DOCTOR GEORGE LUKENS was thoroughly amazed by the statement made by his strange midnight visitor. The emphasis of the man’s words impressed the physician. A train of confused thoughts ran through his brain.
The revelation that the characters on the paper found in Marchand’s desk were not a code, but a meaningless jargon, seemed unbelievable. Nevertheless, Doctor Lukens did not doubt the truth of the man’s declaration. The stranger seemed too sincere.
“You seem perplexed,” observed the stranger. “I do not wonder that you are. You have convinced yourself — as others have done, also — that this paper bore a coded message.
“I do not blame the experts for their opinions. When they have tried every system known to themselves, they naturally assume that they have encountered something new.”
“But you did not assume that,” returned Lukens.
“No,” replied the stranger, “because I am more confident of my ability. When I had studied the supposed code and subjected it to all my tests without a single clew, I knew that there could be but one answer: the paper is a hoax!”
“What, then, is its purpose?”
“To mislead. To arouse false theories. To accomplish the very thing which has been accomplished. To make people believe that Henry Marchand’s death was an accident — when in reality it was a cleverly contrived murder!”
“A murder!” Lukens gripped the arms of the chair.
“Speak softly,” urged the stranger. “I am talking to you in confidence. I closed the door when I entered. We must be overheard by no one.”
The physician nodded.
“I must admit,” said the stranger quietly, “that the circumstances of Henry Marchand’s death substantiated my belief that the paper was a spurious code.
“I am familiar with the most important details. On that account I see great flaws in the theory which Inspector Klein presented as a solution of Marchand’s death.”
“What, in particular?”
“First,” continued the strange man, “the preventive measure of a poisoned needle.
“Marchand had an alarm upon his safe; a tear-gas ejector upon the closet door. Neither of these were dangerous. Why, then, should he have a death-dealing device hidden in this desk?”
“Because this paper — code or no code — must have been of vital importance—”
“You are wrong, Doctor Lukens,” interrupted the stranger. “If the secret drawer contained a vital secret, Marchand would not have placed a murderous device there.
“Had some one died in this room, the old man could not have explained the matter except by disclosing a secret which he was most anxious to preserve.”
“That is true,” admitted the physician.
“MARCHAND’S death,” resumed the stranger, “was attributed to his forgetfulness. Marchand knew himself that he was forgetful, did he not?”
“He did.”
“Why, then, would he have been so foolish as to lay a snare for himself?”
“I see your point,” agreed Doctor Lukens. “Of course, Marchand must have been anxious to preserve the secret of this hidden drawer—”
“Of course,” interposed the stranger, “and the ingenious mechanical arrangement was sufficient in itself.
“No one would ever have suspected the existence of the drawer. Why the necessity of the poisoned needle?”
“But the needle was there! And the thimble, too!”
The stranger smiled at the physician’s words.
“The needle and the thimble,” repeated the man in black. “Also the spurious code — sealed in an envelope.”
“That’s right,” agreed Doctor Lukens. He drew the opened envelope from his pocket. The stranger reached over to examine it.
“Let us suppose that this document was considered valuable by Henry Marchand,” suggested the stranger. “Why did he keep it here rather than in a safe-deposit vault?”
“So it would be where he could watch it — or refer to it,” replied the physician.
“Agreed. Kept in a concealed drawer, opened by an ingenious device, the paper would be well protected.
“But why should it be in a sealed envelope? That would be no deterrent to a thief who might discover the secret of the drawer. Marchand could not have wanted to protect the envelope. A clever thief, stealing the document, would substitute a similar envelope stuffed with blank paper.
“Moreover, if Marchand had been trying to decipher a code which he did not understand, he would not have kept it sealed.”
“It does seem illogical,” admitted Doctor Lukens.
“Illogical,” said the stranger, “and improbable.”
“What, then, is the answer to this riddle?”
“A new theory,” said the stranger. “We must gather every bit of information that may serve as a clew.
“There is a murderer in this. We must consider the subject from his standpoint.”
“You have a theory?” Lukens queried.
“More than a theory.” The calmness of the stranger’s voice chilled Lukens. “I have a solution!”
THE stranger folded his hands beneath his chin and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. His darkened spectacles gave him an owl-like appearance.
“Some one,” said the man in black, “learned of the existence of the secret drawer in this desk. That person surmised that the drawer contained something— probably a document — of importance. He resolved to steal it.
“He entered this house, made his way into the room, and managed to open the drawer. He stole the article that he desired. That took place on the first night that Oscar suspected a burglar in the house.”
“There was a second burglar—” began Lukens.
“I know,” interrupted the stranger. “That became necessary.”
“Why?”
“Because the thief had to make provision for the return of Henry Marchand.”
“I see!” exclaimed Lukens. “He took this paper — with its pretended code. He wanted to put it back before Marchand discovered that it was gone.”
“No,” said the stranger patiently. “He took something else. Something he did not wish to return. He did not want Marchand to know that it was gone.
“More than that, whatever he took could not have been of use to him until Marchand was dead!
“So he planned a deliberate murder — an ideal murder, because it timed Marchand’s death simultaneously with the old man’s discovery that his secret possession had been stolen.
“The thief entered this house a second time. He put the poisoned needle in the secret spot where the hidden drawer was released. He left a thimble in the desk. Only one touch remained.
“He did not want Marchand to be found dead beside an empty drawer. So he played his master stroke — this spurious code. He knew that it would be found; that those finding it would believe it to be Marchand’s secret.
“Even now the murderer is chuckling. The supposed code can never be solved. Hence no one — so the murderer believes — will ever gain a clew to Marchand’s real secret.”
“This is astounding!” declared Doctor Lukens. “It completely changes the solution of Marchand’s death. But you — who are you—”
“There was just one flaw,” interrupted the stranger, ignoring the physician’s question. “The murderer used a sealed envelope. Perhaps he thought it would be more impressive for the code to be found sealed.
“He did not realize the weakness of the situation; neither, for that matter, did the inspector or the detective who investigated the case.”
“The murderer,” murmured Doctor Lukens. “Who can he be?”
“Some one who knew Henry Marchand well!” declared the stranger in an ominous tone. “I do not think the man knew what he was stealing. I believe he surprised Marchand one time when the old man was opening the secret drawer.
“Henry Marchand feared a burglary because his very life depended upon whatever be had hidden. He came here immediately when he learned that some one had entered the house. He came back — to die.”
Doctor Lukens opened the drawer in the center of the desk and produced the thimble. He handed it to the man in black, who examined it. The stranger replaced the thimble in the drawer and saw the pair of dice lying there.
He took them out. They showed the number seven. He dropped them on the table; again they registered seven.
“Loaded,” said the stranger. “That’s curious. Always seven. Did you ever connect the number seven with Henry Marchand?”
“It seems to me I did,” said Lukens thoughtfully. “But I can’t recall the circumstances. Do you see any significance in the number seven?”
“Yes. It may lead us to the murderer.”
“Do you suspect Oscar?” Lukens asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Willis?”
“Perhaps. I even suspected you, Doctor Lukens.”
The physician gasped in indignation.
“I watched you,” said the visitor. “You did not see me here. Your interest in the false code showed that you did not know it was spurious. I resolved to explain the matter to you and to ask your aid.”
“How can I aid you?”
“By living here as an executor of Marchand’s estate. Study the two men who lived with Marchand. Watch for new developments.”
Doctor Lukens nodded.
“In the meantime,” continued the stranger, “I shall investigate others who—”
“Whom, for instance?”
“Any one who was closely associated with Henry Marchand. I am convinced that the old man was murdered; the problem now is to find what was stolen — and to trace the criminal.”
DOCTOR LUKENS nodded in agreement. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. The physician noted that the visitor was strangely calm.
“There may be danger here,” said the stranger. “You may find some clew among Marchand’s effects. You may learn of others with whom he has been associated. Some specter of the past may rise to confront you. If it does, you must recognize it.”
