CHAPTER XIX.
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE.
As he reached the corner, Sturgis came upon Sprague, who was waiting for a car.
"Oh! I say, old man," exclaimed the artist, hardly able to conceal his elation, "I am glad to see you. I have news to tell you."
"So have I. But I am in a hurry now. Come along with me; we can exchange confidences on the way."
"Very well; whither are you bound?"
"I am on the track of big game. Can you spare a couple of hours? I think I can promise you an interesting afternoon."
"What is it? The Knickerbocker bank case?"
"Yes."
Sprague readily consented to accompany his friend.
"By the way," inquired Sturgis, "have you any weapons?"
"Any quantity of them among the properties of the studio," replied Sprague surprised; "but I do not go about armed in broad daylight."
"You would better have a revolver," said the reporter. "You will probably have no occasion to use it," he added in answer to his friend's glance, "but it is best to be on the safe side."
"Very well; I shall go home for one. Where am I to meet you?"
"At police headquarters in about half an hour. Let me see; it is now nearly five o'clock. Say at half-past five. It will be necessary to obtain a couple of warrants and the help of the police before we start."
After Sprague had left him, Sturgis approached Detective Conklin, who was still at his post.
"Has Chatham shown up while I was in there?" he asked, indicating Murdock's house.
"No, sir."
"Did you notice the man with whom I went in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, let Chatham go for the present and stick close to that man if he stirs from the house. I shall be back in less than an hour."
"All right, sir."
When Sprague reached police headquarters, he found the reporter ready to start with four detectives. He had not, therefore, any opportunity for conversation with his friend until the party reached its destination. There two of the detectives relieved the men previously on duty, while the others accompanied Sturgis and Sprague to the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company.
It was after six o'clock. The place was closed for the night and seemed quite deserted. One of the men rang the bell. The tinkling echoes died away, but no sign of life manifested itself from within. Then he seized the pull and plied it again repeatedly and vigorously.
"That will do," observed Sturgis presently; "the old woman is coming as fast as she can."
"What old woman?" asked the detective.
"I don't know. Perhaps I ought to have said an old woman. I hear her hobbling on the stairs."
The detective placed his ear to the keyhole. After listening attentively, he turned to the reporter with an incredulous smile.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," said he, "if you can hear anything in there, your ears are sharper than mine. That's all I can say."
"She is on the second flight," replied the reporter quietly. "Now she is in the second-story hall,—and now you can surely hear her coming down the last flight."
By this time, sure enough, the sound of footsteps began to be audible to the other three men; and presently the door opened and disclosed the scared face of an old Irish woman.
"And phwat might yez be wantin', gintlemin, to be after scarin' an ould woman most to death wid yer ringin'?" she asked, somewhat aggressively.
"We want to see Mr. Chatham," replied one of the detectives.
"Mister who, is it?"
"Thomas Chatham. Show me the way to his room. I'll go right up, and my friends will wait for me here."
"Mister Thomuz Chathum, is it?" said the old woman; "well, ye've come to the wrong house to see him, I do be thinkin', fer he don't live here."
"Come, that won't do," said the detective sharply; "we belong to the police, and we saw Chatham enter this house."
At the mention of the police, the old hag's parchment face became a shade yellower and her eyes glistened.
"Sure, thin, if he do be hidin' here, it's mesilf as 'ud know it," she said after a short interval; "but yez can foind 'um, if yez loike; yez can foind 'um."
Whereupon she turned and hobbled off, leaving the intruders to their own resources.
They found themselves in a narrow hallway. On the right was a rickety staircase leading to business offices in the upper part of the building; on the left, a door opening into the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company, and at the end of the hall another door, marked,
PRIVATE OFFICE
NO ADMITTANCE.
One of the detectives tried this door and found it locked. Whereupon he placed his shoulder to it and prepared to force it in.
"Wait a minute," said Sturgis; "let me see if I cannot open it."
The detective stepped aside with a quizzical expression upon his face.
"I guess you will find it pretty solid for your weight," said he.
The reporter took from his pocket a piece of bent wire, and, with a few dexterous turns of the wrist, he shot the bolt of the lock.
