Front matter (continued 5)

"We'll do something," I replied, and immediately went into action. I had a police whistle in my pocket, and, leaving Jane in charge of McGinity, I went quickly into the library. Opening the window that gave on to the terrace, I blew the whistle. Just then, I saw Schweizer coming from the servants' wing. I waved a hand to him, and he came hurrying on to the terrace and up to the window.

"What's become of everyone?" I inquired.

"The women have barricaded themselves in their quarters, sir," the butler replied. "That hairy fellow nearly scared the life out of 'em. Mamie Sparks went into a faint, and isn't out of it yet."

"Isn't there a strong-armed man left on the place?"

"None, sir," Schweizer replied. "The two chauffeurs went with your brother on a drive. I was afraid to tackle that hairy thing unarmed and single-handed, and ever since leaving Miss Jane locked up in her room, I've been searching everywhere for a gun."

"Did you see Mr. Zzyx leaving by the front door?"

"I saw nothing, sir, after I went back to the servants' wing to look for a weapon. If I'd found one, I meant to shoot that fellow dead. He surely made a mess of things with his tearing and smashing."

"Yes, I know," I rejoined, glancing back over my shoulder. The dining room looked as though a small whirlwind had struck it. "Better come inside, Schweizer, and help us get things straightened out."

"Just a word, sir," the butler said, coming up closer to the window, and speaking in little more than a whisper. "I think murder's been committed."

"Oh, I don't believe that," I replied, "but we'll soon see."

While alarmed and mystified at first over the red blotches on the marble staircase, it was my belief now that Mr. Zzyx must have cut himself severely during his rampage, which would account for the blood stains. But after the butler had joined us, and had told of hearing Niki screaming, during the commotion in the State Apartment, that put a different complexion on the matter. Leaving Schweizer to guard Jane, McGinity and I hastened upstairs.

It was my earnest hope that Niki was in hiding somewhere. I could not picture a person of his athletic prowess being outmatched, even by a strong-limbed creature like Mr. Zzyx. First, I tried Mr. Zzyx's door. It was locked on the inside. Then I knocked on the door which opened into the room occupied by Niki, a double room, one half of which was fitted as a bedroom. There was no response. Dead silence followed each knock—an eerie silence that caused my blood to run chill.

In a moment I had opened the door, and we were standing in his room. There were unmistakable traces of some sort of struggle. Several chairs and a reading-table were overturned, rugs disarranged, and books and magazines scattered over the floor. But no sign of Niki. I called him by name. "Niki! Niki!" my voice echoing weirdly from the high ceiling.

Then, at McGinity's suggestion, I opened the door connecting Niki's apartment with Mr. Zzyx's luxurious sleeping quarters. I gave one glance into the room, then recoiled with an exclamation of horror. The reporter leapt forward to look. The sight that met our gaze stayed with me for many days afterwards.

Niki was lying on the bed, on his back, his clothes almost torn to tatters, and the upper part of his body and head hidden under pillows and bedclothes, which bore crimson stains. I made no comment at the moment. My thoughts were going back to the performance of Verdi's "Otello" at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House; the night I had studied Mr. Zzyx attentively as he watched, as if spellbound, the smothering to death of Desdemona by the jealous and enraged Moor. Had my surmises at that time been right? Had this violent climax of the opera taken hold of his primitive mind and obsessed him until it had quickened him to this deed of incredible violence?

Beyond any reasonable doubt, Niki had been overcome and smothered to death after a terrific fight with this hairy monster. The wreckage of the furnishings of the room bore evidence of such a struggle.

McGinity spoke first. "Awful!" he said in a faint voice.

"Poor Niki!" I said, in a tone which I scarcely recognized as my own.

"If that fiend smothered Niki to death, how do you account for all that—" McGinity checked himself as his voice choked.

"As Niki's face bears only scratches," I replied, "it's possible that Mr. Zzyx cut himself seriously while smashing window-panes and picture-glass. That will account for the bloodstains on the pillows and bedclothing."

"Then he must have killed Niki after going on a rampage through the castle," McGinity suggested.

"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I figure that he killed Niki first. He must have returned to the second floor by the back stairs, and by some strange instinct, re-enacted the killing with his cut and bleeding hands, to make sure his victim was dead."

"A cruel, murderous affair any way you look at it," said McGinity. "Better call the police at once."

"No," I demurred. "I mean to keep things quiet until Henry returns."

"In that case, then," the reporter suggested, "we'd better split up. You go and find Pat, and I'll start looking for Mr. Zzyx. It's my belief that he's escaped into the thick woods, back of the castle."

"Be careful, young man," I advised, in assenting to his proposed plan of action. "That fellow is mad—desperate, and likely to show fight."

"He'll not escape me, don't you worry," the reporter rejoined, his hand moving instinctively to his hip pocket. "I'll take no chances in tackling that bird. So now," he concluded, "whatever it is we're in for—"

He had no time to finish that sentence. The butler's voice broke in, coming from the hall. "Come, quickly, Mr. Royce! Come, at once, sir!" the butler shouted.

We left the chamber of death, taking good care to lock the door, and hurried down the hall to join Schweizer, who had only come to the head of the stairs, so as not to let Jane out of his sight. He had surprising news to tell. The gate-keeper, who had deserted his post at the first alarm, had come running up from his hiding-place, behind the terrace wall, at the brink of the cliff, to report that he had seen Mr. Zzyx go down to the dock, and, a few minutes later, cast off in a runabout, heading for the island.

The effect of this news was terrifying. The same thought must have struck McGinity and myself at the same instant. Pat was on the island. To be caught there—alone—by—It was too terrible to contemplate.

If the effect of the news was terrifying to us both, it was also electrical, so far as McGinity was concerned. Without uttering a word, he dashed out of the castle, ran across the terrace, and disappeared down the steps to the dock.

Apprehensive of the effect of this news, as well as the killing of Niki, on Jane, who was now comfortably ensconced on a divan in the hall, with her personal maid in attendance, I gave Schweizer a quick, whispered account of what we had found, and enjoined him to secrecy.

"Then there was murder, sir?" he said, in a low voice. "Niki murdered! Murder, says you, murder!" His mind couldn't seem to grasp it. "Lord help us!" he added. "I hope that reporter person gets that hairy, murdering thing, and gets it good!"

Increasingly disturbed and anxious about Pat's fate, I left the butler, signaling to him as I went outside, to stay back and look after Jane. Emerging on the terrace, another surprising sight met my gaze, giving a startling and dramatic turn to the tragic proceedings of the afternoon.

The shanty, which stood on the island, near the lighthouse ruins, was on fire. The bitterly cold, north-east wind was already whipping the flames and sending them upward in long, red tongues, which seemed to lick the lowering November sky. Cold and biting as the wind was, I was not sure that the quiver which shook me from head to foot was more from cold than from the dread anticipation of what was at hand.

Shaking and shivering, I somehow managed to get to the dock. McGinity had already cast off, and, as I breathed a prayer for the safety of Pat, I watched him struggling against the wind and incoming tide in a big, unwieldy dory, the only boat available at the dock. A flat-bottomed boat with high flaring sides, largely used on the New England coast, and by American fishing vessels, and christened "The Tub" by our servants, who used it for fishing excursions.

Mr. Zzyx must have reached the island with incredible speed. The runabout was tied up at the tiny dock, on the far side of which Pat's row-boat rocked with the tide. The flames from the burning shanty were mounting still higher, their reflection turning the expanse of surrounding water into turbulent pools of fiery red. Still, no movement was noticed on the island that would indicate the presence there, either of Pat, or of the maddened creature, Mr. Zzyx. I was beginning to be more alarmed than ever, when suddenly things began to take shape.

First, I saw McGinity beach his boat at the far end of the island, where there was a small, pebbly beach. Then came a flutter of something white—Pat's scarf, or handkerchief—at the pinnacle of the ruins.

At that moment the flames died down, and myriads of sparks flew upward as the walls of the shanty collapsed. Visibility became obscure on account of the smoke. Presently I saw McGinity running up the steps, cut in the rocks, to the door of the lighthouse, the lower part of which was practically intact. I saw him enter the doorway. Then everything became indistinct in a cloud of smoke, and out of that obscurity, I saw a black figure come stealthily around the ruins, moving from the ledge of rock on the side next to the Sound, as though it had been in hiding. As it crept into the doorway, and disappeared into the dark interior of the ruins, I cried, "Oh, God!" It was Mr. Zzyx. Pat and McGinity were trapped in the lighthouse.

Standing there alone on the dock, in the biting cold and gathering gloom, and helpless to assist Pat and McGinity in their perilous position, I passed into a state of anxiety bordering on frenzy. It was only my abounding faith in the courage and resourcefulness of the reporter in meeting the situation that kept me sane. Also, I felt sure then, as I do still, that Mr. Zzyx did not go to the island in pursuit of Pat. By no possible means could he have known that she was there. Mad with fury, and out to wreck and kill, he was winding up his abnormal excitation with all the mischief he could do on the island.

It is natural to assume that when he rushed out of the castle and reached the dock, he saw in the runabout a means to further satisfy his madness for excitement; or the boat may have suggested a means of escape. As I learned afterwards, he had gone with Niki for a spin in the runabout, directly after lunch. The engine may still have been warm, for he seemed to have had no difficulty in starting it himself, and he had long ago become proficient in casting off and tying up. The fact remains that he got to the island.

