He put on gloves, went into the house, blew the safe, and rifled it. He found the vial of solution, but could find neither the larger bottle nor any reference to it. He then searched the house, from attic to basement. He found the vault, carefully concealed though its steel door was; but even he could do nothing about that. Nor was there any need, he decided, as he stood staring at it, the only change in his expression being a slight narrowing of the eyes in concentrated thought. The bulk of that solution was probably in the heaviest, deepest, safest vault in the country.
He returned to the helicopter. In a short time he was back in his own room, poring over blueprints and notebooks.
Coming in in the dusk, Crane and Seaton both began to worry when they saw that their landing lights were not burning. They made a bumpy landing and hurried toward the house. They heard a faint moan and turned, Seaton whipping out his flashlight with one hand and his automatic with the other. He hastily replaced the weapon and bent over Shiro, a touch having assured him that the other two were beyond help. They picked Shiro up and carried him into his own room. While Seaton applied first-aid treatment to the ghastly wound in Shiro’s head, Crane called a surgeon, the coroner, the police, and finally Prescott, with whom he held a long conversation.
Having done all they could for the injured man, they stood by his bedside, their anger all the more deadly for being silent. Seaton stood with every muscle tense. His right hand, white-knuckled, gripped the butt of his pistol, while under his left the heavy brass rail of the bed began slowly to bend. Crane stood impassive, but with his face white and every feature hard as marble. Seaton was the first to speak.
“Mart,” he gritted, husky with fury, “A man who could leave another man dying like that ain’t a man at all—he’s a thing. I’ll shoot him with the biggest charge we’ve got. . . . No, I won’t, either, I’ll take him apart with my bare hands.”
“We’ll find him, Dick.” Crane’s voice was low, level, deadly. “That is one thing money can do.”
The tension was relieved by the arrival of the surgeon and his nurses, who set to work with the deftness and precision of their highly-specialized crafts. After a time the doctor turned to Crane.
“Merely a scalp wound, Mr. Crane. He should be up in a few days.”
The police, Prescott, and the coroner arrived in that order. There was a great deal of bustling, stirring about, and investigating, some of which was profitable. There were many guesses and a few sound deductions.
And Crane offered a reward of one million tax-paid dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the murderer.
Chapter 9
PRESCOTT, after a sleepless night, joined Crane and Seaton at breakfast.
“What do you make of it?” Crane asked.
“Very little, at present. Whoever did it had exactly detailed knowledge of your movements.”
“Check. And you know what that means. The third guard, the one that escaped.”
“Yes.” The great detective’s face grew grim. “The trouble will be proving it on him.
“Second, he was your size and build, Seaton; close enough to fool Shiro, and that would have to be ungodly close.”
“DuQuesne. For all the tea in China, it was DuQuesne.”
“Third, he was an expert safecracker, and that alone lets DuQuesne out. That’s just as much of a specialty as yours is, and he did a beautiful job on that safe—really beautiful.”
“I still won’t buy it,” Seaton insisted. “Don’t forget that DuQuesne’s a living encyclopedia and as much smarter than any egg as I am than that tomcat over there. He could study safeblowing fifteen minutes and be top man in the field; and he’s got guts enough to supply a regiment”
“Fourth, it couldn’t have been DuQuesne. Everything out there is bugged and we’ve had him under continuous observation. I know exactly where he has been, every minute.”
“You think you do,” Seaton corrected. “He knows more about electricity than the guy who invented it. I’m going to ask you a question. Have you ever got a man into his house?”
“Well . . . no, not exactly . . . but that isn’t necessary, these days.”
“It might be, in this case. But don’t try it. Unless I’m wronger than wrong, you won’t”
“I’m afraid so,” Prescott agreed. “But you’re softening me up for something, Seaton. What is it?”
“This” Seaton placed an object-compass on the table. “I set this on him late last night, and he didn’t leave his house all night—which may or may not mean a thing. That end of that needle will point at him from now on, wherever he goes and whatever comes between, and as far as I know—and I bashfully admit that I know all that’s known about the thing—it can’t be de-bugged. If you want to really know where DuQuesne is, take this and watch it. Top secret, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll be glad to . . . but how on earth can a thing like that work?”
After an explanation that left the common-sense-minded detective as much in the dark as before, Prescott left.
Late that evening, he joined his men at DuQuesne’s house. Everything was quiet. The scientist was in his study; the speakers registered the usual faint sounds of a man absorbed in work. But after a time, and while a speaker emitted the noise of rustling papers, the needle began to move slowly—downward. Simultaneously the shadow of his unmistakable profile was thrown upon the window shade as he apparently crossed the room.
“Can’t you hear him walk?” Prescott demanded.
“No. Heavy rugs—and for such a big man, he walks very lightly.”
Prescott watched the needle in amazement as it dipped deeper and deeper; straight down and then behind him; as though DuQuesne had actually walked right under him! He did not quite know whether to believe it or not, nevertheless, he followed the pointing needle. It led him beside Park Road, down the hill straight toward the long bridge which forms one entrance to Rock Creek Park. Prescott left the road and hid behind a clump of shrubbery.
The bridge trembled under the passage of a high-speed automobile which slowed down abruptly. DuQuesne, carrying a roll of papers, scrambled up from beneath the bridge and boarded it, whereupon it resumed speed. It was of a popular make and color; and its license plates were so smeared with dirt that not even their color could be seen. The needle now pointed steadily at the distant car.
Prescott ran back to his men.
“Get your car,” he told one of them. “I’ll tell you where to drive as we go.”
In the automobile, Prescott issued instructions by means of surreptitious glances at the compass concealed in his hand. The destination proved to be the residence of Brookings, the general manager of World Steel. Prescott told his operative to park the car somewhere and stand by; he himself settled down on watch.
After four hours a small car bearing a license number of a distant state—which was found later to be unknown to the authorities of that state—drove up; and the hidden watchers saw DuQuesne, without the papers, step into it. Knowing now what to expect, the detectives drove at high speed to the Park Road bridge and concealed themselves.
The car came up to the bridge and stopped. DuQuesne got out of it—it was too dark to recognize him by eye, but the needle pointed straight at him—and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. He stood, a dark outline against the gray abutment. He lifted one hand above his head; a black rectangle engulfed his outline; the abutment became again a. solid gray.
With his flashlight Prescott traced the almost imperceptible crack of the hidden door, and found the concealed button which DuQuesne had pressed. He did not press the button, but, deep in thought, went home to get a few hours of sleep before reporting to Crane next morning.
Both men were waiting when he appeared. Shiro, with a heavily-bandaged head, had insisted that he was perfectly able to work, and was ceremoniously ordering out of the kitchen the man who had been hired to take his place.
“Well, gentleman, your compass did the trick,” and Prescott reported in full.
“I’d like to beat him to death with a club,” Seaton said, savagely. “The chair’s too good for him.”
“Not that he is in much danger of the chair.” Crane’s expression was wry.
“Why, we know he did it! Surely we can prove it?”
“Knowing a thing and proving it to a jury are two entirely different breeds of cats. We haven’t a shred of evidence. If we asked for an indictment we’d be laughed out of court. Check, Mr. Crane?”