The Professor's Mystery Part 13

"Oh, mother's perfectly well. She was tired a little after sitting up for us, and went to bed early, that's all. And Sheila is doing splendidly."

Doctor Reid came abruptly to the surface. "Fine. Fine. Very rapid recovery. Blow only glanced along the bone. No fracture, no concussion.

Strong vitality, too. Astonishing what resistance those unhygienic people have. Soon be all over it."

"Look here," Lady broke in, "here's a bird's-eye view of the tenement house, with--no, it's an X-ray view, the walls are transparent. 'Arrow points to room in which Mrs. Carucci was discovered; cross marks location of blood-stain; inner room with disordered bed; dotted line shows how the body was carried down-stairs.' See, they've got little pictures of us carrying her down, on each floor. And here's the automobile starting away with me leaning out of the window."

"And vignettes of Carucci and the policeman, and a fancy sketch of Sheila," said I. "Like those early Italian paintings, where they have two or three successive scenes on one canvas."

"This is about the fullest account, too. It's pretty nearly all here, except who we are. 'Carucci is in custody.' Do you suppose they interviewed him?"

"I doubt it," said her father. "It was probably the tenants and the men in the street."

"Listen to this," put in Doctor Reid, with an indignant snort.

"Outrageous, the flippant way this sheet takes everything. Send a clever young ignoramus to write up important surgical cases. Poke fun at every thing. Listen:

"'Antonio Carucci is a true son of Neptune, born, as his name implies, under the shadow of Vesuvius. He goes down to the sea in ships; and, like all good mariners since old Noah himself, returns with a throat parched by many days of briny breezes. Last night, being new landed from a long cruise, Giuseppe sought solace in flowing flagons of Chianti, until, when he tacked through the breakers of River Street toward the beacon light which his la.s.s kept ever burning in her wifely window, he had almost forgotten his own name amid the rosy aromas of his national potation. Arrived at his domicil, Geronimo fell into a deep sleep, with a sinuous string of spaghetti clasped firmly in his corded hand; and as he slept, he dreamed a dream,' Then it goes on to treat the whole affair as a hallucination, distorting or evading all the facts. Ridiculous account. Rubbish. Perfect rubbish."

"At least, it can do us no harm," said Mr. Tabor, while Lady and I exchanged mirthful glances. "The more the whole affair is belittled, the less danger there is of any serious gossip or investigation. What I don't like is this sort of thing." He crumpled a red and black page across his knee. "There is no substance in it, but it might stir up trouble.

"'Last night the perpetrators of a brutal and mysterious crime escaped without a struggle.

"'They abducted a poor woman, a wife and mother, from her home. They left behind them destruction and a red stain upon the threshold.

"'How did these wretches escape? Why were they not apprehended?

"'The answer is simple: They were rich.

"'A swift automobile awaited them. The police were powerless to stop them as they sped away.

"'If a poor laboring man, crazed by sorrow, commits a crime, the utmost rigor of the law awaits him. He can not purchase a great machine to speed his flight.

"'Neither can he purchase the machinery of justice, the skill of eminent lawyers, the shifts and delays of appeal. He must pay the penalty.

"'But the rich man pays only his myrmidons. The dastards who committed last night's atrocity vanished behind a cloud of gold.

"'Shall we permit these things to be so? Shall we allow the wealthy to avoid those punishments which we impose upon the poor? _This means you._

"'They deem themselves already secure; but though they exhaust every device of plutocracy, they shall be brought to justice in the end.

"'We say to them, _We know you, and we will find you yet_.'"

"That sounds threatening," I said. "But, after all, isn't it just as empty as the rest? People read that same shriek three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, and nothing much ever happens. Do you think there will actually be any extra search because of that?"

"I'm not so sure," Mr. Tabor answered. "It may not matter to the police, but the paper itself is quite capable of seeking us out. Indeed, I think we are really most likely to have trouble, not from the authorities, but from reporters."

"That's it," Reid added. "You've put your finger on it. That's what we've got to look out for. Reporters."

"But what can they do?" asked Lady. "Suppose some reporter comes here; we won't tell him anything, and n.o.body else has anything to tell."

"My dear child, you haven't the slightest idea what a newspaper investigation means. If they once get a hint of who we are we shall have a dozen men and women here, questioning everybody in sight--the neighbors, the servants--trying in every possible way to get at something which can be made to look sensational, and printing conjectures if they can't find facts."

"Besides," said Doctor Reid, "the poking and prying would be just as bad as the publicity. Let's look at the case: 'Tisn't that we're trying to conceal a specific fact; we're trying to avoid gossip, trying to avoid appearing in any way unusual, trying to seem like other people. We are like other people, except--well, now, here's the situation. Three points: First, we mustn't be bothered by the police; secondly, we mustn't get into the papers; thirdly, we mustn't be investigated or talked about."

"We're tolerably safe from the first," said I, "if Mr. Tabor is right."

"Good. Safe from the first. Then we'll pa.s.s right on to the next. Now let's see what the papers will try to do. Their whole purpose--"

The tiny tinkle of a bell rippled from overhead. Reid was on his feet in a flash and started for the door, Lady following. I had risen, too, startled at the tense faces of the rest.

"Don't you come, father dear," she said, turning for an instant in the doorway. "It's probably only for Sheila. We'll call if we need you." I heard their careful footsteps on the stairs.

Mr. Tabor had settled back into his chair, the paper lying on his knee, his head forward, and the muscles of his neck rigid with listening.

Somehow in the sharp sidelong light he looked much older than I had seen him: more conquerable, more marked by time and trial; and with the listless hands and deep eyes of his night's unrest went a strange look of being physically lighted and less virile than the formidable old man I had begun to know. And as the noiseless minutes went by I grew presumptuously sorry for him.

After a little he relaxed himself with an evident effort and turned to me with his careful smile.

"A family man gets very fussy, Mr. Crosby," he said. "You learn so many things outside yourself to worry about."

"Hadn't I better go and leave you all free?" I asked. "It's getting time, anyway."

"I wish you'd stay," he growled, "it's easier to wait when there are two."

I sat down again and tried to talk; but neither of us could keep any movement in the conversation. We fell into long silences, through which the weight of the silent anxiety above pressed down like a palpable thing. At last Lady's voice called softly, and we rose.

"Don't tell me anything," I said, as I opened the front door, "but if I can be of any earthly use, I will."

"Thank you, Mr. Crosby," he answered, shaking my hand slowly, "I know that."

CHAPTER XII

AN AMATEUR MAN-HUNT WHEREIN MY OWN POSITION IS SOMEWHAT ANXIOUS

Sheila herself opened the door for me.

"You're Mr. Crosby, I suppose," she said, with that elusive reminiscence of a brogue that may not be put into words. "Sure, I'm obliged to you.

An awful weight I must have been."

"You were no feather," I grinned. "Where is Miss Tabor?"

"She's in the library, sir, with a young gentleman. There's a letter here for you, sir." She pointed to a mail-strewn table near the door.

Sure enough there was one--from Bob Ainslie, I judged, by the scrawled address.

A young gentleman in the library--who on earth could he be, and what did the fellow want?