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_ In the new white marble Administration Building at Bronx Park, my private
office separated the offices of Dr. Silas Quint and Professor Boomly; and
it had been arranged so on purpose, because of the increasingly frequent
personal misunderstanding between these two celebrated entomologists.
It was very plain to me that a crisis in this quarrel was rapidly
approaching.
A bitter animosity had for some months existed on both sides, born of the
most intense professional jealousy. They had been friends for years. No
unseemly rivalry disturbed this friendship as long as it was merely a
question of collecting, preparing, and mounting for exhibition the vast
numbers of butterflies and moths which haunt this insectivorous earth.
Even their zeal in the eternal hunt for new and undescribed species had
not made them enemies.
I am afraid that my suggestion for the construction of a great glass
flying-cage for _living_ specimens of moths and butterflies started the
trouble between these hitherto godly and middle-aged men. That, and the
Carnegie Educational Medal were the causes which began this deplorable
affair.
Various field collectors, employed by both Quint and Boomly, were always
out all over the world foraging for specimens; also, they were constantly
returning with spoils from every quarter of the globe.
Now, to secure rare and beautiful living specimens of butterflies and
moths for the crystal flying-cage was a serious and delicate job. Such
tropical insects could not survive the journey of several months from
the wilds of Australia, India, Asia, Africa, or the jungles of South
America--nor could semi-tropical species endure the captivity of a few
weeks or even days, when captured in the West Indies, Mexico, or Florida.
Only our duller-coloured, smaller, and hardier native species tolerated
capture and exhibition.
Therefore, the mode of procedure which I suggested was for our field
expeditions to obtain males and females of the same species of butterfly
or moth, mate them, and, as soon as any female deposited her eggs, place
the tiny pearl-like eggs in cold storage to retard their hatching, which
normally occurs, in the majority of species, within ten days or two
weeks.
This now was the usual mode of procedure followed by the field collectors
employed by Dr. Quint and Professor Boomly. And not only were the eggs
of various butterflies and moths so packed for transportation, but a
sufficient store of their various native food-plants was also preserved,
where such food-plants could not be procured in the United States. So
when the eggs arrived at Bronx Park, and were hatched there in due time,
the young caterpillars had plenty of nourishment ready for them in cold
storage.
Might I not, legitimately, have expected the Carnegie Educational
Medal for all this? I have never received it. I say this without
indignation--even without sorrow. I merely make the statement.
Yet, my system was really a very beautiful system; a tiny batch of eggs
would arrive from Ceylon, or Sumatra, or Africa; when taken from cold
storage and placed in the herbarium they would presently hatch; the
caterpillars were fed with their accustomed food-plant--a few leaves
being taken from cold storage every day for them--they would pass through
their three or four moulting periods, cease feeding in due time,
transform into the chrysalis stage, and finally appear in all the
splendour and magnificence of butterfly or moth.
The great glass flying-cage was now alive with superb moths and
butterflies, flitting, darting, fluttering among the flowering bushes
or feeding along the sandy banks of the brook which flowed through
the flying-cage, bordered by thickets of scented flowers. And it was
like looking at a meteoric shower of winged jewels, where the huge
metallic-blue _Morphos_ from South America flapped and sailed, and the
orange and gold and green _Ornithoptera_ from Borneo pursued their
majestic, bird-like flight--where big, glittering _Papilios_ flashed
through the bushes or alighted nervously to feed for a few moments
on jasmine and phlox, and where the slowly flopping _Heliconians_ winged
their way amid the denser tangles of tropical vegetation.
Nothing like this flying-cage had ever before been seen in New York;
thousands and thousands of men, women, and children thronged the lawn
about the flying-cage all day long.
By night, also, the effect was wonderful; the electric lights among the
foliage broke out; the great downy-winged moths, which had been asleep
all day while the butterflies flitted through the sunshine, now came out
to display their crimson or peacock-spotted wings, and the butterflies
folded their wings and went to bed for the night.
