 CHAPTER XI of THE SILENT BULLET by Arthur B. Reeve. It was, as I recall, that period of the late unpleasantness and the little Central American Republic of Vespuccia, when things looked darkest for American investors, that I hurried home one evening to Kennedy bursting with news. By way of explanation, I may add that, during the rubber boom, Kennedy had invested in stock of a rubber company in Vespuccia, and that its value had been shrinking for some time with that elasticity which a rubber band shows when one party suddenly lets go his end. Kennedy had been in danger of being snapped rather hard by the recoil, and I knew he had put in an order with his broker to sell and take his loss when a certain figure was reached. My news was a first ray of light in an otherwise dark situation, and I wanted to advise him to cancel the selling order and stick for a rise. Accordingly, I hurried unceremoniously into our apartment with the words on my lips before I had fairly closed the door. What do you think, Craig? I shouted. It's rumored that the revolutionists have captured half a million dollars from the government and are sending it to—I stopped short. I had no idea that Kennedy had a client and a girl, too. With a hastily mumbled apology, I checked myself and backed out towards my own room. I may as well confess that I did not retreat very fast, however. Kennedy's client was not only a girl but a very pretty one. I found as she turned her head quickly at my sudden entrance and betray a lively interest at the mention of the revolution. She was a Latin American, and the Latin American type of feminine beauty is fascinating, at least to me. I did not retreat very fast. As I hoped, Kennedy rose to the occasion. Miss Giro, he said, let me introduce Mr. Jameson, who has helped me very much in solving some of my most difficult cases. Miss Giro's father, Walter, is the owner of a plantation which sells its product to the company I am interested in. He bowed graciously, but there was a moment of embarrassment until Kennedy came to the rescue. I shall need Mr. Jameson in handling your case, Miss Giro, he explained. Would it be presuming to ask you to repeat to him briefly what you have already told me about the mysterious disappearance of your father? Perhaps some additional details will occur to you—things that you may consider trivial but which, I assure you, may be of the utmost importance. She assented and, in a low, tremulous, musical voice, bravely went through her story. We come, she began. My father and I, for my mother died when I was a little girl, we come from the northern part of Vespitia, where foreign capitalists are much interested in the introduction of a new rubber plant. I am an only child and have been the constant companion of my father for years, ever since I could ride a pony, going with him about Arhazienda, and on business trips to Europe and the States. I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, that although my father is a large landowner, he has very liberal political views and is deeply in sympathy with the revolution that is now going on in Vespitia. In fact, we were forced to flee very early in the trouble, and as there seemed to be more need of his services here in New York than in any of the neighboring countries, we came here. So, you see that if the revolution is not successful, his estate will probably be confiscated, and we shall be penniless. He is the agent, the head of the junta, I suppose you would call it, here in New York. Engaged in purchasing arms and ammunition, put in Kennedy as she paused, and seeing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans as agricultural machinery, where another agent receives them, and attends to the safe transit across the Gulf. She nodded and, after a moment, resumed, there is quite a little colony of Vespitians here in New York, both revolutionists and government supporters. I suppose that neither of you has any idea of the intriguing that is going on under the peaceful surface right here in your own city, but there is much of it, more than even I know or can tell it. Well, my father lately has been acting very clearly. There is a group who meet frequently at the home of a Signora Mendez, an insurrection group, of course. I do not go for they are all much older people than I. I know the Signora well, but I prefer a different kind of person. My friends are younger and perhaps more radical, more in earnest about the future of Vespitia. For some weeks it seems to me that this Signora Mendez has had too much influence over my father. He does not seem like the same man he used to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do not frequent the house of the Signora have remarked it. He seems moody, works by starts, then will neglect his work entirely. Often I see him with his eyes closed, apparently sitting quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause. The only cause now which can restore us our estate. The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms. The Secret Service captured them on the way from the warehouse on South Street to the steamer which was to take them to New Orleans. Only once before had it happened when my father did not understand all the things to conceal. Then he was frantic for a week, but this time he seems not to care. Oh, Signores, she said, dropping her voice. I fear there was some treachery there. Treachery? I asked. And have you any suspicions who might have played informer? She hesitated. I may as well tell you just what I suspect. I fear the hold of Signora Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it all. I even have suspected that somehow she may be working in the pay of the government that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the group who so trust her. I suspect anything, everybody, that this she is poisoning his mind, perhaps even whispering into his ear some siren proposal of amnesty in his estate again, if he will but do what she asks. My poor father, I must save him from himself if it is necessary. Argument has no effect with him. He merely answers that the Signora is talented and accomplished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when I hint to him to beware. I hate her. The fiery animosity of her dark eyes bolted ill, I felt for the Signora. But it flashed over me that perhaps, after all, the Signora was not a traitor's, but it simply been scheming to win the heart and hence the Hacienda of the great landowner, when he came into possession of his estate if the revolution proved successful. And finally she concluded, keeping back the tears by an heroic effort. Last night he left our apartment, promising to return early in the evening. It is now twenty-four hours, and I have heard not a word from him. It is the first time in my life that we have ever been separated so long. And you have no idea where he could have gone, asked Craig. Only what I have learned from Signor Torrion, another member of the Junta, Signor Torrion said this morning that he left the home of Signora Mendez last night, about ten o'clock, in company with my father. He says they parted at the subway as they lived on different branches of the road. Professor Kennedy, she added, springing up and clasping her hands tightly in an appeal that was irresistible. You know what steps to take to find him. I trust all to you, even the calling on the police, though I think it would be best if we could get along without them. Find my father, Seniors, and when we come into our own again you shall not regret that you prevented a lonely girl in a strange city surrounded by intrigue and danger. There were tears in her eyes as she stood swaying before us. The tenseness of the appeal was broken by the sharp ringing of the telephone bell. Kennedy quickly took down the receiver. You know, Maid wishes to speak to you, he said, handing the telephone to her. Her face brightened with that nervous hope that springs in the human breast, even in the blackest moment. I told her if any message came for me she might find me here, explained Mr. Gero. Yes, Juanita, what is it? A message for me? My Spanish was not quite good enough to catch more than a word here and there in the low conversation, but I could guess from the haggard look which overspread her delicate face, that the news was not encouraging. Oh! she cried. This is terrible, terrible. What shall I do? Why did I come here? I don't believe it. I don't believe it. Don't believe what, Miss Gero, asked Kennedy reassuringly. Trust me. That he stole the money. Oh! what am I saying? You must not look for him. You must forget that I have been here. No, I don't believe it. What money, asked Kennedy, disregarding her appeal to drop the case. Remember, it may be better that we should know it now than the police later. We will respect your confidence. The junta has been notified a few days ago. They say the large sum, five hundred thousand silver dollars has been captured from the government and was on its way to New York to be melted up as a bullion at the sub-treasurer. She answered, repeating what she had heard over the telephone as if in a dream. Mr. Jameson referred to the rumor when he came in. I was interested for I did not know the public had heard of it yet. The junta has just announced that the money is missing. As soon as the ship docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent appeared with the proper credentials from my father and a guard, and they took the money away. It has not been heard of since, and they have no word from my father. Her face was blanched as she realized what the situation was. Here she was, setting people to run down her own father. If the suspicions of the other members of the junta were to be credited, you do not think my father stole the money? She faltered pitifully. Say you do not think so. I think nothing yet, replied Kennedy in an even voice. The first thing to do is to find him before the detectives of the junta do so. I felt a tinge, I must confess it, of jealousy as Kennedy stood beside her, clasping her hand in both of his and gazing earnestly down into the rich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks. Miss Gyro, he said, you may trust me implicitly. If your father is alive, I will do all that a man can do to find him. Let me act for the best. And, he added, wheeling quickly toward me, I know Mr. Jameson will do likewise. I was pulled two ways at once. I believed in Miss Gyro, and yet the flight of her father and the removal of the bullion swallowed up, as it were, instantly, without so much as a trace in New York, looked very black for him. And yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in mind to say goodbye, she won another night to go forth and fight her battle for her. Nor do I think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible either. When she had gone I looked hopelessly at Kennedy. How could we find a missing man in a city of four million people? Find him without the aid of police, perhaps before the police could themselves find him. Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as he read my thoughts. The first thing to do is to locate this senior torion from whom the first information came, he remarked, as we left the apartment. Miss Gyro told me that he might possibly be found in an obscure boarding-house in the Bronx, where several members of the Hunter live. Let us try, anyway. Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torion at the address given. He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that he was an unprepossessing-looking man, undersized and a trifle overstout, with an eye that never met yours as you talked with him. Whether it was that he was concealing something, or he was merely fearful that we might, after all, be United States secret servicemen, or whether it was simply a lack of command of English, he was uncommonly uncommunicative at first. He repeated sullenly the details of the disappearance of Gyro, just as we had already heard them. And you simply bade him good-bye as you got on a subway train, and that is the last you ever saw of him? Repeated Kennedy. Yes, he replied. Did he seem to be worried or have anything on his mind or to act clearly in any way? Asked Kennedy keenly. No, came the monosyllabic reply. And there was just that shade of hesitation about it that made me wish we had the apparatus we used, in the bond case, for registering association time. Kennedy noticed it, and purposely dropped the line of inquiry in order not to excite Torrion's suspicion. I understand no word has been received from him at the headquarters on South Street today. None, replied to Torrion sharply. And you have no idea where he could have gone after you left him last night. No, senior, none. The answer was given, I thought, with suspicious quickness. You do not think that he could be concealed by senior Amanda's then? Asked Kennedy quietly. The little man jumped forward with his eyes flashing. No, he hissed, checking this show of feeling as quickly as he could. Well then, observed Kennedy rising slowly. I see nothing to do but to notify the police and have a general alarm sent out. The fire died in the eyes of Torrion. Do not do that, senior, he exclaimed. Wait at least one day more. Perhaps he will appear. Perhaps he has only gone up to Bridgeport to see about some arms and cartridges. Who can tell? No, sir, do not call in the police. I beg you, not yet. I myself will search for him. It may be I can get some word, some clue. If I can, I will notify Miss Guillero immediately. Kennedy turned suddenly. Torrion, he flashed quickly. What do you suspect about that shipment of half a million silver dollars? Where did it go after it left the wharf? Torrion kept his composure admirably. An enigma of a smile flitted over his mobile features as he shrugged his shoulders. Ah, he said simply, then you have heard that the money is missing. Perhaps Guillero has not gone to Bridgeport after all. On condition that I do not notify the police yet, will you take us to visits in your amendez and let us learn from her what she knows of this strange case? Torrion was plainly cornered. He sat for a moment, biting his nails nervously and fidgeting in his chair. It shall be as you wish, he ascended at length. We ought to go, continued Kennedy, merely as friends of yours, you understand. I want to ask questions in my own way, and you are not too... Yes, yes, you agreed. Wait, I will tell you we are coming. And he reached for the telephone. No, interrupted Kennedy, I prefer to go with you unexpected. Put down the telephone, otherwise I may as well notify my friend, Inspector O'Connor, in the central office, and go up with him. Torrion let the receiver fall back in its socket. And I caught just a glimpse of the look of hate and suspicion which crossed his face as he turned toward Kennedy. When he spoke, it was as swavly as if he himself were the one who had planned this little excursion. It shall be as you wish, he said, leading the way out to the cross-town surface cars. Senora Mendez received us politely, and we were ushered into a large music room in her apartment. There were several people there already. They were seated in easy chairs about the room. One of the ladies was playing on the piano as we entered. It was a curious composition, very rhythmic, with the peculiar thread of monotonous melody running through it. The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on us. Kennedy kept very close to Torrion, apparently for the purpose of frustrating any attempt at a wistful conversation with the Senora. The guests rose and with courtly politeness bowed as Senora Mendez presented two friends of Senor Torrion, Senora Kennedy and Senora Jameson. We were introduced in turn to Senora and Senora Alvardo, Senora Gonzalez, Senorita Rice, and the player, Senora Barrios. It was a peculiar situation and, for want of something better to say, I commented on the curious character of the music we had overheard as we entered. The Senora smiled and was about to speak when a servant entered, bearing a tray full of little cups with a steaming liquid, and in a silver dish some curious round-round disc-like buttons, about an inch in diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. Torrion motioned frantically to the servant to withdraw, but Kennedy was too quick for him, interposing himself between Torrion and the servant. He made way for her to enter. You were speaking of the music, replied Senora Mendez to me in rich full-tones. Yes, it is very curious. It is a song of the Kiowa Indians of New Mexico, which Senora Barrios has endeavored to set to music so that it can be rendered as a piano. Senora Barrios and myself fled from this future to Mexico at the start of our revolution. And when the Mexican government ordered us to leave on account of our political activity, we merely crossed the line to the United States in New Mexico. It was there that we ran across this very curious discovery. The monotonous beat of that melody you heard is supposed to represent the beating of tom-toms We are having a mescal evening here wiling away the hours of exile from our native Vespucia. Mescal? I repeated blankly at first. Then, feeling a nut from Kennedy, I added hastily. Oh, yes, to be sure. I think I've heard of it. It's a Mexican drink, is it not? I have never had the pleasure of tasting it or tasting that other drink. Polk? Bouquet? Did I get the accent right? I knew that I had only made matters worse. Mr. Jameson, he hasted to remark, confounds this mescal of the Indians with the drink of the same name that is common in Mexico. Oh, she laughed to my great relief. But this mescal is something quite different. The Mexican drink mescal is made from the Maguay plant and the frightfully horrid thing that sends the peon out of his senses and makes him violent. Mescal, as I mean it, is a cult, a religion. Yes, ascended Kennedy, discovered by the same Kiowa Indians, was it not? Perhaps, she admitted, raising her beautiful shoulders in polite deprecation, the mescal religion we found has spread very largely in New Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and with the removal of the Kiowa to the Indian Reservation it has been adopted by other tribes, even, as I heard, as far north as a Canadian border. Is that so, as Kennedy, I understood that the United States government has forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and its sale to the Indians under severe penalties. It has, sir, but still the mescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be more wise for your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer that unscrupulous persons are selling. Senor Jameson, he added, turning to me, will you join us in a little cup of this artificial paradise as one of your English writers Havillac Ellis, I think, has appropriately called it. I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senor Amendez took one of the little buttons out of the silver tray, carefully pairing the fuzzy tuft of hairs off the top of it. It looked to me very much like the tip of a cactus plant, which, indeed it was. She rolled it into a little pellet and placed it in her mouth, chewing it slowly like a piece of G. Clay. Watch me, do just as I do, whispered Kennedy to me at the moment when no one was looking. The servant advanced toward us with the tray. The mescal plant, explained Elvardo, pointing at the little discs, grows precisely like these little buttons which you see here. It is a species of cactus which rises only half an inch or so from the ground. The stem is surrounded by a clump of blunt leaves, which gives it its button shape. And on the top you will see the tuft of filaments like a cactus. It grows in the rocky soil in many places in the state of Jalisco, though only recently has it become known to science. The Indians, when they go out to gather to simply lop off these little ends as they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for what is to them a fabulous sum. Some people chew the buttons, while a few have lately tried making an infusion or tea out of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had better recommend the infusion. I had scarcely swallowed the bitter almost nauseous decoction that I began to feel my heart action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller and stronger. The pupils of my eyes expanded as close as Belladonna. At least I could see that Kennedys did, and so mine must have done the same. I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority. Really, I almost began to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in this investigation. I have since learned that this is the common experience of mescal users, this sense of elation. But the feeling of physical energy left, and I found myself glad to recline in my easy chair as arrested in silent indolence. Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such as I find it hopeless to describe in language which will convey to others the beauty and splendor of what I saw. I picked up a book lying on a table before me. A pale blue violet shadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after image of pure color indescribable. I laid down the book and closed my eyes. A confused riot of images and colors like a kaleidoscope crowded before me, at first indistinct, but as I gazed with closed eyes more and more definite. Golden, red, and green jewels seemed to riot before me. I bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-glass worker has ever produced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire to sleep. In fact, was hypersensitive. But it was a real effort to open my eyes, to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes and colors. At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gas jets of the chandelier as they flickered. They seemed to send out waves, expanding and contracting waves of color. The shadows of the room were highly colored and constantly changing as the light changed. Signora Berrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Chiaowa song, emphasizing the notes that represented the drum beats. Strange as it may seem, the music translated itself in the pure color, and the rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought of the untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering campfire while others beat the tom-toms and drone the curious melody. As he chewed his mescal button and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a beautiful intoxication. Under the gas lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric light bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room and all the things in it. I gazed next intently at the electric lights. They became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my head and close my eyes. When the image persisted, I saw the golden sands of Newport. Only they were blazing with glory as if they were veritable diamond dust. I saw the ways of incomparable blue rolling up on the shore. A vague perfume was wafed it on the air. I was in an orgy of vision, yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was, at least, elevating. Similar, though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His visions took the forms of animals, a Cheshire cat like that in Alice in Wonderland, with merely a grin that faded away, changing into a links which in turn disappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointed ears. Then tortoises and guinea pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession of beasts. When the playing began, a regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty and changes in the scenes, which he described as the most wonderful kinascoptic display. In fact, only the Quincy or Bayard, Taylor, or Poe could have done justice to the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even day unless an ammionesis had been ceded by them to take down what they dictated, for I defy anyone to remember anything but a glance. Indeed, in observing its action I almost forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I. The music ceased, but not the visions. Signora Mendez advanced towards us. The spangles on her net dress seemed to give her a fairy-like appearance. She seemed to float over the carpet like a glowing, fleecy white cloud over a rainbow tinted sky. Kennedy, however, looked for, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever, though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind in vision. Kennedy did not beat about in putting his question evidently counting on the surprise to exact the truth. What time did Signora Guero leave last night? The question came about ten o'clock, she answered, then instantly was on her guard for Torian had caught her eye. And you have no idea when he went, asked Kennedy. None unless he went home, she replied guardedly. I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt response to Torian's warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that spread over Torian's features. The surprise to all but the right of color. Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light and color. Every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. Yet there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I was raised above earthly things. Men and women were no longer men and women. They were brilliant creatures of whom I was one. It was sensuous and idealized. My hands were surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they must be the hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward toward the tray of little cups. There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid itself on my arm. A voice sang in my ear softly. No, Walter. We have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not like any other speech. Let us go as soon as we politely can. I have found out what I wanted to know. Gero is not here. We rose shortly and excuse ourselves and, with general regrets in which all Batorian joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness with which we had been received. As we left the house, the return to the world was quick. It was like coming out from the matinee and were unreal for the moment. But, strange to say, I found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication. What is it about mescal that produces such results, I asked. The alkaloids, replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along. Mescal was first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by our Bureau of Ethnology. Dr. Weir Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Weir Mitchell and Dr. Weir Mitchell were first brought to the attention of scientists and investigated it since then. It is well known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious and little investigated nature. I can't recall even the names of them offhand, but I have them in my laboratory. As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I found myself unable to help but ask myself why both Torian and Siniora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about the whereabouts of Gyro. Was she a spy? Did she know anything about the loss of the half million dollars? Of one thing I was certain. Torian was an ardent admirer of the beautiful Siniora, equally ardent with Gyro. Was he simply a jealous suitor, angry at his rival and Gyro gone? The question was still unanswered. Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice particularly where Kennedy was hurrying me. In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculations and knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of his inquiry, I did not for the moment care where he went but allowed him to take the lead. We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive of the presence of Miss Gyro again. The questioning look on her face recalled the object of our search and its ill-success so far. Why had Kennedy come back with so little to report? Have you heard anything? She asked eagerly. Not directly, replied Kennedy, but I have a clue at least. I believe that Torian knows where your father is and will let you know any moment now. It is to his interest to scandal about the money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search through your father's desk? For some moments Kennedy rummaged through the drawers and pigeonholes silently. Where does the Hunter keep its arms stored? Not in the meeting place on South Street, does it, as Kennedy linked? Not exactly. There would be a little too risky, she replied. I believe they have a loft above the floor. I am not connected with the place downstairs at all. My father and seniority Torian are the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask? I ask, replied Craig, because I was wondering whether there might not be something that would take him down to South Street last night. It's the only place I can think of is going to at such a late hour, unless he has gone out of town. If we do not hear him down there. Oh, what is this? Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed a dozen mescal buttons. We both looked quickly at Miss Giro, but it was quite evident that she was unacquainted with them. She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang and the maid announced that Miss Giro was wanted by a senior Torian. A smile of gratification It is evident that Torian is anxious to clear himself. I'll wager he has done some rabbit hustling since we left him. Perhaps this is some word about my father at last, murmured Miss Giro, as she nervously hurried that the telephone unanswered. Yes, this is seniority Giro, senior Torian. You are at the office of the junta? Yes, yes, you have worked for my father? You went down there tonight expecting some guns to be delivered? Did you find him there? Upstairs in the loft? Ill, did you say? Unconscious? In an instant her face was drawn in pale and the receiver felt clattering to the hardwood floor from her nervous fingers. He's dead, she gasped, as she swayed backward and I caught her. With Kennedy's help I carried her limp and unconscious across the room and placed her in a deep non-helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty of her face. Some water, Juanita, quick, I cried as soon as I had recovered from the shock. Have you any smelling salts or anything of that sort? Perhaps you can find a little brandy? Hurry! While we were making her comfortable the telephone continued to tingle. This is Kennedy, I heard Craig say, as Juanita came down. Why couldn't you bring it to her gently? What's that address on South Street? You found him over the hunter meeting place in a loft? Yes, I understand. What were you doing down there? You went down expecting a shipment of arms and saw a light over hand, I see. And suspecting something you entered with a policeman? You heard him move across the floor above and fall heavily. A violent surgeon has tried everything, you say? No hot action, no breathing? Sure, very well. Let the body remain just where it is until I get down. Oh, wait, how long ago did it happen? Fifteen minutes. All right, good-bye. Such restoratives as we had found we applied faithfully. At last we were rewarded by the first flutter of an eyelid. Then she moaned. They have killed him. I know it. My father is dead. Over and over she repeated. He is dead. I shall never see him again. Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there to say? There could be no doubt about it. Dorian must have gone down directly after we left Senor Amendez. He had seen a light in the loft, had entered with a policeman, as a soldier, and had sent for the ambulance. How long Giro had been there he did not know, for while members of the junta had been coming and going all day in the office below, none had gone up into the locked loft. Kennedy with a rare skill calmed the Miss Giro's dry-eyed hysteria into a gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought feelings. We silently withdrew leaving the two women, what do you make of it? We must lose no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she has a chance to escape. Not so fast, Walter, he cautioned as we spun along in a taxi cab. Our case isn't very complete against anybody yet. But it looks black for Giro, I admitted. Dead men tell no tales even to clear themselves. It all depends on speed now," he answered as he was only a few blocks away, and Craig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the driver. He reappeared almost instantly with some bulky apparatus under his arm, and we more than ran from the building to the nearby subway station. Fortunately there was an express just pulling in as we tumbled down the steps. To one who knows South Street is merely a riverfront street whose glory of other days be uptown and trucks and carts all day long are in a perpetual jam, it is particularly uninteresting by day, and peculiarly deserted and vicious by night. But there is another fascination about South Street. Perhaps there has never been a revolution in Latin America which has not in some way or other been connected with this street, whence hundreds of filibusting expeditions have started. Wherever a more half a dozen chocolate-skinned generals in the Caribbean become dissatisfied with their portions of gold lace, the arms and ammunition dealers of South Street can give, if they choose, an advanced scenario of the whole tragedy or comic opera as the case may be. Real war or opera bouffée, it s all grist for the mills of these closed-mouth individuals. Our quest took us to a ramshackle building reminiscent of the days when South Street bristled with boughsprits from ships all over the world, an age when the American merchant man flew our flag on the utmost of the seven seas. On the ground floor was an apparently innocent junk dealer shock, in reality the meeting place of the junta. By an outside stairway the lofts above were reached, hiding their secrets behind the windows opaque with the decades of dust. At the door we were met by both appeared to be shocked beyond measure. Torion was profuse in explanations which did not explain. Out of the tangled mass of verbiage I did manage to extract, however, the impression that come what might to the other members of the junta, Torion was determined to clear his own name at any cost. He and the policemen had discovered Signor Giero only a short time before upstairs. For all he knew Giero had been there some time, perhaps all day, while others were meeting downstairs. Except for the light he might have been there undiscovered still. Torion swore he had heard Giero fall. The policemen was not quite so positive. Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up the stairs. Only to call back to the policemen go call me a taxi cab at the ferry, an electric cab, mine now another gasoline cab, electric. We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of sale cloth and a loft apparently devoted to the peaceful purposes of the junk trade, but really a perfect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and cobweb, crammed with stands of arms, tents, uniforms and bales, batteries of maxims and mountain guns, and all the paraphernalia for carrying on a real 20th century revolution. The young ambulance surgeon was still there, so quickly had we been able to get downtown. He had his stomach plump, hypodermic syringe, emetics and various tubes spread out on a piece of linen on a packing case. Kennedy at once inquired just what he had done. I thought at first it was only a bad case of syncope, he replied, but I guess he was dead some minutes before I got here. Tried rhythmic traction of the tongue, artificial respiration, stimulants, chest and heart massage, everything but it was no use. Have you any idea what caused his death? Asked Craig, as he hastily adjusted his apparatus to an electric light socket, a rheostat, an induction coil of peculiar shape, and an interrupter. Poison of some kind, an alkaloid. They say they heard him fall as they came up the stairs, and when they got to him he was blue. His face was as blue as it is now when I arrived. Asphyxia, failure of both heart and lungs, death was what the alkaloid caused. The gong of the electric cab sounded outside. As Craig heard it he rushed with two wires to the window, threw them out and hurried downstairs, attaching them to the batteries of the cab. In an instant he was back again. Now doctor, he said, I'm going to perform a very delicate test on this man. Here I have the alternating city current and here a direct, continuous current from the storage batteries of the cab below. Doctor, hold his mouth open. So, now have you a pair of false teeth? Good. Can you catch hold of the tip of his tongue? There, do just as I tell you. I apply this cathode to his skin in the dorsal region, under the back of the neck, and this anode in the lumbar region at the base of the spine, just pieces of cotton soaked in salt solution and covering the metal electrodes to give me a good contact with the body. I was fascinated. It was gruesome and yet I could not take my eyes off it. Torian stood blankly in a daze. Craig was as calm as if his everyday work was experimenting on cadavers. He applied the current, moving the anode and the cathode slowly. I had often seen the experiments on the nerves of a frog that had been freshly killed, how the electric current will make the muscles twitch, as discovered long ago by Gavani. But I was not prepared to see it on a plane or something and crossed himself. The arm seemed half the rise, then suddenly to fall, flabby again. There was a light hiss like an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastly sound. Lungs react, muttered Kennedy, but the heart doesn't. I must increase the voltage. Again he applied the electrodes. The face seemed a different shade of blue, I thought. Good God, Kennedy! I exclaimed. Do you suppose the effect of that mescaline me hasn't worn off yet? Blue, blue, everything blue is playing pranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the blue of that face his face? Is it changing? Do you see it or do I imagine it? Blood affixiated was the disjointed reply. The oxygen is clearing it. But Kennedy, I persisted. His face was dark blue, black a minute ago. The most astonishing change has taken place. The color is almost natural now. Do I imagine it or is it real? Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all. He heard nothing. Nothing saved the slow, forced inspiration and expiration of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the electrodes. Doctor! he cried at length. Tell me what is going on in that heart. The young surgeon bent his head and placed his ear on the cold breast. As he raised his eyes and a chance to rest on Kennedy's hands holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I think I never saw a greater look of astonishment on a human face. It is almost natural, he gasped. With great care and a milk diet for a few days Giro will live, said Kennedy quietly. It is natural. My God, man, but he was dead! exclaimed the surgeon. I know it. His heart was stopped and his lungs collapsed. To all intents and purposes he was dead. Dead as ever a man was, replied Craig, and would be now if I hadn't happened to think of this special induction coil known to me by a doctor who had studied deeply the process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Lietuch of the Nantes Ecole de Medicine. There is only one case I know of unrequited which compares with this, a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The girl was a chronic morphine eater and was dead forty minutes. I stood like one frozen. The thing was so incomprehensible after the many surprises of the evening that it proceeded. Torion in fact did not comprehend for the moment. As Kennedy and I bent over Giro's eyes opened but he apparently saw nothing. His hand moved a little and his lips parted. Kennedy quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath one after another. From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case identical with that he had found in the desk of town. He opened it and one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded it thoughtfully. I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug who will no longer cultivate its use as a result of this, he added, looking significantly at the man before us. Giro shouted Kennedy placing his mouth close to the man's ear but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said. Giro, where is the money? His lips moved trembling again but I could not make out that he had said anything. Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the electric light socket behind Torion. Garamba! I heard as I turned suddenly. Craig had Torion firmly opinioned from behind by both arms. The policeman quickly interposed. It's all right, officer, exclaimed Craig. Walter reached into his inside pocket. I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them over. What's that? asked Kennedy as I came to something neatly enclosed in an envelope. I opened it. It was a power of attorney from Giro, Torion. Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal if he wants it. I doubt if the penal code covers that, ejaculated Kennedy. But it is conspiracy to give it to him and extract a power of attorney by which you can get control of trust funds consigned to him. Manual, Torion, the game is up. And Senora Mendez have played your parts well, but you have lost. You waited until you thought Giro was dead, then you took a policeman along as a witness to clear yourself. But the secret is not dead after all. Is there nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes, ah, a bill of lading dated today. Ten cases of scrap iron from New York to Boston. A long chance for such valuable scraps, Senora. You don't have to get the money away from New York at any risk. And Senora Mendez? I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to the brilliantly lighted room uptown. What part did she have in the plot against Giro? Torion stood sullenly silent. Kennedy reached in another of Torion's pockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons. Holding all three of the boxes identically the same, before us, is something that I am not able to understand. Evidently, Torion was not adverse to having his victim under the influence of mescal as much as possible. He must have falsed it on him, all's fair and loving revolution, I suppose. I believe he brought him down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained the power of attorney and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication. It was just a case of two stronger holes of the mescal. Mario, and Torrion knew it and tried to profit by it to the extent of half a million dollars. It was more than I could grasp at the instant. The impossible had happened. I had seen the dead, literally, brought back the life and the secret which the criminal believed buried rung from the grave. Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face. Walter, he said casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, don't stand there gaping like Billigan. Our part in this case is finished, and these mine is, but I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at various times that, well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a real paradise. I saw a telephone downstairs. Go call up Missiero and tell her her father is alive, and innocent. CHAPTER XII. THE STEEL DOOR. It was what, in college, we used to call good football weather. A crisp autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the string of homeward bound automobiles on the broad parkway. Suddenly, a huge black touring car marked with big letters, P-D-N-Y, shot past. Joy writing again in one of the city's cars, I remarked. I thought the last police department shake up had put a stop to that. Perhaps it has, returned Kennedy. Did you see who is in the car? No, but I see it has turned and has come and back. It was Inspector, I mean, First Deputy O'Connor. I thought he recognized us as he whizzed along, and I guess he did too. Ah, congratulations, O'Connor! I haven't had a chance to tell you before how pleased I was to learn you had been appointed First Deputy. It ought to have been a commissioner, though, added Kennedy. Congratulations, nothing, rejoined O'Connor. Just another New Deal election coming on. Mayor must make a show of getting some reform done, and all that sort of thing. So he began with the police department, and here I am, First Deputy. But say Kennedy, he added, dropping his voice. I have a little job on my mind that I'd like to pull off in about as spectacular a fashion as I—as you know how. I want to make good, conspicuously good at the start, understand? Maybe I'll be broke for it and send a pound in the pavements of dismissal-ville, but I don't care. I'll take a chance. On the level, Kennedy, it's a big thing and it ought to be done. Will you help me put it across? What is it? asked Kennedy, with a twinkle in his eye at O'Connor's estimate of the security of his tenure of office. O'Connor drew us away from the automobile toward the stone parapet overlooking the railroad and river far below, and out of earshot of the department chauffeur. I want to pull off a successful raid on the Vesper Club, he whispered earnestly, scanning our faces. Good heavens, man, I ejaculated. Don't you know that Senator Danfield is interested in? Jameson interrupted O'Connor reproachfully. I said on the level a few moments ago, and I meant it. Senator Danfield, he—well, anyhow, if I don't do it the District Attorney will, with the aid of the Dowling Law, and I am going to beat him to it, that's all. There's too much money being lost at the Vesper Club, anyhow. It won't hurt Danfield to be taught a lesson not to run such a phony game. I may like to put up a quiet bet myself on the ponies now and then. I won't say I don't, but this thing at Danfield's has got beyond all the reason. It's the crookedest gambling joint in the city, at least judging by the stories they tell the losses there. I'm so beastly, I was ecstatic, too. Read that! O'Connor shoved a letter into Kennedy's hand. A dainty, perfumed and monogrammed little missive addressed in a feminine hand. It was such a letter as come by the thousand to the police in the course of a year, though seldom from ladies of the smart set. Dear sir, I notice in the newspapers this morning that you have just been appointed first deputy commissioner of police, and that you have been ordered to suppress gambling in New York. For the love that you must still bear toward your own mother, listen to the story of a mother worn with anxiety for her only son. And if there is any justice or righteousness in this great city, close up a gambling hall that is sending to ruin scores of our finest young men. No doubt you know or have heard of my family. The Delongs are not unknown in New York. Perhaps you have also heard of the losses of my son Percival at the Vesper Club. They are fast becoming the common talk of our set. I am not rich, Mr. Commissioner, in spite of our social position. But I am human, as human as a mother in any station of life. And oh, if there is any way, close up that gilded society resort that is dissipating our small fortune, ruining our only son, and slowly bringing to the grave a gray-haired widow, as worthy of protection as any mother of the poor whose plea has closed up a little pool room or low policy shop. Sincerely, Mrs. Julia M. Delong. P.S., please keep this confidential, at least for my son Percival, J.M. D.L. Well, said Kennedy, as he handed back the letter. O'Connor, if you do it, I'll take back all the hard things I've ever said about the police system. Young Delong was in one of my classes at the university until he was expelled for that last mad prank of his. There's more to that boy than most people think, but here's the wildest sign of wealth I have ever come in contact with. How are you going to pull off your raid? Is it to be down through the skylight or up from the cellar? Kennedy, replied O'Connor, in the same reproachful tone with which he had addressed me. Doc, sense. I'm an earnest. You know the Esper Club is barred and barricaded like the National City Bank. It isn't one of those common gambling joints which depend for protection on what we call icebox doors. It's proof against all the old methods. Axes and sledgehammers would make no impression there. Your predecessor has some success at opening doors with the hydraulic jack, I believe, in some very difficult raids. Put in Kennedy. A hydraulic jack wouldn't do for the Esper Club, I'm afraid, or Marked O'Kennedy, weirdly. Why, sir, that place has been proved bum-proof. Bum-proof, sir. You remember recently the so-called gambler's war in which some rivals exploded a bomb on the steps? It did more damage to the house next door than to the club. However, I can get past the outer door, I think, even if it is strong. But, inside, you must have heard of it, is the famous steel door, three inches thick, made of armour plate. It's of no use to try it all unless we get past that door with reasonable quickness. All the evidence we shall get will be of an innocent social club room downstairs. The gambling is all on the second floor, beyond this door, in a room without a window in it. Surely you've heard of that famous gambling room, with its perfect system of artificial ventilation and electric lighting that makes it rival noonday at midnight. I don't tell me I've got to get on the other side of the door by strategy, either. It's strategy-proof. The system of lookouts is perfect. No force is necessary. But it must not be destructive of life or property, or by heaven I'd drive up there in the middle of the night with a fourteen-inch gun, exclaimed O'Connor. Hmm, mused Kennedy, as he flicked the ashes off his cigar and meditatively watched a passing freight train on the railroad below us. There goes a car loaded with tons and tons of scrap iron. You want me to scrap that three-inch steel door, do you? Kennedy, I'll buy that particular scrap from you at almost its weight in gold. The fact is, I have a secret fund at my disposal such as former commissioners have asked for in vain. I can afford to pay you well, as well as any private client, and I hear you have had some good fees lately. Only deliver the goods. No, answered Kennedy, rather peaked. It isn't money the time after. I merely wanted to be sure that you are in earnest. I can get you past that door as if it were made of green bazaar. It was O'Connor's turn to look incredulous, but, as Kennedy apparently meant exactly what he said, he simply asked, I'll do it tonight if you say so, replied Kennedy quietly. Are you ready? For I answer O'Connor simply grasped Craig's hand as if to seal the compact. All right, then, continued Kennedy, send a furniture van, one of those clothes vans that the storage warehouses use, up to my laboratory any time before seven o'clock. How many men will you need in the raid? Twelve? Will a van hold that many comfortably? I want to put some apparatus in it, but that won't take much room. Why, yes, I think so, answered O'Connor. I'll get a well-packed van so that they won't be badly jolted by the raid downtown. By George Kennedy I see no more of that sight of the police strategy that I give you credit for. Then have the men drop into my laboratory singly about the same time. You can arrange that so that it will not look suspicious so far in town. It will be dark anyhow. Perhaps, O'Connor, you can make it up as the driver yourself. Anyhow, get one you can trust absolutely. Then have the van down near the corner of Broadway below the club, driving slowly along about the time the theatre crowd is out. Leave the rest to me. I will give you all the driver orders when the time comes. As O'Connor thanked Craig, he remarked without a shade of insincerity. Kennedy, talk about being commissioner. You ought to be commissioner. Wait till I deliver the goods, answered Craig simply. I may fall down and bring you nothing, but a lawsuit for damages for unlawful entry or unjust prosecution, or whatever they call it. I'll take a chance at that, he called O'Connor, as he jumped into his car and directed. Headquarters, quick! As the car disappeared, Kennedy filled his lungs with air as if reluctant to leave the drive. Our constitutional, he remarked, is abruptly at an end, Walter. Then he laughed and looked about him. What a place in which to plot a raid on Danfield's Vespel Club. Why, the nursemaids have hardly got the children all in for supper and bed. It's incongruous. Well, I must go over to the laboratory and get some things ready to put in that van with the men. Meet me about half past seven, Walter, up in the room, all talked up. We'll dine at the Café Riviera tonight in style. And by the way, you're quite a man about town. You must know someone who can introduce us into the Vespel Club. But, Craig, I'd the myrd. If there's any rough work as a result it might queer me with them. They might object to being used. Oh, that will be all right. I just want to look the place over and lose a few chips in good cause. No, it won't queer any of your star connections. We'll be on the outside when the time comes for anything to happen. In fact, I shouldn't wonder if your story will make you all the more solid with the sports. I take all the responsibility. You can have the glory. You know they like to hear the inside gossip of such things, after the event. Try it. Remember, at seven thirty. We'll be a little late at dinner, but never mind. It will be early enough for the club. Left the my own devices. I had determined to do a little detective work on my own account. And not only did I succeed in finding an acquaintance who agreed to introduce us at the Vespel Club that night, about nine o'clock, but I also learned that Percival DeLonge was certain to be there that night, too. I was necessarily vague about Kennedy, for fear my friend might have heard of some of his exploits. But, fortunately, he did not prove inquisitive. I hurried back to our apartment, and was in the process of transforming myself into a full-fledged Bolvedere. When Kennedy arrived in an extremely cheerful frame of mind. So far, his preparations had progressed very favorably, I guessed. And I was quite elated when he complimented me on what I had accomplished in the meantime. Pretty tough for the fellows who are condemned to ride round in that van for four mortal hours, though. He said, as he hurried into his evening clothes. One day I won't be riding all the time. The driver will make frequent stumps. I was so busy that I paid little attention to him until he had nearly completed his toilet. I gave a gasp. Why, whatever are you doing? I exclaimed, as I glanced into his room. There stood Kennedy, a raid in all the glory of a sharp pointed mustache and a goatee. He had put on evening clothes of decidedly Parisian cut. Clothes which he had used abroad and had brought back with him, but which I had never known him to wear since he came back. On a chair reposed the chimney pot hat that would have been pronounced faultless on the Continental, but was unknown, except among impresarios on Broadway. Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. He even had the shrug. Figure to yourself, Bonjour, he said. The great Kennedy, the Detective American, to put it to sleep in our own vernacular. Wouldn't it be a fool thing for me to appear at the Vespa Club where I should surely be recognized by someone if I went in my ordinary clothes and features? There was nothing to do but agree, and I was glad that I had been discreetly reticent about my companion in talking with the friend who was to gain us entrance to the avenues beyond the steel door. We met my friend at the Riviera and dined sumptuously. Fortunately, he seemed decidedly impressed with my friend Bonjour K. I could do no better on the spur of the moment than take Kennedy's initial, which seemed to serve. We progressed amicably from oysters and soup down to coffee, cigars, and liqueur. And I succeeded in swallowing Kennedy's tales of Monte Carlo and Ostend and Ascot without even a smile. He must have heard them somewhere and treasured them up for just such an occasion. But he told him in a manner that was versimilitude itself, using perfect English with just a trace of an accent at the right places. At last it was time to saunter around to the Vespa Club without seeming to be too indecently early. The theaters were not yet out, but my friend said play was just beginning at the club and would soon be in full swing. I had a keen sense of wickedness as we mounted the steps in the yellow flare of the flaming arc light on the Broadway corner not far below us. A heavy-graded door swung open at the practice signal of my friend, and an obsequious Negro servant stood bowing and pronouncing his name in the somber mahogany portal beyond, with its green marble pillars and handsome decorations. A short parlay followed, after which we entered, my friend having apparently satisfied someone that we were all right. We did not stop to examine the first floor, which, doubtless was innocent enough, but turned quickly up a flight of steps. At the foot of the broad staircase Kennedy paused to examine some rich carvings, and I felt him nudge me. I turned. It was an enclosed staircase, with walls that looked to be a reinforced concrete. Swung back on hinges concealed like those of a modern burglar-proof safe was the famous steel door. We did not wish to appear to be too interested, yet a certain amount of curiosity was only proper. My friend paused on the steps turned and came back. You're perfectly safe, he smiled. Tapping the door with his cane, with a sort of affection and respect, it would take the police ages to get past that barrier, which would be swung shut and bolted the moment the lookout gave the alarm. But there has never been any trouble. The police know that it is so far. No farther. Besides, he added with a wink to me. You know Senator Danfield wouldn't like this pretty little door even scratched. Come up. I think I hear DeLong's voice upstairs. You've heard of him, enjour? It said his luck has changed. I'm anxious to find out. Quickly he led the way up the handsome staircase and into a large lofty, richly furnished room. Everywhere there was thick, heavy carpets on the floors, into which your feet sank with an air of satisfying luxury. The room into which we entered was indeed absolutely windowless. It was a room built within the original room of the old house. Thus the windows overlooking the street from the second floor in reality bore no relation to it. For light it depended on a complete oval of light's overhead, so arranged as to be themselves invisible, but shining through richly stained glass and conveying the illusion of a slightly clouded noon day. The absence of windows was made up for, as I learned later, by a ventilating device so perfect that, although everyone was smoking, a most festigious person could scarcely have been offended by the odor of tobacco. Of course, I did not notice all this at first. What I did notice, however, was a faro layout and the hazard board. But as no one was playing it either, my eye quickly travelled to a roulette table which stretched along the middle of the room. Some ten or a dozen men in evening clothes were gathered watching with intent faces the spinning wheel. There was no money on the table, nothing but piles of chips of various denominations. Another thing that surprised me, as I looked, was that the tense look on the faces of the players was anything but the feverish, haggard gaze I had expected. In fact, they were sleek, well-fed, typical prosperous New Yorkers, rather inclined to the noticeable endress, and carrying their Evoire du Poe as if life was an easy game with them. Most of them evidently belonged to the financial and society classes. There were no tragedies, the tragedies were elsewhere, in their offices, homes, in the courts, anywhere, but not here at the club. Here all was life, light, and laughter. For the benefit of those not acquainted with the roulette wheel, and I may as well confess that most of my own knowledge was gained in that one crowded evening, I may say that it consists briefly of a wooden disc very nicely balanced and turning in the center of a cavity set into a table like a circular wash basin, with an outer rims turned slightly inward. The croupier revolves the wheel to the right. With a quick motion of his middle finger he flicks a marble, usually a vivary, to the left. At the Vesper Club, always up to date, the ball was of platinum, not a vivary. The disc with its sloping sides is provided with a number of brass rods, some perpendicular, some horizontal. As the ball and the wheel lose momentum, the ball strikes against the rods, and finally is deflected into one of the many little pockets or stalls facing the rim of the wheel. There are thirty-eight of these pockets, two are marked zero and double zero. The others numbered from one to thirty-six in an irregular and confusing order, and painted alternately red and black. And each end of the table are thirty-six large squares correspondingly numbered and colored. The zero and double zero are of neutral color. Whenever the ball falls in the zero or double zero, the bank takes the stakes or sweeps the board. The Monte Carlo wheel has only one zero, while the typical American has two, and the Chinese has four. The one like myself, who had read of the continental gambling houses with the clink of gold pieces on the table, and the croupier with his wooden rake noisily raking in the winnings of the bank, the comparative silence of the American game comes as a surprise. As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click of the chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner. Twenty-three, black, eight, red, seventeen, black. It was almost like the boys in the broker's office calling off the quotations of the ticker and marking them up in the board. Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival de Long, a tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill-comported with the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. Such a boy, it flashed across my mind, ought to be studying the possible plays of football of an evening in the fieldhouse after his dinner at the training table, rather than the possible gyrations of the little platinum ball on the wheel. Curse the luck, he exclaimed, as seventeen appeared again. A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the seventeen to come up a third time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the circle. The long hesitated, as one who thought, Seventeen has come out twice. The odds against it coming again are too great, even though the winnings would be fabulous for a good stake. He placed his next bet on another number. He's playing Lord Roslyn's system tonight, whispered my friend. The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again. Seventeen, black. A tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It was almost unprecedented. De Long, with a stifled oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about the table. And Seventeen has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next bin, as if it had not already had a run of three, said a voice at my elbow. It was Kennedy. The roulette table needs no introduction when curious sequences are afoot. All are friends. That's the theory of Sahara Maxim, commented my friend, as he excused himself reluctantly for another appointment. But no true gambler will believe it, Majo, or at least act on it. All eyes returned on Kennedy, who made a gesture of polite deprecation, as if the remark of my friend were true. But he naturally placed his chips on Seventeen. The odds against Seventeen appearing four consecutive times are some millions, he went on. And yet, having appeared three times, it is just as likely to appear again as before. It is the usual practice to avoid the number that has had a run, on the theory that some other number is more likely to come up than it is. That would be the case if it were drawing balls from a bag full of red and black balls. The more red ones drawn, the smaller the chance of drawing another red one. But if the balls are put back in the bag after being drawn, the chances of drawing a red one after three have been drawn are exactly the same as ever. If we toss a scent, and heads appear twelve times, that does not have the slightest effect on the thirteenth toss. There is still an even chance that it too will be heads. So, if Seventeen had come up five times tonight, it would be just as likely to come the sixth as if the previous five had not occurred. And that, despite the fact that before it has appeared at all odds, against the run of the same number six times in succession, are about two billion, four hundred and ninety-six million, and some thousands. Most systems are based on the old persistent belief that occurrences of chance are affected in some way by occurrences immediately proceeding, but disconnected physically. If we had had a run of black for twenty times, systems says play the red for the twenty first. But black is just as likely to turn up on the twenty first as if it were the first play of all. The confusion arises because a run of twenty on the black should happen once in one million forty-eight thousand, five hundred and seventy-six coup. It would take ten years to make that many coup, and the run of twenty might occur once, or any number of times in it. It is only when one deals with infinitely large numbers of coup that one can count on infinitely small variations in the mathematical results. This game does not go on for infinity. Therefore, anything, everything, may happen. Systems are based on the infinite. We play in the finite. You talk like a professor I had at the university. He ejaculated the long contemptuously, as Craig finished his disquisition on the practical fallibility of the theoretically infallible systems. Again, the long carefully avoided the seventeen, as well as the black. The wheels spun again. The ball rolled. The knot of spectators around the table watched with bated breath. Seventeen won. As Kennedy piled up his winning superciliously, without even the appearance of triumph, a man behind me whispered, a foreign nobleman with the system. Watch him. No, ma sure, said Kennedy quickly, having overheard the remark. No