CHAPTER V
THE POISONED ROOM
Elaine and Craig were much together during the next few days.
Somehow or other, it seemed that the chase of the Clutching Handinvolved long conferences in the Dodge library and even, in fact,extended to excursions into that notoriously crime-infestedneighborhood of Riverside Drive with its fashionable processions ofautomobiles and go-carts--as far north, indeed, as that desperate hauntknown as Grant's Tomb.
More than that, these delvings into the underworld involved Kennedy inthe necessity of wearing a frock coat and silk hat in the afternoon,and I found that he was selecting his neckwear with a care that hadbeen utterly foreign to him during all the years previous that I hadknown him.
It all looked very suspicious to me.
But, to return to the more serious side of the affair.
Kennedy and Elaine had scarcely come out of the house and descended thesteps, one afternoon, when a sinister face appeared in a basementareaway nearby.
The figure was crouched over, with his back humped up almost as ifdeformed, and his left hand had an unmistakable twist.
It was the Clutching Hand.
He wore a telephone inspector's hat and coat and carried a bag slung bya strap over his shoulder. For once he had left off his mask, but, inplace of it, his face was covered by a scraggly black beard. In fact,he seemed to avoid turning his face full, three-quarters or evenprofile to anyone, unless he had to do so. As much as possible heaverted it, but he did so in a clever way that made it seem quitenatural. The disguise was effective.
He saw Kennedy and Miss Dodge and slunk unobtrusively against arailing, with his head turned away. Laughing and chatting, they passed.As they walked down the street, Clutching Hand turned and gazed afterthem. Involuntarily the menacing hand clutched in open hatred.
Then he turned in the other direction and, going up the steps of theDodge house, rang the bell.
"Telephone inspector," he said in a loud tone as Michael, in Jennings'place for the afternoon, opened the door.
He accompanied the words with the sign and Michael, taking care thatthe words be heard, in case anyone was listening, admitted him.
As it happened, Aunt Josephine was upstairs in Elaine's room. She wasfixing flowers in a vase on the dressing table of her idolized niece.Meanwhile, Rusty, the collie, lay, half blinking, on the floor.
"Who is this?" she asked, as Michael led the bogus telephone inspectorinto the room.
"A man from the telephone company," he answered deferentially.
Aunt Josephine, unsophisticated, allowed them to enter without afurther question.
Quickly, like a good workman, Clutching Hand went to the telephoneinstrument and by dint of keeping his finger on the hook and his backto Aunt Josephine succeeded in conveying the illusion that he wasexamining it.
Aunt Josephine moved to the door. Not so, Rusty. He did not like thelooks of the stranger and he had no scruples against letting it beknown.
As she put her hand on the knob to go out into the hall, Rusty uttereda low growl which grew into a full-lunged snarl at the Clutching Hand.Clutching Hand kicked at him vigorously, if surreptitiously. Rustybarked.
"Lady," he disguised his voice, "will yer please ter call off the dog?Me and him don't seem to cotton to each other."
"Here, Rusty," she commanded, "down!"
Together Aunt Josephine and Michael removed the still protesting Rusty.
No sooner was the door shut than the Clutching Hand moved over swiftlyto it. For a few seconds, he stood gazing at them as they disappeareddown-stairs. Then he came back into the center of the room.
Hastily he opened his bag and from it drew a small powder-sprayingoutfit such as I have seen used for spraying bug-powder. He then tookout a sort of muzzle with an elastic band on it and slipped it over hishead so that the muzzle protected his nose and mouth.
He seemed to work a sort of pumping attachment and from the nozzle ofthe spraying instrument blew out a cloud of powder which he directed atthe wall.
The wall paper was one of those rich, fuzzy varieties and it seemed tocatch the powder. Clutching Hand appeared to be more than satisfiedwith the effect.
Meanwhile, Michael, in the hallway, on guard to see that no onebothered the Clutching Hand at his work, was overcome by curiosity tosee what his master was doing. He opened the door a little bit andgazed stealthily through the crack into the room.
