Death Points a Finger. Will Levinrew
of it, might, much more easily than each of you singly. There is a mass hysteria that is just as potent in a small group as in a large gathering." He spoke more gently. "I am sorry. This is not the question. You are all disturbed. Let us first learn if the thing that disturbs you has substance or is a mere shadow. That is the thing you all desire, is it not?"
Several nods and a murmur of assent indicated their agreement with this.
"Very well, then, about this number '14.' Is that real or is it mythical?"
Justice Higginbotham answered slowly.
"At one time, Professor, it was real enough, but," turning to
Marshall, "When did we last hear of—"
Marshall answered promptly:
"We have not heard of Amos Brown—alive, since 1902."
"But," spoke up Stanislav Vasiliewski, quietly, "have we proof of his death?"
"That's it," growled McGuire, "We have not. We have not heard of him alive, nor do we know that he is dead. We know in police circles that men can disappear for a great many years. We have received those damnable notes with the number '14.' That's no proof that he's alive, but—"
Professor Brierly, always impatient at speculation, interrupted.
"Let us start this inquiry at the nearest point. Let us begin with the known, if possible, and work forward or backward to the unknown. About which phase of this entire matter are you gentlemen principally disturbed?"
The eleven old men exchanged glances. Senator Ross spoke.
"Between our reunion last year, which broke up about July tenth, until fifteen minutes ago, nine of our group died, seven of them are said to have committed suicide. We have not yet heard from '14' about the two deaths of which we heard this morning, but judging from past experiences we will, sooner or later.
"Call this number '14' mythical if you will, Professor, until we have evidence to the contrary. Nevertheless, seven suicides out of such a small group is disturbing—to say the least."
"Unusual, at any rate," commented Professor Brierly. "Just what, if anything, do you suspect?"
"Well, Professor," said Justice Higginbotham, "I, for one, should like to have indubitable proof that these men really committed suicide."
Professor Brierly's deeply sunken, penetrating blue eyes swept around the circle of faces. He nodded:
"Oh, I see. That should be easily determined, certainly with respect to the last two."
"But," objected Lorenzo Tonti, leaning forward, his swarthy features etched in lines of earnest thought, "we have it on competent medical authority that these men committed suicide. What right have we to question that?"
"We have it on medical authority," tartly interposed Professor
Brierly, "but I am not certain it is competent medical authority.
I have seen too many careless autopsies made and read too many
loosely written reports to have abiding faith in such things."
McCall nodded emphatically.
"Professor Brierly is right there, of course. I have seen, in my official capacity, the things he mentions."
"So have I," chimed in Higginbotham, Fletcher and McGuire.
"Very well, then," said Professor Brierly. "We will not indulge in guesses, conjectures or surmises. Such things are likely to induce an unhappy state of mind. Schurman, you say lives in New York. We shall go to New York if we have to. Is there not something nearer, something—"
"Morris," interrupted several members of the group, "lives in
Lentone." Judge Fletcher corrected, "right outside of Lentone."
"Then," stated Professor Brierly, "that is the place to begin, as soon as we know what we are looking for. One of you gentlemen, I am certain, can obtain the necessary permission to have me verify the official verdict of suicide. When we have done that, we shall have cleared away much doubt and uncertainty." His speech was now crisp, clear, incisive. "Is there any reason why we cannot do this at once?"
"No," said Justice Higginbotham slowly, "there is not. But we are waiting to hear from the only one of our members unaccounted for—Wrigley." Jimmy noticed that while their mood had lightened during the past few minutes in the interchange with Professor Brierly, the mention of the name of the missing member brought back the atmosphere of gloom and doubt.
"Tell me all you care to tell me, Judge, of the inception of your group. Sometimes talking about a thing to an outsider helps. You gentlemen have brooded on this too long. Let us see if we can help clear it up."
Justice Higginbotham told in elaborate detail what McCall had sketched briefly. His deep voice, the remarkable voice that had handed down so many important decisions from the highest tribunal in the land, rolled on, with the gentle lapping of the waters of the lake against the small wharf, a faint obligate Jimmy was to remember this scene for a long time; it was etched on his memory very clearly.
He sensed that the old jurist was talking against time. While he seemed absorbed in his tale as were the others, this absorption was only superficial. With their inner senses they all seemed to be waiting, waiting for the dread news of their missing comrade.
These old men, everyone of whom showed his uneasiness in his own way, had each lived more than three-quarters of a century. Some of them showed their age very distinctly, mentally and physically. Jimmy could see their attention wander from the absorbing tale as Justice Higginbotham unfolded it, one of the most glamorous that Jimmy had ever heard.
Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Justice Higginbotham stopped talking. From the room facing on the porch there had come the faint whirring that was a prelude to the striking of the old-fashioned clock. Then came the deep tones of the hour.
Jimmy remembered now that when the clock had struck an hour before there had come the telephone message appraising the group of the death of Morris Miller.
The last stroke was still reverberating when the staccato jangling of the telephone bell drew a number of the old men to their feet. As if by a common impulse, as if they expected to get the answer to their spoken question through their eyes, every person on the deep porch, turned in the direction of the telephone. They looked as if they expected to see the dread message or messenger through the walls between them and the instrument.
The white-headed, grizzled negro came to the door. He spoke to
Justice Higginbotham:
"Fo' you, suh. Je'sey City callin'."
As Justice Higginbotham arose to answer the call, Antoine
Rochambeau spoke, his voice breaking to a faint croak:
"Jersey City is the home of Wrigley." The speaker was looking at Professor Brierly with burning eyes, a hectic flush flaming in his drawn cheeks. Professor Brierly looked at him sharply. He swiftly stepped to his side, laying his hand soothingly on his shoulder. The flush subsided, the man's tense body relaxed. He shook his head mumbling.
Fourteen pairs of eyes were looking toward the doorway as Justice Higginbotham once more returned, and came to an unconscious dramatic pause. He nodded, as if in confirmation of a statement.
"Wrigley was drowned yesterday noon at Bradley Beach, a seaside resort on the New Jersey coast about one mile south of Asbury Park."
While he was talking, Jimmy heard the squealing of brakes on the other side of the house. A motor car had come to a stop in front of the camp.
The eyes of the entire group turned in that direction. At Justice Higginbotham's announcement several of the men had stood up. They now dropped back into their seats. There was a long pause. To Jimmy it seemed that they all held their breath. The negro came to the door, in his hand a sheaf of telegrams. His eyes swept over the entire group.
He