"You would make an expert cracksman," said the detective. "I didn't know you possessed that accomplishment in addition to all your other ones."
The four men entered the private office. The room was quite dark, the shutters being closed and the blinds drawn. As their eyes became accustomed to the obscurity they were able to distinguish the outlines of a desk, a table, and a few chairs.
Sturgis went at once to a door in the corner. With the aid of his skeleton key he had soon thrown this open. After peering for an instant into the darkness, he took from his pocket a candle, which he lighted. Then, beckoning to his companions, he started cautiously to descend. The other men followed him and soon found themselves in the cellar, which they proceeded to search.
On the street side there was a recess extending for a few feet under the area in front of the house. The opening above was covered by an iron grating, over which was a wooden cover securely fastened on the inside by a chain and padlock. A number of carboys were carefully piled along the east wall to within a few feet from the rear of the building. Here, in the northeast corner, rose narrow shelving, on which were arranged a collection of bottles containing a varied assortment of chemicals.
The detectives searched the cellar.
"Our man is not here, at any rate," said the leader, when at last he had returned to the foot of the stairs; "perhaps he'll try to give us the slip by way of the roof. Come along, Jim; let's go upstairs now. Hello! what are you doing there, Mr. Sturgis? Think you'll find him in one of those bottles?"
The reporter appeared to be closely inspecting the chemicals on the narrow shelves.
"Who knows?" he replied coolly, continuing his examination.
The detective bit his lip and looked the unpleasant things he thought it best not to say.
"Well, Jim and I will take a look upstairs while you are busy here."
And the two men went up the dark stairway, Sprague remaining behind with the reporter.
"None so blind as those that won't see," said the latter, sententiously.
At the same time he placed his hand upon one of the shelves and gave it a lateral push. It responded slightly, and the entire shelving, with the door which it concealed, opened outward.
"I thought so," continued the reporter; "this looks as if it might lead somewhere. Will you come, Sprague?"
"How did you find the combination so quickly?" asked the artist, preparing to follow his friend.
"It is not a combination—only a concealed bolt. Our friends of the detective force might have discovered it themselves if they had taken the trouble. The first thing I noticed was that a truck had recently been wheeled through the cellar in the direction of this door, from under the grating on the street side. And this truck was not here; neither was a large case which we know was delivered here to-day. The trail extended clear up to the wall below the shelving; and yet no truck, even unloaded, could pass below that lowest shelf. The conclusion was evident. I sounded the back of the shelving and found that it covered an opening of some kind. After that, all that remained was to notice that one of the shelves was slightly soiled in just one spot, as though by the repeated contact of a hand. From this, I argued that the bolt must be attached to this board. And it was. That is all."
As he spoke, the reporter entered a dark and narrow passage.
"Don't shut the door," said he to his companion, who followed him.
At that moment, however, the artist stumbled: and, instinctively holding out his hands to save himself from falling, he released his hold of the door, which closed with a slam.
"That is unfortunate," said Sturgis; "we may have to lose some time in learning how to work the bolt from this side. Hold on; it will be prudent to keep open a line of retreat, in case of unforeseen emergencies. Hello! we are in luck. Nothing concealed on this side; the bolt in plain sight; works easily. All's well. Then let us go on; unless I am greatly mistaken, we shall find another exit on the other side."
After following the underground passage for some distance, the men climbed some steps and reached a square chamber, on one side of which rose a stairway leading to a door above. The room was surmounted by a skylight, which was wide open, admitting a draught of cold air from the outside.
Sturgis set down his lighted candle and proceeded to examine his surroundings. In the middle of the room stood a truck, upon which lay a long pine box. A table and a chair constituted the only furniture of the place. At one side, there was a long, low, lead-lined tank, filled to the depth of about two feet with a dark viscous liquid. Near it lay a few empty carboys. In the floor there was what seemed to be a hot-air register, of large size and of peculiar construction. The walls were bare, unbroken, save by the projection of the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube, and by a set of shelves filled with flasks, crucibles, alembics and the other paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory.
After the reporter had finished reconnoitering, he sat down upon the long box in deep thought. Sprague observed him with silent curiosity for a while; and then, with growing impatience,
"I say, old man," he ventured at last to ask, "did you bring me here, armed to the teeth, to see you go off into a trance?"