Clutching Hand was now spraying the rug close to the dressing table ofElaine and was standing near the mirror. He stooped down to examine therug. Then, as he raised his head, he happened to look into the mirror.In it he could see the full reflection of Michael behind him, gazinginto the room.
"The scoundrel!" muttered Clutching Hand, with repressed fury at thediscovery.
He rose quickly and shut off the spraying instrument, stuffing it intothe bag. He took a step or two toward the door. Michael drew back,fearfully, pretending now to be on guard.
Clutching Hand opened the door and, still wearing the muzzle, beckonedto Michael. Michael could scarcely control his fears. But he obeyed,entering Elaine's room after the Clutching Hand, who locked the door.
"Were you watching me?" demanded the master criminal, with rage.
Michael, trembling all over, shook his head. For a moment ClutchingHand looked him over disdainfully at the clumsy lie.
Then he brutally struck Michael in the face, knocking him down. Anungovernable, almost insane fury seemed to possess the man as he stoodover the prostrate footman, cursing.
"Get up!" he ordered.
Michael obeyed, thoroughly cowed.
"Take me to the cellar, now," he demanded.
Michael led the way from the room without a protest, the mastercriminal following him closely.
Down into the cellar, by a back way, they went, Clutching Hand stillwearing his muzzle and Michael saying not a word.
Suddenly Clutching Hand turned on him and seized him by the collar.
"Now, go upstairs, you," he muttered, shaking him until his teethfairly chattered, "and if you watch me again--I'll kill you!"
He thrust Michael away and the footman, overcome by fear, hurriedupstairs. Still trembling and fearful, Michael paused In the hallway,looking back resentfully, for even one who is in the power of asuper-criminal is still human and has feelings that may be injured.
Michael put his hand on his face where the Clutching Hand had struckhim. There he waited, muttering to himself. As he thought it over,anger took the place of fear. He slowly turned in the direction of thecellar. Closing both his fists, Michael made a threatening gesture athis master in crime.
Meanwhile, Clutching Hand was standing by the electric meter. Heexamined it carefully, feeling where the wires entered and left itstarting to trace them out. At last he came to a point where it seemedsuitable to make a connection for some purpose he had in mind.
Quickly he took some wire from his bag and connected it with theelectric light wires. Next, he led these wires, concealed of course,along the cellar floor, in the direction of the furnace.
The furnace was one of the old hot air heaters and he paused before itas though seeking something. Then he bent down beside it and uncovereda little tank. He took off the top on which were cast in the iron thewords:
"This tank must be kept full of water."
He thrust his hand gingerly into it, bringing it out quickly. The tankwas nearly full of water and he brought his hand out wet. It was alsohot. But he did not seem to mind that, for he shook his head with asmile of satisfaction.
Next, from his capacious bag he took two metal poles, or electrodes,and fastened them carefully to the ends of the wires, placing them atopposite ends of the tank in the water.
For several moments he watched. The water inside the tank seemed thesame as before, only on each electrode there appeared bubbles, on onebubbles of oxygen, on the other of hydrogen. The water was decomposingunder the current by electrolysis.
Another moment he surveyed his wo
rk to see that he had left no looseends. Then he picked up his bag and moved toward the cellar steps. Ashe did so, he removed the muzzle from his nose and quietly let himselfout of the house.
. . . . . . . .
The next morning, Rusty, who had been Elaine's constant companion sincethe trouble had begun, awakened his mistress by licking her hand as ithung limply over the side of her bed.
She awakened with a start and put her hand to her head. She felt ill.
"Poor old fellow," she murmured, half dazedly, for the moment endowingher pet with her own feelings, as she patted his faithful shaggy head.
Rusty moved away again, wagging his tail listlessly. The collie, too,felt ill. Elaine watched him as he walked, dejected, across the roomand then lay down.
"Why, Miss Elaine--what ees ze mattair? You are so pale!" exclaimed themaid, Marie, as she entered the room a moment later with the morning'smail on a salver.
"I don't feel well, Marie," she replied, trying with her slender whitehand to brush the cobwebs from her brain. "I--I wish you'd tell AuntJosephine to telephone Dr. Hayward."
"Yes, mademoiselle," answered Marie, deftly and sympatheticallystraightening out the pillows.
