Part 2 (2/2)

The cabman remembered Pearsall, and having driven him to the Langham, for the reason that immediately after setting him down there, and while ”crawling” for a fare in Portland Place, a whistle from the Langham had recalled him, and the same luggage that had just been taken from the top of his cab was Put back on it, and he was directed by the porter of the hotel to take it to a house in Sowell Street. There a man-servant had helped him unload the trunks and had paid him his fare. The cabman did not remember the number of the house, but knew it was on the west side of the street and in the middle of the block.

Having finished with Gerridge and the cab-man, Ford had at once gone to the Langham Hotel, where, as he antic.i.p.ated, nothing was known of Pearsall or his niece, or of any invalid lady. But the hall-porter remembered the American gentleman who had driven up with many pieces of luggage, and who, although it was out of season, and many suites in the hotel were vacant, had found none to suit him. He had then set forth on foot, having left word that his trunks be sent after him. The address he gave was a house in Sowell Street.

The porter recalled the incident because he and the cabman had grumbled over the fact that in five minutes they had twice to handle the same boxes.

”It is pretty evident,” said Ford, what Pearsall had in mind, but chance was against him. He thought when he had unloaded his trunks at the Langham and dismissed the cabman he had destroyed the link connecting him with Gerridge's. He could not foresee that the same cabman would be loitering in the neighborhood. He should have known that four-wheelers are not as plentiful as they once were; and he should have given that particular one more time to get away. His idea in walking to the Sowell Street house was obviously to prevent the new cabman from seeing him enter it. But, just where he thought he was clever, was just where he tripped. If he had remained with his trunks he would have seen that the cabman was the same one who had brought them and him from Craven Street, and he would have given any other address in London than the one he did.

”And now,” said Ford, ”that we have Pearsall where we want him, tell me what you have learned about Prothero?”

Cuthbert smiled importantly, and produced a piece of paper scribbled over with notes.

”Prothero,” he said, ”seems to be THIS sort of man. If he made your coffee for you, before you tasted it, you'd like him to drink a cup of it first.”

II

”Prothero,” said Cuthbert, ”is a man of mystery. As soon as I began asking his neighbors questions, I saw he was of interest and that I was of interest. I saw they did not believe I was an agent of a West End shop, but a detective. So they wouldn't talk at all, or else they talked freely. And from one of them, a chemist named Needham, I got all I wanted. He's had a lawsuit against Prothero, and hates him. Prothero got him to invest in a medicine to cure the cocaine habit. Needham found the cure was no cure, but cocaine disguised. He sued for his money, and during the trial the police brought in Prothero's record. Needham let me copy it, and it seems to embrace every crime except treason. The man is a Russian Jew. He was arrested and prosecuted in Warsaw, Vienna, Berlin, Belgrade; all over Europe, until finally the police drove him to America. There he was an editor of an anarchist paper, a blackmailer, a 'doctor' of hypnotism, a clairvoyant, and a professional bigamist. His game was to open rooms as a clairvoyant, and advise silly women how to invest their money. When he found out which of them had the most money, he would marry her, take over her fortune, and skip. In Chicago, he was tried for poisoning one wife, and the trial brought out the fact that two others had died under suspicious circ.u.mstances, and that there were three more unpoisoned but anxious to get back their money. He was sentenced to ten years for bigamy, but pardoned because he was supposed to be insane, and dying. Instead of dying, he opened a sanatorium in New York to cure victims of the drug habit. In reality, it was a sort of high-priced opium-den. The place was raided, and he jumped his bail and came to this country. Now he is running this private hospital in Sowell Street. Needham says it's a secret rendezvous for dope fiends. But they are very high-cla.s.s dope fiends, who are willing to pay for seclusion, and the police can't get at him. I may add that he's tall and muscular, with a big black beard, and hands that could strangle a bull. In Chicago, during the poison trial, the newspapers called him 'the Modern Bluebeard.”'

For a short time Ford was silent. But, in the dark corner of the cab, Cuthbert could see that his cigar was burning briskly.

”Your friend seems a nice chap,” said Ford at last. ”Calling on him will be a real pleasure. I especially like what you say about his hands.”

”I have a plan,” began the a.s.sistant timidly, ”a plan to get you into the house-if you don't mind my making suggestions?”

”Not at all!” exclaimed his chief heartily.

”Get me into the house by all means; that's what we're here for. The fact that I'm to be poisoned or strangled after I get there mustn't discourage us.'”

”I thought,” said Cuthbert, ”I might stand guard outside, while you got in as a dope fiend.”

Ford snorted indignantly. ”Do I LOOK like a dope fiend?” he protested.

The voice of the a.s.sistant was one of discouragement.

”You certainly do not,” he exclaimed regretfully. ”But it's the only plan I could think of.”

”It seems to me,” said his chief testily, ”that you are not so very healthy-looking yourself. What's the matter with YOUR getting inside as a dope fiend and MY standing guard?”

”But I wouldn't know what to do after I got inside,” complained the a.s.sistant, ”and you would. You are so clever.”

The expression of confidence seemed to flatter Ford.

”I might do this,” he said. ”I might pretend I was recovering from a heavy spree, and ask to be taken care of until I am sober. Or I could be a very good imitation of a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

I haven't been five years in the newspaper business without knowing all there is to know about nerves. That's it!” he cried. ”I will do that!

And if Mr. Bluebeard Svengali, the Strangler of Paris person, won't take me in as a patient, we'll come back with a couple of axes and BREAK in.

But we'll try the nervous breakdown first, and we'll try it now. I will be a naval officer,” declared Ford. ”I made the round-the-world cruise with our fleet as a correspondent, and I know enough sea slang to fool a medical man. I am a naval officer whose nerves have gone wrong. I have heard of his sanatorium through----” ”How,” asked Ford sharply, ”have I heard of his sanatorium?”

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