Part 20

"Have you any personal knowledge of the implication of your husband and Orkins in the theft of the rocket?" McGinity asked.

She shook her head. "Only a suspicion," she replied. "There were many, many nights, while I was locked in the attic, when I couldn't sleep, so I used to listen for sounds from the lower part of the house. The night the rocket was stolen, I remember distinctly the house was as quiet as a tomb. I remained awake all night, terrorized at the thought of being left alone. Towards morning, I heard familiar sounds again--footfalls in the hall--voices--and went to sleep."

"I wonder what motive prompted LaRauche to do a crazy thing like that?" I interrogated.

"Dispose of the rocket, and he would be less liable to detection," Mrs. LaRauche replied. "He must have become suddenly fearful of some one tracing the workmanship of the rocket to him. It was public knowledge that he had made considerable progress in the creation of a metal rocket, which he hoped, eventually, to catapult to the moon. No doubt he reconditioned this rocket to meet the requirements of his mad Martian scheme."

"It's one of the most intricate and puzzling pieces of craftsmanship and mechanism I've ever seen," I said, glancing at Chief Meigs, who punctuated my remark with a smile and a wink, and the silent mouthing of "Screws!"

By this time, McGinity was showing signs of impatience. "If there is no reason why we shouldn't," he said, emphatically, "I think we'd better get through with this business now, as quickly as possible. Mrs. LaRauche is under a great strain, and we must spare her all we can. So why not let her tell us, in as few words as she can, all she knows. I leave it to her."

"Very well, Mr. McGinity," she assented, nodding her head two or three times. Then she began. "There are a great many things I know nothing whatever about. Some things I say may be true, or partly true; the rest will be based on my deductions.

"As I've already told you," she continued, "my husband carried on this work in the greatest secrecy. My curiosity, rather than suspicion, was aroused when he began to collect scientific books on Mars, and studies of the ancient inscriptions, cuneiforms and hieroglyphics, of Babylon and Egypt. He began sending Orkins on frequent visits to the city. It was Orkins, no doubt, who ordered the making of the scroll. He fits the old bookseller's description to a nicety--'middle-aged, well-dressed, well-bred.'

"The time came when Rene dropped his preliminary studies and research, and applied himself wholly to his work, in the laboratory, and at his workshop in the hangar. He worked at all hours of the day and night, in a kind of frenzy. Finally, late in the summer, as I reconstruct it, matters began to take shape. He must have had in his possession by that time all the information Orkins had obtained, surreptitiously, in relation to Henry Royce's and Serge Olinski's experiments in trying to establish radio communication with Mars.

"Early in August, he did a lot of night flying, always accompanied by Orkins. The trust he put in that scoundrel, and the money Orkins must have bled him for! They were usually in the air from nine to eleven. When I quizzed Rene on the purpose of these night flights, he said he was conducting a series of meteorological experiments. But what he was really doing--if my surmise is correct--was flying high over the Royce castle, or Radio Center, and testing his carefully thought out Martian code on Mr. Royce and Mr. Olinski, wherever they happened to be conducting their radio experiments; sort of baiting them.

"He was perfectly able to do this with the powerful wireless sending outfit with which he had equipped his plane. Apparently Mr. Royce and his co-worker were finally satisfied that these signals in code came from Mars, for we next heard of Mr. Royce erecting two stations, one designed for transmitting, the other for receiving Martian radio messages.

"Now, comes the strange story of the public demonstration of direct radio communication with Mars, at Radio Center. I happened to be in town that night, having gone there to visit friends, over the week-end, at Rene's persistent urging that I take a holiday, which was a rather strange attitude for him to adopt. Up to that time, I was not in the least suspicious, and listened in that night with a great deal of enjoyment, although I thought the Martian message, as decoded and broadcast--well, somehow it seemed perfectly incredulous to me.

"If any man was pleased with the success of this undertaking, Rene must have been. He achieved it with great risk, in a hazardous flight into the sub-stratosphere. We must at least give him credit for this daring feat, also for the cleverness of his Martian code, which he sent by wireless from this great height, and the perfect artistry of English into which it was so easily transcribed by Mr. Olinski. My suspicions of Rene's sub-stratosphere performance, in his plane, were confirmed after I had discovered a visored aluminum helmet, and a rubber fabric suit, in which he had received oxygen, hidden under some rubbish in the hangar.