Of course, from the dock, I could not see what was transpiring inside the lighthouse. But I know now what happened. As Pat told her story afterwards, she had spent about an hour on the island when she decided to row back to the mainland. The exercise of rowing, the cold, bracing wind, and quiet moments spent in wandering about the ruins, had refreshed her wonderfully. She was walking down the rocky slope to the island dock, when she saw the runabout approaching. Naturally, she suspected nothing out of the way.

"At first, I thought," she said, after it was all over, "that it must be either one of our servants, or—improbable as it seemed—Mr. McGinity. The runabout was halfway across before I recognized Mr. Zzyx.

"My first horrified thought was that he was coming after me," she went on, her voice still strained by excitement. "And to me that meant only one thing: that he was going to make an attempt on my life, using the same tactics as he had employed when he so cruelly killed my white cockatoo. He'd always seemed mild to me, and while I was afraid of him, I never considered him really dangerous. I had developed a sort of fondness for him, as I would for a big dog. But after killing my poor bird—well, that settled everything. I had decided not to spend another night in the castle while he was in it, and I was prepared to give Uncle Henry my ultimatum, and stay with friends in town, if he didn't rid the premises at once of that—killer.

"I was scared into a fit, too scared for a minute or so to think of anything to do. Then I thought of setting fire to the shanty. That's a thought that might occur to anybody in the same fix. I counted on the fire bringing someone, quickly, from the castle to the island, for I had told Aunt Jane I was going for a row, and I believed the fire would indicate that I was at the lighthouse, and in danger. I had been inside the shanty, and had noticed a barrel filled with waste paper and pasteboard boxes—probably gathered up from one of the picnic parties trespassing on the island during the summer. So I ran back, into the shack, and threw a burning match into the barrel. The flames leapt up so quickly, it was a close call getting outside without getting singed.

"I was pretty shaky by this time, so I decided to hide in the ruins. Mr. Zzyx was tying up at the dock. I could hear him chattering; he was acting very queerly. I got down, and crawled on my hands and knees, behind the rocks, until I reached the lighthouse doorway. I don't believe he saw me.

"When I got inside the ruins it was so dark I had to light a match to find my way. As I did so, something rushed at me from above, and struck me on the head. It was a big bat. I screamed, and ran up the winding, stone stairway as far as I could go. I crawled behind one of the larger stones that had fallen inside, on the third landing, and stayed there until I got my breath. The clouds were hanging so low over my head, I felt I could almost reach up and touch them. This feeling suggested something, so I climbed up on one of the dislodged stones, leaned over the broken ledge of the circular wall, and waved the white silk scarf I had been wearing under my wool jacket. Then I went back into hiding again. It wasn't any fun, hiding there, in all that uncertainty, and expecting every moment to see Mr. Zzyx coming up the steps.

"Then I heard a voice. Some one was calling me by name. Again, I climbed up on the stone, and peered over the ledge. I had only a second or two to see that it was Mr. McGinity calling, and to wave to him. It was long enough, however, and I never felt so relieved in my life before, as I thought my last hour had come."

Pat must have looked pretty ghastly when McGinity finally reached her side, according to what he told me afterwards. He had no idea, then, what had become of Mr. Zzyx, and was surprised not to encounter him inside the ruins.

I don't think either of them told me exactly what passed between them, when McGinity came to Pat's rescue. Perhaps it was too sacred to both of them to repeat, even for a devoted uncle's ears. Anyway, the reporter took her gently by the arm, and assisted her down the winding stairs. They had just reached the second landing when they heard Mr. Zzyx's labored breathing, as he came creeping up the steps below them.

Time was vital. McGinity's first thought was of Pat's safety. On this landing there was a closet in the wall, in which oil for the beacon lamp had been stored years ago. The heavy, studded oak door had defied the ravages of time. The hinges, though, were almost eaten away by rust. It required all the strength he possessed to open the door, and then to close it, once he had placed Pat inside. She was too frightened, it seems, to raise any protest against being shut up in the dark.

McGinity had just time to draw his revolver when Mr. Zzyx appeared at the top of the steps, and came at him, growling fiercely. He fired a shot to frighten off the creature, but it had not the slightest effect. Before he could get out of the way, Mr. Zzyx lunged at him in wild fury, caught him in his hairy arms, and held him with a grip like a vise. Luckily, his right arm was free, and he dealt the creature a heavy blow on the head with the butt of his revolver. This not only broke the clinch; it frightened off the maddened beast.

With a bound, Mr. Zzyx dashed up the steps to the peak of the ruins. McGinity quickly followed, firing three shots in the air in rapid succession. His idea all through had been to frighten and cow, and not to kill, and what occurred after they both reached the open landing certainly was not the act of wanton destruction on the reporter's part.

Mr. Zzyx wheeled, and rushed at the reporter. Again McGinity fired, a reckless shot. This time he stayed the onrush, and Mr. Zzyx turned in his tracks, leapt up on the dislodged stones, and gained the top ledge.

A wave of horror came over McGinity as he watched him waver a moment, to and fro, then, with a scream that sounded almost human, plunge to his death on the rocks below. If he was not instantly killed by the fall, he was drowned, for his body rolled off the rocks and was engulfed in the sea.

XXV

To this day, McGinity believes that when he fired that last shot, the bullet ricocheted off a stone and entered a vital spot in Mr. Zzyx's body; and that the creature was as good as dead when he plunged from the parapet. I never did believe that. For that matter, we had no means of knowing the truth, for the body was never recovered from its watery grave.

I doubt if Pat heard much of the stress and sound of battle. She insists that she did. She must have slipped off in a faint, and had had time to come out of it when McGinity burst the door open and released her. He found her crumpled up in the small closet space, like a pale flower broken in the storm. She gazed up at him dazedly, but with a faint smile.

By the time they got down to the island dock, the water seemed filled with private launches, wealthy residents living along the North Shore having been attracted to the scene by the fire. A belated fire-boat began spouting water on the smoldering ruins of the shanty as they cast off in the runabout for the mainland.

As soon as McGinity had given me a quick summary of what had happened, and Pat had enjoyed a good cry in my embrace, I advised keeping everything quiet until we could report to the proper police authorities. When we reached the castle, we were surprised to find village policemen all over the place. It seems that Jane, on being told of the fire, had ordered Schweizer to summon the village fire department, but the butler was so excited that he dialed the wrong number, and got the police station. Furthermore, he never mentioned the fire. A touch of comedy which is never far away from tragedy.

It was perhaps just as well, as everything had to come out eventually. To Chief of Police Meigs, of Sands Cliff village, I gave a clear account of the whole wretched affair, which caused even that big, grim-faced individual to shudder. McGinity was feeling pretty sick himself over the death of Mr. Zzyx. To hear him talk about it, and the way he carried on, you would think he was guilty of premeditated murder, and would have to answer to the law.

Something of his mental unrest must have reached the Chief of Police, for, just as the Chief was leaving, he put his hand gently on the reporter's shoulder, and said: "Now, you quit your worrying, son. We'll fix this up, all right."

There were more bad minutes for us both when Pat and Jane found out about Niki. It was pretty terrible to hear them go on. But an hour after the police had arrived, Niki's body had been removed to the village mortuary, and all signs of blood stealthily and carefully removed by the servants, while the furnishings of the various rooms and halls, which had sustained damage during the rampage, were replaced as far as possible, and some semblance of the former formality of things restored.

Naturally, we were again overrun by city reporters, to whom, acting as spokesman, I gave only the absolutely necessary facts. Unwittingly, McGinity had now got himself mixed up in the news, and for the first time in his brief reportorial career, publicity was the last thing on earth he wanted, or was at all interested in. I spared him as much as possible, for I quickly realized he was laboring under the delusion that to have his name linked to Pat's in his tragic encounter with Mr. Zzyx would cause her much embarrassment, if not unpleasantness. But I happened to know that Pat didn't mind in the least; in fact, that she was very proud of the association of their names, even in these most sordid and harrowing circumstances.

Henry returned from his long motor drive a little after five o'clock. I would have given a king's ransom to have avoided meeting him, and disclosing the drama of crime that had been enacted during his absence, involving the loss of two lives.

Fortunately, I was relieved of this very unpleasant duty. As it turned out, Chief of Police Meigs had met Henry on the road, recognized his car, and stopped him. So he had a rather fair idea of what had occurred. I could plainly see the news weighed on him heavily, betrayed by his white face, quivering hands, and the pathetic droop of his mouth.

When McGinity and I followed him into the library, he dropped into his desk-chair with a moan that stirred my deepest pity and sympathy. In his anguish of mind, he kept muttering: "Niki murdered ... in my house!" and glancing suspiciously at the reporter.

"It wasn't necessary, I'm sure, for you to drive Mr. Zzyx to his death," he said finally, addressing McGinity.

"No one regrets the occurrence more than I do, Mr. Royce, but it can't be helped now," McGinity said, in a low, apologetic tone.

"It seems such a senseless sort of murder," Henry said.

"But it wasn't murder," I promptly corrected him. "Pat's life was endangered, as well as McGinity's, and I think he would have been wise if he had shot Mr. Zzyx dead, on the spot, which, of course, he didn't. Mr. Zzyx's end, while horrible, was purely accidental."

"Oh, you think that, do you?" Henry turned on me savagely. "Well, it's a lie!" he quavered, as he came to his feet, shaking his fist at me. "It wasn't necessary for you, Livingston, to interfere in this matter at all, but it's the sort of thing you've done all your life—interfering in my affairs. You've never considered me in the least—thoughtless—selfish!"