Languidly Elaine took the letters one by one off the salver. She lookedat them, but seemed not to have energy enough to open them.
Finally she selected one and slowly tore it open. It had nosuperscription, but it at once arrested her attention and transfixedher with terror.
It read:
"YOU ARE SICK THIS MORNING. TOMORROW YOU WILL BE WORSE. THE NEXT DAYYOU WILL DIE UNLESS YOU DISCHARGE CRAIG KENNEDY."
It was signed by the mystic trademark of the fearsome Clutching Hand!
Elaine drew back into the pillows, horror stricken.
Quickly she called to Marie. "Go--get Aunt Josephine--right away!"
As Marie almost flew down the hall, Elaine still holding the letterconvulsively, pulled herself together and got up, trembling. She almostseized the telephone as she called Kennedy's number.
. . . . . . . .
Kennedy, in his stained laboratory apron, was at work before his table,while I was watching him with intense interest, when the telephone rang.
Without a word he answered the call and I could see a look ofperturbation cross his face. I knew it was from Elaine, but could tellnothing about the nature of the message.
An instant later he almost tore off the apron and threw on his hat andcoat. I followed him as he dashed out of the laboratory.
"This is terrible--terrible," he muttered, as we hurried across thecampus of the University to a taxi-cab stand.
A few minutes later, when we arrived at the Dodge mansion, we foundAunt Josephine and Marie doing all they could under the circumstances.Aunt Josephine had just given her a glass of water which she drankeagerly. Rusty had, meanwhile, crawled under the bed, caring only to bealone and undisturbed.
Dr. Hayward had arrived and had just finished taking her pulse andtemperature as our cab pulled up.
Jennings who had evidently been expecting us let us in without a wordand conducted us up to Elaine's room. We knocked.
"Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson," we could hear Marie whisper in a subduedvoice.
"Tell them to come in," answered Elaine eagerly.
We entered. There she lay, beautiful as ever, but with a whiteness ofher fresh cheek that was too etherially unnatural. Elaine was quite illindeed.
"Oh--I'm so glad to see you," she breathed, with an air of relief asKennedy advanced.
"Why--what is the matter?" asked Craig, anxiously.
Dr. Hayward shook his head dubiously, but Kennedy did not notice him,for, as he approached Elaine, she drew from the covers where she hadconcealed it a letter and handed it to him.
Craig took it and read:
"YOU ARE SICK THIS MORNING. TOMORROW YOU WILL BE WORSE. THE NEXT DAYYOU WILL DIE UNLESS YOU DISCHARGE CRAIG KENNEDY."
At the signature of the Clutching Hand he frowned, then, noticing Dr.Hayward, turned to him and repeated his question, "What is the matter?"
Dr. Hayward continued shaking his head. "I cannot diagnose hersymptoms," he shrugged.
As I watched Kennedy's face, I saw his nostrils dilating, almost as ifhe were a hound and had scented his quarry. I sniffed, too. Thereseemed to be a faint odor, almost as if of garlic, in the room. It wasunmistakable and Craig looked about him curiously but said nothing.
As he sniffed, he moved impatiently and his foot touched Rusty, underthe bed. Rusty whined and moved back lazily. Craig bent over and lookedat him.
"What's the matter with Rusty?" he asked. "Is he sick, too?"
"Why--yes," answered Elaine, following Craig with her deep eyes. "PoorRusty. He woke me up this morning. He feels as badly as I do, poor oldfellow."
Craig reached down and gently pulled the collie out into the room.Rusty crouched down close to the floor. His nose was hot and dry andfeverish. He was plainly ill.
"How long has Rusty been in the room?" asked Craig.
"All night," answered Elaine. "I wouldn't think of being without himnow."
Kennedy lifted the dog by his front paws. Rusty submitted patiently,but without any spirit.
"May I take Rusty along with me?" he asked finally.
Elaine hesitated. "Surely," she said at length, "only, be gentle withhim."
Craig looked at her as though it would be impossible to be otherwisewith anything belonging to Elaine.
"Of course," he said simply. "I thought that I might be able todiscover the trouble from studying him."