"It is perfectly amazing to me how he accomplished two such remarkable feats in one night, transmitting the Martian message from the sub-stratosphere, garbling it and fading out, to indicate ethereal disturbance, and dropping the rocket on the water-front. Oh, he must have dropped it from his plane while flying low over the beach! There can be no other explanation. He had plenty of time in which to return to the field, after the altitude flight, attach the rocket under the plane, on the principle of a bomber, with Orkins' assistance, of course, and soar off again. The rocket appears heavy, but, as you know, it is constructed of comparatively light metal, and, without fuel, is easily handled. The exterior of the rocket was purposely fired in advance, I found, to give the effect of its having traveled through the earth's atmosphere at great speed.

"In this stunt, he had the spectacular accessory of the falling meteors, and he added to the realism by sending off a great quantity of fire-works from the plane when he dropped the rocket on the beach. There was little chance of his plane being detected at this time of night; he was just another strange traveler in the sky. He carried enough fire-works to equip a Fourth of July celebration. In my investigation, I found a dozen or so burned out Roman candles, and other unused fire-works, which he had secreted under his work-bench in the hangar.

"His mission achieved, he went into retreat. For weeks we lived in practical isolation, while the world buzzed with the great Martian revelations, and honors were heaped upon Mr. Royce. It is not easy for the mind to grasp how Rene managed to put over this stupendous hoax, having as its object the humiliation of a bitterly hated rival, unless one considers that it was the cold-blooded scheme of a great mind gone wrong. And into that deranged mind there must have gleamed some light of inspiration. His detailed description of life as it exists at present on Mars, which he set forth in the cuneiform code, contained in the scroll, I consider marvelous--absolutely marvelous. It is logical, and it rings true. No scientist, ancient or modern, has ever given a more plausible picture of the history of Mars, and conditions of life there. No scientist in his right mind would have been so fearless. But Rene--the madman--dared.

"I'm sorry it isn't true. I want it to be true. I want to think there are people like ourselves living on Mars. We know now that it is technically possible to bridge the space between us with radio, to register our music, our ideas, in that planet. And we need the Martian ideas, and their hopes and illusions, as well, to buoy up our drooping spirit, just as much as they need ours. Perhaps, after we're all dead and buried, this revelation from Mars will come. Radio was given to the world to bring about universal harmony, to bring nations closer together. Why not interstellar harmony? Oh, it's coming! Who knows?

"And now, my friends, since I've given you every detail I can think of, what have you to say?"

There was deep silence for a few moments, and then I spoke. "Your findings and deductions, Mrs. LaRauche, are all very wonderful, and very convincing," I said; "but there is still one very important matter to be cleared up. It may be that your memory is at fault."

"Something important that I've overlooked?" Mrs. LaRauche asked, thoughtfully.

"Quite so," I replied. "We have awaited breathlessly for your theory regarding the passenger in the rocket--the man-ape."

"The dear, lamented ambassador of good will from Mars," Henry burst out, with a deep tremor in his voice; "the late Mr. Zzyx!"

She considered a moment before answering, and then said, very frankly: "As a matter of fact, I did not touch on that point because, I must admit, I haven't the slightest information that would throw any light on this very mysterious phase of the case. I have been puzzled, completely puzzled, and after careful investigation, I have failed to discover the origin of Mr. Zzyx. I have no idea how he came to be in the rocket."

"We're all puzzled, for that matter," McGinity remarked; "and I think it's very necessary that we should establish his origin in order to settle the whole case."

"Of course it is," Mrs. LaRauche assented. "But his presence in the rocket is just one of those irregular happenings that can't be explained. I saw Mr. Zzyx on several public occasions, and I was terribly impressed. He answered in every detail the fairest description that could ever be given of some strange creature from another planet. Recalling my first impressions of him, as an ape-man from the jungles of Mars, I feel, even now, as if I might have been imagining all that I've just told you, and that Mr. Zzyx, the rocket and the radio messages after all, did originate on Mars."