Then, as suddenly as he rose, he collapsed over the desk. We both thought he had fainted, but he waved away our offers of assistance.

"I'm all right," he mumbled, sinking back in his chair. "Sit down, Livingston. Sit down, McGinity. I'm rather upset. At my age ... being met in my house with this dreadful news! Now, McGinity," he concluded, in a quiet voice, "tell me all about it."

McGinity told the story briefly, and Henry listened without interruption, believing when the reporter had finished that the subject had been brought to a definite conclusion. Unfortunately, there was something else to be cleared up. Matters had come to a crisis, and it was high time we convinced Henry that he had been made a victim of a hoax. But how were we to prove and justify our suspicions?

I had infinite faith in the capability of the reporter in meeting the situation, and I was greatly pleased when he rose to the occasion, and laid before Henry all the suspicious circumstances which he knew to be material to the point, particularly referring to the spurious scroll, which I produced immediately for my brother's inspection.

Henry seemed staggered by the disclosure. "Science has been a curse to me," he quavered. "I wish to God I had never dabbled in it."

"It looks to me now, Mr. Royce," McGinity observed, "that in all this careful preparation of the plot, there was only one slip, and that was in using this parchment paper containing a familiar water-mark, which you have just seen. If the scroll is counterfeit, then that radio message from Mars, which told of its being secreted in the rocket, was not legitimate. You will also recall that no mention was made in this message of any occupant of the rocket. How do you explain the presence there of the late, lamented Mr. Zzyx? Was he just a coincidence?"

"I've been keeping my mouth shut on that point," Henry answered, "but I will be quite frank now, and admit that Mr. Zzyx was a coincidence. I'd particularly like to know how he got into the rocket. If he was a species of the man-ape inhabiting the tropical zone of Mars, as described in the scroll, and depicted on the screen last night, and was captured and locked in the rocket, and sent earthwards in the interest of science—"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Royce!" McGinity interrupted, with a kindly smile. "If the scroll is not genuine, then its contents can only be false."

"Too true," Henry admitted, mournfully. "But it was so cleverly thought out—a masterpiece of invention. I'll go further, and say it was an inspiration. The most original and logical concept of life on Mars that has ever been given to the world. But the question that's agitating my poor brain now, is how did Mr. Zzyx get into the rocket?"

"There'll be no difficulty in finding that out, sir, although it may take a little time," McGinity said. "No more difficult than proving that the scroll was a fake. Truth will out, sir."

"But how are you going to find out the whole truth, young man?" Henry asked, his voice fairly wailing.

"I can only tell you this much," McGinity answered. "Things have started to break—first, the discovery of the water-mark in the scroll, and, secondly, the theft of the rocket from the Museum of Science—and they'll keep on breaking. That happens every day in newspaper reporting business. In all big newspaper, or police stories, like mystery murders, kidnappings, state and civic scandals the underlying motives, means and methods are so closely linked that to solve one automatically brings another to light. When things begin to break, it's like touching off a string of fire-crackers—one explosion sets off another."

Henry shook his head, and rose abruptly. He appeared to have reached the limit of endurance. "I'm going out for a little air," he announced. As he went slowly out of the room, he looked pathetically old and broken.

As soon as he had gone, the reporter turned to me. "Well, what do you say, Mr. Royce? Shall we continue to go through with this business?"

"Of course," I replied. "And the sooner the next break comes, the better it'll suit me."

"All right, Mr. Royce," said the reporter, with a broad grin. "That suits me down to the ground. Now," he continued, glancing at his watch, and walking towards the radio, "let's tune in, shall we? It's just six o'clock."

A fraction of a second after he had tuned in, the stentorian voice of the announcer of the NRC radio press bureau broke the silence of the room. This is what he said:

"Late this afternoon, the police recovered the rocket from Mars, stolen last night from the New York Museum of Science. It was found on the bottom of the East River, at the foot of East Sixty-fourth Street. But nothing else so far has been uncovered by the police. Not the slightest clue to the identity of the thieves. Any person listening in, who may have information regarding this theft, and the subsequent disposal of the rocket in the river, will stand a good chance of winning a $5,000 reward by communicating at once with Police Headquarters in Manhattan, or at any police station in the greater city."

"Well, McGinity," I said, after the announcer had signed off, "that's break number three. You're a pretty good guesser. Now, perhaps, you can predict when the next break will come."

"Oh, I don't know," the reporter answered, half musingly. "I'm chuck full of funny ideas, you know." He thought a moment, then said: "Well, I've a good hunch that the next break will come by telephone, and that it'll bring some startling information."

He had hardly uttered the last word when the telephone on Henry's desk began to trill. I strode quickly to the instrument, and as I picked up the receiver, McGinity came to the side of the desk, making no attempt to hide his amusement.

"Good Lord!" he remarked, laughing. "I'd no idea that break number four would come so quickly."

I silenced him with a wave of my hand. The voice on the telephone was weak and trembling—a woman's voice.

"Is this the home of Henry Royce?" inquired the voice. "Can I speak to Mr. Henry Royce, or to his brother, Livingston?"

"This is Livingston Royce, speaking," I replied.

"Oh, Mr. Royce! For God's sake, come to me at once! This is—"

The voice broke off abruptly, in a low gurgling sound that conveyed a sense of its being strangled in the speaker's throat. Then, curiously enough, I heard the voice again, miles off, it seemed—a smothered, muffled cry of "Help! Help!" Then it trailed out into indistinctness, and there was complete silence on the telephone. The voice was familiar, but for the moment I could not place it.

Cradling the receiver, I sat staring up at the reporter. He spoke first—it seemed as if a long time had elapsed before he did speak.

"Who was it?" he asked. "Somebody that we want?"

"Yes; I think so," I replied, almost breathlessly. "Yes; I'm sure it is."

The voice on the telephone had set my memory working; stimulating my forgetful mind. I had a sort of vision. In fancy, I could see the outline of an old house, silhouetted against the night sky. But there was not a speck of light to be seen in any of the windows.

And then, suddenly, as my mind groped in the darkness, a light dawned on me.

XXVI

I quickly recovered from the amazement which had momentarily possessed me. I had no doubt, hearing the mysterious voice on the telephone, that at last I had hit on something of a clue to the mystery of the Martian hoax. The voice, faintly familiar, had stirred up my recollections, and had established at once in my mind a positive suspect. Why this individual had not entered into my suspicions before is just one of those things that can't be explained. There was every chance now that he was mixed up in this. If so, I was convinced we were reaching the climax of the case.

"Well," I said, finally, turning to McGinity, "I think the stage is being set for the last interesting act of this affair."

He smiled a little dubiously. "Don't make me laugh, Mr. Royce," he said.

Having made an important discovery, I thought McGinity ought to know, so I told him briefly what had been said on the telephone, and my suspicions. He was silent for a moment, then he said: "Why didn't you think of this person before?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to reply: "Too stupid;" but I refrained from showing up my asinine denseness. Instead, I said: "The first thing to think of now is to trace that phone call."

"That'll be dead easy if the speaker used one of those old-time manual phones," he said; "but if the call was made on a dial instrument, there's no way of tracing it. You're sunk!"

A few minutes' conversation with the information operator proved the reporter's contentions to be true; I was "sunk." But not entirely.

"McGinity!" I exclaimed, "I must go to this place at once, and you must go with me. I'll lay anything I'm on the right track. I have a feeling too that every minute may be of importance."

To my surprise, the reporter hesitated. "Are you sure you recognized the woman who phoned by her voice?" he asked. "You may be mistaken, and with break number five liable to come any minute now, we can't afford to go off on some wild goose chase."

"Dead certain," I affirmed. "I'll stake all I've got on it. However, if you're so sure of number five breaking, we can stop at the Sands Cliff Police Station on our way, and you can notify them where we can be found."

"Queer doings, and not very plausible," McGinity remarked, after agreeing to my plan. "Yet—you may be right."

Feeling certain that on this expedition we should meet with some probably perilous adventure, I took good care to put one of Henry's revolvers in my pocket. It was an old-fashioned weapon, heavy and cumbersome, and just to prove that it was in good working order, I fired it off, up in the air, as we drove along the dark, unfrequented road bordering on our estate. McGinity, who was driving, gave vent to an exclamation of mingled surprise and amusement. Heretofore, he had been the one inclined to the impetuous, while I was always of a more cautious nature.

"That old horse-pistol has certainly got a bang to it," he remarked, laughing. "But we're not going to hunt elephants, you know."

"You never can tell," I countered. "I've an idea—instinct—McGinity," I went on, "that we've a night's work before us. And it's quite possible that we may encounter an elephant, or a lion, before we get through;" my mind slipping back to my thrilling encounter with the grizzly bear on the LaRauche estate. "Now, for the police station."

Fortunately, we found Chief of Police Meigs at his desk, and to him I poured out my suspicions.

"Oh! so you believe old Rene LaRauche to be implicated in this Martian fake?" he said.

"LaRauche was obsessed with a jealous hatred of my brother, Henry," I replied, "and his motive may have been revenge. He's heaven high above my brother in his knowledge and application of science, and mentally equipped to perpetrate a hoax like this. Besides, he's always had the reputation of being brutally cruel to his wife, and apparently he had some good reason for choking her off when she sought aid from the outside on the phone. She's always been very friendly and charming to Henry and myself."