The public was enchanted, the authorities of the Bronx proud and
delighted; all apparently was happiness and harmony. Except that nobody
offered me the Carnegie medal.
I was sitting one morning in my office, which, as I have said, separated
the offices of Dr. Quint and Professor Boomly, when there came a loud
rapping on my door, and, at my invitation, Dr. Quint bustled in--a
little, meagre, excitable, near-sighted man with pointed mustaches and
a fleck of an imperial smudging his lower lip.
"Last week," he began angrily, "young Jones arrived from Singapore
bringing me the eggs of _Erebia astarte_, the great Silver Moon
butterfly. Attempts to destroy them have been made. Last night I left
them in a breeding-cage on my desk. Has anybody been in there?"
"I don't know," I said. "What has happened?"
"I found an ichneumon fly in the cage yesterday!" he shouted; "and this
morning the eggs have either shrunk to half their size or else the eggs
of another species have been secretly substituted for them and the Silver
Moon eggs stolen! Has _he_ been in there?"
"Who?" I asked, pretending to misunderstand.
"_He!_" demanded Quint fiercely. "If he has I'll kill him some day."
_He_ meant his one-time friend, Dr. Boomly. Alas!
"For heaven's sake, why are you two perpetually squabbling?" I asked
wearily. "You used to be inseparable friends. Why can't you make up?"
"Because I've come to know him. That's why! I have unmasked this--this
Borgia--this Machiavelli--this monster of duplicity! Matters are
approaching a point where something has got to be done short of murder.
I've stood all his envy and jealousy and cheap imputations and hints and
contemptible innuendoes that I'm going to--"
He stopped short, glaring at the doorway, which had suddenly been
darkened by the vast bulk of Professor Boomly--a figure largely abdominal
but majestic--like the massive butt end of an elephant. For the rest, he
had a rather insignificant and peevish face and a melancholy mustache
that usually looked damp.
"Mr. Smith," he said to me, in his thin, high, sarcastic voice--a voice
incongruously at variance with his bulk--"has anybody had the infernal
impudence to enter my room and nose about my desk?"
"Yes, _I_ have!" replied Quint excitedly. "I've been in your room. What
of it? What about it?"
Boomly permitted his heavy-lidded eyes to rest on Quint for a moment,
then, turning to me:
"I want a patent lock put on my door. Will you speak to Professor
Farrago?"
"I want one put on mine, too!" cried Quint. "I want a lock put on my door
which will keep envious, dull-minded, mentally broken-down, impertinent,
and fat people out of my office!"
Boomly flushed heavily:
"Fat?" he repeated, glaring at Quint. "Did you say 'fat?'"
"Yes, fat--intellectually and corporeally fat! I want that kind of
individual kept out. I don't trust them. I'm afraid of them. Their minds
are atrophied. They are unmoral, possibly even criminal! I don't want
them in my room snooping about to see what I have and what I'm doing. I
don't want them to sneak in, eaten up with jealousy and envy, and try to
damage the eggs of the Silver Moon butterfly because the honour and glory
of hatching them would probably procure for me the Carnegie Educational
Medal--"
"Why, you little, dried-up, protoplasmic atom!" burst out Boomly, his
face suffused with passion, "Are you insinuating that I have any designs
on your batch of eggs?"
"It's my belief," shouted Quint, "that you want that medal yourself, and
that you put an ichneumon fly in my breeding-cage in hopes it would sting
the eggs of the Silver Moon."
"If you found an ichneumon fly there," retorted Boomly, "you probably
hatched it in mistake for a butterfly!" And he burst into a peal of
contemptuous laughter, but his little, pig-like eyes under the heavy lids
were furious.
"I now believe," said Quint, trembling with rage, "that you have
criminally substituted a batch of common _Plexippus_ eggs for the Silver
Moon eggs I had in my breeding-cage! I believe you are sufficiently
abandoned to do it!"
"Ha! Ha!" retorted Boomly scornfully. "I don't believe you ever
had anything in your breeding-cage except a few clothes moths and
cockroaches!"
