Part 3
“I asked Ross what to do. He said, ‘I don’t like it at all, but he never uses it unless he is suffering, so I guess it will be all right to humor him. He is always brooding over the loss of his foot, so a few hours of freedom from pain may do him good. He was like this when he sprained his ankle in a tennis game, two years ago. I thought he would go mad. He just drugged himself all the time to deaden the pain. The doctor said he took enough to kill a horse. I often feared he might get the habit, but he never did.’
“So, I went to see Bill Hovey at the prison. He seemed glad to see me and told me what an injustice had been done him. He said he felt sure he could get out if he had money enough to pay the lawyers. After he got out he intended to go off somewhere and start right again. I told him I was glad to hear it and then he said:
“‘Tessie, I could fix everything up if I had $10,000. You could get it, too, to help your father out of trouble.’
“‘How could I get such a sum?’ I asked.
“‘Why, your rich friends, Mr. Craighead and his son, they have all kinds of money--they would give you $10,000 if you tried them out.’
“‘If that is the price of asking you a favor, Bill Hovey,’ I answered, ‘I may as well go.’
“He changed, then--tried to soothe me--said he would do anything I wanted--asked me to forget what he had said. Then I asked him where I could get some morphine. I told him how Mr. Craighead was suffering, but that I was doing this of my own accord to help him. I didn’t want to tell Bill anything that might encourage him to try to get money from Mr. Craighead. He asked me when I was going to be married. I said I didn’t know--Mr. Craighead wanted us to wait until Ross was well on in the business, because Ross was to succeed him. He wanted him to learn the ‘ropes,’ from the beginning.
“‘Tessie,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll do this for you without any strings. I know of another drug that he can use with the morphine. It is called scopolamin and is known as a mydriatic. But it has other properties, too. Do you know anything about it?’
“‘No,’ I answered, I never studied much chemistry.’
“Bill wrote some words hastily. He said it was a prescription which I was to take to a place near Tarrytown.”
The moment the girl mentioned “Tarrytown,” two hard-faced men in the court room rose hastily from their seats, one moving toward the door, the other to a corner of the corridor where there was a telephone booth. But the inspector, who had followed the girl’s story with the utmost attention, was watching every one of the spectators in the crowded court room.
“Get those two men,” he ordered, pointing to the pair, who tried to force their way along more quickly. The second man actually entered the telephone booth, frantically moving the lever to signal the operator. An officer pounced on him before the operator had answered. He struggled mightily, but handcuffs were slipped on his wrists too quickly for resistance. His companion reached the door to walk into the arms of another officer.
* * * * *
Pandemonium now reigned in the court room. Two reporters rushed to the telephone booths. The police made no exception for the men of the press. For some minutes the confusion was too great for any voice to be heard. Finally the inspector succeeded in making himself heard, his big, booming tones dominating the uproar.
“Mr. Coroner,” he began, “nothing but the necessity of preventing a crafty scoundrel from making his escape could justify my interference with your jurisdiction. I am an officer sworn to uphold the dignity of your court as well as that of any other judge or official. But I knew, if there was a grain of truth in the story that young woman on the stand was telling, the villain certainly could not be without interest in this inquest. He would not dare to come himself, nor would he dare to remain ignorant of what might transpire. Some trusted agent must be present.”
“Will you continue your story, Miss Prettyman?” asked Mr. Bailey, with more courtesy than he had yet shown the girl.
In a firmer voice, inspired with the hope that her story was gaining credence, Tessie resumed her narrative.
“Bill wrote the prescription in words I could not understand. He said it was Latin. I studied a little Latin in school, but not that kind. He called it medical Latin; besides, the writing was very cramped and would have been hard to read even in English. The last part of it I could not make out at all.
“‘He’s an artist,’ said Bill, ‘this druggist you will visit--a man of parts, though deformed, yet in his art, a creature of meticulous skill. Fussy he is, too, about his prescriptions--he will always have them very proper and formal.’
“The prescription bore no address.
“‘Where must I take the prescriptions?’ I asked him.
“‘On 42nd Street,’ he said, ‘off Broadway, look for a taxicab, not one of the big companies--there is a coat of arms on the door, with a figure nine above it. Tell the driver Bill sent you with a prescription. He will take you to the place. It is a long ride, but you need have no fear.’