system, sir. There is only one system of which I know. What, asked along eagerly, Kennedy staked a large sum on the red to win. The black came up, and he lost. He doubled the stake and played again, and again lost. With amazing calmness, Craig kept right on doubling. The motongale, I heard the man whisper behind me, in other words, double or quit. Kennedy was now in for some hundreds, a sum that was sufficiently large for him. But he doubled again, still cheerfully playing the red, and the red one. As he gathered up his chips, he rose. That's the only system, he said simply. But go on, go on! came the chorus from about the table. No, said Kennedy quietly. That is part of the system, too, to quit when you have won back your stakes and a little more. Ha! exclaimed along in disgust. Suppose you were in for some thousands. You wouldn't quit. If you had real sporting blood, you wouldn't quit anyhow. Kennedy calmly passed over the open insult, letting it be understood that he ignored this beardless youth. There is no way you can beat the game in the long run if you keep at it, he answered simply. It is mathematically impossible. Consider, we are cremeses. We hire players to stake money for us on every possible number at every coup. How do we come out? If there are no zero or double zero, we come out after each coup precisely where we started. We are paying our own money back and forth among ourselves. We have neither more nor less. But with the zero and double zero, the bank sweeps the board every so often. It is only a question of time when, after paying our money back and forth among ourselves, it is all filtered to the zero and double zero into the bank. It is not the game of chance for the bank. Ah, it is exact, mathematical. System questioned arithmetic, solemn niste se pers mes jours? Perhaps, admitted along. But it doesn't explain why I'm losing tonight while everyone else is winning. We are not winning, persisted Craig. After I've had a bite to eat, I will demonstrate how to lose by keeping on playing. He led the way to the café. The long was too intent on the game to leave, even for refreshments. Now and then I saw him back into an attendant who brought him a stiff drink of whiskey. For a moment his play seemed a little better, then he would drop back into his hopeless losing. For some reason or other, his system failed absolutely. You see, his hopeless, used Kennedy over our light were passed. And yet of all gambling games, roulette offers the player the best odds. Far better than horse racing, for instance. Our method has usually been to outlaw roulette and permit horse racing. In other words, suppress some more favorable, and permit the less favorable. However, we're doing better now. We're suppressing both. Of course, what I say applies only to roulette when it is honestly played. DeLong would lose anyhow, I fear. I stared at Kennedy and whispered hastily. What do you mean? Do you think the wheel is crooked? I haven't a doubt of it, he replied in an undertone. That run of 17 might happen, yes. But it is improbable. They let me win because I was a new player. New players always win at first. It is proverbial. But the man who is running this game has made it look like a platitude. To satisfy myself on that point, I'm going to play again. Until I have lost my winnings, I am just square with the game. When I reach that point, that I am convinced that some crooked work is going on, I'm going to try a little experiment. Walter, I want you to stand close to me so that no one can see what I am doing. Do just as I will indicate to you. The gambling room was now fast filling up with the first of the theater crowd. The Long's table was the center of attraction, owing to the high play. A group of young men of his set were commiserating with him on his luck and discussing it with the finished air of roses of double their ages. He was doggedly following his system. Kennedy and I approached. Ah, here's the philosophical stranger again, the Long exclaimed, catching sight of Kennedy. Perhaps he can enlighten us on how to win it, reluctant by playing his own system. Ah, contra-mosul. Let me demonstrate how to lose, answered Craig, with a smile that showed a row of faultless teeth beneath his black mustache, decidedly foreign. Kennedy played and lost, and lost again. Then he won. But in the main, he lost. After one particularly large loss, I felt his arm on mine, drawing me closely to him. The Long had taken a sort of grim pleasure in the fact that Kennedy, too, was losing. I found that Craig had paused in his play at the moment when the Long had staked a large sum that a number below 18 would turn up. For five plays the numbers had been between 18 and 36. Curious to see what Craig was doing, I looked cautiously down between us. All eyes were fixed on the wheel. Kennedy was holding an ordinary compass in the crooked up palm of his hand. The needle pointed at me, as I happened to be standing north of it. The wheel spun. Suddenly the needle swung around to a point between the north and south poles, quivered a moment, and came to rest in that position. Then it swung back to the north. It was some seconds before I realized the significance of it. It had pointed at the table, and the Long had lost again. There was some electric attachment at work. Kennedy and I exchanged glances, and he shoved the compass into my hand quickly. You watch it, Walter, while I play, he whispered. Carefully concealing it, as he had done, yet holding it as close to the table as I dared, I tried to follow two things at once without betraying myself. As near as I could make out, something happened at every play. I would not go so far as to assert that whenever the larger stakes were on a certain number, the needle pointed to the opposite side of the wheel, for it was impossible to be at all accurate about it. Once I noticed the needle did not move at all, and he won. But at the next play he staked what I knew must be the remainder of his winnings on what seemed to be a very good chance. Even before the wheel was revolved and the ball started rolling, the needle swung about, and when the platinum ball came to rest, Kennedy rose from the table a loser. By George, though, exclaimed along grasping his hand, I take it all back. You're a good loser, sir. I wish I could take it as well as you do. But then I'm in too deeply. There are many markers with the house up against me. Senator Danfield had just come in to see how things were going. He was a sleek fat man, and it was amazing to see what deference his victims treated him. He effected not to have heard what DeLonge said, but I could imagine what he was thinking. For I had heard that he had scant sympathy with anyone after he went broke. Another evidence of the camaraderie and good fellowship that surrounded the game. Kennedy's next remark surprised me. Oh, your luck will change, DeL. Everyone referred to him as DeL. For gambling houses have an aversion for real names and greatly preferred initials. Your luck will change presently. Keep right on with your system. It's the best you can do tonight, short of quitting. I'll never quit, replied the young man under his breath. Meanwhile, Kennedy and I paused on the way out to compare notes. My report of the behavior of the compass only confirmed him in his opinion. As we turned to the stairs, we took in a full view of the room. A faro layout was purchasing Senator Danfield a new touring car every hour at the expense of the players. Another group was gathered about the hazard board, deriving evident excitement, though I am sure none could have given an intelligent account of the chances they were taking. Two roulette tables were now going full blast. The larger crowd still about the longs. Snatches of conversation came to us now and then, and I caught one sentence. The longs in for over a hundred thousand now on the week's play. I understand, poor boy, that just about cleans him up. The tragedy of a craig, I whispered, but he did not hear. With his head tilted at a rakish angle and his uppercut over his arm, he sauntered over for a last look. Any luck yet, he asked carelessly. The devil, no, returned the boy. Do you know what my advice to you is, the advice of a man who has seen high play everywhere from Monte Carlo to Shanghai? What? Play until your luck changes if it takes until tomorrow. A supercilious smile crossed Senator Danfield's fat face. I intend to, and the haggard young face turned again to the table and forgot us. For heaven's sake, Kennedy, I gassed as we went down the stairway. What do you mean by giving up such advice? You! Not so loud, Walter. He'd have done it anyhow, I suppose, but I want him to keep at it. This night means life or death to Percival de Long and his mother too. Come on, let's get out of this. We pass the formidable steel door and gain the street. Jostled by the latecomers who had left the after-theater restaurants for a few moments of play at the famous club that so long had defied the police. Almost gaily, Kennedy swung along toward Broadway. At the corner he hesitated, glanced up and down, caught sight of the furniture van in the middle of the next block. The driver was tugging at the harness of the horses, apparently fixing it. We walked along and stopped beside it. Drive around in front of the Vespa Club slowly, said Kennedy, as the driver at last looked up. The van lumbered ahead, and we followed it casually. Around the corner it turned. We turned also. My heart was going like a sledgehammer, as the critical moment approached. My head was in a whirl. What would that gay thong back at those darkened windows down the street think if they knew what was being prepared for them? On, like a Trojan horse, the van lumbered. A man went into the Vespa Club, and I saw the negro at the door eye the oncoming van suspiciously. The door banks shut. The next thing I knew, Kennedy had ripped off his disguise, had flung himself up behind the van, and had swung the doors open. A dozen men with axes and sledgehammers swarmed out and up the steps of the club. Call the reserves, O'Connor, cried Kennedy. Watch the roof in the backyard. The driver of the van hastened to send in the call. The sharp wraps of the hammers and the axes sounded on the thick brass-bound oak on the outside door in quick succession. There was a scurry of feet inside, and we could hear a grating noise and a terrific jar as the inner steel door shut. A raid, a raid on the Vespa Club, shouted a belated passerby. The crowd swarmed around from Broadway, as if it were noon instead of midnight. Banging and ripping and tearing, the outer door was slowly forced. As it crashed in, the quick gongs of several police patrols sounded. The reserves had been called out at the proper moment, too late for them to tip off the club that there was going to be a raid, as frequently occurs. Disregarding the melee behind me, I leapt through the wreckage with the other raiders. The steel door barred all further progress with its cold blue impassibility. How were we to surmount this last and most formidable barrier? I turned in time