“I shall be prepared,” said Lukens firmly. “It is a duty to my old friend, Henry. You have convinced me, also. Your ability amazes me. Though I have never seen you before, I have confidence in you. I should like to know your name.”
The man in black stood up. His tall form cast a long, thin shadow that stretched fantastically across the width of the room.
Slowly, noiselessly, he walked to the door; there he turned and stood facing the physician. Now, at the edge of the room, the stranger’s face was scarcely discernible in the gloom.
“I am a friend,” said the man in black. “My name does not matter.”
“But what are you — a detective?”
A soft laugh came from the man at the door. It was a whispered laugh with a sinister tone that made Doctor Lukens shudder involuntarily.
“Perhaps,” said the visitor. “You may rest assured that in this case I am seeking the murderer of Henry Marchand; and that when I discover him, he will pay the full penalty for his crime.”
“Then you may count upon my full cooperation,” declared the physician.
“Your cooperation,” replied the stranger, “and your silence! I shall come again out of the darkness. If you receive a message from me, you will recognize its authorship. Should you require me urgently, call this number.”
The man stepped back across the room and placed a card in Doctor Lukens’s hand. The card bore a telephone number. The stranger turned and walked from the room.
As the door closed behind the man, the physician hurried in pursuit. He reached the head of the stairs and switched on the light in the hall below. He saw the man at the bottom of the stairs, standing beside a table.
The stranger had put on a black hat with a broad brim. His arms were outstretched as he drew a black cloak about his shoulders.
Doctor Lukens called, but the stranger made no reply. Instead, he moved toward the front door and opened it.
Lukens, hurrying down the stairs, arrived as the door closed behind the man in the black cloak. The physician opened the door and emerged upon the steps. He thought that he was but a few paces behind his departing visitor; yet the man was nowhere to be seen. He had stepped from the house and had disappeared.
FOR several minutes Lukens gazed up and down the street, seeking some trace of the vanished stranger.
His efforts unavailing, the physician returned into the house. As he went up the stairs, Oscar appeared.
“Oh!” exclaimed the servant. “I heard you. I wondered who was coming in.”
“I just went downstairs with our visitor. Did he tell you his name, Oscar?”
“Who?”
“The man who was here. The man in the black cloak.”
“I saw no man, sir.”
“What! Didn’t you let him in a half hour ago?”
“No, sir. I have been asleep since ten o’clock.”
Doctor Lukens gasped.
“Was the front door locked?” he questioned.
“Certainly, doctor,” replied Oscar. “I always lock it — and bolt it, sir.”
“It’s unlocked now,” said the physician grimly. “I was outside a moment ago.”
Oscar hurried downstairs to lock the front door. Doctor Lukens, his head bowed in thought, went into the room where Henry Marchand had died. He slumped into the chair before the desk.
It all seemed unreal. For a minute the physician believed that he had been the victim of hallucinations produced by the mental effort he had undergone in his study of the code.
Then his fingers fumbled in his vest pocket, and he brought out the card which the man in black had given him — the card which bore the telephone number to be called in an emergency.
Doctor Lukens smiled. Here was tangible evidence. This was a clew by which he might trace his visitor and learn the man’s identity.
Convinced of the reality of the situation, Doctor Lukens pondered deeply over the information which the man had given him. The logic of the stranger’s arguments had created a profound impression in the physician’s mind.
“It is true,” murmured Doctor Lukens. “True that my old friend Henry was murdered. This man has revealed the fact. Whoever he is — whatever he may be — he is ready to trace the murderer. I shall aid him as he wishes!”
The physician stared at the wall as his mind reverted to the mysterious man who had come to see him.
“Who can he be?” asked Doctor Lukens. “Where did he come from? Where did he go? It is unaccountable.” The physician pictured himself standing outside the front door, staring through the darkness.
“Strange!” he exclaimed. “He vanished as he appeared — like a living shadow!”