VII
THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL PUZZLE
“Do you know, old chap, there are many features in this
case that I do not understand.”
—A Frequent Remark of Garry Webster.
“MR. FARBUSH,” remarked Garry Webster, speculatively, “is more than likely the gentleman with the half-bald head and the vulture eyes. But just where does he enter in this thing, I wonder?”
“There is no telling,” answered Kenyon. “It is not well to introduce all one’s characters in the first act, as every practical dramatist knows. Farbush has been held in reserve for the opening of act second, apparently; which reservation shows the hand of a craftsman of more or less skill.”
There was something in the speaker’s voice that caught Webster’s attention, and he gave him a quick, inquiring glance. It seemed to hold a certain resolution that was not altogether clear.
“If the appearance of Mr. Farbush has any connection with your adventure of last night, it is more like the climax of an old, rather than the opening of a new, act,” said Garry, slowly. “Where is your dramatist going to get his material to go on with his work? Surely not from the actions of a man eating his dinner.”
“I do not intend to continue eating indefinitely,” smiled Kenyon. He looked at his watch and continued: “An hour from now will find me in Selden’s Square and ringing the bell at 98.”
“Oh,” said Webster, “I see. You intend to return the check.”
“Not only that, but I intend to put a stop to the whole matter. Why, the thing has grown absurd. I’m not accustomed to this sort of dealing; and the quicker it’s over and done the more comfortable I shall feel.”
When they had finished, Webster said: “A cab will take us there in less than a half hour.”
“Us?” repeated Kenyon.
“Us. Why, to be sure. You don’t suppose I intend to let you go alone, do you? Well, hardly! Another thing. Come up to my rooms for a moment before we start.”
An elevator whirled them upward; and in a few moments the young man from Chicago was opening a revolver case in his sample room.
“It’s a Colt,” said he, calmly, holding the weapon up for his friend’s inspection. “Dull metal, forty-five calibre; has a barrel that assures accuracy and a grip that is a real grip. It’ll make quite a bulge in your pocket, but then it will also shoot a hole through a safe.”
“For a humdrum man of trade, Garry, you have lots of romance left in you,” said Kenyon. He took the revolver and spun it around, a forefinger through the trigger guard. “You intend that an armed force shall move on Selden’s Square, I see. But where is your ammunition?”
“Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges.
Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to Selden’s Square.
“Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along.
“I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear of interruption.”
“By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came out, did you!”
“No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the police found him before I came out.”
They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows. They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle.
“Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks like one across the way.”
The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded:
“What is it, please? What is it?”
Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way.
“I desire to speak to”—he hesitated a moment, then proceeded—“to the master or mistress of the house.”
“Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.”
And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and they heard the door close abruptly behind her.
“They have gone,” said Kenyon.
“And apparently the attention of the police has been called to some features of the case.” Webster looked at his friend for a moment and then added. “What are you going to do now?”
“Perhaps to see Moritze & Co.’s local representative, in the morning, would do some good. But, first, I think we may get a little information from our friend across the way.”
They descended the steps and crossed the street toward the policeman. The man regarded them with attention, his thumbs in his belt and his legs very wide apart.
“How do you do?” spoke Kenyon, in a fraternal tone.
“How are you?” answered the man.
“Is this street part of your beat?”
“It is all of it, just now.”
“Ah, indeed.”
By this time the policeman seemed to have made up his mind about them.
“Something like that. I understand that you had quite an exciting time of it hereabouts last night.”
“Yes; but say, how did the papers get it? The captain said the matter was to be kept quiet.”
Kenyon laughed carelessly.
“Oh, the papers have many surprising little ways of getting information. Now, the body that was carried out of 98, for instance. Nothing has been heard of it?”
“No; and it has a nasty look. It’s the kind of thing that we police don’t like. The detective department has it now.”
“Nothing is known of the people who occupied the house, then?”
“Not a thing. They rented it furnished for a term and paid the money down. They gave the name of Farbush.”