We stayed only a few minutes longer, for Kennedy seemed to realize thenecessity of doing something immediately and even Dr. Hayward wasfighting in the dark. As for me, I gave it up, too. I could find noanswer to the mystery of what was the peculiar malady of Elaine.
Back in the laboratory, Kennedy set to work immediately, brushingeverything else aside. He began by drawing off a little of Rusty'sblood in a tube, very carefully.
"Here, Walter," he said pointing to the little incision he had made."Will you take care of him?"
I bound up the wounded leg and gave the poor beast a drink of water.Rusty looked at me gratefully from his big sad brown eyes. He seemed toappreciate our gentleness and to realize that we were trying to helphim.
In the meantime, Craig had taken a flask with a rubber stopper. Throughone hole in it was fitted a long funnel; through another ran a glasstube. The tube connected with a large U-shaped drying tube filled withcalcium chloride, which, in turn, connected with a long open tube withan upturned end.
Into the flask, Craig dropped some pure granulated zinc. Then hecovered it with dilute sulphuric acid, poured in through the funneltube.
"That forms hydrogen gas," he explained to me, "which passes throughthe drying tube and the ignition tube. Wait a moment until all the airis expelled from the tubes."
He lighted a match and touched it to the open, upturned end. Thehydrogen, now escaping freely, was ignited with a pale blue flame.
A few moments later, having extracted something like a serum from theblood he had drawn off from Rusty. He added the extract to the mixturein the flask, pouring it in, also through the funnel tube.
Almost immediately the pale, bluish flame turned to bluish white, andwhite fumes were formed. In the ignition tube a sort of metallicdeposit appeared.
Quickly Craig made one test after another.
As he did so, I sniffed. There was an unmistakable odor of garlic inthe air which made me think of what I had already noticed in Elaine'sroom.
"What is it?" I asked, mystified.
"Arseniuretted hydrogen," he answered, still engaged in verifying histests. "This is the Marsh test for arsenic."
I gazed from Kennedy to the apparatus, then to Rusty and a picture ofElaine, pale and listless, flashed before me.
"Arsenic!" I repeated in horror.
. . . . . . . .
I had
scarcely recovered from the surprise of Kennedy's startlingrevelation when the telephone rang again. Kennedy seized the receiver,thinking evidently that the message might be from or about Elaine.
But from the look on his face and from his manner, I could gather that,although it was not from Elaine herself, it was about something thatinterested him greatly. As he talked, he took his little notebook andhastily jotted down something in it. Still, I could not make out whatthe conversation was about.
"Good!" I heard him say finally. "I shall keep theappointment--absolutely."
His face wore a peculiar puzzled look as he hung up the receiver.
"What was it?" I asked eagerly.
"It was Elaine's footman, Michael," he replied thoughtfully. "As Isuspected, he says that he is a confederate of the Clutching Hand andif we will protect him he will tell us the trouble with Elaine."
I considered a moment. "How's that?" I queried.
"Well," added Craig, "you see, Michael has become infuriated by thetreatment he received from the Clutching Hand. I believe he cuffed himin the face yesterday. Anyway, he says he has determined to get evenand betray him. So, after hearing how Elaine was, he slipped out of theservant's door and looking about carefully to see that he wasn'tfollowed, he went straight to a drug store and called me up. He seemedextremely nervous and fearful."
I did not like the looks of the thing, and said so. "Craig," I objectedvehemently, "don't go to meet him. It is a trap."
Kennedy had evidently considered my objection already.
"It may be a trap," he replied slowly, "but Elaine is dying and we'vegot to see this thing through."
As he spoke, he took an automatic from a drawer of a cabinet and thrustit into his pocket. Then he went to another drawer and took out severalsections of thin tubing which seemed to be made to fasten together as afishing pole is fastened, but were now separate, as if ready fortravelling.
"Well--are you coming, Walter?" he asked finally--the only answer to myflood of caution.
Then he went out. I followed, still arguing.
"If YOU go, _I_ go," I capitulated. "That's all there is to it."
Following the directions that Michael had given over the telephoneCraig led me into one of the toughest parts of the lower West Side.
"Here's the place," he announced, stopping across the street from adingy Raines Law Hotel.
