CHAPTER XXI.
THE DEATH CHAMBER.
Before the men had gone many steps a grating sound reached their ears from the direction of the skylight. They looked up and saw sliding steel shutters slowly and ponderously close, like grim jaws; and suddenly they felt themselves cut off from the outside world.
Sturgis, taking up his lighted candle, made his way to the door of the subterranean passage and tried in vain to open it; the heavy iron bolt remained immovable in its socket. Inch by inch he scrutinized the door with growing anxiety. At last he abandoned the search, and returned in the direction of the square chamber.
"That explains why he wanted to shut me in here when I was in his office," he muttered under his breath.
"What is the matter?" asked Sprague.
"We are caught like rats in a trap," replied Sturgis. Then with feeling he added: "I do not know how this will end, old man. I have bungled and I fear the game is lost. If our lives are the forfeit, you will owe your death to my stupidity."
Sprague looked at his friend, as if surprised to hear him apparently abandon the fight.
"Don't worry about me," he said kindly; "I came here of my own free will. But," he added, as a vision of Agnes Murdock flashed upon his mind, "I have no intention to die just yet, if I can help it. Are we not both able-bodied men and armed? What can one man do against two?"
"It is not an open fight," said Sturgis, "but I am glad to see your spirit. I do not give up; but I want you to realize that we are in a critical situation, with the odds enormously against us."
"Why, what can Murdock do?"
"Perhaps what he did to Chatham. It will probably not be long before we discover what that was."
"But there must be some way of opening that door from the inside," said Sprague.
"There evidently is none," replied Sturgis; "he probably controls these doors from the outside by electrical connection."
The men were back in the square chamber. Sturgis's eyes were roving restlessly over the walls, ceiling and floor in search of a loophole of escape.
"There is no chance to reach the skylight without a ladder; and even if we could reach it, we should be no further advanced, as it would be impossible to make any impression on the steel shutters. That leaves the register and the speaking-tube. While I examine the register, suppose you try the tube. If it connects with the Manhattan Chemical Company's office, there is a bare chance that we may attract the attention of the detectives whom we left there."
"As we were saying, Mr. Sturgis——"
The words came in Murdock's mocking tones.
Sturgis quickly held the lighted candle above his head and peered in the direction whence came the sound. A panel of the door at the head of the stairs had been pushed up, revealing a small opening covered by a strong and closely woven wire netting.
"As we were saying, 'murder will out!' Nevertheless, it is sometimes easier to weld a chain, even of circumstantial evidence, than it is to predict who will be bound in it."
Sturgis and Sprague stood in the glimmering light of the candle, silently watching the glowing eyes behind the screen.
"Mr. Sturgis, you are a clever man," continued Murdock, "an uncommonly clever man. I frankly admit that I had underrated your ability. But then we are all fallible, after all. I made my share of blunders, as you seem to have discovered; but you will doubtless now concede that your own course has not been entirely free from errors. And now that we have reached the conclusion of this interesting game, I have the honor to announce, 'mate in one move!' Perhaps you are surprised that I should take the trouble to explain the situation to you so clearly. I do so in recognition of your superior intelligence. I see in you a peer. If matters could have been so arranged, I should have been proud to work in harmony with such a man as you; and indeed, when, a short time ago, I invited you to my laboratory, it was my intention to offer you a compromise which I hoped I might be able to persuade you to accept. I felt that you would prove an ally who could be trusted. But, alas, that is impossible now, on account of your friend's presence. With all due respect to Mr. Sprague, as an amiable man of the world and a prince of good fellows, it may be said that he is not one of us. Much to my sorrow, therefore, I am left no alternative to the course I am about to adopt. The fault, if anybody's, is your own, after all, Mr. Sprague. There is a homely but expressive adage concerning the danger of 'monkeying' with a buzz saw. Why, my dear friend, did you 'monkey' with Mr. Sturgis's buzz saw, instead of sticking to your palette and maulstick.