Quint began to dance:
"You _did_ take them!" he yelled; "and you left me a bunch of milkweed
butterflies' eggs! Give me my eggs or I shall violently assault you!"
"Assault your grandmother!" remarked Boomly, with unscientific brevity.
"What do you suppose I want of your ridiculous eggs? Haven't I enough
eggs of _Heliconius salome_ hatching to give me the Carnegie medal if
I want it?"
"The Silver Moon eggs are unique!" cried Quint. "You know it! You know
that if they hatch, pupate, and become perfect insects that I shall
certainly be awarded--"
"You'll be awarded the Matteawan medal," remarked Boomly with venom.
Quint ran at him with a half-suppressed howl, his momentum carrying him
halfway up Professor Boomly's person. Then, losing foothold, he fell to
the floor and began to kick in the general direction of Professor Boomly.
It was a sorrowful sight to see these two celebrated scientists panting,
mauling, scuffling and punching each other around the room, tables and
chairs and scrapbaskets flying in every direction, and I mounted on the
window-sill horrified, speechless, trying to keep clear of the revolving
storm centre.
"Where are my Silver Moon eggs!" screamed Dr. Quint. "Where are my eggs
that Jones brought me from Singapore--you entomological robber! You've
got 'em somewhere! If you don't give 'em up I'll find means to destroy
you!"
"You insignificant pair of maxillary palpi!" bellowed Professor Boomly,
galloping after Dr. Quint as he dodged around my desk. "I'll pull off
those antennae you call whiskers if I can get hold of em--"
Dr. Quint's threatened mustaches bristled as he fled before the
elephantine charge of Professor Boomly--once again around my desk, then
out into the hall, where I heard the door of his office slam, and Boomly,
gasping, panting, breathing vengeance outside, and vowing to leave Quint
quite whiskerless when he caught him.
It was a painful scene for scientists to figure in or to gaze upon.
Profoundly shocked and upset, I locked up the anthropological department
offices and went out into the Park, where the sun was shining and a
gentle June wind stirred the trees.
Too completely upset to do any more work that day, I wandered about amid
the gaily dressed crowds at hazard; sometimes I contemplated the monkeys;
sometimes gazed sadly upon the seals. They dashed and splashed and raced
round and round their tank, or crawled up on the rocks, craned their wet,
sleek necks, and barked--houp! houp! houp!
For luncheon I went over to the Rolling Stone Restaurant. There was a
very pretty girl there--an unusually pretty girl--or perhaps it was one
of those days on which every girl looked unusually pretty to me. There
are such days.
Her voice was exquisite when she spoke. She said:
"We have, today, corned beef hash, fried ham and eggs, liver and
bacon--" but let that pass, too.
I took my tea very weak; by that time I learned that her name was Mildred
Case; that she had been a private detective employed in a department
store, and that her duties had been to nab wealthy ladies who forgot to
pay for objects usually discovered in their reticules, bosoms, and
sometimes in their stockings.
But the confinement of indoor work had been too much for Mildred Case,
and the only outdoor job she could find was the position of lady
waitress in the rustic Rolling Stone Inn.
She was very, very beautiful, or perhaps it was one of those days--but
let that pass, too.
"You are the great Mr. Percy Smith, Curator of the Anthropological
Department, are you not?" she asked shyly.
"Yes," I said modestly; and, to slightly rebuke any superfluous pride in
me, I paraphrased with becoming humility, pointing upward: "but remember,
Mildred, there is One greater than I."
"Mr. Carnegie?" she nodded innocently. That was true, too. I let it go at
that.
We chatted: she mentioned Professor Boomly and Dr. Quint, gently
deploring the rupture of their friendship. Both gentlemen, in common with
the majority of the administration personnel, were daily customers at the
Rolling Stone Inn. I usually took my lunch from my boarding-house to my
office, being too busy to go out for mere nourishment.
That is why I had hitherto missed Mildred Case.
"Mildred," I said, "I do not believe it can be wholesome for a man to eat
sandwiches while taking minute measurements of defunct monkeys. Also, it
is not a fragrant pastime. Hereafter I shall lunch here."