“I went to 42nd Street and Broadway, as Bill had told me, but I saw so many cars that I thought he had tricked me. None of the cars stood more than a few seconds. While I stood there bewildered, staring at the doors of all the taxis, one stopped opposite me. The driver motioned to me and then I noticed that the door had a coat of arms and a figure nine. The traffic was stopped for an instant. He opened the door for me to step in. The moment I was in he closed the door and drove off. At first I thought he was crazy, for he drove around the block three times, then went over to Sixth Avenue and drove almost recklessly. After that, he turned again two or three times and I recognized Broadway. We never left Broadway again until we reached Tarrytown. We passed a number of fine estates, and several towns, all new to me, for I had never been so far on that road before. But I did notice that we never turned until we had passed Tarrytown. Some distance beyond Tarrytown--it may have been a few miles--the driver took a turn to the left toward the river, until we came to quite a woods. It looked like part of some big estate that had not been well kept or from which its owner had been absent a long time. Weeds grew tall, the fences were broken and it looked quite deserted.
“A kind of wagon track led through a gate, which hung on one hinge, into the woods. The driver lifted the gate to let the car through, then closed it again behind him. Some distance from the road, well hidden in the trees, we came to a house, once a tenanted house, but now looking very dilapidated. It did not seem a likely place for a drug store--still I said nothing as my stepfather had directed.
“The car stopped and I stepped out. The driver knocked at the door twice, rather sharply. Some one peered through a dust-covered window half closed by rickety shutters. In a second or two the door opened, the driver mumbled a few words and we were ushered into a strange room by a misshapen dwarf.
“It was fitted up as a drug store--counters, shelves filled with bottles, all labeled, graduate glasses such as you see in the hospital, rolls of bandages, first aid kits and instruments. The druggist was a hunchback, who filled me with aversion. But he merely held out his hand for the prescription, turning his hand to his bottles and glasses as soon as I had given it to him. It was easy to see that he was a skilled apothecary by the way he handled everything. When he had filled the prescription he gave me a package. It contained a bottle of colorless liquid which was labelled: ‘Dose--ten drops with milk or other liquid.’ There was a small box, too, labelled ‘morphine.’ On the bottle was the word ‘scopolamin.’
* * * * *
“The driver was waiting outside the house for me. It seemed good to get out in the air again. Once in the taxicab, the driver backed in among the trees to turn around. He drove back along Broadway until he came to the city line. There he told me that I could return along the subway. All this mystery so puzzled me that I determined to see Bill again to learn if the prescription was properly filled. When I saw Bill Hovey I showed him the bottle. There were many bottles in his cell. He was known to be a good chemist and worked in the prison drug shop. He took this bottle and held it to the light. Then he took a sip of it. ‘Seems to be all right,’ he said. He wrapped up a bottle, but I know now, that he must have given me a different one. I put it in my pocket. From the prison I went straight to Mr. Craighead. Ross was with him. I said:
“‘Why all this round-about way to get a little drug? It was all horrible. I wish that you would not take any more of the stuff.’
“Mr. Craighead just laughed. ‘Well, little girl,’ he said, ‘if a man insists on buying liquor, he must go to rather ugly looking places to get it--if he must have morphine, and the doctors will not get it for him, he must go to even uglier places. But we will never try that again!’
“That night he took a hypodermic, but never touched the bottle. He kept all out of sight when Dr. Lawson came the next morning. Toward night his pain became intense again. That must have been why he used the drug the misshapen druggist had given me. If I had only known--oh, if I had only known.”
Tessie gave way to uncontrollable sobbing.
When she had grown somewhat composed, Mr. Bailey asked:
“Could you read the prescription at all?”
“One word, only,” replied Tessie, “Scopolamin.”
“What became of the prescription?”
“There was a file,” said Tessie, “with a number of other prescriptions filed upon it; the druggist put the one Bill had given me with the others.”
Half dazed by the ordeal through which she had passed, Tessie walked unhindered to where Ross sat manacled. Inspector Craven himself removed the handcuffs from the boy’s wrists. He drew the girl to a chair beside him.
“Mr. Coroner,” said Inspector Craven, rising, “I am prepared now to make the extraordinary request which I mentioned before Miss Prettyman had completed her testimony. There is but one way to test her story fairly. Assuming, as I do, that her story is true, she would be placed in jeopardy, if the men who tricked her were allowed to escape. It is possible to trap the druggist, who doubtless, with mind warped by affliction, is capable of aiding assassins who use poison. If the court is willing to hold this session open until I have had time to verify this extraordinary tale and capture, if possible, the author of a diabolical plot, several unexplained murders of the same sort may be solved. But in order that no warning may be given, I request you to make an order that no one leave this court room until I return.”
