor?’

The prison physician hastily sought an excuse for his ignorance, but, as a matter of fact, he could not be greatly blamed. He was not one of the shining lights of his profession, as his not very tempting position proved, and comparatively few medical practitioners have had any practical experience with hypnotism or its occasional victims.

Nick Carter, on the other hand, had made an exhaustive study of the subject, both from a theoretical and a practical standpoint, and had often had occasion to utilize his extensive knowledge.

While Warden Kennedy, the physician, and a couple of nurses leaned forward curiously, the detective bent over the figure on the narrow white bed and rubbed the forehead and eyes a few times, in a peculiar way.

Then he spoke to the man.

‘Come, wake up, Bradley!’ he said commandingly. ‘I want you! You’re conscious! You’re answering me. You cannot resist! Get up!’

And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat up.

‘What is it? Where have I been?’ he asked, looking about him. And then he added, in astonishment: ‘What – what am I doing here?’

‘You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,’ the detective assured him. ‘You remember what happened, don’t you?’

For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it.

‘It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!’ he exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. ‘He called to me, while I was making my rounds – was it last night?’

Nick nodded, and the keeper went on:

‘What do you know about that! Is he gone?’

This time it was the warden who replied.

‘Yes, he’s skipped, Bradley; but we know he was down in New York later in the night, and Carter here can be counted on to bring him back, sooner or later.’

Kennedy had begun mildly enough, owing to the experience which his subordinate had so recently undergone, but, at this point, the autocrat in him got the better of his sympathy.

‘What the devil did you mean, though, by going into his cell, keys and all, like a confounded imbecile?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Isn’t that the first thing you had drilled into that reinforced-concrete dome of yours – not to give any of these fellows a chance to jump you when you have your keys with you? If you hadn’t fallen for his little game –’

‘But I didn’t fall for nothing, warden!’ the keeper interrupted warmly. ‘I didn’t go into his cell at all. I know better than that, believe me!’

‘You didn’t – what? What are you trying to put over, Bradley?’ Kennedy burst out. ‘You were found in his cell, with the door unlocked and the keys gone, not to mention Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen, curse him! Maybe that ain’t proof.’

‘It ain’t proof,’ insisted the keeper, ‘no matter how it looks. He called to me, and I started toward the grating to see what he wanted. He fixed his eyes on me, like he was looking me through and through, and made some funny motions with his hands. I’ll swear that’s all I remember. If I was found in his cell, I don’t know how I got there, or anything about it, so help me!’

The warden started to give Bradley another tongue-lashing, but Nick interposed.

‘He’s telling the truth, Kennedy,’ he said.

‘But how in thunder –’

‘Very easily. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but it is evident that Grantley hypnotized him through the bars and then commanded him to unlock the door and come inside. There is nothing in hypnotism to interfere; on the contrary, that would be the easiest and surest thing to do, under the circumstances. Grantley is too clever to try any of the old, outworn devices – such as feigning sickness, for instance – in order to get a keeper in his power. All that was necessary was