"Pretty tough," I objected. "Are you sure?"
"Quite," replied Kennedy, consulting his note book again.
"Well, I'll be hanged if I'll go in that joint," I persisted.
It had no effect on Kennedy. "Nonsense, Walter," he replied, crossingthe street.
Reluctantly I followed and we entered the place.
"I want a room," asked Craig as we were accosted by the proprietor,comfortably clad in a loud checked suit and striped shirt sleeves. "Ihad one here once before--forty-nine, I think."
"Fifty--" I began to correct.
Kennedy trod hard on my toes.
"Yes, forty-nine," he repeated.
The proprietor called a stout negro porter, waiter, and bell-hop allcombined in one, who led us upstairs.
"Fohty-nine, sah," he pointed out, as Kennedy dropped a dime into hisready palm.
The negro left us and as Craig started to enter, I objected, "But,Craig, it was fifty-nine, not forty-nine. This is the wrong room."
"I know it," he replied. "I had it written in the book. But I wantforty-nine--now. Just follow me, Walter."
Nervously I followed him into the room.
"Don't you understand?" he went on. "Room forty-nine is probably justthe same as fifty-nine, except perhaps the pictures and furniture, onlyit is on the floor below."
He gazed about keenly. Then he took a few steps to the window and threwit open. As he stood there he took the parts of the rods he had beencarrying and fitted them together until he had a pole some eight or tenfeet long. At one end was a curious arrangement that seemed to containlenses and a mirror. At the other end was an eye-piece, as nearly as Icould make out.
"What is that?" I asked as he completed his work.
"That? That is an instrument something on the order of a miniaturesubmarine periscope," Craig replied, still at work.
I watched him, fascinated at his resourcefulness. He stealthily thrustthe mirror end of the periscope out of the window and up toward thecorresponding window up stairs. Then he gazed eagerly through theeye-piece.
"Walter--look!" he exclaimed to me.
I did. There, sure enough, was Michael, pacing up and down the room. Hehad already preceded us. In his scared and stealthy manner, he hadentered the Raines Law hotel which announced "Furnished Rooms forGentlemen Only." There he had sought a room, fifty-nine, as he had said.
As he came into the room, he had looked about, overcome by the enormityof what he was about to do. He locked the door. Still, he had not beenable to avoid gazing about fearfully, as he was doing now that we sawhim.
Nothing had happened. Yet he brushed his hand over his forehead andbreathed a sigh of relief. The air seemed to be stifling him andalready he had gone to the window and thrown it open. Then he had gazedout as though there might be some unknown peril in the very air. He hadnow drawn back from the window and was considering. He was actuallytrembling. Should he flee? He whistled softly to himself to keep hisshaking fears under control. Then he started to pace up and down theroom in nervous impatience and irresolution.
As I looked at him nervously walking to and fro, I could not helpadmitting that things looked safe enough and all right to me. Kennedyfolded the periscope up and we left our room, mounting the remainingflight of stairs.
In fifty-nine we could hear the measured step of the footman. Craigknocked. The footsteps ceased. Then the door opened slowly and I couldsee a cold blue automatic.
"Look out!" I cried.
Michael in his fear had drawn a gun.
"It's all right, Michael," reassured Craig calmly. "All right, Walter,"he added to me.
The gun dropped back into the footman's pocket. We entered and Michaelagain locked the door. Not a word had been spoken by him so far.
Next Michael moved to the center of the room and, as I realized later,brought himself in direct lines with the open window. He seemed to beovercome with fear at his betrayal and stood there breathing heavily.
"Professor Kennedy," he began, "I have been so mistreated that I havemade up my mind to tell you all I know about this Clutching--"
Suddenly he drew a sharp breath and both his hands clutched at his ownbreast. He did not stagger and fall in the ordinary manner, but seemedto bend at the knees and waist and literally crumple down on his face.
We ran to him. Craig turned him over gently on his back and examinedhim. He called. No answer. Michael was almost pulseless.
Quickly Craig tore off his collar and bared his breast, for the manseemed to be struggling for breath. As he did so, he drew fromMichael's chest a small, sharp-pointed dart.