"It will be a pleasure to serve you," said that unusually--there I go
again! It was an unusually beautiful day in June. Which careful, exact,
and scientific statement, I think ought to cover the subject under
consideration.
After luncheon I sadly selected a five-cent cigar; and, as I hesitated,
lingering over the glass case, undecided still whether to give full rein
to this contemplated extravagance, I looked up and found her beautiful
grey eyes gazing into mine.
"What gentle thoughts are yours, Mildred?" I said softly.
"The cigar you have selected," she murmured, "is fly-specked."
Deeply touched that this young girl should have cared--that she should
have expressed her solicitude so modestly, so sweetly, concerning the
maculatory condition of my cigar, I thanked her and purchased, for the
same sum, a packet of cigarettes.
That was going somewhat far for me. I had never in all my life even
dreamed of smoking a cigarette. To a reserved, thoughtful, and scientific
mind there is, about a packet of cigarettes, something undignified,
something vaguely frolicsome.
When I paid her for them I felt as though, for the first time in my life,
I had let myself go.
Oddly enough, in this uneasy feeling of gaiety and abandon, a curious
sensation of exhilaration persisted.
We had quite a merry little contretemps when I tried to light my
cigarette and the match went out, and then _she_ struck another match,
and we both laughed, and _that_ match was extinguished by her breath.
Instantly I quoted: "'Her breath was like the new-mown hay--'"
"Mr. Smith!" she said, flushing slightly.
"'Her eyes,' I quoted, 'were like the stars at even!'"
"You don't mean _my_ eyes, do you?"
I took a puff at my unlighted cigarette. It also smelled like recently
mown hay. I felt that I was slipping my cables and heading toward an
unknown and tempestuous sea.
"What time are you free, Mildred?" I asked, scarcely recognising my own
voice in such reckless apropos.
She shyly informed me.
I struck a match, relighted my cigarette, and took one puff. That was
sufficient: I was adrift. I realised it, trembled internally, took
another puff.
"If," said I carelessly, "on your way home you should chance to stroll
along the path beyond the path that leads to the path which--"
I paused, checked by her bewildered eyes. We both blushed.
"Which way do you usually go home?" I asked, my ears afire.
[Illustration: "'Which way do you usually go home?' I asked."]
She told me. It was a suitably unfrequented path.
So presently I strolled thither; and seated myself under the trees in a
bosky dell.
Now, there is a quality in boskiness not inappropriate to romantic
thoughts. Boskiness, cigarettes, a soft afternoon in June, the hum of
bees, and the distant barking of the seals, all these were delicately
blending to inspire in me a bashful sentiment.
A specimen of _Papilio turnus_, di-morphic form, _Glaucus_, alighted near
me; I marked its flight with scientific indifference. Yet it is a rare
species in Bronx Park.
A mock-orange bush was in snowy bloom behind me; great bunches of
wistaria hung over the rock beside me.
The combination of these two exquisite perfumes seemed to make the
boskiness more bosky.
There was an unaccustomed and sportive lightness to my step when I rose
to meet Mildred, where she came loitering along the shadow-dappled path.
She seemed surprised to see me.
She thought it rather late to sit down, but she seated herself. I talked
to her enthusiastically about anthropology. She was so interested that
after a while she could scarcely keep still, moving her slim little feet
restlessly, biting her pretty lower lip, shifting her position--all
certain symptoms of an interest in science which even approached
excitement.
Warmed to the heart by her eager and sympathetic interest in the noble
science so precious, so dear to me, I took her little hand to soothe and
quiet her, realizing that she might become overexcited as I described the
pituitary body and why its former functions had become atrophied until
the gland itself was nearly obsolete.
So intense her interest had been that she seemed a little tired. I
decided to give adequate material support to her spinal process. It
seemed to rest and soothe her. I don't remember that she said anything
except: "Mr. _Smith_!" I don't recollect what we were saying when she
mentioned me by name rather abruptly.