Sturgis started like a man suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.
"Eh? What?—Oh, yes—those confidences. Well, you start in with yours. I am trying to find the dénouement of my story. I feel that it is just within my grasp; and yet I cannot seem to see it yet. But I can listen to you while I am thinking. Go on."
"I have not any story to tell," said Sprague, somewhat offended at his friend's apparent indifference to what he had to say.
"Oh, yes, you have," retorted Sturgis, with a conciliatory smile; "you said you had news to tell me. Well, tell away. I am listening most respectfully in spite of my apparent absorption."
"What a strange fellow you are, Sturgis," laughed Sprague good naturedly. "All I wanted to tell you—and you are the first to hear of it,—is the, to me, rather important fact that I am engaged to be married."
"You are?" exclaimed Sturgis with genuine pleasure. "I congratulate you, old fellow, from the bottom of my heart."
He seized the artist's hand and shook it in his hearty grasp.
"To the original of the picture you wanted to show me yesterday?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then she was not betrothed to the other fellow, after all?"
"No; that seems to have been a mistake."
"I am glad of that, very glad," said the reporter. "By the way, you have not yet told me the young lady's name."
"I thought I had mentioned it yesterday morning. Didn't I? No? My fiancée is Miss Murdock."
At the sound of this name Sturgis started visibly, and a shadow crossed his features.
"Miss Murdock?" he echoed.
"Yes," said Sprague. "What is it? You do not seem pleased."
Then, as a sudden thought struck him:
"I hope I am not treading on your toes, old fellow," he said, putting his hand gently upon his friend's shoulder, and trying to read his thought in his clear gray eyes. "But how absurd! Of course you cannot be a rival for Miss Murdock's affections, since you do not even know her——"
"No," laughed Sturgis, regaining his composure, "I am not your rival. As to the other point, while I can hardly claim an acquaintance with the young lady, I think I saw her not more than a couple of hours ago."
"A couple of hours ago!" exclaimed Sprague; "why, I was with her myself then."
"I know that now, although I was not aware of it at the time."
"What, were you at the Murdocks' at the same time as I was?" asked Sprague, surprised.
"I had just come from there when I met you. I was in Murdock's study while you were—er—busy in the parlor."
"In Murdock's study? How long were you there?"
"About half an hour, I should judge," replied Sturgis, "and perhaps fifteen minutes more in the hall, while Murdock was engaged."
"I suppose Chatham was still with him," mused Sprague.
Sturgis started at the name.
"Chatham!" he ejaculated; "what do you know about Chatham?"
"What, are you interested in Chatham?" asked the artist, curiously. "I know very little about him, only that he is one of my disappointed rivals."
And he thereupon related to the reporter what he knew of Chatham's suit.
Sturgis listened with deep attention to his friend's narrative, and ruminated in silence long after the artist had ceased speaking.
At last he started up with a sudden exclamation, and walking over to the side of the tank, he looked into the depths of its oily contents, as if fascinated by some horrible thing he saw there.
Sprague came and stood beside him and gazed curiously into the viscous liquid. There was nothing there that he could see.
"What is it?" he asked.
Without replying, Sturgis took from his pocket a bone-handled knife and carefully dipped one end of the handle into the fluid in the leaden tank. At once the liquid began to seethe and boil, giving out dark pungent fumes.
"I thought so," muttered the reporter, under his breath; "that man is truly a genius—the genius of evil."
"Who?" asked Sprague.
Sturgis made no reply. His eyes were wandering about the room, as if in search of something.
"Hand me a couple of those long glass tubes from that shelf yonder," he said, earnestly.
The artist complied with the request. Dipping these tubes into the oily liquid, Sturgis, after considerable difficulty, managed to seize with them a small dark object which lay at the bottom of the tank. With infinite precaution, he brought it to the surface. It had the appearance of a flattened leaden bullet.
"What is it?" inquired Sprague.
"Sit down," answered Sturgis, in a low, tense voice. "I have just found the last link which completes my chain of evidence; I am now prepared to tell you such a story as you will scarcely credit, even with the absolute proofs before your eyes."