The Curious Cases of Detective Richard Duvall (All 3 Books in One Volume). Frederic Arnold Kummer
anger.
"I'm trying a new modification of the light treatment upon you," Hartmann went on, with a jarring laugh. "Dr. Mentone, of Milan, has great hopes of it. Wonderful thing, these violet rays! Have you read of their use in sterilizing milk? No? The subject would interest you. How is your mind this morning? Somewhat irritated, no doubt. Well, well, that will soon wear off. You've only been under the treatment six hours. Scarcely long enough to produce much effect. We'll make it ten, the next time. It is necessary to increase gradually, in order not to superinduce insanity." He went to a switch on the wall and pressed it, and instantly the cone of light disappeared. Another movement, and the room Was flooded with the yellow glow of an electric lamp, which seemed dingy and wan, compared with the cold brilliance which it displaced.
The dispelling of darkness brought to Duvall's brain a rush of sensations, among which the knowledge that he was once more in the lumber-room beneath the laboratory stood forth with overwhelming prominence. He glanced at Hartmann with reddened eyes. "Let me up, damn you!" he shouted.
The doctor bent over him, his face smiling. "Just a moment, Mr. Duvall. Have a little patience." He began to unbuckle several straps, and presently stood back, with a wave of his hand. "Get up," he said.
The detective's swollen muscles, his stiffened limbs, still retained the sensation of being bound; he scarcely realized that his bonds had been removed. Painfully he crawled to his feet, and stood before the doctor, blinking, trying to collect his faculties. On the floor lay a number of broad leather straps, secured to iron rings which had been let into the cement floor.
His first thought was to make a quick rush at his captor, and after overpowering him, secure the snuff box and dash from the place. His eyes must have shown something of his intention, for Hartmann, stepping back a pace, drew his right hand from his pocket. It contained an ugly-looking magazine pistol. "Don't attempt anything rash, Mr. Duvall. It would be useless. Even should you succeed in disposing of me, which I hardly think possible, you could not get away from my man Mayer, who is waiting in the corridor outside. Enough of this nonsense," he went on, scowling. "I mean to be quite frank with you, my friend. I intend to subject you to this device of mine—" he waved his hand toward the opening in the ceiling—"until you disclose the whereabouts of the snuff box. I know it is somewhere near at hand, either here or in Brussels, for your two assistants, whom I have had released, have been hanging about the place all the morning. If the violet rays have no other effect, they will at least prevent you from sleeping, and my experience shows that loss of sleep, if persisted in, will shatter the best set of nerves on earth. You know what the effect is, for six hours. The next time, as I said some little while ago, we shall try ten—and after that, longer periods, until the process becomes continuous. I am giving you these brief respites, at first, because I have not the least wish to drive you mad—all I ask is the snuff box which you took from my messenger Seltz. Give it up, and you can go at your convenience. But I must have it—even if I am obliged to drive you to the limit. I advise you to save yourself much suffering, and give it to me now."
The detective drew back his arm—his fist clenched. The impulse to drive it into Hartmann's face was overpowering. He turned abruptly on his heel, and made no reply.
Hartmann waited for a moment, then seeing that his prisoner was not disposed to answer, went toward the door. "Max," he called, opening it, "bring in the tray." The attendant at once entered with a waiter containing food, which he placed on a box near the door. "Is that all?" he asked. Hartmann nodded and the man withdrew.
"Think the matter over, Mr. Duvall," the doctor remarked, as he stepped across the threshold of the door. "I shall call upon you again, later in the day."
Duvall waited until the door had been closed and locked, and the doctor's footsteps had died away up the iron staircase. He heard them for a moment, on the floor of the room above, then all was quiet.
In a moment the detective had stepped to the large box in the corner, behind which lay, he believed, the discarded opera hat. At a glance, he saw that it was still there. He was about to stoop and pick it up, when a sudden fear swept over him. Suppose he was being watched. The doctor was in the room above. The presence in the room of the beam of light showed clearly that there must be an opening in the ceiling, into the laboratory. For all he knew, Hartmann might be observing his every movement. He stopped in his attempt to pick up the hat, and pretended to be greatly interested in the box and its contents. After making a careful examination of the labels upon it, he strolled carelessly back to the other side of the room, and ate the breakfast which the attendant had left. He supposed it to be breakfast, although he had no realization of the time. In a moment he felt for his watch, and found that it was still in his pocket. When he consulted it, however, he saw at once that it had run down.
After his meal, he began to feel terribly tired and sleepy. At first he fought off the feeling, realizing that his only hope of freedom lay in keeping awake, with all his senses alert. Then he thought of the nerve-racking hours through which he had just passed; the many more which were likely to follow, and decided that he must have rest at any cost. He threw himself upon the floor, his head pillowed upon his arm, and was soon sleeping the deep sleep which follows utter exhaustion.
Chapter 17
All during the afternoon of the day upon which she had first met her husband during his confinement at Dr. Hartmann's, Grace Duvall wandered about the place, looking for him, waiting with growing fears for his appearance. When evening came, and she had failed to find him, she became greatly alarmed. In her excitement, she forgot the word she had agreed to send into Brussels by the boy who drove the delivery wagon, and was just returning to the house when she heard someone calling to her from the drive. She turned and saw that it was the bread boy, who had stopped his cart some little distance from the veranda.
"Mademoiselle," he called, "you have dropped your handkerchief." He pointed with his whip to a white object which lay in the roadway close beside the wheels of the cart. She had not dropped her handkerchief—she knew that it was at that moment tightly clenched in her left hand, but she understood.
"Thank you," she called, and hurried toward him. The boy, meanwhile, had climbed down from the wagon, and picking up the handkerchief, which he had himself secretly dropped, handed it to her, with a polite bow. She felt, as she clutched the bit of linen, that within it lay a note.
"He is here," she said quickly, in an undertone. "The box is safe. It is hidden. They have not yet discovered it. But I am afraid something terrible has happened to Mr. Duvall. Tell them to send help, quick." She turned away, and the boy mounted his box, whistling gayly, and at once drove off.
Grace hurried to her room, to examine the note within the handkerchief. She could hardly wait to see what it contained. The contents were a great disappointment to her. "Leave the house about ten o'clock to-morrow morning," it said. That was all. She had already decided to do this, in order to effect, if possible, her husband's release. So far as the snuff box was concerned, she felt that she did not care whether the doctor discovered it or not, if only she might know that Richard was safe. All during the evening she wandered aimlessly about the house, hoping each minute that she might come upon him, but her search was in vain. Richard Duvall seemed to have vanished completely.
Once she met the doctor, just as she had given up in despair and was returning to her room. He spoke pleasantly enough, asked her how she felt, and showed much concern that she had refused to eat any supper. "You must eat, mademoiselle," he told her. "Have you taken regularly the tonic I prescribed?" She nodded, not considering it necessary to inform him that she had carefully poured it, dose by dose, into the sink. For a moment she thought of asking him what had become of Mr. Brooks, but she feared to rouse his suspicions. "I'm feeling somewhat out of sorts," she said. "I'll be all right in the morning."
"I am gratified to observe," he remarked, as she left him, "that you had no tendency to walk in your sleep last night. I trust the improvement will continue. Good-night." She could not determine whether or not there lay any hidden meaning back of his words. His mirthless smile somehow made her feel uncomfortable.