The afternoon was wonderfully still and calm. The month was June.
After a while--quite a while--some little time in point of accurate
fact--she detected the sound of approaching footsteps.
I remember that she was seated at the opposite end of the bench, rather
feverishly occupied with her hat and her hair, when young Jones came
hastily along the path, caught sight of us, halted, turned violently
red--being a shy young man--but instead of taking himself off, he seemed
to recover from a momentary paralysis.
"Mr. Smith!" he said sharply. "Professor Boomly has disappeared; there's
a pool of blood on his desk; his coat, hat, and waistcoat are lying on
the floor, the room is a wreck, and Dr. Quint is in there tearing up the
carpet and behaving like a madman. We think he suddenly went insane and
murdered Professor Boomly. What is to be done?"
Horrified, I had risen at his first word. And now, as I understood the
full purport of his dreadful message, my hair stirred under my hat and
I gazed at him, appalled.
"What is to be done?" he demanded. "Shall I telephone for the police?"
"Do you actually believe," I faltered, "that this unfortunate man has
murdered Boomly?"
"I don't know. I looked over the transom, but I couldn't see Professor
Boomly. Dr. Quint has locked the door."
"And he's tearing up the carpet?"
"Like a lunatic. I didn't want to call in the police until I'd asked you.
Such a scandal in Bronx Park would be a frightful thing for us all--" He
hesitated, looked around, coldly, it seemed to me, at Mildred Case. "A
scandal," he repeated, "is scarcely what might be expected among a
harmonious and earnest band of seekers after scientific knowledge. Is it,
Mil--Miss Case?"
Now, I don't know why Mildred should have blushed. There was nothing that
I could see in this young man's question to embarrass her.
Preoccupied, still confused by the shock of this terrible news, I looked
at Jones and at Mildred; and they were staring rather oddly at each
other.
I said: "If this affair turns out to be as ghastly as it seems to
promise, we'll have to call in a detective. I'll go back immediately--"
"Why not take me, also?" asked Mildred Case, quietly.
"What?" I asked, looking at her.
"Why not, Mr. Smith? I was once a private detective."
Surprised at the suggestion, I hesitated.
"If you desire to keep this matter secret--if you wish to have it first
investigated privately and quietly--would it not be a good idea to let me
use my professional knowledge before you call in the police? Because as
soon as the police are summoned all hope of avoiding publicity is at an
end."
She spoke so sensibly, so quietly, so modestly, that her offer of
assistance deeply impressed me.
As for young Jones, he looked at her steadily in that odd, chilling
manner, which finally annoyed me. There was no need of his being snobbish
because this very lovely and intelligent young girl happened to be a
waitress at the Rolling Stone Inn.
"Come," I said unsteadily, again a prey to terrifying emotions; "let us
go to the Administration Building and learn how matters stand. If this
affair is as terrible as I fear it to be, science has received the
deadliest blow ever dealt it since Cagliostro perished."
As we three strode hastily along the path in the direction of the
Administration Building, I took that opportunity to read these two
youthful fellow beings a sermon on envy, jealousy, and coveteousness.
"See," said I, "to what a miserable condition the desire for notoriety
and fame has brought two learned and enthusiastic delvers in the vineyard
of endeavor! The mad desire for the Carnegie medal completely turned the
hitherto perfectly balanced brains of these devoted disciples of Science.
Envy begat envy, jealousy begat jealousy, pride begat pride, hatred begat
hatred--"
"It's like that book in the Bible where everybody begat everybody else,"
said Mildred seriously.
At first I thought she had made an apt and clever remark; but on thinking
it over I couldn't quite see its relevancy. I turned and looked into her
sweet face. Her eyes were dancing with brilliancy and her sensitive lips
quivered. I feared, she was near to tears from the reaction of the shock.
Had Jones not been walking with us--but let that go, too.
We were now entering the Administration Building, almost running; and
as soon as we came to the closed door of Dr. Quint's room, I could hear
a commotion inside--desk drawers being pulled out and their contents
dumped, curtains being jerked from their rings, an unmistakable sound
indicating the ripping up of a carpet--and through all this din the
agitated scuffle of footsteps.