“It is an extraordinary request, Inspector Craven,” replied the coroner, “so extraordinary that I do not know if I have so much arbitrary power. Before even deciding I must ask you a question to clear up the young woman’s story. Is it possible that she visited this Hovey in prison and that it was possible for him to give her writing without detection?”
“When a man like Bill Hovey is captured, Mr. Coroner,” answered the inspector, “he is often given a great deal of apparent freedom in order that he may betray his confederates, and also in a narcotic case, that he may betray the hiding place of a lot of dangerous drugs. It was even contemplated to release Hovey and keep him under surveillance, but he is so slippery a character that the plan was abandoned as too risky. Two men were detailed to follow the young woman on her visit to Hovey. They were not clever enough for the job. The taxi driver went three times around the block with the officers two cars behind on his trail. The driver knew it. He drove around the block until he saw the traffic signal about to change. He dashed across the street while the officers waited until the signal was changed again. When they crossed the street the taxi they were following had disappeared. The taxi, as Miss Prettyman has related, did not return to the city that night. When she returned to the prison, the officers who were supposed to be watching her, were still looking for the taxicab, which they learned had turned into Broadway. This incident, however, will result in more stringent rules and curtailment of prisoners’ privileges.
* * * * *
“What I propose to do is this,” continued Inspector Craven. “I propose to take Tessie and Doctor Jarvis with me to Tarrytown. Unless he has been warned, the druggist will be awaiting news. Two men from this room are in custody. There may be others posted here. For that reason our mission will be futile if anyone is permitted to leave.”
“If I make such an order,” said the coroner, “your men will have to enforce it. No matter how you travel you cannot go to Tarrytown and back under five hours.”
“That is true, Mr. Coroner,” said the inspector, “yet this is worthy of consideration. In the last four years there have been seven unexplained murders through poisons which cannot be obtained without a prescription. Yet no prescriptions for those poisons have been found nor has the source of them been traced. Here we have two desperate men skilled in toxicology with a supply of dangerous substances.”
The coroner hesitated no longer. Rising from his chair, he pronounced his decree:
“As the presiding officer of this court I hereby enjoin and forbid any person to leave this courtroom until the return of Inspector Craven or until he has advised the Court from Tarrytown, which I require him to do the instant he has accomplished or failed to accomplish his mission.”
An additional detail of officers had arrived. There were a few murmurs against this exercise of autocratic power, yet the murmurs were soft, for there was no spectator of the unexpected turn of events in the courtroom, who did not want to be present at the denouement. Some openly believed the girl was lying. Others quite vehemently espoused her cause. Obviously the hours would not be dull in the court room until the party returned.
The girl, a picture of abject despair, sat at the side of her affianced lover, uncertain of a future which only a few days before seemed rosy with the dawn of hope. Turning to her, the inspector said:
“Tessie, you must show the way to the druggist near Tarrytown. It means freedom and vindication for you and Ross if we verify your words. Doctor, if we can find that prescription, it will need more Latin than I ever knew to decipher it. Ross, I think it is coming out right--as right as it can.”
To this Ross made no reply. He pressed Tessie’s hand in farewell, then the trio left the courtroom, hundreds of curious eyes following them. Some women whispered as Tessie passed them:
“Good luck, dearie!”
Inspector Craven, not daring to trust himself, as he remarked to the doctor, took one of his men along as chauffeur. He feared that he would drive too fast for safety. So he said to the officer:
“Tarrytown, Beronio, at the best you can get out of her.”
The automobile had a riot car siren, but it is safe to assert that no riot car ever ran like that one. There were few curves to make and with a few exceptions, the road was perfectly straight all the way.
The car could run at a speed of over sixty. It ran very nearly that the entire distance. As they raced along the highway, Tessie felt the universe slipping from her. The thought of what place in the world might be hers when this nightmare was over terrified her. The doctor read some of her thought from her expression and, trying to make her talk pointed out objects along the road--a difficult task, with the car dashing along so that telephone and telegraph posts almost resembled a picket fence. She replied in monosyllables. Finally he said:
“You mustn’t worry so much, my child. What is your anxiety, now?”
“Oh,” she cried, gulping to keep down a sob, “if the hunchback has taken alarm and gone away, what will become of Ross and me?”
“The shack will still be there, won’t it? That will confirm part of your story,” said the doctor.
These words bewildered the trembling young woman.
“You don’t believe, then, that I gave him poison deliberately?” she faltered.
“I would need more proof than we have now,” answered Dr. Jarvis.
To this enigmatic reply there was no response.
They were not long in reaching Tarrytown, where Inspector Craven turned to Tessie, saying:
“You had better keep your eyes open now for the place where you turned off the main road. The speedometer says 52 now; if your guess of the distance is accurate, we should run much slower.”