"In other words, the Martian mystery is still a mystery," McGinity said, "and will continue to be so until the origin and identity of Mr. Zzyx are established."

"And that's going to be rather difficult, I'm afraid," murmured Mrs. LaRauche.

And, then, the unexpected happened. The door-bell jangled loudly, and in an incredibly short time, the manservant, whom I had engaged the night before, entered the room, and politely announced a visitor who wouldn't give his name.

"I can't imagine what this means," said Mrs. LaRauche, "but I hope it's nothing unpleasant. So, whoever he is, send him in," she concluded, with an impressive gesture of command to the manservant.

XXXI

The visitor turned out to be a stout, middle-aged Italian, rather furtive-looking; a stranger to me, but evidently not unfamiliar to Chief of Police Meigs, who moved towards him the moment he entered the room.

"Oh, hello, Antonio!" the Chief accosted him. "When did you get out of the bastile? You've shaved off your mustache. Trying to disguise yourself?"

"I am no crook," the Italian retorted. "I come to see de lady of de house."

"Oh, that explains your visit, eh?" the Chief said. Then he turned to Mrs. LaRauche. "Do you know this man?"

"Yes," she replied. "He's our former, and particularly objectionable, neighbor, who got ninety days in jail for mistreating the animals he was training."

"Excuse, ma'am," the Italian said, wriggling uncomfortably, "but dat is not true."

"No matter," she rejoined. "I dare say it never struck you, Mr. Ranzetti, that I was made very uneasy and unhappy by members of your menagerie roaming at large on our place."

There was no reply to this, I felt. By that time, I had the visitor all straightened out in my mind.

"At any rate, why have you come to see me?" Mrs. LaRauche continued.

"I don' know what to doa about it, lady," the Italian stammered; "dat's why I coma to you."

"About what?" she asked, her eyes twinkling good-humoredly.

"About--Peter," the man faltered; and then, to our great surprise, the tears began to roll down his prison-pale, furrowed, cheeks.

"What do you suppose is the matter with the poor fellow?" Mrs. LaRauche asked, turning to Chief Meigs.

The Chief shook his head, and then tapped the visitor on the shoulder. "What's on your mind, Antonio?" he inquired.

The Italian swallowed hard, then clutched the Chief by the arm. "Maybe you can helpa me, Meester Policesamans," he wailed. "I search every place since I got out of de jug, for my poor Peter. In the zoo, I find my bears, my seals, my monkeys, but no Peter."

"One of your animals missing? Is that it?" the officer inquired.

"I no can finda Peter," the animal trainer replied, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "Maybe, he escape in de night, after de cops tooka me away."

"And when was that?" I interrogated.

The reply to my question came from Mrs. LaRauche. "I happen to know," she said. "Strangely enough, Mr. Ranzetti was arrested on the very night Rene made his flight into the sub-stratosphere, transmitted that spurious message from Mars, and afterwards dropped the rocket near your beach. He was arrested, and taken to jail, early in the evening."

I caught my breath, rose, and made straight for the visitor. "Who was this--Peter?" I asked. "A chimpanzee?"

"I tought he was a chimpanzee, Meester, when I boughta him, as a baby, in East Africa," the Italian replied, "but he got bigger and bigger, and he done t'ings no chimpanzee never has done. Sometimes, Meester, he looka and acta so mucha lika de biga, reala man, I t'ink I snuffa da coke. I traina him in secret. Teacha him de grand tricks. I mean, someday, to maka de great sensation with my Peter. He maka my fortune. But, now, poor Peter, he gone! I no finda him. I looka every place--every place."

My eyes wandered to McGinity, and he read my thoughts. He jumped from his chair, and moved to the side of the tearful trainer. He handed him a cigarette; even lit it for him.

"T'anka you, Meester," the Italian breathed fervently.

"That's better, now,--what?" McGinity said, patting him on the shoulder. "Well, I think I can tell you what happened to Peter," he went on, "but first you must tell me what tricks you taught him."