I rapped on the door. No notice taken. I rapped and knocked and called in
a low, distinct voice.
Suddenly I recollected I had a general pass-key on my ring which unlocked
any door in the building. I nodded to Jones and to Mildred to stand
aside, then, gently fitting the key, I suddenly pushed out the key which
remained on the inside, turned the lock, and flung open the door.
A terrible sight presented itself: Dr. Quint, hair on end, both mustaches
pulled out, shirt, cuffs, and white waistcoat smeared with blood, knelt
amid the general wreckage on the floor, in the act of ripping up the
carpet.
"Doctor!" I cried in a trembling voice. "What have you done to Professor
Boomly?"
He paused in his carpet ripping and looked around at us with a terrifying
laugh.
"I've settled _him_!" he said. "If you don't want to get all over dust
you'd better keep out--"
"Quint!" I cried. "Are you crazy?"
"Pretty nearly. Let me alone--"
"Where is Boomly!" I demanded in a tragic voice. "Where is your old
friend, Billy Boomly? Where is he, Quint? And what does _that_ mean--that
pool of blood on the floor? Whose is it?"
"It's Bill's," said Quint, coolly ripping up another breadth of carpet
and peering under it.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Do you admit that?"
"Certainly I admit it. I told him I'd terminate him if he meddled with my
Silver Moon eggs."
"You mean to say that you shed blood--the blood of your old
friend--merely because he meddled with a miserable batch of butterfly's
eggs?" I asked, astounded.
"I certainly did shed his blood for just that particular thing! And
listen; you're in my way--you're standing on a part of the carpet which
I want to tear up. Do you mind moving?"
Such cold-blooded calmness infuriated me. I sprang at Quint, seized him,
and shouted to Jones to tie his hands behind him with the blood-soaked
handkerchief which lay on the floor.
At first, while Jones and I were engaged in the operation of securing
the wretched man, Quint looked at us both as though surprised; then he
grew angry and asked us what the devil we were about.
"Those who shed blood must answer for it!" I said solemnly.
"What? What's the matter with you?" he demanded in a rage. "Shed blood?
What if I did? What's that to you? Untie this handkerchief, you
unmentionable idiot!"
I looked at Jones:
"His mind totters," I said hoarsely.
"What's that!" cried Quint, struggling to get off the chair whither I had
pushed him: but with my handkerchief we tied his ankles to the rung of
the chair, heedless of his attempts to kick us, and sprang back out of
range.
"Now," I said, "what have you done with the poor victim of your fury?
Where is he? Where is all that remains of Professor Boomly?"
"Boomly? I don't know where he is. How the devil should I know?"
"Don't lie," I said solemnly.
"Lie! See here, Smith, when I get out of this chair I'll settle you,
too--"
"Quint! There is another and more terrible chair which awaits such
criminals as you!"
"You old fluff!" he shouted. "I'll knock your head off, too. Do you
understand? I'll attend to you as I attended to Boomly--"
"Assassin!" I retorted calmly. "Only an alienist can save you now. In
this awful moment--"
A light touch on my arm interrupted me, and, a trifle irritated, as any
man might be when checked in the full flow of eloquence, I turned to find
Mildred at my elbow.
"Let me talk to him," she said in a quiet voice. "Perhaps I may not
irritate him as you seem to."
"Very well," I said. "Jones and I are here as witnesses." And I folded my
arms in an attitude not, perhaps, unpicturesque.
"Dr. Quint," said Mildred in her soft, agreeable voice, and actually
smiling slightly at the self-confessed murderer, "is it really true that
you are guilty of shedding the blood of Professor Boomly?"
"It is," said Quint, coolly.
She seemed rather taken aback at that, but presently recovered her
equanimity.
"Why?" she asked gently.
"Because he attempted a most hellish crime!" yelled Quint.
"W-what crime?" she asked faintly.
