The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK ®. Brander Matthews
Throughout life, and in spite of the best of training, that person reacts now and then to a certain stimulus directly. A man stands high; once a year he falls with a lethal quantity of alcohol. A woman, brilliant, accomplished, slips away and spends a day with a lover as unlike herself as can be imagined.
“The voice that interests me most on these records,” he went on, emphasizing the words with one of the cylinders which he still held, “is that of a person who has been working on the family pride of another. That person has persuaded the other to administer to Eugenia an extract because ‘it must be a boy and an Atherton.’ That person is a high-class defective, born with a criminal instinct, reacting to it in an artful way. Thank God, the love of a man whom theoretical eugenics condemned, roused us in—”
A cry at the door brought us all to our feet, with hearts thumping as if they were bursting.
It was Eugenia Atherton, wild-eyed, erect, staring.
I stood aghast at the vision. Was she really to be the Lady Madeline in this fall of the House of Atherton?
“Edith—I—I missed you. I heard voices. Is—is it true—what this man—says? Is my—my baby—”
Quincy Atherton leaped forward and caught her as she reeled. Quickly Craig threw open a window for air, and as he did so leaned far out and blew shrilly on a police whistle.
The young man looked up from Eugenia, over whom he was bending, scarcely heeding what else went on about him. Still, there was no trace of anger on his face, in spite of the great wrong that had been done him. There was room for only one great emotion—only anxiety for the poor girl who had suffered so cruelly merely for taking his name.
Kennedy saw the unspoken question in his eyes.
“Eugenia is a pure normal, as Dr. Crafts told you,” he said gently. “A few weeks, perhaps only days, of treatment—the thyroid will revert to its normal state—and Eugenia Gilman will be the mother of a new house of Atherton which may eclipse even the proud record of the founder of the old.”
“Who blew the whistle?” demanded a gruff voice at the door, as a tall bluecoat puffed past the scandalized butler.
“Arrest that woman,” pointed Kennedy. “She is the poisoner. Either as wife of Burroughs, whom she fascinates and controls as she does Edith, she planned to break the will of Quincy or, in the other event, to administer the fortune as head of the Eugenics Foundation after the death of Dr. Crafts, who would have followed Eugenia and Quincy Atherton.”
I followed the direction of Kennedy’s accusing finger. Maude Schofield’s face betrayed more than even her tongue could have confessed.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE BILLIONAIRE BABY
Coming to us directly as a result of the talk that the Atherton case provoked was another that involved the happiness of a wealthy family to a no less degree.
“I suppose you have heard of the ‘billionaire baby,’ Morton Hazleton III?” asked Kennedy of me one afternoon shortly afterward.
The mere mention of the name conjured up in my mind a picture of the lusty two-year-old heir of two fortunes, as the feature articles in the Star had described that little scion of wealth—his luxurious nursery, his magnificent toys, his own motor car, a trained nurse and a detective on guard every hour of the day and night, every possible precaution for his health and safety.
“Gad, what a lucky kid!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” put in Kennedy. “The fortune may be exaggerated. His happiness is, I’m sure.”
He had pulled from his pocketbook a card and handed it to me. It read: “Gilbert Butler, American representative, Lloyd’s.”
“Lloyd’s?” I queried. “What has Lloyd’s to do with the billion-dollar baby?”
“Very much. The child has been insured with them for some fabulous sum against accident, including kidnaping.”
“Yes?” I prompted, “sensing” a story.
“Well, there seem to have been threats of some kind, I understand. Mr. Butler has called on me once already today to retain my services and is going to—ah—there he is again now.”
Kennedy had answered the door buzzer himself, and Mr. Butler, a tall, sloping-shouldered Englishman, entered.
“Has anything new developed?” asked Kennedy, introducing me.
“I can’t say,” replied Butler dubiously. “I rather think we have found something that may have a bearing on the case. You know Miss Haversham, Veronica Haversham?”
“The actress and professional beauty? Yes—at least I have seen her. Why?”
“We hear that Morton Hazleton knows her, anyhow,” remarked Butler dryly.
“Well?”
“Then you don’t know the gossip?” he cut in. “She is said to be in a sanitarium near the city. I’ll have to find that out for you. It’s a fast set she has been traveling with lately, including not only Hazleton, but Dr. Maudsley, the Hazleton physician, and one or two others, who if they were poorer might be called desperate characters.”
“Does Mrs. Hazleton know of—of his reputed intimacy?”
“I can’t say that, either. I presume that she is no fool.”
Morton Hazleton, Jr., I knew, belonged to a rather smart group of young men. He had been mentioned in several near-scandals, but as far as I knew there had been nothing quite as public and definite as this one.
“Wouldn’t that account for her fears?” I asked.
“Hardly,” replied Butler, shaking his head. “You see, Mrs. Hazleton is a nervous wreck, but it’s about the baby, and caused, she says, by her fears for its safety. It came to us only in a roundabout way, through a servant in the house who keeps us in touch. The curious feature is that we can seem to get nothing definite from her about her fears. They may be groundless.”
Butler shrugged his shoulders and proceeded, “And they may be well-founded. But we prefer to run no chances in a case of this kind. The child, you know, is guarded in the house. In his perambulator he is doubly guarded, and when he goes out for his airing in the automobile, two men, the chauffeur and a detective, are always there, besides his nurse, and often his mother or grandmother. Even in the nursery suite they have iron shutters which can be pulled down and padlocked at night and are constructed so as to give plenty of fresh air even to a scientific baby. Master Hazleton was the best sort of risk, we thought. But now—we don’t know.”
“You can protect yourselves, though,” suggested Kennedy.
“Yes, we have, under the policy, the right to take certain measures to protect ourselves in addition to the precautions taken by the Hazletons. We have added our own detective to those already on duty. But we—we don’t know what to guard against,” he concluded, perplexed. “We’d like to know—that’s all. It’s too big a risk.”
“I may see Mrs. Hazleton?” mused Kennedy.
“Yes. Under the circumstances she can scarcely refuse to see anyone we send. I’ve arranged already for you to meet her within an hour. Is that all right?”
“Certainly.”
The Hazleton home in winter in the city was uptown, facing the river. The large grounds adjoining made the Hazletons quite independent of the daily infant parade which one sees along Riverside Drive.
As we entered the grounds we could almost feel the very atmosphere on guard. We did not see the little subject of so much concern, but I remembered his much heralded advent, when his grandparents had settled a cold million on him, just as a reward for coming into the world. Evidently, Morton, Sr., had hoped that Morton, Jr., would calm down, now that there was a third generation to consider. It seemed that he had not.