The two young men exchanged swift glances; the policeman noticed the looks:
“Do you know anyone of that name?”
“I fancy I have heard it before,” replied Kenyon.
“Well, I suppose you are not giving anything away,” grumbled the man. “The afternoon papers will be driving the police out of business for good if they keep on the way they are going.”
“Don’t be discouraged,” said Kenyon, with a laugh. “You see, they don’t know so much after all. They only appear to. For example now, we don’t know where the man was sent who was knocked out just about here last night.”
The policeman laughed, shortly.
“The man?” repeated he.
Kenyon caught the inflection.
“Why, it wasn’t a woman, surely,” said he.
“I guess you’re right about the papers not being on to so much,” grinned the policeman. “But you’ll have to call up Bellevue if you want any information. As I said to start with, this thing is supposed to be kept rather quiet; and I think I’ve done too much talking as it is.”
As they walked down the street Webster said thoughtfully:
“The complications seem to pile up, don’t they?”
“Amazingly. And with every lap the track gets heavier. I think the best thing that we can do is to pay a visit to Bellevue and have a talk with someone there who can give us definite information.”
There was something in the speaker’s tone that made his friend look at him quickly.
“Don’t let the matter get on your nerves, old boy,” warned Webster. “You’ll only put yourself in a daze; and then you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
“I know it; but then there is—”
He paused abruptly and gestured the rest.
“You mean the girl?” Webster frowned. All along he had feared this phase of the affair; the girl had struck him from the very first as looming altogether too large in Kenyon’s account of it.
“If it wasn’t for her,” said Kenyon, “the entire matter would be a sort of joke to me. But she changes the face of everything. I can’t stop thinking of her.”
“Well, you had better get into the habit of trying,” growled Garry Webster. “You know it doesn’t do to go about falling in love with girls like this. Now don’t try to shut me off! You are in love with her; if you don’t know it, I do. I’m experienced. I’ve been in love a half-dozen times myself.”
He paused for a moment; and his tone changed, as he continued:
“You see, Ken, you don’t know anything about her. As the thing stands it doesn’t look even near right. It’s a police matter, and she is unquestionably mixed up in it.”
Kenyon winced at this and his face seemed to lose a little of its color. But he said nothing.
“I know that my remarks hurt some,” proceeded Garry. “But it’s a fact, and fact is a thing that I’m strong on—it’s a thing that a man doesn’t do well to brush carelessly by. If he does he’s making a mistake.”
Kenyon put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Don’t think me an ass, old fellow; I see all these things you speak of—and perhaps more, for I’m deeper in the maze than you think. But in spite of it all, I can’t drive the image of that unknown girl from my mind; and I cannot help believing that no matter what manner of things the others may be guilty of, she is innocent.”
“All right,” returned Webster, with a sigh. “Look at it as you see fit. I only hope you prove to be right. There is a great deal in a person’s characteristics, I know; and of course I haven’t seen the girl. Perhaps, if I had, I might feel just as confident of her as you do.”
“I’m sure you would,” said Kenyon, fervently. “No one to look at her could feel otherwise. I know that I’m talking like a moonstruck sophomore, Garry, but just the same I mean every word of it.”
At that moment Webster sighted a cab and signaled it. In a very short space of time they had been set down at Bellevue Hospital, and a nurse had summoned a white-clad, pleasant-faced young surgeon. When he heard their errand he looked interested.
“Oh, yes,” said he. “The rather queer matter of last night. Sit down.”
The two young men sat down and the surgeon occupied the corner of a desk. Apparently he made the same mistake as the policeman had, for his opening words were:
“You are the first reporters that have called in reference to this thing; and there is, I think, a most interesting story in it.” He touched a bell, and a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform made her appearance. “Miss Dickson, get me histories 906-7-8.” When the girl had gone, the man of medicine resumed. “It’s not often that we meet with such a remarkable series of coincidences; but the night has strange kinks in a big city, and the accident ward of a hospital is the best place to see them that I know of.”
The girl re-appeared, handed the speaker three sheets of paper, and vanished.
“I’ll read you these in regular order,” promised the surgeon. “Then you’ll get about the same effect that I did. And before I begin I’d like to say that these are not the regular histories demanded by the institution, but private ones of my own. You see,” with a smile, “these cases were so odd that I did not mind going to a little extra trouble.”
Selecting one of the sheets he began to read:
“Thursday night, November 12th. About 9.30 the patrol of the 40th Precinct brought in a case of assault. It was a man of about thirty years of age and weighing about one hundred and sixty pounds. He was of dark complexion. He had been picked up by the police upon the sidewalk in front of 98 Selden’s Square. The injuries are three incised wounds in the back, probably made by a knife, and two contused wounds of the head. The skull is most likely fractured.”
“Since that was written we have discovered that there is no fracture. The man recovered consciousness and told how he came in his present predicament. Afterwards, during the absence of the nurse, he left the hospital. Just why I don’t know, for he was badly hurt and required attention and nursing.”
Turning to the second sheet he read as follows:
“Thursday night, November 12th. At 10.18 the ambulance was called out. It brought a second man, suffering the same injuries, and who had been picked up in exactly the same place as the first. This man, however, was conscious and able to make a statement immediately.”
“Selden’s Square is a much more abrupt place than I would have thought,” remarked Webster.
“So it would seem. But listen to this other.” The doctor read as follows from the third sheet:
“Same night. About 12.05 I was called down to receive a new case. It was brought in by a cab-driver and a mail-carrier. The latter, while on his last round of collection, found the man lying in the middle of the street in front of 98 Selden’s Square, and at the next corner summoned the cab-driver to his assistance. In this case, as in the other two, the bludgeon and knife had played their parts. This man was smeared with blood and his clothing was torn into shreds. Apparently he had given his assailants a desperate battle.”
The physician laid down the last of the sheets and looked at his visitors with a smile.
“Well, what do you think of that?” asked he.
“Remarkable!” answered Kenyon, briefly.
“Astonishing!” said Webster.
“I think so, too. But this is only the mildest and most conventional side of the thing. What I have yet to tell will make you despair of finding adjectives to express yourselves. But I can only give you the outline, as that is all that I have as yet. The first of these men is from Butte, Montana. He is an engineer in the employ of the Anaconda mine, and apparently a thoroughgoing fellow, indeed. The second is from the town of West Point, and is a sort of private coach for backward students at the Academy there. He is a rather frail young man, with near-sighted eyes and an impediment in his speech. The third is from Saginaw, Michigan. He is a small, compactly-built fellow, of about twenty-three, and with the constitution of a young bull. By profession he is a pugilist. His first words when he recovered consciousness were to inquire about the persons who assaulted him. And when he learned that none of them were in the ward, as badly used up as himself, he was the most crestfallen person I ever saw.”
“Quite a variety of types and temperaments,” remarked Kenyon. “But what had they to say for themselves?” eagerly.
“I don’t know that I am altogether at liberty to tell you that,” answered the young surgeon, slowly; “It’s a sort of police matter, you see. But if you’ll agree not to publish until the authorities release us, I’ll give it to you.”
“We’ll keep it to ourselves,” promised Kenyon.
“Very well then. But as I said before, I can only give you the outline of their statements, at that. Each of these three men is an absolute stranger to the others; yet each was summoned to New York upon the same errand, by the same man, and at the same time. Upon the night of November 12th each arrived in town, one from Butte, one from West Point, and the other from South Bend, Ind.; and each of them immediately made his way to the place of appointment—98 Selden’s Square. And as they arrived there, they were attacked murderously and left for dead. All this is strange; it only requires one more touch to complete the mystery. And we have that in the fact that the three men’s names are alike.”
“And what is the name?” asked Webster.
“Kenyon,” answered the young surgeon; “and a rather unusual one it is, don’t you think?”