"Sounds like the act of a crazy man," the Chief offered. "If my belief's correct, he'll probably show fight if you start any inquiry, and go nosing about his place."

"As a matter of protection, McGinity and I are both armed," I informed him, "as this is hardly a case for police investigation. The perpetration of this hoax, as I understand it, is quite within the law, and while not something to be called a crime, it is none the less dastardly."

"I have a hunch that before you get through with it, you'll have to call in the police," said the Chief. "I'm very much interested in the case. I drove past LaRauche's place yesterday, and I noticed it was all locked up, like he had closed the house, and gone to the city for the winter. I believe he has one manservant."

"A snoopy, unreliable person, who answers to the name of Orkins," I said; "formerly in our employ as a butler."

"He's been pointed out to me," said the Chief, "but I never knew his name. He often comes to the village for groceries. I haven't noticed him around lately. Come to think of it, I haven't laid eyes on LaRauche for several months."

At that juncture, a motorcycle policeman, who had been standing by, evidently listening in, motioned his chief to step to one side. After a few minutes' conversation, Chief Meigs returned to us, and said:

"I've just been informed that LaRauche hasn't been seen around these parts for three months, at least. Looks like he's been in hiding. This motorcycle policeman also tells me that in passing the LaRauche house, on his daily route, two days ago, he saw a woman looking out of a top-story window, and waving. As there was no indication that she was in distress, or even signaling to him, he passed on. She was scantily clothed, he says; looked like she was wearing a nightgown. If that may be of any interest to you."

"I consider it very important information, Chief," said McGinity. "It confirms the intimation that Mr. Royce got on the phone, that Mrs. LaRauche is virtually a prisoner in her own home, and that her life is in danger. She was probably trying to attract the policeman's attention."

"If, in your inquiries, you find that to be the case," the Chief suggested, "all you've got to do is to get me word. If it's necessary, we'll get a search-warrant, and open the house and search it ourselves. I'll be at the station here for another hour, so you'll know where to find me, in case there's something I can do."

I thanked him for the suggestion, and in less than five minutes, McGinity and I were leaving the lights of the village behind, and were speeding over a winding, hilly road, along which I should have preferred to travel in daylight if I had been driving alone. As we neared the LaRauche place, the country became wilder and more solitary. I often wondered what could have brought LaRauche to these lonely, frowning hills.

Suddenly, I signaled a stop, and we halted a short ways from the gateway, taking care to dim our headlights. As we walked cautiously up the footpath, which led from the road to the house, I told McGinity about my encounter with the grizzly bear.

By that time, we could make out the outline of the old house quite clearly against the starlit sky. But there was not a gleam of light; the whole house looked black. For a few minutes, in order to get the lay of the land, we crouched behind some bushes directly in front of the residence.

Blinds were drawn; some of the windows were shuttered. There was an atmosphere of silence about the place that was uncanny; no sound, not even the distant bark of a dog one usually hears in the country at night. Certainly no sign of human life. I glanced over my shoulder, to the right, in the direction of the old brick farm-house, in the hollow, where the Italian animal trainer lived, but I might just as well have been staring at a brick wall. No light—no sound—in that direction.

Presently, we crept upon the front porch. I tiptoed along the porch in the hope of getting a peep in at the lower windows, but the blinds were drawn, and I could see nothing of the interior. I knew where to find the bell, and I rang it once, twice, thrice. It was an old-fashioned, jangling bell that echoed dismally in the silence of the night.

When there was no response, we retraced our steps as far as the friendly bushes, and continued to watch the house from that point until we were both equally certain that the place, after all, was unoccupied. We were about to turn away, feeling that we might as well return to the police station, when something happened. That something was the sudden lighting up of a window in the top-story.

Silhouetted against this light, we saw a figure, unmistakably that of a woman. A few seconds later, another figure appeared in the window-frame of light. What followed was like old-time shadowgraphs, which used to delight me when I was a child: black, shadowy figures in action against a dimly lighted background. We saw an arm upraised and then fall, as though a blow had been delivered, and then two arms thrusting the woman-like figure away from the window, by force. Then the window went dark again.

There was nothing to do but turn away, and return to the car. On the way, I suggested to McGinity that we drive back about a mile, where I recalled seeing a light gleaming among a dense growth of pine trees. If it was a human habitation, I figured that the occupants, living so near the LaRauche estate, might give us some much desired information.

We found a light burning in a small cabin, in a clearing in the woods, set well back from the road. Our knock was answered by an elderly, gray-haired man, with a laborer's stoop in his shoulders. He inspected us a moment over his spectacles, then invited us to enter.

He turned out to be a carpenter and wood-chopper. His wife and daughter, he explained, had gone to the movies, in the village, with his wife's sister, who evidently was better placed in life and owned a car.

"Now, can I be of any service?" he asked, showing us to chairs in front of a blazing log-fire, in a plain but cheerful room, modern enough to have electric lights and a telephone.

I made a polite reply, without giving ourselves away. I was a friend of Dr. LaRauche, and had been surprised, on calling, to find his house dark. There had been no answer to the bell.

The carpenter smiled grimly, and said: "I'm afraid, stranger, you'll never git eny response to the ringin' of that bell, if you ring till Judgment Day. Others have tried, unsuccessfully, myself included. Old Doc LaRauche owes me considerable fer some wood-choppin' I done fer 'im."

"How do you explain it?" I asked.

"A lot of mysterious goin's on in that 'er house, of late," the carpenter answered, wagging his head, "which I, for one, can't answer fer. A very mysterious family!"

"From which I gather that Mrs. LaRauche is there, with her husband?" I said. "It's very urgent that I see her at once."

"No one 'ereabouts knows exactly what's happened to the poor lady," replied the carpenter. "It's common report that the old man keeps 'er locked up. Only yisterday, my wife went over with a paper bag of fruit, oranges and the like, which she intended leavin' fer the poor soul, but nary an answer to the bell."

"It's very lonely over there," I remarked. "No neighbors—"

"Ah, but they did have a close neighbor," the carpenter interrupted, "till the law stepped in and took 'im away. That old brick house, in the hollow. Maybe, now, you remember seein' it?"

"That's so—I'd forgotten," I said. "But tell me, what happened?"

"Last Spring, an Eytalian by the name of Antonio Ranzetti moved into the farm-house, vacant it was fer the last five years, and gone to ruin, like. He made a business of trainin' animals fer the circus, but he was cruel to 'em, awful cruel, so I 'eerd. So Doc LaRauche, wantin' to git rid of an undesirable neighbor, reported 'im to some society that protects animals—"

"Probably the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," I interjected.

"Anyhow," the carpenter continued, "the Eytalian was arrested, tried, and sent to the hoose-gow fer ninety days."

"Oh, indeed!" I murmured.

"Yes; and he oughta be gittin' out, now, one of these fine days," said the carpenter. Then he added: "Now, is there anythin' else you'd like to know, stranger?"

I shook my head, as I realized at once that we were not likely to get any more valuable information than this. As we rose to leave, a bright idea struck McGinity. Why not get in touch with Chief of Police Meigs while we had a telephone handy?

I did what he suggested, and spent a few minutes talking to the Chief, while McGinity collared the carpenter and engaged him in conversation until I had finished. Outside, I gripped the reporter by the arm, and exclaimed: "Things are still breaking. As sure as fate, LaRauche and Orkins are at the bottom of all this."

"What's happened?" asked McGinity.

"Chief Meigs says that five minutes after we'd left the station, a local garage owner called, and reported that he had rented a small, light truck to Orkins, night before last, who had explained that he was moving some of LaRauche's household belongings into the city. The description of the truck that carried off the rocket from the Museum of Science, in New York, as given over the air, and in the newspapers, he said, tallied with his own vehicle, which he found parked in front of his garage when he opened up this morning."

"Good!" the reporter exclaimed. "What else did he tell you?"

"This. He's getting a search warrant, and says he'll join us in about half an hour. We're to wait for him, at the side of the road, about a quarter of a mile beyond this cabin."

XXVII

The time of waiting came to an end, and as soon as Chief Meigs arrived in his car, armed with a search warrant and a short-handled axe, we drove straight on to the LaRauche estate, parking our cars about a hundred yards from the gate. As we strode along the high road, three abreast, the Chief imparted some more startling information, so particularly important that instinctively we quickened our steps.

"Listen," he began. "I had just hung up on you, Mr. Royce, when the phone rang. I answered. It was a man's voice, with an English-like accent, and low and trembly, if you know what I mean."

"Orkins, without a doubt," I said. "But he's not English. That accent is only a cultivated one."

"Well, he wanted to consult with the Chief of Police," the officer went on, "about the $5,000 reward. When I informed him the Chief was speaking, he wanted to know if he came to the police station, and disclosed the name of the man who had stolen the rocket, would he stand a good chance in getting the reward. I told him I thought he would, and to come right along."

"Didn't he say who he was?" McGinity asked.

"No. And he was very particular that I promise not to reveal his identity after he had given me the necessary information. Finally, when I agreed to this, he said: 'I'll be with you inside an hour.'"

"Then what?" I inquired, agitatedly.

"Apparently we were cut off," the Chief replied; "and yet we weren't exactly disconnected, as I will explain. Something must have happened that caused him to drop the receiver, and get away from the phone in a hurry. I could hear two voices, now—muffled-like, and growing more distinct. Then came a sound like heavy and hurried footfalls would make on a bare floor, followed by two distinct crashes, like some furniture had been overturned. All of a sudden, there was a report, like the crack of a whip. It might have been a pistol shot, but that's only a guess."