to see Kennedy and O'Connor hurrying up the steps with a huge tank studded with bolts like a boiler, while two other men carried a second tank. Then, ordered Craig, set the oxygen there, as he placed his own tank on the opposite side. Out of the tanks, stout tubes led, with stop-cocks and gauges at the top. From a case under his arm, Kennedy produced a curious arrangement like a huge hook, with a curved neck and a sharp beak. Really, it consisted of two metal tubes which ran into a sort of cylinder or mixing chamber, above the nozzle, while parallel to them ran a third separate tube with a second nozzle of its own. Quickly, he joined the ends of the tubes from the tanks to the metal hook, the oxygen tank being joined to two of the tubes of the hook, and the second tank being joined to the other. With a match, he touched the nozzle gingerly, instantly a hissing, spitting noise followed, and an intense, blinding needle of flame. Now for the oxy-acetylene blowpipe, cried Kennedy, as he advanced toward the steel door. We'll make short work of this. Almost as he said it, the steel beneath the blowpipe became incandescent. Just attested, he cut off the head of a three-quarter inch steel rivet, taking about a quarter of a minute to do it. It was evident, though, that that would not weaken the door appreciably, even if the rivets were all driven through. Still, they gave a starting point for the flame of the high pressure acetylene torch. It was a brilliant sight. The terrific heat from the first nozzle caused the metal to glow under the torch, as if in an open hearth furnace. From the second nozzle issued a stream of oxygen under which the hot metal of the door was completely consumed. The force of the blast as the compressed oxygen and acetylene were expelled carried a fine spray of the disintegrated metal visibly before it. And yet it was not a big hole that it made, scarcely an eighth of an inch wide, but clear and sharp as if a buzz saw were eating its way through a three-inch plank of white pine. With tense muscles, Kennedy held this terrific engine of destruction and moved it as easily as if it had been a mere pencil of light. He was easily the calmest of us all, as we crowded about him at a respectful distance. Acetylene, as you may know, he hastily explained, never pausing for a moment in his work, is composed of carbon and hydrogen. As it burns at the end of the nozzle it is broken into carbon and hydrogen. The carbon gives the high temperature and the hydrogen forms a comb that protects the end of the blowpipe from being itself burnt up. But isn't it dangerous? I asked, amazed at the skill with which he handled the blowpipe. Not particularly, when you know how to do it. In that tank is a porous asbestos packing saturated with acetone under pressure. Thus I can carry acetylene safely, for it is dissolved, and the possibility of explosion is minimized. This mixing chamber by which I am holding the torch with the oxygen and acetylene mix is also designed in such a way as to prevent a flashback. The best thing about this style of blowpipe is the ease with which it can be transported and the curious uses, like the present, to which it can be put. He paused the moment to test the door, all with silence on the other side. The door itself was as firm as ever. Huh! exclaimed one of the detectives behind me. These newfangled things ain't all they're cracked up to be. Now if I was running in the show I'd dynamite that door to kingdom come. And wreck the house and kill a few people? I returned, hotly resenting the criticism of Kennedy. Kennedy affected not to hear. When I shut off the oxygen in this second jet, he resumed, as if nothing had been said. You see, the torch merely heats the steel. I can get a heat of approximately sixty-three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and the flame will exert a pressure of fifty pounds to the square inch. Wonderful! exclaimed O'Connor, who had not heard the remark of his subordinate, and was watching with undisguised admiration. Kennedy, how did you ever think of such a thing? Why, it's used for welding, you know, answered Craig, as he continued to work calmly in the growing excitement. I first saw it in actual use in mending a cracked cylinder in an automobile. The cylinder was repaired without being taken out at all. I've seen it weld new teeth and build up old worn teeth on gearing, as good as new. He passed, let us see, the terrifically heated metal under the flame. You remember when we were talking on that drive about the red O'Connor? A carload of scrap iron went by on the railroad below us. They used this blowpipe to cut it up, frequently. That's what gave me the idea. See, I turn on the oxygen now in this second nozzle. The blowpipe is no longer an instrument for joining metals together, but for cutting them asunder. The steel burns just as you, perhaps, have seen a watch spring burn in a jar of oxygen. Steel, hard or soft, tempered, annealed, chrome or... Harveyized. It all burns just as fast and just as easily. And it's quite cheap, too. This raid may cost a couple of dollars, as far as the blowpipe is concerned. Quite a difference from the thousands of dollars lost that would follow an attempt to blow the door in. That last remark was directed quietly at the doubting detective. He had nothing to say. We stood in awestruck amazement as the torch slowly, inexorably traced a thin line along the edge of the door. Minute after minute sped by, as the line burned by the blowpipe cut straight from the top to bottom. It seemed ours to me. Was Kennedy going to slit the whole door and let it fall in with a crash? No. I could see that even in his cursory examination of the door he had gained a pretty good knowledge of the location of the bolts embedded in the steel. One after another he was cutting clear through and severing them, as if with a superhuman knife. What was going on on the other side of the door, I wondered? I could scarcely imagine the consternation of the gamblers caught in their own trap. With a quick motion, Kennedy turned off the acetylene in oxygen. The last bolt had been severed. A gentle push of the hand, and he swung the once impregnable door on its delicately poised hinges, as easily as if he had merely said, Open sesame! The robbers cave yod before us. We made a rush up the stairs. Kennedy was first, O'Connor next, and myself scarcely a step behind, with the rest of O'Connor's men at our heels. I think we were all prepared for some sort of gunplay, for the crooks were desperate characters, and I myself was surprised to encounter nothing but physical force, which was quickly overcome. In the now disordered richness of the rooms waving his John Doe warrants in one hand, and his pistol in the other, O'Connor shouted, You're all under arrest, gentlemen! If yet as it's farther it will go hard with you! Crowded now in one end of the room, in speechless amazement, was the late gay party of gamblers, including Senator Danfield himself. They had reckoned on toying with any chance but this. The pale, white face of the long among them was like a specter, as he stood staring blankly about, and still insanely twisting the roulette wheel before him. Kennedy advanced toward the table with an axe which he had seized from one of our men. A well-directed blow shattered the mechanism of the delicate wheel. DeLonge, he said, I'm not going to talk to you like your old professor at the university, nor like your recent friend, the Frenchman with a system. This is what you have been up against, my boy. Look! His forefinger indicated an ingenious but now tangled and twisted series of minute wires and electromagnets in the broken wheel before us. Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. With another blow of his axe, Craig disclosed wires running through the leg of the table, to the floor, and under the carpet, the buttons operated by the man who ran the game. What does it mean? asked along blankly. It means that you had little enough chance to win at a straight game of roulette. But the wheel is very rarely straight, even with all the odds in favor of the bank as they are. This game was electrically controlled. Others are mechanically controlled by what is sometimes called the mules ear or other devices. You can't win. These wires and magnets can be made to attract the little ball into any pocket the operator desires. Each one of those pockets contains a little electromagnet. One set of magnets in the red pockets is connected with one button under the carpet and a battery. The other set in the black pockets is connected with another button and the battery. The ball is not really a platinum. Platinum is non-magnetic. It is simply a soft iron hollow ball, plated with platinum. Whichever set of electromagnets is energized attracts the ball and by this simple method it is in the power of the operator to let the ball go to red or black as he may wish. Other similar arrangements control odd or even, and other combinations from the other push buttons. A special arrangement took care of that 17 freak. There isn't an honest gambling machine in the whole place. I might almost say the whole city. The whole thing is crooked from start to finish. The men, the machines, the- That machine could be made to beat me by turning up a run of 17 any number of times. Or red or black, or odd or even, over 18 or under 18 or anything. Anything too long. And I never had a chance. He repeated, meditatively fingering the wires. They broke me to- night, Danfield. The long- turned, looking daisily about in the crowd for his former friend. Then his hands shot into his pocket and a little ivory-handle pistol flashed out. Danfield, your blood is on your own head. You have ruined me. Kennedy must have been expecting something of the sort, for he sees the arm of the young man, weakened by dissipation, and turned the pistol upward as if it had been in the grasp of a mere child. A blinding flash followed in the furthest corner of the room, and a huge puff of smoke. Before I could collect my wits, another followed in the opposite corner. The room was filled with a dense smoke. Two men were scuffing at my feet. One was Kennedy. As I dropped down quickly to help him, I saw that the other was Danfield, his face purple with the violence of the struggle. Don't be alarmed, gentlemen. I heard O'Connor shout. The explosions were only of the flashlights of the official police photographers. We now have the evidence complete. Gentlemen, you'll now go down quietly to the patrol wagons below, two by two. If you have anything to say, say it to the magistrate of the night court. Who disarms Walter, panted Kennedy? I did, with the dexterity that would have done credit to a pickpocket. Kennedy reached into Danfield's pocket and pulled out some papers. Before the smoke had cleared and order had been restored, Craig exclaimed, Let him up, Walter. Here, DeLong, here are the IOUs against you. Tear them up. They are not even a debt of honor. End of The Steel Door. Recording by Elliot Miller, www.voiceofe.com. End of The Silent Bullet, by Arthur B. Reeve.