"I'll tell you. He wanted the Carnegie medal, and he knew it would be
given to me if I could incubate and hatch my batch of Silver Moon
butterfly eggs. He realised well enough that his Heliconian eggs were not
as valuable as my Silver Moon eggs. So first he sneaked in here and put
an ichneumon fly in my breeding-cage. And next he stole the Silver Moon
eggs and left in their place some common _Plexippus_ eggs, thinking that
because they were very similar I would not notice the substitution.
"I did notice it! I charged him with that cataclysmic outrage. He
laughed. We came into personal collision. He chased me into my room."
Panting, breathless with rage at the memory of the morning's defeat which
I had witnessed, Quint glared at me for a moment. Then he jerked his head
toward Mildred:
"As soon as he went to luncheon--Boomly, I mean--I climbed over that
transom and dropped into this room. I had been hunting for ten minutes
before I found my Silver Moon eggs hidden under the carpet. So I pocketed
them, climbed back over the transom, and went to my room."
He paused dramatically, staring from one to another of us:
"Boomly was there!" he said slowly.
"Where?" asked Mildred with a shudder.
"In my room. He had picked the lock. I told him to get out! He went.
I shouted after him that I had recovered the Silver Moon eggs and that
I should certainly be awarded the Carnegie medal.
"Then that monster in human form laughed a horrible laugh, avowing
himself guilty of a crime still more hideous than the theft of the Silver
Moon eggs! Do you know what he had done?"
"W-what?" faltered Mildred.
"He had stolen from cold storage and had concealed the leaves of the
Bimba bush, brought from Singapore to feed the Silver Moon caterpillars!
_That's_ what Boomly had done!
_"And my Silver Moon eggs had already begun to hatch!!! And my
caterpillars would starve"_
His voice ended in a yell; he struggled on his chair until it nearly
upset.
"You lunatic!" I shouted. "Was that a reason for spilling the blood of a
human being!"
"It was reason enough for me!"
"Madman!"
"Let me loose! He's hidden those leaves somewhere or other! I've torn
this place to pieces looking for them. I've got to find them, I tell
you--"
Mildred went to the infuriated entomologist and laid a firm hand on his
shoulder:
"Listen," she said: "how do you know that Professor Boomly has not
concealed these Bimba leaves on his own person?"
Quint ceased his contortions and gaped at her.
"I never thought of that," he said.
"What have you done with him?" she asked, very pale.
"I tell you, I don't know."
"You must know what you did with him," she insisted.
Quint shook his head impatiently, apparently preoccupied with other
thoughts. We stood watching him in silence until he looked up and became
conscious of our concentrated gaze.
"My caterpillars are starving," he began violently. "I haven't anything
else they'll eat. They feed only on the Bimba leaf. They _won't_ eat
anything else. It's a well-known fact that they won't. Why, in Johore,
where they came from, they'll travel miles over the ground to find a
Bimba bush--"
"What!" exclaimed Mildred.
"Certainly--miles! They'd starve sooner than eat anything except Bimba
leaves. If there's a bush within twenty miles they'll find it--"
"Wait," said Mildred quietly. "Where are these starving caterpillars?"
"In a glass jar in my pocket--here! What the devil are you doing!" For
the girl had dexterously slipped the glass jar from his coat pocket and
was holding it up to the light.
Inside it were several dozen tiny, dark caterpillars, some resting
disconsolately on the sides of the glass, some hungrily travelling over
the bottom in pitiful and hopeless quest of nourishment.
Heedless of the shouts and threats of Dr. Quint, the girl calmly uncorked
the jar, took on her slender forefinger a single little caterpillar,
replaced the cork, and, kneeling down, gently disengaged the caterpillar.
It dropped upon the floor, remained motionless for a moment, then,
turning, began to travel rapidly toward the doorway behind us.
"Now," she said, "if poor Professor Boomly really has concealed these
Bimba leaves upon his own person, this little caterpillar, according to
Dr. Quint, is certain to find those leaves."
[Illustration: "'This little caterpillar ... is certain to find those
leaves.'"]
Overcome with excitement and admiration for this intelligent and
unusually beautiful girl, I seized her hands and congratulated her.
"Murder," said I to the miserable Quint, "will out! This infant
caterpillar shall lead us to that dark and secret spot where you had
hoped to conceal the horrid evidence of your guilt. Three things have
undone you--a caterpillar replete with mysterious instinct, a humble
bunch of Bimba leaves, and the marvellous intelligence of this young and
lovely girl. Madman, your hour has struck!"
He looked at me in a dazed sort of way, as though astonishment had left
him unable to articulate. But I had become tired of his violence and
his shouts and yells; so I asked Jones for his handkerchief, and, before
Quint knew what I was up to I had tied it over his mouth.
He became a brilliant purple, but all he could utter was a furious
humming, buzzing noise.
Meanwhile, Jones had opened the door; the little caterpillar, followed by
Mildred and myself, continued to hustle along as though he knew quite
well where he was going.
Down the hallway he went in undulating haste, past my door, we all
following in silent excitement as we discovered that, parallel to the
caterpillar's course, ran a gruesome trail of blood drops.
And when the little creature turned and made straight for the door
of Professor Farrago, our revered chief, the excitement among us was
terrific.
The caterpillar halted; I gently tried the door; it was open.
Instantly the caterpillar crossed the threshold, wriggling forward at top
speed. We followed, peering fearfully around us. Nobody was visible.
Could Quint have dragged his victim here? By Heaven, he had! For the
caterpillar was travelling straight under the lounge upon which Professor
Farrago was accustomed to repose after luncheon, and, dropping on one
knee, I saw a fat foot partly protruding from under the shirred edges of
the fringed drapery.
"He's there!" I whispered, in an awed voice to the others.
"Courage, Miss Case! Try not to faint."
Jones turned and looked at her with that same odd expression; then he
went over to where she stood and coolly passed one arm around her waist.
"Try not to faint, Mildred," he said. "It might muss your hair."
It was a strange thing to say, but I had no time then to analyze it, for
I had seized the fat foot which partly protruded from under the sofa,
clad in a low-cut congress gaiter and a white sock.
And then _I_ nearly fainted, for instead of the dreadful, inert
resistance of lifeless clay, the foot wriggled and tried to kick at me.
"Help!" came a thin but muffled voice. "Help! Help, in the name of
Heaven!"
"Boomly!" I cried, scarcely believing my ears.
"Take that man away, Smith!" whimpered Boomly. "He's a devil! He'll
murder me! He made my nose bleed all over everything!"
"Boomly! You're _not_ dead!"
"Yes, I am!" he whined. "I'm dead enough to suit me. Keep that little
lunatic off--that's all I ask. He can have his Carnegie medal for all
I care, only tie him up somewhere--"
"Professor Boomly!" cried Mildred excitedly. "Have you any Bimba leaves
concealed about your person?"
"Yes, I have," he said sulkily. There came a hitch of the fat foot, a
heavy scuffling sound, heavy panting, and then, skittering out across the
floor came a flat, sealed parcel.
"There you are," he said; "now, let me alone until that fiend has gone
home."
"He won't attack you again," I said. "Come out."
But Professor Boomly flatly declined to stir.
I looked at the parcel: it was marked: "Bimba leaves; Johore."
With a sigh of unutterable relief, I picked up the ravenous little
caterpillar, placed him on the packet, and turned to go. And didn't.
It is a very sickening fact I have now to record. But to a scientist all
facts are sacred, sickening or otherwise.
For what I caught a glimpse of, just outside the door in the hallway,
was Jones kissing Mildred Case. And being shyly indemnified for his
trouble with a gentle return in kind. Both his arms were around her
waist; both her hands rested upon his shoulders; and, as I looked--but
let it pass!--let it pass.
Deliberately I fished in my pocket, found my packet of cigarettes,
lighted one.
Tobacco diffugiunt mordaces curae et laetificat cor hominis!
[THE END]
Robert W. Chambers's short stories: Police!!!
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