The Italian brightened perceptibly. "Oh, Meester!" he exclaimed, proudly, "I teacha Peter to act lika de gentlemans, to sit at de table, and eata and smoka de cigarettes, like de big millionaire, and never to maka de spit on de floor. I teacha him to sleep in de bed, to look at de picture books, to ride de bike, and lock and unlock de door of his cage."

"Was Peter always tractable? I mean by that--did you find it easy to teach him these tricks!"

The Italian shrugged his shoulders. "Peter, he was a funny fellow. Sometimes, he doa whata I say, and, sometimes, Meester, he doa nothing at all. He go hide in de closet, or under de bed. He act veery bad."

"Lapses, eh? He did things you didn't want him to do?" McGinity interrogated further.

"Once, Meester, he go nuts--clean nuts. He maka de fight wid de pillow. He tried to smother me--killa me! What doa you say for dat? Killa me! For two days, I lock him up in de dark closet, den he hammer on de door, lika I teacha him to doa, and cry to git out--cry lika a leetle boy cry for his spaghetti."

"Oh! He liked spaghetti, did he?"

"Did my Peter lika de spaghetti?" the Italian echoed rather explosively. "And he lika de good wine too; he drinka plenty, and no git sloused. And, spaghetti--why, Peter, he lika de spaghetti so much he learn to speaka de name. Maybe, you don' believe a big champanzee speaka de Anglish word, spaghetti. Well, Meester, I swear--" he hesitated a moment and reverently crossed himself--"I swear he speaka dat word jist as good as you or me, only, Peter, he say--'spaghet!'"

The word, as the Italian pronounced it, or rather hissed it, with emphasis on the last syllable, brought Henry instantly to his feet, out of a sort of dozy quietude.

"You think it's possible?" he gasped, his gaze fixed on the reporter.

"I think so," McGinity replied.

The word, indeed, carried such convincing evidence that it was impossible to think otherwise than that Mr. Zzyx was no other than Peter, Antonio Ranzetti's missing chimpanzee.

McGinity began to walk up and down the room, hands in pockets, while I explained to Mrs. LaRauche, and Chief Meigs, the new evidence we had just succeeded in getting from the Italian animal trainer.

"Oh, Mr. McGinity!" exclaimed Mrs. LaRauche in astonishment. "Is it possible that you've solved the mystery of Mr. Zzyx? What is your theory? Tell us, quickly, what you think happened?"

"Well," said McGinity, after a pause, "Antonio has just given us some important information, but whether it'll clear up matters, I can't say. Anyhow, here it is:

"Now, we've got to guess what happened. In my opinion, Peter, the missing chimpanzee, answers Mr. Zzyx's description in every detail. He probably got out of his cage--he knew how to operate a lock--and escaped from his keeper's house after Antonio had been arrested. He roams about in the dark, finally reaching LaRauche's flying field. Somehow, he gets into the hangar. Nosing about curiously, he climbs up on the rocket. Finding the door into the projectile open, he creeps inside, curls up, and goes to sleep. According to Antonio, the chimpanzee was accustomed to doing things like that, hiding in queer, dark places, like a closet, or under the bed.

"Now, he's still fast asleep when LaRauche returns from his sub-stratosphere flight," McGinity continued. "No doubt LaRauche had inspected the interior of the rocket, and placed the box containing the scroll inside, earlier in the evening. It was all ready to be hooked on to the plane; the only thing left to be done was to seal it. This LaRauche could accomplish in a few minutes, using a torch-blower to fuse the metal-catch that secured the door. If the noise awakened Peter, well, it was just too bad! He couldn't get out, and he couldn't make himself heard.

"How he ever survived the concussion, when the rocket was dropped from the plane to the beach, or escaped suffocation during the night, is something beyond me. But he did survive, and he had strength and sense enough to attract outside attention by hammering against the metal sides of the rocket. This trick of hammering, when he wanted to get out of a dark place, like a closet, he had been taught by his master, Antonio."

McGinity's summing-up brought matters towards a conclusion. We had come to the end of this drama of mystery, which, in its twisted course, involved the loss of three lives--perhaps four, for LaRauche was still to be accounted for.