"I think you've guessed right, Chief," I said. "It's my belief that LaRauche overheard Orkins, while he was phoning to you, and attacked him. There was a scuffle, and one of them got shot."

"Double-crossing the old man, no doubt," McGinity suggested.

"Just that," I approved. "Orkins is as double-faced and treacherous as he's avaricious."

"Looks like we're going to have an interesting night," the reporter remarked. "Things seem to be getting a bit hot."

"Yes; and they're going to get still hotter, if I know my business," the Chief muttered.

We entered the estate, and went along the path to the dark, lonely house where there was so much mystery; and where there's mystery, there's always danger. Blinds were still drawn, and windows shuttered. After I had jangled the bell, several times, and there was no response, Chief Meigs began to hammer on the door. We waited outside for five minutes, ringing and hammering at intervals. Presently, the police officer took out his axe, and smashed a panel in the door, and thrust his arm through. I heard the snap of the lock as he pushed the door open.

I followed him into the entrance hall, and then I did something very foolish. I blew my police whistle. McGinity chuckled. "What are you scared about, Mr. Royce?" he asked. "Calling the police?"

"I'm scared," I admitted, in an embarrassed undertone. "I have a feeling that the man we're after—LaRauche—is not going to worry very much about your life or mine."

At that I turned, to give vent to an exclamation of horror. My flesh crept. The Chief's flashlight was trained on the stairs. The beam of light disclosed a body, spread-eagled halfway down the uncarpeted steps, head down, arms outflung, as though it had plunged backwards from the first landing which was rather spacious, and ornamented by an old grandfather's clock.

After a brief inspection, I identified the gruesome thing as Orkins, our former butler. "Is it not suicide?" I asked.

The Chief shook his head. "Looks like plain murder," he answered. "Shot through the back, by LaRauche, from the bottom of the stairs, probably, just as he reached the first landing, in a futile attempt to escape."

I stood looking down at the dead man. "So passes poor old Orkins," I thought. "Too bad he got the worst of it." But there was no time for sentimentalizing over the crafty, avaricious butler, who, apparently, had paid with his life for attempting to betray his employer.

Already Chief Meigs had found a switch, and he and McGinity were inspecting the library, where the dial telephone was, in the faint glow of an overhead light. The telephone receiver was dangling at the end of its cord; two chairs were overturned; all mute and unmistakable evidence of the grisly encounter the Chief had heard on the telephone, climaxed by the pistol shot.

Everything looked dingy and untidy; there was a musty smell about the room. After a quick search there, we passed through several other rooms on the ground floor, including the kitchen, where there were many greasy plates and plenty of unwashed china and cooking utensils. A door, under a back stairway in the kitchen, evidently led to the basement; it was fastened with a patent lock.

As none of the rooms on the ground floor, except the library and kitchen, bore evidence of recent occupation, Chief Meigs suggested that we make a quick search of the upper floors. "LaRauche, no doubt," he said, "is in hiding somewhere about the house, and I think we're going to have some trouble before we get him."

"That is, if he hasn't already escaped us," McGinity ventured.

"There's some doubt about that," the Chief answered. "All the doors and windows on this floor are locked, and fastened on the inside, and he couldn't possibly have snapped that patent lock on the door in the kitchen, from the inside, if he had wanted to hide in the basement."

"But Mrs. LaRauche!" I said. "Where is she? We've got to find her!"

In reply, the Chief signaled to McGinity and me, to follow him up the dark, back stairway to the second floor. Feeling along the wall in the hall, on this floor, I found a switch, and snapped on the lights. But they were very dim, of low candle-power, and in searching the bedrooms and closets, we had to again resort to the use of the flashlight. Two of the bedrooms seemed to have been recently tenanted, with beds unmade, and men's clothing and soiled linen lying about in great disorder. One of these, apparently Orkins' room, contained a small radio, over which he had undoubtedly heard the announcement of the $5,000 reward. The whole interior of the house showed the absence of a domesticated hand. At the end of the corridor, we looked into a large double room, which LaRauche had equipped as a laboratory.

Finally, we reached the narrow corridor in the top story, where we were faced by four doors. Three of them were unlocked. Pushing them open, we looked into two unfurnished rooms, and another used for storage. The fourth door, at the end of the passageway, was locked. Repeated knocking brought no answer.

This was the last unexplored room in the house. The room particularly interested me because it was there that McGinity and I had witnessed the dramatic shadowgraph episode in the window. So far we had failed to trace LaRauche's movements in the house, or gain the slightest clue to his hiding-place. Was he hiding in this attic room? And where was Mrs. LaRauche?

Chief Meigs was a man of infinite resources. He had either anticipated this, or had become expert in unlocking doors. He produced a heavy bunch of keys, from which he selected three. His first two attempts failed to open the door. The third time, proverbially the charm, the key turned in the lock, and the door swung open.

I would have been the first to step through, but the Chief stopped me. "Stay where you are," he whispered; "it's a little dangerous."

Standing in the doorway, the Chief trained the beam of his electric torch on various objects in the room. Finally it rested on an arm-chair beside an iron bedstead. Something was in that chair, and it was covered with a sheet. He strode over, and pulled back the sheet, and then we began to understand the secret which the old house held.

I gasped and stared. Huddled in the chair was Mrs. LaRauche, deadly pale and hollow cheeked, and apparently unconscious, her emaciated form showing under the folds of a quilted silk dressing-gown which had once been lavender in hue. Adhesive tape had been placed over her mouth, and her arms were bound to the side-rests of the chair by picture wire.

"Thank God, she's alive!" Chief Meigs murmured, as he stooped over her. "Looks like nothing very much wrong with her, except that she's had a pretty bad shock."

As he finished speaking, the woman's head moved; her eyelids fluttered, and then she opened her eyes. We saw at once that she was in a panic of fear. I could hardly realize that this pitiful, ghostly shadow was the same woman I had met several months ago.

Swiftly we released her from the tape and wire that silenced and bound her; then, to our astonishment, we found that she was chained by the ankle to an iron post of the bed. The Chief immediately set to work to unfasten the chain, which looked like an ordinary dog-chain.

By this time, McGinity had discovered a light fixture in the wall, near the front window, containing one bulb, which he turned on. Mrs. LaRauche stared dazedly from one to the other of us, giving me no sign of recognition, although I addressed her by name. But she appeared to comprehend what we were up to. Still unable to speak, she raised one hand weakly, and pointed towards the window in the back of the room, behind the bed.

In doing this, she furnished us with an important clue. LaRauche had escaped through this window, which was set in the Mansard roof, and gave on to a broadish ledge, sufficient wide for a person to walk on. This ledge extended clear around the house.

"We've got to get LaRauche!" Chief Meigs exclaimed, but he couldn't get through the window because of his rather portly physique. Nor could I. McGinity, slim in figure, managed it nicely. He had such good eye-sight that he could distinguish objects which were beyond the view of normal-sighted people. And he was hardly outside, on the ledge, and debating whether he should turn to the left or the right, when he espied a figure, crouching in the dark, at the far end of the roof extension.

"You see it?" he asked Chief Meigs, who was leaning out of the window.

"I can't see a damn thing," the Chief replied.

"Next time, you'd better bring your opera-glasses," the reporter suggested, ironically.

"I wonder if it is LaRauche?" said the Chief, thoughtfully.

"It's a man, at any rate," said McGinity. "Looks like he's wearing black trousers and a white shirt. No coat or hat at all. He's got bushy white hair."

"Then it's LaRauche," the Chief exclaimed. "Call to him, and tell him to come back into the house. Say it's no use trying to escape."

McGinity did as the Chief requested, and there came in reply a cackling laugh.

"I heard that," said the Chief. "It's the laugh of a maniac." Then he added quickly: "What's he doing now?"

McGinity did not reply immediately. He had seen something very strange happen. LaRauche had mysteriously disappeared—vanished into the air.

"He's gone!" the reporter cried at last. "Escaped! He just flew off the roof."

The Chief gave a groan of disappointment. "Oh, come back in!" he ordered gruffly. "Don't be funny!"

McGinity came back through the window, his knees a little unsteady. Then he explained what he had seen. LaRauche had floated off the roof, into the air, lightly but swiftly, taking a downward course, and had been swallowed up in the darkness below.

"You don't expect me to believe a fairy story like that?" Chief Meigs growled. "Here, let's get downstairs. We're wasting time."

"It's the gospel truth, officer," McGinity declared, vehemently; "but how he did it is a puzzle to me."

It was no puzzle to me. I had always considered LaRauche mad, and mad scientists work in a strange, mysterious way. His vanishing into the air, from the roof, might have a perfectly natural explanation. Having my own views, which I was not inclined at the moment to expose, for fear of further disgruntling the Chief, I said nothing.

Five minutes after the Chief and McGinity had gone downstairs, the reporter to search for LaRauche in the back-yard, while Chief Meigs reported the mysterious death of Orkins, and summoned medical aid for Mrs. LaRauche, by telephone, my attention was again attracted to the back window. This time it was by a bright glare of light.

Hurrying to the window, I was made speedily conscious of what was happening. LaRauche had, indeed, escaped from the house by way of the roof, in a manner yet to be revealed, and was now, apparently, making a quick getaway in his plane.