"But I fear I am growing garrulous, gentlemen. If I had time, I should like to explain to Mr. Sturgis the details of some of the more important, and, in my humble opinion, more brilliant schemes of which I have been the——ah——the promoter; for I dislike to be judged by the bungling operations which have so nearly caused me to lose this latest little game. But this cannot be. I shall have to continue to confide to the pages of my journal, as I have done for years, the interesting events of, if I may say so, a somewhat remarkable career, which I hope will some day, after my death, find their way in print to public favor. My dream has always been that some such man as Mr. Sturgis might ultimately edit these memoirs; but, alas, the fondest of human dreams are seldom destined to be realized.
"Now then, gentlemen, before finally parting with you, I wish to honorably carry out the terms of my wager with Mr. Sturgis. I concede the fact that, to all intents and purposes, he has won the bet, and I authorize you, Mr. Sprague, as stakeholder, to pay him the amount I deposited with you. As I have already suggested, he has made some perhaps excusable mistakes; but then, as he himself stated the other night, 'a detective has a lifetime in which to correct a blunder.' A lifetime! It is not in accordance with Mr. Sturgis's usual practice to use so vague a term. A lifetime is not necessarily a very long time, Mr. Sturgis."
During this tirade Sturgis and Sprague had remained standing with their eyes fixed upon the gleaming carbuncles which peered at them from behind the grated peephole at the top of the stairs. The artist seemed to realize that the fight was lost. His attitude was that of a brave man accepting, with calm despair, an unpleasant but inevitable doom. The reporter had drawn his revolver at the first sound of Murdock's voice, but had immediately returned it to his pocket upon realizing that the chemist was protected by a bullet-proof grating. Now, pale and collected, he remained inscrutable. It was impossible, even for the sharp eyes of Murdock, to determine whether he was at last resigned to his fate, or whether his active mind was still on the alert for a loophole of escape.
The bit of candle which he held in his hand had burned so low that at last he was unable to hold it without risk of burning his fingers. Whereupon he coolly set it down upon the stone floor, where presently the wick fell over into a pool of molten paraffine, and the flame spluttered noisily, sending fitful gleams through the darkness.
"Well," continued Murdock's voice, "it is at any rate a great satisfaction to play a game with an adversary worthy of one's steel. You have played well, Mr. Sturgis. I think you would have won modestly; and you are losing as I would myself have lost, had our positions been reversed. Good-bye."
The gleaming eyes disappeared from the grating, and the sliding panel closed with a metallic click.
"Now then," said Sturgis to his companion, "the last chance lies in the speaking-tube. But first help me move this box."
"What do you want to do with the box?" asked Sprague, who, however, did as he was bid.
"It may help us to gain a little time. Put it down here."
Sturgis struck a match and pointed out the spot.
"On the hot-air register?"
"On what looks like a hot-air register. Did you ever see a hot-air register with no apparent means of shutting off the heat?"
Sprague, who stood almost over the register, suddenly threw back his head and gasped for breath.
"You have discovered the secret of this death trap," said Sturgis, observing him.
"Gas!" spluttered the artist.
"Yes, he is going to asphyxiate us. Now, quick, to the speaking-tube! The box will somewhat retard the rush of gas; but, at the best, it is only a question of minutes before the air becomes so charged as to render respiration impossible."
Sprague rushed to the speaking-tube and whistled long and loud, after which he placed his ear to the mouthpiece.
"I hear some one walking," he suddenly exclaimed.
The two men listened in breathless silence for an answering call.
"Well, gentlemen; what can I do for you?"
The words came in Murdock's voice.
Sprague's eyes met those of the reporter and saw that the last faint glimmer of hope was gone. In that swift and silent interchange of thought there was resignation to the inevitable doom and the final farewell of two brave hearts.
The spluttering candle gave its last flicker and went out, leaving the prisoners in utter darkness.
The room was rapidly filling with gas, and they were beginning to feel its effects.
"We can at least complete our task before we die," said Sturgis with grim determination.
"Our task!"
"Yes, and insure Murdock's conviction for our murder."
"What chance is there that any one will ever discover our bodies, since they are destined for Murdock's oblivion tank?"
"Give me your hand," Sturgis replied; "there is a box of matches. I place it here, between us, within easy reach. I want to write a few words to the superintendent of police to explain matters. By that time there will be enough gas in the room to produce a terrific explosion, when we strike a match. We can thus succeed in wrecking this place and calling attention to it. If I should succumb before you do, do not fail to light the match."