Beronio ran the car more slowly for three miles, but Tessie did not recognize the turn. Nearing four miles, as the inspector was beginning to be assailed by doubts, she said suddenly:
“Just beyond here, I remember, is the cross road. This gateway with the two stone lions at each side, opened as we passed--a car coming out delayed us for a moment. It should be less than a city block ahead.”
* * * * *
The inspector felt almost cheerful when, two hundred feet farther on, another road crossed their path.
“To the left, Beronio,” he ordered, “when you come to the trees take the wagon trail and go just a short distance.”
Inspector Craven said these words fatuously, like a man who has learned a lesson in which he has not the slightest belief, who has been told to memorize the first fifty lines and mumbles the words like a talking doll. They were all unnerved as the final test approached. Mentally, the inspector blamed the doctor who had led him into a fool journey like this. Tessie was in a panic, fearing the escape of the dwarf. Dr. Jarvis alone seemed unconcerned. His tall figure, erect and commanding, his lips compressed in a firm, straight, uncompromising line, expressed no doubt whatever. The car stopped. Doctor Jarvis was the first to get out. Inspector Craven was at his side in an instant. Beronio opened the crazily hanging gate and ran his car into the shelter of the trees.
“How far did you go into the woods, Tessie?” asked the inspector.
“Possibly four or five blocks,” replied the girl.
“Beronio, give the doctor your gun,” ordered Inspector Craven. “He may need it. Lead on Tessie, but go softly.”
The evening was coming on, the autumn air was cool and damp in the neglected woods, weedy, with thick undergrowth; it was difficult to think of a house of any sort there. Yet they followed the girl, breathlessly, almost treading on her heels. Five hundred yards they trudged along the winding path when Tessie stopped.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing to the right.
Both men followed her glance, seeing with relief a dilapidated tenant house, to all appearances unoccupied, save for an almost imperceptible thin line of smoke which was just visible above the broken edge of the chimney. The door was closed, but would probably offer no formidable obstacle. Shutters hung crazily over the one window which opened on the front of the house. They were half closed, held by a bit of soiled ribbon.
“Doc,” whispered the inspector, “I am going to slip over to the door. If anyone tries to drop out by that side window, use your gun. If any of Hovey’s gang is about, they won’t mince matters.”
Inspector Craven was himself, now. The house was here, that was certain. Stealthily he moved toward the door. Unperceived, he gained the doorway, where he stood for a moment listening for signs of life. Finally he heard a clinking of glass, a very faint tinkling. He put his big shoulder against the door. It was bolted and resisted his first assault. He thought no longer of who might be inside and with a mighty impact, burst the door open. As he almost fell over the threshold, a shot rang out and a twinge in the left shoulder told him it was a good shot. But he fired at the flash, which was followed by a cry of pain. He had hit his enemy in the gun arm. There was light enough for Craven to see a hunchback, who stood looking wickedly at the gun which covered him. The instant the reports rang out Doctor Jarvis and Tessie had run to the door of the shanty.
“Are you hurt, inspector?” asked Jarvis.
“He winged me in the left shoulder,” said Craven grimly. “If I had not stumbled when the door gave way it would have been worse, for it was well aimed for the heart. Pretty lookin’ bird, ain’t he? Is he the one who filled the prescription, Tessie?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, while the dwarf looked at her malevolently.
A small fire burned in an open stove. As the doctor, seeing the blood on Inspector Craven’s coat, began to examine him to learn the extent of his injury, the hunchback, with a quick movement, grasped a bundle of papers spiked on a file and threw them into the stove.
“The prescriptions, the prescriptions!” cried Tessie, in a panic.
* * * * *
Forgetting his wound, the inspector leaped at the hunchback, felling him to the floor with a heavy blow from the butt of his revolver. He sank to the floor, motionless. Doctor Jarvis had darted to the stove from which he retrieved the sheaf of papers, little the worse from the flames except where the hot coals had singed the edges. The doctor’s fingers suffered most from contact with the embers.
“Tessie,” said the inspector, nursing his wounded shoulder, “run through those papers. See if you can find anything that looks like the prescription Bill Hovey gave you.”
Eagerly enough, now, she lifted one sheet after another from the file. Not far from the top she came on one which she examined carefully.
“This is it,” she said, holding it out for Dr. Jarvis to read. His professional instincts, however, overcame his curiosity.
“Inspector,” he cried, somewhat shamefacedly, remorseful for neglect toward a wounded friend, “let us have a look at that shoulder first.”