"What's that?" I ejaculated, horror stricken.
"A poisoned blow gun dart such as is used by the South American Indianson the upper Orinoco," he said slowly.
He examined it carefully.
"What is the poison?" I asked.
"Curari," he replied simply. "It acts on the respiratory muscles,paralyzing them, and causing asphyxiation."
The dart seemed to have been made of a quill with a very sharp point,hollow, and containing the deadly poison in the sharpened end.
"Look out!" I cautioned as he handled it.
"Oh, that's all right," he answered casually. "If I don't scratchmyself, I am safe enough. I could swallow the stuff and it wouldn'thurt me--unless I had an abrasion of the lips or some internal cut."
Kennedy continued to examine the dart until suddenly I heard a lowexclamation of surprise from him. Inside the hollow quill was a thinsheet of tissue paper, tightly rolled. He drew it out and read:
"To know me is DEATH Kennedy--Take Warning!"
Underneath was the inevitable Cl
utching Hand sign.
We jumped to our feet. Kennedy rushed to the window and slammed itshut, while I seized the key from Michael's pocket, opened the door andcalled for help.
A moment before, on the roof of a building across the street, one mighthave seen a bent, skulking figure. His face was copper colored and onhis head was a thick thatch of matted hair. He looked like a SouthAmerican Indian, in a very dilapidated suit of castoff American clothes.
He had slipped out through a doorway leading to a flight of steps fromthe roof to the hallway of the tenement. His fatal dart sent on itsunerring mission with a precision born of long years in the SouthAmerican jungle, he concealed the deadly blow-gun in his breast pocket,with a cruel smile, and, like one of his native venomous serpents,wormed his way down the stairs again.
. . . . . . . .
My outcry brought a veritable battalion of aid. The hotel proprietor,the negro waiter, and several others dashed upstairs, followed shortlyby a portly policeman, puffing at the exertion.
"What's the matter, here?" he panted. "Ye're all under arrest!"
Kennedy quietly pulled out his card case and taking the policeman asideshowed it to him.
"We had an appointment to meet this man--in that Clutching Hand case,you know. He is Miss Dodge's footman," Craig explained.
Then he took the policeman into his confidence, showing him the dartand explaining about the poison. The officer stared blankly.
"I must get away, too," hurried on Craig. "Officer, I will leave you totake charge here. You can depend on me for the inquest."
The officer nodded.
"Come on, Walter," whispered Craig, eager to get away, then adding theone word, "Elaine!"
I followed hastily, not slow to understand his fear for her.
Nor were Craig's fears groundless. In spite of all that could be donefor her, Elaine was still in bed, much weaker now than before. While wehad been gone, Dr. Hayward, Aunt Josephine and Marie were distracted.
More than that, the Clutching Hand had not neglected the opportunity,either.
Suddenly, just before our return, a stone had come hurtling through thewindow, without warning of any kind, and had landed on Elaine's bed.
Below, as we learned some time afterwards, a car had drawn up hastilyand the evil-faced crook whom the Clutching Hand had used to ridhimself of the informer, "Limpy Red," had leaped out and hurled thestone through the window, as quickly leaping back into the car andwhisking away.
Elaine had screamed. All had reached for the stone. But she had beenthe first to seize it and discover that around it was wrapped a pieceof paper on which was the ominous warning, signed as usual by the Hand:
"Michael is dead. Tomorrow, you. Then Kennedy. Stop before it is toolate."
Elaine had sunk back into her pillows, paler than ever from this secondshock, while the others, as they read the note, were overcome by alarmand despair, at the suddenness of the thing.
It was just then that Kennedy and I arrived and were admitted.
"Oh, Mr. Kennedy," cried Elaine, handing him the note.
Craig took it and read. "Miss Dodge," he said, as he held the note outto me, "you are suffering from arsenic poisoning--but I don't know yethow it is being administered."
He gazed about keenly. Meanwhile, I had taken the crumpled note fromhim and was reading it. Somehow, I had leaned against the wall. As Iturned, Craig happened to glance at me.
"For heaven's sake, Walter," I heard him exclaim. "What have you beenup against?"
