The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet Part 8

"Feel better?" he asked.

I nodded.

"I don't wonder it knocked you out," he went on. "I'm feeling shaky myself. I had them call Vantine's physician--but he can't do anything."

"He's dead, then?" I murmured, my eyes on that dark and crumpled object which had been Philip Vantine.

"Yes--just like the other."

Then I remembered, and I caught his arm and drew him down to me.

"G.o.dfrey," I whispered, "whose voice was it--or did I dream it --something about a woman?"

"You didn't dream it--it was Rogers--he's almost hysterical. We'll get the story, as soon as he quiets down."

Someone called him from the door, and he turned away, leaving me staring blankly at nothing. So there had been a woman in Vantine's life! Perhaps that was why he had never married. What ugly skeleton was to be dragged from its closet?

But if a woman killed Vantine, the same woman also killed d'Aurelle.

Where was her hiding-place? From what ambush did she strike?

I glanced about the room, as a tremor of horror seized me. I arose, shaking, from the chair and groped my way toward the door. G.o.dfrey heard me coming, swung around, and, with one glance at my face, came to me and caught me by the arms.

"What is it, Lester?" he asked.

"I can't stand it here," I gasped. "It's too horrible!"

"Don't think about it. Come out here and have another drink."

He led me into the hall, and a second gla.s.s of brandy gave me back something of my self-control. I was ashamed of my weakness, but when I glanced at G.o.dfrey, I saw how white his face was.

"Better take a drink yourself," I said.

I heard the decanter rattle on the gla.s.s.

"I don't know when I have been so shaken," he said, setting the gla.s.s down empty. "It was so gruesome--so unexpected--and then Rogers carrying on like a madman. Ah, here's the doctor," he added, as the front door opened and Parks showed a man in.

I knew Dr. Hughes, of course, returned his nod, and followed him and G.o.dfrey into the ante-room. But I had not yet sufficiently recovered to do more than sit and stare at him as he knelt beside the body and a.s.sured himself that life had fled. Then I heard G.o.dfrey telling him all we knew, while Hughes listened with incredulous face.

"But it's absurd, you know!" he protested, when G.o.dfrey had finished.

"Things like this don't happen here in New York. In Florence, perhaps, in the Middle Ages; but not here in the twentieth century!"

"I can scarcely believe my own senses," G.o.dfrey agreed. "But I saw the Frenchman lying here this afternoon; and now here's Vantine."

"On the same spot?"

"As nearly as I can tell."

"And killed in the same way?"

"Killed in precisely the same way."

Hughes turned back to the body again, and looked long and earnestly at the injured hand.

"What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr.

G.o.dfrey?" he questioned, at last.

"A sharp instrument, with two p.r.o.ngs. My theory is that the p.r.o.ngs are hollow, like a hypodermic needle, and leave a drop or two of poison at the bottom of the wound. You see a vein has been cut."

"Yes," Hughes a.s.sented. "It would scarcely be possible to pierce the hand here without striking a vein. One of the p.r.o.ngs would be sure to do it."

"That's the reason there are two of them, I fancy."

"But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act so quickly?" Hughes inquired.

G.o.dfrey looked at him strangely.

"You yourself mentioned Florence a moment ago," he said. "You meant, I suppose, that such a poison did, at one time, exist there?"

"Something of the sort, perhaps," agreed Hughes. "The words were purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running through my head."

"Well, the poison that existed in Florence five centuries ago, exists here to-day. There's the proof of it," and G.o.dfrey pointed to the body.

Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror.

"But what sort of devilish instrument is it?" he cried, his nerves giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly. "Above all, who wields it?"

He stared about the room, as though half-expecting to see some mighty and remorseless arm poised, ready to strike. Then he shook himself together.

"I beg pardon," he said, mopping the sweat from his face; "but I'm not used to this sort of thing; and I'm frightened--yes, I really believe I'm frightened," and he laughed, a little unsteady laugh.

"So am I," said G.o.dfrey; "so is Lester; so is everybody. You needn't be ashamed of it."

"What frightens me," went on Hughes, evidently studying his own symptoms, "is the mystery of it--there is something supernatural about it--something I can't understand. How does it happen that each of the victims is struck on the right hand? Why not the left hand?

Why the hand at all?"

G.o.dfrey answered with a despairing shrug.

"That is what we've got to find out," he said.

"We shall have to call in the police," suggested Hughes. "Maybe they can solve it."

G.o.dfrey smiled, a little sceptical smile, quickly suppressed.

"At least, they will have to be given the chance," he agreed. "Shall I attend to it?"

"Yes," said Hughes; "and you would better do it right away. The sooner they get here the better."

"Very well," a.s.sented G.o.dfrey, and left the room.