He had set off a magnesium flare. The small hangar and flying field were bathed in a weird and eerie silver-colored haze. His plane was in sight. Even at this distance, I caught the glint of its wings in the silver-colored light as it taxied across the field. With a roar, it shot upward, and was lost in the blackness of the night.

McGinity had heard the noise of the take-off, and came running up, to learn from me, and make sure his speculations, that LaRauche had really vanished from the roof, as if by magic, and was now escaping in his plane. I assured him on these two points very firmly and quickly.

And while he hurriedly retraced his steps downstairs, to report to Meigs, I again turned my attention to Mrs. LaRauche, whose mind, although still in confusion, was slowly clearing.

Later, we were to hear some very remarkable things from her.

XXVIII

My intuitive feeling that we had a night's work before us, which I had voiced prophetically to McGinity earlier in the evening, as we started for the LaRauche place, with only the faint clue of a woman's voice on the telephone to go on, proved conformable to fact. Dawn was breaking when we returned to the castle, weary and heavy at heart. The place was silent; the only sound that came to us was the swish-swish of the incoming tide, as it broke against the rocks at the foot of the cliff.

We were both so saddened and unstrung over our unpleasant and tragic experiences during the past twenty-four hours, and so physically dog-tired, that we were averse to talking them over.

The three tragedies, occurring so closely together, first, Niki, then Mr. Zzyx, and now, Orkins, after all, seemed to have been so unnecessary; or, as Henry had voiced his opinion about Mr. Zzyx's fearful death, so senseless. And while there was a logical connection between them and the perpetration of the Martian hoax, so far they had contributed little or nothing in clearing up the mystery which was still baffling us both.

It was here that Mrs. LaRauche came into the picture. My conviction, from the time I recognized her voice on the telephone, was that she knew more than any one else did. I had been shocked rather than distressed at the death of Orkins. A providential death, perhaps, with LaRauche gone now, and his wife holding the secret.

But where was LaRauche going? Evidently, after the systematic manner of his escape, he had a set goal. He was an experienced pilot, and a very expert one, considering his age, and probably knew of many places where a man could land safely in the dark.

Word of his escape by plane had been broadcast; the machinery of police watchfulness set in motion along the entire eastern seaboard, and far inland, as well. Somewhere in the air, a man was flying—wanted by the police.

Mrs. LaRauche was a badly shaken woman, but her condition was not serious. I remained at her side until the arrival of an ambulance physician from the county hospital. He was accompanied by a nurse, who took her immediately in charge. But she had other ideas than of going to the hospital. Her brain had cleared considerably, and she insisted on remaining in her home. I agreed with her on this, and to the inconvenience of the proprietor of an employment agency in the village, who had retired for the night, I soon had a competent manservant, with his wife, on the premises.

By the time they arrived, bringing ample provisions and milk, which I had the foresight to order, the police had removed the body of Orkins, as well as all traces of his death. The couple set to work at once, systematically clearing up and setting things in order. By midnight, the house was freshened up considerably, and Mrs. LaRauche made as comfortable as possible in her own, redressed bedroom, with the hospital nurse in attendance.

What she needed most, the physician decreed, was absolute rest and quiet. The kindly attentions showered upon her appeared for the moment to compensate for the loss of her demented husband. She had come out of a horror, but she was not thinking—or allowing herself to think—it seemed to me.

The house still seemed empty and queer as McGinity and I drove away, around one o'clock, trailing Chief Meigs' car back to the village. The Chief's last act was to station a policeman on guard, which made me a lot easier in my mind.

The situation was still lamentable enough, but McGinity and I, with an air of bravado, continued our inquiries on reaching the village. With police assistance, we had no difficulty in locating the light truck which Orkins had rented, and once located and properly inspected, we found nothing to indicate that it had been used to transport the stolen rocket from the Museum of Science to the East River.

And then McGinity suddenly found something, which was vitally important. A screw from the rocket. Chief Meigs chuckled; he couldn't see that a screw could possibly have any bearing on our situation. When we returned to the police station, I showed him.

"Why, that's just an ordinary screw," he said, after inspecting the screw more closely. "I don't see how it could mean anything."

"No?" I said. "Then you don't know how they make screws on Mars. If you think it's just ordinary, here's a screw-driver and a piece of pine wood. Now, drive it in!"

"That doesn't worry me at all," Meigs bantered. He went to his task cheerfully, even whistling, and giving a wink to several policemen who were looking on. But the screw refused to function in the ordinary way. Finally, he gave it up. "Why the damn thing won't go into the wood is a mystery to me," he remarked, as he handed the screw and screw-driver back to me.

"Because it works in reverse to our screws," I explained, as I drove the screw into the soft wood easily enough by a reverse motion. "There, I've done the job," I concluded, "which proves conclusively that only a Martian screw could be jolted out of a Martian rocket. And as the screw was found in the truck, the van therefore must have carried the rocket."

The Chief of Police grew pop-eyed in amazement.

"Everything about the rocket has this unusual element," I continued, "except the metal from which it was constructed, and it is a scientific fact that the metallic ores which abound on the earth are to be found in other planets."

The Chief's look of blank astonishment prompted me to go on.

"Now, whatever we may have thought at first about this rocket having originated on Mars, we know now that LaRauche manufactured it himself. He had the brain power necessary to create this fantasy in mechanism, and the means and method of carrying out his motive, which was to bring my brother Henry to shame."

"All of which stirred the popular imagination, and increased the circulation of the Daily Recorder half a million," McGinity interjected.

"Well," Chief Meigs drawled, "all I got to say is this. If making screws that go in backwards is not the act of a lunatic, then I'm crazy myself."

For several hours, McGinity and I remained at the police station, occupying ourselves piecing together from this and that all the information at our command; and at the end, it was as clear as daylight that we knew no more about the actual perpetration of the hoax than we did twenty-four hours back. The impression we both had gained was that tragedy had been obtruded into LaRauche's suave scheme that was shockingly disturbing, but had nothing whatever to do with clearing up the case.

There was little or nothing at the LaRauche home for the police to go on with. No trace of the revolver that had pierced Orkins' heart with its deadly bullet; no firearms of any sort, in fact. Mrs. LaRauche heightened the mystery by declaring her husband had an inherent fear of the use of firearms, as he had of fire, and had never owned a revolver. Nor was any sort of weapon discovered during the inspection of his laboratory, or workrooms, in the observatory and hangar, in which he operated outside his dwelling. No evidence even was found that would in the slightest degree incriminate him in the Martian fraud.

The city papers had come by plane, after midnight, and I read them all with interest. McGinity, fed up on the story, waved them away. They contained a very full account of what had occurred at the castle, Orkins' mysterious death, and LaRauche's escape by plane.

About three o'clock, I succeeded in reaching Olinski on the telephone, at his city home, and he was so upset over the whole affair, as reported in the papers, that at first all he could seem to do was to sputter into the mouthpiece.

"I fear, my dear Mr. Royce," he managed to say, finally, "that you and that reporter fellow have made a great mistake—a serious error. You have found nothing to prove that the radio message, and the rocket, did not originate in Mars, now, have you?"

"Nothing," I replied, "except that water-mark we found in the scroll."

"That proves nothing," he fairly shouted. "Some utterly unscrupulous and wicked person may have changed that scroll after it passed out of my possession."

"That is your theory, Mr. Olinski?" I asked.

"Can you suggest any other?" he countered. "No; because there can be no other. Unless you are accusing me of complicity—"

"I didn't say so, Mr. Olinski," I interrupted.

"Yet you believe this Dr. LaRauche, the scientist you've been telling me about, is at the bottom of this so-called hoax?"

"That is highly possible," I answered. "I myself think so."

"But you have, of course, no idea just how he did it?"

"No idea whatever, but it's quite plain that for motives of his own he had the opportunity."

"And that," Olinski declared, "that's as far as you've got?"

"At present," I replied.

"And that's as far as you'll ever get, my dear Mr. Royce," he rejoined in a bitter, sardonic tone, and then suddenly hung up.

When we had thus made an end, a dead silence followed, during which McGinity and I looked at each other for a moment or two, in silence. After I had told him what Olinski had said, the reporter spoke.

"I've put it out of my mind that Olinski had anything to do with this affair," he said. "The more I think of it, Mr. Royce, the more I'm dead certain that Mrs. LaRauche is our only hope. Finding her husband will be a police detail, and several days may elapse before he's apprehended. Now, if we could get to her, the first thing in the morning. Do you think that would be possible?"

Before I could answer, Chief Meigs walked in to say that a plane, answering the description of LaRauche's machine, had passed over Montauk Point, heading south, a little before three o'clock, had been picked up by a coast-guard searchlight, but had dodged out of the light. With this announcement, all thoughts of Mrs. LaRauche vanished, and—to me, at any rate—did not recur until we had driven back to the castle at the break of dawn, after a weary vigil of waiting at the police station to hear further word of LaRauche. But the reports were blank and disappointing.

XXIX

Interviewing Mrs. LaRauche did not prove as difficult as we had anticipated. At ten o'clock—McGinity and I were still in bed—the manservant I had installed at the LaRauche house, telephoned that Mrs. LaRauche was feeling much stronger, and was most anxious to see Henry and me on a matter of very urgent business; and would we please bring along the village Chief of Police, also the young newspaper reporter who had accompanied the officer and me to the house the night before.

At eleven o'clock, we drove off. On our way through the village, we picked up Chief Meigs, and the first thing he did after boarding the car was to give me a wink, and mutter: "Screws!" Henry was pallid and trembling. He had been deeply shocked when he learned of Orkins' death. He seemed to have aged ten years during the night.

McGinity was in a state of excitement. After a late and hasty breakfast, he and Pat had taken a stroll on the terrace. In spite of the tragedies and excitement, Pat had come downstairs looking as fresh and as bright as I had ever known her. I met them as I came out to get into the car. McGinity had just reached out to take her hand in his, and she had not drawn it away. She seemed a little breathless.

The strain of the past twenty-four hours, and loss of sleep, had been too much for me. As we breezed along in the crisp, morning air, I was no more capable of keeping my eyes open than I was of writing poetry. My conversation was limited to monosyllabic answers; between monosyllables, I fell into a light doze.

Nearing the LaRauche place, I became more wide-awake, and began to speculate whether Mrs. LaRauche knew, and was in a position to tell, the whole truth. Doubt had entered my mind. Even after we had been admitted into the house, and had gathered around her, in a sitting-room adjoining her bedchamber, I felt certain that she would be able to contribute very little to the sum of information which we had.

She was dressed in a dark morning gown, and seated in an easy chair. The heavy window curtains were drawn, to save her eye-sight, after long imprisonment in a darkened room. In the dim glow of a shaded lamp, her face appeared pale and worn. Yet her poise was serene; to all appearances, she was very much mistress of herself. This was a great relief to me. I was afraid we would have a quivering, sobbing woman on our hands, and the thought was terrifying. Only once, when she grasped Henry's hand, on our arrival, did she show that she was under a strain which was almost at a breaking point.

She was a comely woman, even in her present pitiable state, and she had the voice of a woman of refinement and education. I had often wondered why she had married a man so much older than herself, and so eccentric. She was LaRauche's second wife. God knows what became of the first one!

After we had quietly taken seats, Chief Meigs broke the tension of silence. "Do you feel strong enough to answer our questions, Mrs. LaRauche?" he inquired.

She nodded, and replied: "I think so."

Then Henry spoke. "I wish to heaven, Mrs. LaRauche, you'd got in touch sooner with Livingston and me. We've always prized your friendship very highly, and if it had not been for—"

"Yes; I know," Mrs. LaRauche broke in, as though anticipating his closing remark; "but I've been unable to communicate with any one on the outside for several weeks. A day or so ago, I managed to get the front window open, and waved to a motorcycle policeman, but apparently he did not see me." She stopped, and glanced nervously over her shoulder, and added, with a little shiver: "Oh, you don't know how I've grown to hate this house!" Then, quickly regaining her self-possession, she looked at McGinity steadily for a moment, and said: "I haven't the slightest idea who you are. I only know that you were a very thoughtful and kind young man last night. Are you the newspaper reporter?"

McGinity nodded, with an embarrassed smile, and was about to reply when I interjected: "A thousand pardons, Mrs. LaRauche," I said. "Allow me to present Mr. Robert McGinity, of the New York Daily Recorder, a young but very capable reporter, in whom we place every confidence. In fact, we've grown so fond of him, he seems like one of the family." Turning to Henry for confirmation, I concluded: "I am quite right, am I not, Henry?"

"Of course, you're right," Henry answered, loudly. "And I don't know what we're going to do without him when this—er—Martian affair—I was about to say, Martian inquest—is finished."

I gasped with astonishment at Henry's remarks, while McGinity turned very red, and said, stammeringly: "Thanks, Mr. Royce." Then he began to fumble nervously with his inevitable bunch of copy paper and pencil.

Mrs. LaRauche smiled wanly, and addressed herself again to the reporter. "I'm so glad you've come, Mr. McGinity," she said, "for what I'm going to tell, I wish to be given as much publicity as possible. I want the public to know that Henry Royce was imposed upon, and that my husband, now a fugitive, although I refuse to believe he's a murderer, was wholly responsible, with the connivance of Orkins, his manservant, in carrying out this cruel deception, which, I know, is still puzzling all of you."

"Even at that, it doesn't seem so incredulous," Henry commented. "I guess I'm one of the die-hard kind."

There was a little pause, then Mrs. LaRauche turned to Chief Meigs. "Tell me," she said, "how is the search going? Have the police discovered any clue to my husband's whereabouts?"

"I'm afraid I can't give you any information," Meigs replied; "no clue at all."

"It isn't that I want him back," she said firmly, "or would ever want to see him again, after the many cruelties he practiced on me. But he's been out of his mind—insane—I'm sure, for weeks now, and is really unaccountable for his acts."

Her voice had grown shaky, and her face went whiter than it had been. We remained silent, recognizing the futility of questioning her until she got control of herself. Our chief interest, of course, lay in the unraveling of the mystery which still baffled us, and when she finally got to it, she answered all our questions in a cool collected way.

On my suggestion, McGinity began the questioning, giving us a specimen of his powers of observation. He omitted no detail of importance, carefully marshaling his facts and presenting them to Mrs. LaRauche as expertly as a lawyer examining a witness before a jury.

"Your married life has been a very unhappy one, hasn't it, Mrs. LaRauche?" he began.

"Very unhappy," she replied, sighing. "Insolent, quarrelsome, Rene LaRauche humiliated me in every possible way. I was simply his housekeeper—a vassal. He was the mighty, brainy scientist, and he never allowed me to forget it—not for one instant."

"Apparently he did not confide in you?"

"Orkins had been his manservant for some years prior to our marriage, and to him he entrusted the secrets of his scientific discoveries and inventions, rather than to me. This was only one of his many eccentricities, and I submitted to the indignity with exemplary patience."

"How do you account for his making Orkins a confidant?"

"He was too self-centered, too egotistical, to invite the confidence of brainy people. He seemed to like to impress—startle—inferior minds with his discoveries. Orkins was a highly trained servant, and a general handy man, but he was not intellectual."

"But you could easily have escaped all this bullying and domineering on the part of your husband?"

"I often considered divorce," was the reply, "but a latent sense of duty to my marriage vows prevented me from taking that step."

Here McGinity suddenly switched off that line of inquiry, and turned to another. "Why have you brought us here today?" he asked.

"To disclose certain facts which prove my husband tricked Henry Royce shamelessly in these Martian revelations."

"When did you come into possession of these facts?"

"Less than a month ago. Up to that time I had been as keenly interested in the matter, and as gullible as the rest of you, and the public at large. When Rene found that I had acquired this knowledge, and that, motivated by a deep sense of justice and fair play, I meant to disclose the real meaning of these revelations, he hid my clothes, and locked me up in that attic room, where you found me."

"How did you manage to get downstairs and phone to the Royce house, last evening?"

"Orkins, who served my meals, forgot to lock the door after him. He seemed preoccupied and nervous. It was my first opportunity to seek outside aid since my imprisonment. I stole out quietly, and crept downstairs, to the phone in the library, unaware that my husband was shadowing me."

"And he cut you short, it seems."

"Before I had a chance even to tell my name, he sprang upon me and choked me off, and then, in his usual cruel manner, bound me to the chair and bed. He acted like a maniac, I was terribly frightened." She paused, a little breathlessly, then added: "I am still in some dilemma as to how my unfinished message was understood."

"You may recall, Mrs. LaRauche, that you spoke to me," I answered. "Your voice was familiar, yet I couldn't place it at first. Finally, when I was convinced that it was your voice, the incident put us on the right track. Mr. McGinity and I already were in possession of several vital, suspicious facts, and your phone call gave us another important clue."

Then Henry spoke. "About Orkins. Had you any misgivings, Mrs. LaRauche, when he entered my service as butler? I took him, you know, on your husband's recommendation."

"It was not clear at the time," she answered. "Rene invented some explanation that Orkins wanted to make more money. Now, I know that he was deliberately planted in your house as a spy, and that he kept my husband advised on all your secret workings in science. He betrayed your confidence, as he cold-bloodedly tried to betray Rene, for that $5,000 reward."

"Do you know anything at all about Orkins' death?" Chief Meigs broke in, abruptly.

It was a pertinent question to put, but a little cruel. "No," Mrs. LaRauche replied, almost defiantly. "I do recall hearing a distant, sharp sound of some sort—it may have been the shot that killed him—but I associated it with the back-firing of an automobile on the highway. About an hour later, I heard a noise downstairs."

"That was when I smashed a panel in your front door, probably," the Chief put in.

"Shortly afterwards," Mrs. LaRauche went on, "my husband entered the attic room, looking very excited. He threw a sheet over me, and then I heard him open the back window, and climb through, on to the roof. I had the uncomfortable feeling that something sinister had occurred, and that he was bent on escape. But I was bound to the chair and helpless, and in too much anguish to think clearly."

"Mrs. LaRauche!" McGinity asked suddenly. "We are very anxious to know how your husband escaped so magically from the roof, like he had flown to the ground. Have you any theory?"

She smiled faintly, and replied: "Rene invented many peculiar things, like the robot, now used in all New York subway and railroad stations, where the traveler's usual questions are answered by a phonographic voice, by simply pressing a button. He had a great fear of fire, of being trapped by fire. Some months ago, he installed a safety device, in case of fire, on our roof."

"What was it like?" I asked, eagerly.

"Simply a heavy wire stretched tautly from the roof to the ground, and terminating at some distance away from the house, to make the descent more gradual," she replied. "In case of fire, you step into a sort of trapeze, which is attached to the wire by a grooved wheel, and your descent to the ground is something like the 'slide for life,' often seen at the circus, or in film melodramas. I can see how, in the dark, it would give the illusion of flying."

