Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective. John T. McIntyre

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СКАЧАТЬ with some cigars.

      “Both black and strong,” said Ashton-Kirk as he tested one after the other.

      “The coffee, sir, as Mr. Scanlon knows, is made alter my own recipe,” stated the landlord. “I’d not recommend it to one of my invalid guests, sir, nor to a well one as a regular tipple. But it has the quality and the touch, if you know what I mean.”

      “White is to move and win,” stated the cramped-looking man. He rubbed one side of his nose with a hand that shook, and there was complaint in the gaze with which he fixed the pieces. “But I can’t see how it’s going to do it.”

      “White is to move, and win in four other moves,” said the drawn-looking man, coughing into the handkerchief.

      “Which makes it all the more difficult,” said the other. His palsied hand fumbled purposelessly with the pieces; and the look of complaint deepened. The man with the handkerchief coughed once more, and looked mildly triumphant.

      “They seem to be constantly engaged in these mad diversions,” said Scanlon, his eyes upon the two. “At times, when I’ve been here, I’ve seen the excitement rise to that degree that I’ve considered calling out the fire department.”

      Just then there came a strident voice from another apartment.

      “Who the devil is it?” it demanded. “I! matters of importance are to be interfered with in this way, it’s time that something was done-”

      Here the man with the cough reached out and clapped to a door, shutting out the voice. The landlord looked discomfited.

      “I beg your pardon, Mr. Shaw,” said he. “I know it’s annoying to you; but Mr. Alva must be worse to-day, and so is very impatient”

      The drawn-looking man coughed hollowly.

      “I’m very sorry for the gentleman’s condition,” spoke he, huskily. “But he should remember that there are others here who are equally ill in their own way; and that his outbursts are not at all agreeable.”

      The strident voice was lifted once more, this time muffled by the door; then another voice was heard remonstrating and apparently advising. Then there followed a soft rolling sound, the door opened once more and an invalid’s chair made its appearance, propelled by a squat, dark servant whose flat nose and coarse straight hair gave him the look of an Indian.

      Beside the chair hopped a peppery little man with white hair and eye-glasses from which hung a wide black string.

      “It makes no difference who he is,” declared the peppery little man, fixing the glasses more firmly upon his nose and speaking to the occupant of the chair. “The facts remain as I have said. But, Mr. Alva, there seems to be very little use in advising you. In spite of all I can say you’ll keep indoors. Suppose it is dark? The darkness can’t hurt you. Suppose it is damp? You can protect yourself against that Air is what you want—fresh air—billions of gallons of it”

      The man in the chair was wasted and pale; his almost fleshless hands lay upon the chair arms— his limbs seemed shrunken to the bone.

      Bat Scanlon looked at Ashton-Kirk and nodded.

      “Whatever it is that’s got him has got him for good,” spoke he, in a low tone. “I never saw any man’s body so close to death without being dead.”

      The eyes of Ashton-Kirk were fixed upon the sick man with singular interest

      “And yet,” said he, in the same low pitched way, “his head is very much alive. It probably would not be too much to say that it is the most vital thing in the room.”

      Scanlon looked at the invalid with fresh interest He saw a dark face, not at all that of a sick man, and a pair of burning, searching black eyes. There seemed to be something unusual about the upper part of the head, but the man was so muffled up, apparently about to be taken out, that the nature of this was not quite clear.

      “Drugs,” stated the peppery little man, “are useless; time has no effect To reach a case of your kind, air must be supplied—clean air—air containing all the elements of life. If I am to make a well man of you where others have failed, you must do as I say.”

      “He’s the fresh air crank I was telling you about a while ago,” Scanlon informed the crime specialist, softly.

      “If I must go out,” spoke the invalid in a surprisingly strong voice, “wrap me up well. I feel the cold easily.”

      The little doctor began arranging the blankets about the shrunken limbs; and while he was doing so, Ashton-Kirk arose.

      “Let me assist you,” said he, with that calm assurance which is seldom denied.

      Deftly he tucked in the coverlets upon the opposite side, and buttoned up the heavy coat. But when he reached for the muffling folds about the sick man’s head, all the sureness seemed to leave his fingers; