The Scientists Revolt Read online

  Macklin’s back was toward the open window and he was facing in the direction of the door leading into the hallway. He was not particularly interested in the book he was reading — it did not hold his attention. It was better than nothing however in assisting him to pass the time until the household slumbered, for he had a suspicion that something might transpire thereafter that would prove of interest to him and to his chief in Washington.

  He had been sitting thus for about an hour, when his eyes alighted upon a folded paper lying on the threshold partially inside the room. It had not been there a moment before, of that he was positive. There had been no sound — the paper had not been there one minute — the next minute it had. That was all there was to it.

  In the instant that he discovered the thing he leaped quickly toward the door with the intention of throwing it open; but before his hand touched the knob he thought better of his contemplated act and, instead, stooped and picked up the paper. Whoever put it there did not want to be seen. Perhaps it would be better to humor them, temporarily at least.

  Standing near the door he opened the message and read its contents, after which he was glad that he had not yielded to his first impulse to rush into the hall in an effort to discover the messenger. The note was in a feminine hand and read: “Mackie: Please come to my room at quarter past two. I have something to tell you. Do not come before,” and it was signed with the initials “N.S.”

  Donovan’s right palm went to the back of his neck in a characteristic gesture of perplexity. It wasn’t like Nariva — she wasn’t the sort of girl that would ask a man to hes room at that hour of the morning — unless —ah, that was it! She wanted to tell him something that she didn’t dare tell him before Saran. It must be that. It must be something urgent. Whatever it was it was all right — he could trust her — of that he was quite sure. He glanced at his watch. It lacked about five minutes to quarter past. He went to his dressing room, buttoned on his collar, adjusted his tie, and slipped into his dinner coat.

  Before leaving his room he turned to his dresser from which he took a needle pistol.2 He was on the point of slipping it into a hip pocket when he hesitated, and then, with a shrug, replaced it in the dresser and closed the drawer.

  Walking toward the hall door his glance fell upon the table. He came to an abrupt stop and, wheeling, took a hurried survey of the room, for propped against the reading lamp was a square blue envelope that had not been there when he had quitted the room a few minutes before. Snatching it up he saw his own initials crudely printed upon its face. The flap, which was but freshly sealed, he tore open, revealing an ordinary square correspondence card, upon which was printed in the same rude hand a single word: BEWARE!

  A frown creased Donovan’s brow. His hall door was locked. He glanced toward the open window, and then quickly at his watch. It was exactly quarter past two. Slipping the blue envelope and the card into his pocket he crossed the room to the hall door. As he laid his hand upon the knob the faint report of a needle pistol came to his ears, followed almost immediately by the sound of a body falling, and the piercing shriek of a woman.

  THROWING the door open Donovan stepped out into the hall and ran quickly toward the front of the house — the direction from which the sounds had come. At the head of the stairs leading to the library he stumbled over a huddled heap covered by a dressing gown. A few feet farther along the hall was Nariva Saran’s room on one side and across from it that occupied by the fastidious Mrs. Glassock and her daughter.

  From the position of the body Donovan’s police instinct sensed almost intuitively the fact that the needle could have been fired from inside 'Nariva’s room, but not from the Glassock room. Too, it might also have been fired from the doorway of the room occupied by John Saran. But from the direction that the doors of the various rooms opened it could most easily have been fired from Nariva’s, had the door been opened not more than an inch, by one standing concealed within. Some of these things came to him as suspicions at the moment, to be verified by investigation later. But above all else there loomed above him like a hideous spectre the appalling fact that the needle had been fired precisely at quarter past two.

  Saran was the first on the scene, followed quickly by Percy Thorn and Greeves. Greeves and Saran were fully dressed—a fact which no one but Donovan seemed to note. It was Saran who switched on the lights.

  “What has happened?” he cried, his voice oddly loud and forced.

  Donovan pointed at the huddled form lying on the floor, the head and face of which were hidden by the large collar of the dressing gown as the body had slumped to the floor. “Murder!” he replied.

  Saran looked bewildered; and as Greeves came running up his eyes were wide in astonishment and incredulity, but they were not looking at the body on the floor — they were fixed on Macklin Donovan.

  Mrs. Glassock now came from her room, and behind her was Genevive, while servants were pouring from the upper floors.

  “Who is it?” demanded Percy Thorn.

  Donovan stooped and drew back the collar of the dressing gown. A scream broke from the lips of Mrs. Glassock. “My God!” she cried, “it’s Mason.”

  “Father!” exclaimed Percy Thorn, dropping to his knees beside the body. “Who could have done it?” he cried. “Who could have done it?” and he looked around at them all standing there — questioningly, accusingly.

  Donovan knelt beside Percy and turned the body over on its back, opened the dressing gown and the shirt and placed his ear above the heart. Presently he arose. They were all looking at him, eyes filled with suspense. Donovan shook his head, sadly.

  “Mr. Thorn is dead,” he said. “Greeves, go to the phone and call the police. Percy, we shall have to leave the body here until they come. You had better go and prepare your aunt, and prevent her coming down until after the police have been here. I shall remain here. The rest of you may go to your rooms, or not, as you wish. There is nothing that anyone can do until after the police come.”

  Percy Thorn came to his feet like one in a trance and moved slowly down the hall toward the stairs leading to the third floor where was his aunt’s room. Greeves ran quickly down the stairs to the library to the telephone. Donovan looked about him. Where was Nariva Saran.

  “Mrs. Glassock,” he said, turning to that lady, “will you kindly step to Miss Saran’s room and see if she is all right.”

  Mrs. Glassock crossed the hall and knocked lightly on Miss Saran’s door. There was no response. She knocked again, more imperatively. Still no response.

  “Try the door,” directed Donovan. It was locked. Donovan turned toward Saran. “Where is your daughter?” he demanded. He was no longer the suave young society man. Instead, his voice cut like steel, and in it was the ring of steel.

  Saran was pale. “She must be in her room,” he replied. “Where else could she be?”

  Donovan motioned to a couple of frightened footmen. “Break down the door!” he commanded.

  As they stepped forward to obey, the door of Nariva Saran’s room opened, revealing her standing there, fully dressed, and breathing rapidly. At sight of Macklin Donovan she voiced a little cry that she tried to smother, and her eyes went very wide.

  “What has happened?” she cried, when she found her voice. “I heard a noise — I must have swooned. Who is it?” and she looked down at the still figure on the floor. “Oh, no! ” she cried when she recognized the features, “it cannot be — it cannot be Mr. Thorn — it must be a terrible mistake!”

  “It was a terrible mistake, Miss Saran,” said Donovan, coldly, his eyes steadily upon hers.

  CHAPTER III Mystery

  THE strato police ship came, and, as Fate would have it, under the command of Lieutenant Terrance Donovan; The body of Mason Thorn was removed to the small room off the library — a room that he had used for a study and in which was a large couch. It was laid upon the couch, near an open window. Then Terrance Donovan returned to the library. Mrs. Glassock was there, and Genevive. Percy Thorn
sat on a sofa beside his aunt, who was weeping softly, trying to comfort her. Saran stood before the cold fireplace smoking a cigaret. Greeves remained beside the door to his master’s study. There were three burly police officers and some of the maids and housemen also, the latter standing near the hall doorway as though momentarily expecting to be banished.

  “Now,” said Terrance Donovan, “I want to hear about this. Who saw the shooting,”

  “No one,” replied his son, “as far as I have been able to discover. The killing occurred at precisely a quarter past two,” he glanced at Saran, but the latter was looking at the ceiling. Nariva was not in the room. “I was the first to reach the hall. I found Mr. Thorn lying where you found him, but on his face. It was necessary for me to turn him over to examine him for signs of life — otherwise the body was not disturbed.”

  Neither Lieutenant Donovan nor Macklin had given any indication of their relationship or that they were even acquainted, owing to the fact that the latter was assuming a role necessary to the successful prosecution of his investigation and that exposure at this time would doubtless nullify all that the Department had accomplished.

  “Who do you think might have had reason to wish to kill Mr. Thorn?” continued Lieutenant Donovan.

  “I believe that no one could have had any reason for wishing to kill him,” replied Macklin. “To my knowledge he hadn’t an enemy in the world and I never heard him in altercation with anyone — ” He paused. “It is my belief, sir, that the needle that killed Mr. Thorn was intended for another.” As he spoke he looked directly at Saran whose eyes were now upon him, and was rewarded by a slight narrowing of the other’s lids. Somehow this chance shot had gone home. Saran knew something.

  “Who followed you into the hall after the needle was fired?” asked the police official.

  “I did,” said Saran. “Mr. Donovan was standing over the body of Mr. Thorn as I came from my room. The hall was but dimly lighted, yet sufficiently to permit me to see Mr. Donovan. He was putting something in his hip pocket as I opened the door of my room.” The insinuation was obvious and that it was thoroughly understood was manifest by the sound of quick intaking of breath by several of the occupants of the library.

  Macklin smiled. “You’d better have me searched, lieutenant,” he said.

  “I object to his being searched or questioned farther by this officer,” protested Saran.

  “Why?” asked Lieutenant Donovan.

  “Because you are his father,” replied the Assurian.

  The effect of this second surprise was almost equal to that of the first. The chin of Mrs. Peabody Glassock dropped for an instant, then she smiled superciliously.

  "The count must have lost his mind,” she whispered to her daughter. “The very idea — Macklin Donovan the son of a common policeman!”

  Genevive turned to a police officer standing behind them. “What is the lieutenant’s name?” she asked.

  “Terrance Donovan, mum,” replied Officer McGroarty.

  Mrs. Glassock appeared slightly groggy, but she was still in the ring. “Ridiculous!” she exclaimed “He is of the Donovans of San Francisco.” She looked defiantly, and crushingly at Officer McGroarty.

  “Sure, mum,” said he, “an’ it wasn’t me that was after sayin’ he wasn’t — it was him over there,” he nodded in the direction of Saran.

  Terrance Donovan eyed the Assurian. “What makes you think this man is my son?” he demanded.

  Saran hesitated. He seemed to regret that he had made the charge. He smiled deprecatingly and spread his palms before him with a shrug. “One of the servants at Three Gables told my valet. I gave the matter no thought — scarcely believed it, in fact, until you arrived here tonight. Then I recalled.”

  “How does it happen that you know my name?” asked Terrance Donovan.

  SARAN was evidently nonplussed by the question.

  He realized his mistake instantly, but it was too late to remedy it. He sought to cover his confusion by a show of anger.

  “It makes no difference how I know,” he snapped. “I do know, and I don’t purpose permitting the murderer of my friend to escape because he is the son of a police lieutenant. I demand that some other officer pursue this investigation.”

  Terrance Donovan nodded. “You are right,” he said. “I think Captain Bushor is here now — I just heard his ship arrive.”

  “He does not deny that Macklin is his son,” whispered Genevive, to her mother.

  “Preposterous,” said Mrs. Glassock, but she said it in a small voice — she was weakening. “I always mistrusted him,” she added; “he never impressed me as one having the air of one to the manner born, as it were.”

  At this juncture a large man in the uniform of a captain of police entered the room. He nodded to Lieutenant Donovan and crossed to his side. The two men whispered together in low tones for a few minutes, then Captain Bushor pointed a large forefinger at John Saran.

  “Do you accuse Mr. Macklin Donovan of the murder of Mason Thorn?” he asked.

  “I accuse no one,” replied Saran; “[ merely relate what I witnessed.”

  “What else did you witness beside what you have told Lieutenant Donovan?”

  “After the police came, and while they were carrying Mr. Thorn’s body down stairs Mr. Donovan went to his room, took a piece of paper from his pocket and burned it.”

  Macklin Donovan looked at the speaker in surprise. Saran had spoken the truth, but how had he known?

  “Perhaps,” continued the Assurian, “he may have hidden his pistol at the same time — provided of course that it was he who shot Mr. Thorn. If the pistol is not in his possession now it may be in his room. He should be searched and so should his room.” “Shure it’s a dirty frame,” grumbled Officer McGroarty. “I’ve known Mackie Donovan since we was knee-high to nothin’ at all, an’ there ain’t a sneaky hair in his head.” He spoke in a whisper that was audible only to the Glassocks.

  “Then you admit that he is the son of that person there,” accused Mrs. Glassock. “I am not in the least surprised. I have said right along that he had a low face.”

  Genevive Glassock looked at her mother in wide-eyed astonishment. “I think he’s wonderful,” she said, “and I have changed my mind about marrying him.” She could not resist the temptation to retaliate for the older woman’s past unwelcome efforts at match-making.

  “You will return to Philadelphia today,” snapped Mrs. Glassock.

  Captain Bushor was searching Macklin for a weapon—which he did not find.

  “Now we’ll take a look at your room,” he said. “You come along,” he pointed at Saran. “The rest of you stay here. See that no one leaves the room, McGroarty.”

  Lieutenant Donovan glanced quickly around the library as he accompanied Bushor, Saran and Macklin toward the stairway. “Where’s the butler?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Why, he was here just a moment ago,” replied Percy Thorn; “perhaps he’s stepped into the next room,” and he pointed to the study where his father’s body lay. “Greeves!” he called, but there was no response.

  One of the policemen stepped into the adjoining room. “There ain’t no one in there,” he said.

  “Find him,” directed the captain, as he led the way up the stairs, with Mackin Donovan at his side.

  UPON the left of the landing half way up the stairs was a tall pier glass. Reflected in it, just for an instant, Macklin saw the shadowy figure of a woman dart into his room at the far fnd of the dimly lighted hall. He was upon the point of telling Bushor what he had seen when there flashed to his mind the realization that all the women in the house, save one, were in the library below, and that one was Nariva Saran.

  An instant later they reached the head of the stairs in full view of the entire hallway. There had been no opportunity for whoever had entered his room to leave it. The hall had been lighted when last he passed through it after the officers had come, but now the lights were extinguished, the only illumination coming from
the landing on the stairway. Who had extinguished them, and why? Possibly what he had just seen reflected in the mirror explained why.

  The three men walked directly to Macklin’s room, which, like the hall, was in darkness^ although Donovan distinctly recalled that the lamp on the reading table had been lighted when he left the room. Just inside the doorway was a switch. Macklin pressed this switch and the room was flooded with light.

  “I suggest that you make a very thorough search,” said Saran.

  “When I want any suggestions from you I’ll ask you for ’em,” replied Bushor, tersely. Saran subsided, scowling.

  “Got a gun, Macklin?” asked the captain.

  “It’s in my dresser — top drawer on the left,” replied young Donovan, indicating the article of furniture with a jerk of his thumb.

  Captain Bushor crossed to the dresser and opened the upper left hand drawer, in which he rummaged for a moment. “No gun here, Macklin,” he said.

  Macklin Donovan knitted his brows. “It was there at the instant that Mr. Thorn was killed,” he said. “I had just placed it there.”

  The police officer continued to ransack the dresser, and then each of the other pieces of furniture in the two rooms and the closet. Nowhere could he find a pistol. Saran was quite evidently restraining a desire to speak, only with the greatest difficulty. At last he could hold his peace no longer. “Why don’t you search the bed?” he demanded, eagerly.

  Macklin glanced quickly toward the bed, the covers at the foot of which, he noticed for the first time, were disarranged, as though they had been pulled out from the side and hastily tucked in again. Bushor crossed to the bed and pulled the coverings aside. One by one he removed and shook them. Finally he turned the mattress completely off the springs. Saran was almost standing on tip-toe. There was no weapon there!