XXX

After the concerted gasp of surprise over LaRauche's weird method of escape from the roof had died away, McGinity put another important question: "How did you first discover that your husband was implicated in these Martian revelations, and that they were a fraud? Did you find anything—papers?"

"Something like that," she replied.

She took out of the little bag, which lay in her lap, a charred slip of paper, which she handed to McGinity; and while he passed it round for our inspection, she continued: "I found this paper in the charred rubbish, in the log fire-place, in my husband's laboratory, which Orkins had neglected to clean out. You'll recognize the lettering it contains as a portion of the code used for the radio messages from Mars, and its deciphering into English. After I had studied this, I began a secret investigation on my own, and gradually the scheme was unveiled to me."

"This detecting business must have been a new and novel experience," Henry remarked, good humoredly.

"Not exactly," Mrs. LaRauche replied. "You probably don't know—not many do—that I have written several mystery novels under the pen name of Martha Claxton."

This disclosure was followed by another concerted gasp of surprise. After it had subsided, McGinity exclaimed: "Well, that's certainly a knockout, Mrs. LaRauche! Why, I've read all of your novels, including the latest one, 'The Country House Mystery,' and I consider Martha Claxton—you—a close runner to the English Agatha Christie—a feminine J. S. Fletcher. No wonder your husband, with his jealous temperament, had this constitutional antagonism against any rival in his household, in the field of fame."

"Combine jealousy and revenge," Mrs. LaRauche said, "and in these two forces you have the most perverse evil in the world. Rene was not only intensely jealous of Henry Royce for his successful findings as an amateur scientist and astronomer, but he nursed a revenge against him for the exposé of those faked African jungle films, and his subsequent expulsion from the Exploration Club. He blamed—"

"Officially, I had nothing to do with it," Henry interrupted, vehemently. "I simply voiced my belief to a fellow member of the club that the films looked like fakes to me."

"What raised your suspicions?" Mrs. LaRauche asked.

"Well, I recognized, among those African jungle midgets," Henry replied, "a Negro dwarf I had seen years ago at a circus side-show. She was exhibited as a human crow. She had the remarkable physiognomy and jet blackness of a crow, and she could caw like one. She must be an old woman by now. In your husband's faked film, she took the part of a chattering, pigmy grandmother, who was thrown into the river and drowned because of her great age and uselessness. As she was engulfed in the river torrent, and sank, I recognized her pitiful 'caw-caw'."

"Fancy your remembering that," Mrs. LaRauche remarked.

Again Chief Meigs spoke abruptly. "Pardon me, Mrs. LaRauche," he said, "but how long do you reckon your husband has been out of his mind?"

She looked startled for a moment, then calmly replied. "He was silent and brooding for some months past, but I attributed this to his being deeply engrossed in some new scientific research. It's rather difficult to say when he passed into the stage of actual insanity. It's my opinion that all inventive scientists are a little bit cracked." She hesitated a moment, and smiled apologetically at Henry. "It's my belief, though," she went on, "that he became definitely deranged when the success of his scheme centered the attention of the world upon Henry Royce, and raised him to the heights of fame. Rene had not figured on this. It was like a boomerang. When he realized that his scheme was reacting to his own damage, then, perhaps, something in his brain snapped."

"Have you any personal knowledge of the implication of your husband and Orkins in the theft of the rocket?" McGinity asked.

She shook her head. "Only a suspicion," she replied. "There were many, many nights, while I was locked in the attic, when I couldn't sleep, so I used to listen for sounds from the lower part of the house. The night the rocket was stolen, I remember distinctly the house was as quiet as a tomb. I remained awake all night, terrorized at the thought of being left alone. Towards morning, I heard familiar sounds again—footfalls in the hall—voices—and went to sleep."

"I wonder what motive prompted LaRauche to do a crazy thing like that?" I interrogated.

"Dispose of the rocket, and he would be less liable to detection," Mrs. LaRauche replied. "He must have become suddenly fearful of some one tracing the workmanship of the rocket to him. It was public knowledge that he had made considerable progress in the creation of a metal rocket, which he hoped, eventually, to catapult to the moon. No doubt he reconditioned this rocket to meet the requirements of his mad Martian scheme."

"It's one of the most intricate and puzzling pieces of craftsmanship and mechanism I've ever seen," I said, glancing at Chief Meigs, who punctuated my remark with a smile and a wink, and the silent mouthing of "Screws!"

By this time, McGinity was showing signs of impatience. "If there is no reason why we shouldn't," he said, emphatically, "I think we'd better get through with this business now, as quickly as possible. Mrs. LaRauche is under a great strain, and we must spare her all we can. So why not let her tell us, in as few words as she can, all she knows. I leave it to her."

"Very well, Mr. McGinity," she assented, nodding her head two or three times. Then she began. "There are a great many things I know nothing whatever about. Some things I say may be true, or partly true; the rest will be based on my deductions.

"As I've already told you," she continued, "my husband carried on this work in the greatest secrecy. My curiosity, rather than suspicion, was aroused when he began to collect scientific books on Mars, and studies of the ancient inscriptions, cuneiforms and hieroglyphics, of Babylon and Egypt. He began sending Orkins on frequent visits to the city. It was Orkins, no doubt, who ordered the making of the scroll. He fits the old bookseller's description to a nicety—'middle-aged, well-dressed, well-bred.'

"The time came when Rene dropped his preliminary studies and research, and applied himself wholly to his work, in the laboratory, and at his workshop in the hangar. He worked at all hours of the day and night, in a kind of frenzy. Finally, late in the summer, as I reconstruct it, matters began to take shape. He must have had in his possession by that time all the information Orkins had obtained, surreptitiously, in relation to Henry Royce's and Serge Olinski's experiments in trying to establish radio communication with Mars.

"Early in August, he did a lot of night flying, always accompanied by Orkins. The trust he put in that scoundrel, and the money Orkins must have bled him for! They were usually in the air from nine to eleven. When I quizzed Rene on the purpose of these night flights, he said he was conducting a series of meteorological experiments. But what he was really doing—if my surmise is correct—was flying high over the Royce castle, or Radio Center, and testing his carefully thought out Martian code on Mr. Royce and Mr. Olinski, wherever they happened to be conducting their radio experiments; sort of baiting them.

"He was perfectly able to do this with the powerful wireless sending outfit with which he had equipped his plane. Apparently Mr. Royce and his co-worker were finally satisfied that these signals in code came from Mars, for we next heard of Mr. Royce erecting two stations, one designed for transmitting, the other for receiving Martian radio messages.

"Now, comes the strange story of the public demonstration of direct radio communication with Mars, at Radio Center. I happened to be in town that night, having gone there to visit friends, over the week-end, at Rene's persistent urging that I take a holiday, which was a rather strange attitude for him to adopt. Up to that time, I was not in the least suspicious, and listened in that night with a great deal of enjoyment, although I thought the Martian message, as decoded and broadcast—well, somehow it seemed perfectly incredulous to me.

"If any man was pleased with the success of this undertaking, Rene must have been. He achieved it with great risk, in a hazardous flight into the sub-stratosphere. We must at least give him credit for this daring feat, also for the cleverness of his Martian code, which he sent by wireless from this great height, and the perfect artistry of English into which it was so easily transcribed by Mr. Olinski. My suspicions of Rene's sub-stratosphere performance, in his plane, were confirmed after I had discovered a visored aluminum helmet, and a rubber fabric suit, in which he had received oxygen, hidden under some rubbish in the hangar.

"It is perfectly amazing to me how he accomplished two such remarkable feats in one night, transmitting the Martian message from the sub-stratosphere, garbling it and fading out, to indicate ethereal disturbance, and dropping the rocket on the water-front. Oh, he must have dropped it from his plane while flying low over the beach! There can be no other explanation. He had plenty of time in which to return to the field, after the altitude flight, attach the rocket under the plane, on the principle of a bomber, with Orkins' assistance, of course, and soar off again. The rocket appears heavy, but, as you know, it is constructed of comparatively light metal, and, without fuel, is easily handled. The exterior of the rocket was purposely fired in advance, I found, to give the effect of its having traveled through the earth's atmosphere at great speed.

"In this stunt, he had the spectacular accessory of the falling meteors, and he added to the realism by sending off a great quantity of fire-works from the plane when he dropped the rocket on the beach. There was little chance of his plane being detected at this time of night; he was just another strange traveler in the sky. He carried enough fire-works to equip a Fourth of July celebration. In my investigation, I found a dozen or so burned out Roman candles, and other unused fire-works, which he had secreted under his work-bench in the hangar.

"His mission achieved, he went into retreat. For weeks we lived in practical isolation, while the world buzzed with the great Martian revelations, and honors were heaped upon Mr. Royce. It is not easy for the mind to grasp how Rene managed to put over this stupendous hoax, having as its object the humiliation of a bitterly hated rival, unless one considers that it was the cold-blooded scheme of a great mind gone wrong. And into that deranged mind there must have gleamed some light of inspiration. His detailed description of life as it exists at present on Mars, which he set forth in the cuneiform code, contained in the scroll, I consider marvelous—absolutely marvelous. It is logical, and it rings true. No scientist, ancient or modern, has ever given a more plausible picture of the history of Mars, and conditions of life there. No scientist in his right mind would have been so fearless. But Rene—the madman—dared.