The interview had no sooner ended when McGinity became very restless, and wanted to get back to the castle. A state of nerves which I could not but regard as possessing a certain significance. He was anxious to get back to Pat.

* * * * *

The next day we learned how Orkins had met his death, showing both McGinity and I, and Police Chief Meigs, were wrong in our idea that he had been shot in the back by LaRauche as he ran up the stairs. The autopsy disclosed that he had shot himself.

There was a fight between the two men, that was sure, after LaRauche had surprised his manservant at the telephone, in the act of betraying his master to the police for a price, in connection with the theft of the rocket. Maybe there was murder in the mad scientist's eye; maybe he tried to down Orkins and strangle him to death. He must have put a terrible fear in his servant's heart.

But it's pretty hard to kill a strong and active man like Orkins, unarmed. The powder marks on his chest showed the bullet had been fired at close range. Still, there was no sign of a revolver.

It was a fat-headed policeman, assigned by Chief Meigs to guard the house for the night, after our interview with Mrs. LaRauche, who found something in the bottom of the antique grandfather's clock which stood on the first landing of the stairs. He called up the Chief, and said: "Looks like this is what we're after."

It was, Chief Meigs discovered. A little plated revolver bearing the monogram "O," which Orkins no doubt kept safely hidden away on his person. The implication was that after he had run away from LaRauche and dashed up the stairs, he had stopped on the landing, where, seized with sudden remorse for his act of betrayal, he had shot himself through the heart.

It is easy to imagine the small revolver slipping from his grasp as he fell backwards, his body plunging down the stairs, and being flung with such force that it hurtled across the landing and fell in the bottom of the clock. There was no glass in the door of the clock, so it must have worked that way.

* * * * *

Rene LaRauche was never seen again. In my opinion the poor old man, terrified at the sudden turn of events, and rational enough to realize that he would be involved in the death of Orkins, made his reckless escape by plane. No one will ever know, I dare say, and it doesn't matter now.

A week after he had winged his way into the night, portions of his plane were washed ashore at Cape Henry, in Virginia. He had set out on his night flight, apparently purposeless, and had perished at sea. All very sad and regrettable, but out of his tragedy, buried deep in the dark waters of the Atlantic, his fame survived, and rose transcendently to heights he had never attained while alive.

Henry knew how to take advantage of his opportunities. Immediately he founded and sponsored a nation-wide movement among scientists to glorify and immortalize the name of Rene LaRauche. Thus, strange as it may seem, the perpetration of the greatest hoax known within living memory became the crowning achievement of the scientist's career.

In the deviltries of a deranged mind, prompted by his insane jealousy and hatred of Henry, LaRauche had made the world Mars-conscious to a degree greater than ever before in its history. Through his original and astounding conceptions of life and conditions on that planet, he had brought within the bounds not merely of possibility, but of almost immediate probability, the establishing of direct radio communication between Mars and the earth. All this had made a tremendous and lasting impression on the people.

He had proved almost conclusively that life, as we know it, exists on Mars. Actually, he had created a new Mars, and brought it within neighborly distance from the earth. The American people especially were anxious to preserve the feelings of friendliness and sympathy towards a kindred race which he had aroused in their hearts by his Martian revelations, however false. But were they false? Were they not rather prophetic of the true revelations that are destined to come in time?

Now and then I visit the Museum of Science, to see his portrait bust, which adorns a special niche in the museum's hall of fame, and to again survey, with varying emotions, the Martian rocket and the scroll, reposing under glass.

Only recently I drove along the lonely road that winds through the desolate hills which encompass his estate. The old house is closed, doors and windows boarded up, the whole place in utter decay, with a "For Sale" sign, swinging and creaking in the wind, over the front gate. Mrs. LaRauche lives in southern France; we hear she is about to publish a new mystery novel.

* * * * *

Winter has gone, and once again we are ensconced for the summer in the spooky-like castle at Sands Cliff, with the difference that it is no longer spooky. Our heritage of privacy and seclusion regained, life goes on much as before, in peaceful and ordered living.