While he was speaking, the reporter had taken from his pocket a pad and a pencil, and had begun to write as rapidly as he could in the darkness.
Sprague's head was beginning to swim and his ears were ringing, but the thought of Agnes Murdock was uppermost in his mind.
"An explosion!" he exclaimed; "no, no; that must not be. What of Agnes? She may be hurt?"
Sturgis continued writing.
"It is the only chance there is of bringing Murdock to justice," he said, firmly.
"But Agnes is innocent of his crimes," urged the artist, in a thick voice. His tongue clove to his palate; he felt his consciousness ebbing. "Why should she suffer? I am going, old man——I cannot hold out any longer——Promise me that you——that you will not——strike——the match——"
He staggered and fell against the reporter, who caught him in his arms. His own senses were reeling.
"Promise——" pleaded the half-unconscious man.
"I promise," answered Sturgis, after an instant's hesitation.
It struck a chill to his heart to see his friend dying in the prime of youth, strength and happiness.
Suddenly a thought flashed upon him.
"Brace up, old fellow. All is not yet over. The speaking-tube leads to fresh air. Here, put your lips to it, and breathe through your mouth."
The artist heard the words and made an effort to obey these directions. With Sturgis's assistance he managed to place his lips to the mouthpiece of the speaking-tube. A few whiffs of comparatively fresh air sent the sluggish blood coursing through his veins, and gave him a new hold on life. With renewed vigor came the animal instinct to fight to the last for existence.
As the shadows of death which had been closing in upon him receded, he became conscious of Sturgis's voice beating upon his ears in broken and scarcely audible tones.
"It is——the last chance——Stick——to the tube——When he comes——surprise him——your revolver——shoot——before——"
The reporter was clinging unsteadily to his friend's shoulder. Sprague suddenly realized that Sturgis in his turn was succumbing to the effects of the gas. He sprang back in time to catch the staggering man in his arms.
"Selfish brute that I am!" he exclaimed. "Here; it is your turn to breathe!" And he pushed the reporter toward the tube.
"No, no," said Sturgis, struggling faintly; "it cannot be both——and you——have——everything——to live for."
But the artist was now the stronger, and he succeeded in forcing his friend to inhale enough fresh air to restore his departing consciousness.
At length Sturgis, with returning strength, was about to renew the generous struggle with Sprague, when suddenly the place was ablaze with the glare of an electric light.
"He wants to see if his work is done," whispered Sturgis to his companion.
Then, observing that Sprague was again on the verge of asphyxiation, he continued hurriedly:
"Fill your lungs with air, quick!——quick, I tell you. Now drop and feign death. Do as I do."
Suiting the action to the word, Sturgis threw himself upon the stone floor, face downward, and lay motionless, his right hand grasping a revolver concealed beneath his body. Sprague, after a short breathing spell at the tube, followed his companion's example.
After a short interval there came a metallic click, which Sturgis recognized as the sound made by the opening of the slide in the panel of the door at the head of the stairs.
A moment—which seemed an eternity of suspense—followed, during which the prisoners felt, without being able to see, the cold gleam of the steely eyes of Murdock at the grating.
Would he enter? Would he suspect the ruse? Would the two men retain their grasp of consciousness and their strength long enough to make a last fight for life?
These thoughts crowded upon the reporter's brain as he lay simulating death and making a desperate effort to control his reeling senses.
If Murdock were coming he would have to shut off the gas and to ventilate the room. What was he waiting for?
"Come in!"
The words were Murdock's as he turned away from the grating and closed the sliding panel.
"An interruption which probably means death to us," whispered Sturgis to his companion; "take another breath of fresh air, old fellow; we must hold out a little longer."
Sprague, however, lay motionless and unresponsive. The reporter shook him violently and turned him over upon his back. The artist's body was limp and inert; his eyes half closed; his face livid.
The reporter himself felt sick and faint. But, with a mighty effort, he succeeded in raising his friend in his arms, and dragging him toward the speaking-tube. There, of a sudden, his strength failed him. His head swam; his muscles relaxed; he felt Sprague's limp form slip from his grasp, tottered, reeled, threw his arms wildly about him for support, and fell, as the last elusive ray of consciousness was slipping away from him.