He fairly leaped at me and I felt him examining my shoulder where I hadbeen leaning on the wall. Something on the paper had come off and hadleft a white mark on my shoulder. Craig looked puzzled from me to thewall.
"Arsenic!" he cried.
He whipped out a pocket lens and looked at the paper. "This heavy fuzzypaper is fairly loaded with it, powdered," he reported.
I looked, too. The powdered arsenic was plainly discernible. "Yes, hereit is," he continued, standing absorbed in thought. "But why did itwork so effectively?"
He sniffed as he had before. So did I. There was still the faint smellof garlic. Kennedy paced the room. Suddenly, pausing by the register,an idea seemed to strike him.
"Walter," he whispered, "come down cellar with me."
"Oh--be careful," cried Elaine, anxious for him.
"I will," he called back.
As he flashed his pocket electric bull's-eye about, his gaze fell onthe electric meter. He paused before it. In spite of the fact that itwas broad daylight, it was running. His face puckered.
"They are using no current at present in the house," he ruminated. "Yetthe meter is running."
He continued to examine the meter. Then he began to follow the electricwires along. At last he discovered a place where they had been tamperedwith and tapped by other wires.
"The work of the Clutching Hand!" he muttered.
Eagerly he followed the wires to the furnace and around to the back.There they led right into a little water tank. Kennedy yanked them out.As he did so he pulled something with them.
"Two electrodes--the villain placed there," he exclaimed, holding themup triumphantly for me to see.
"Y-yes," I replied dubiously, "but what does it all mean?"
"Why, don't you see? Under the influence of the electric current thewater was decomposed and gave off oxygen and hydrogen. The freehydrogen passed up the furnace pipe and combining with the arsenic inthe wall paper formed the deadly arseniuretted hydrogen."
He cast the whole improvised electrolysis apparatus on the floor anddashed up the cellar steps.
"I've found it!" he cried, hurrying into Elaine's room. "It's in thisroom--a deadly gas--arseniuretted hydrogen."
He tore open the windows and threw them all open. "Have her moved," hecried to Aunt Josephine. "Then have a vacuum cleaner go over every inchof wall, carpet and upholstery."
Standing beside her, he breathlessly explained his discovery. "Thatwall paper has been loaded down with arsenic, probably Paris green orSchweinfurth green, which is aceto-arsenite of copper. Every minute youare here, you are breathing arseniuretted hydrogen. The Clutching Handhas cleverly contrived to introduce the nascent gas into the room. Thatacts on the arsenic compounds in the wall paper and hangings and setsfree the gas. I thought I knew the smell the moment I got a whiff ofit. You are slowly being poisoned by minute quantities of the deadlygas. This Clutching Hand is a diabolical genius. Think of it--poisonedwall paper!"
No one said a word. Kennedy reached down and took the two ClutchingHand messages Elaine had received. "I shall want to study these notes,more, too," he said, holding them up to the wall at the head of the bedas he flashed his pocket lens at them. "You see, Elaine, I may be ableto get something from studying the ink, the paper, the handwriting--"
Suddenly both leaped back, with a cry.
Their faces had been several inches apart. Something had whizzedbetween them and literally impaled the two notes on the wall.
Down the street, on the roof of a carriage house, back of a neighbor's,might have been seen the uncouth figure of the dilapidated SouthAmerican Indian crouching behind a chimney and gazing intently at theDodge house.
As Craig had thrown open Elaine's window and turned to Elaine, thefigure had crouched closer to his chimney.
Then with an uncanny determination he slowly raised the blow-gun to hislips.
I jumped forward, followed by Dr. Hayward, Aunt Josephine, and Marie.Kennedy had a peculiar look as he pulled out from the wall a blow-gundart similar in every way to that which had killed Michael.
"Craig!" gasped Elaine, reaching up and laying her soft white hand onhis arm in undisguised fear for him, "you--you must give up this chasefor the Clutching Hand!"
"Give up the chase for the Clutching Hand?" he repeated in surprise."Never! Not until either he or I is dead!"
There was both fear and admiration mingled in her look, as he reacheddown and patted her dainty shoulder encouragingly.
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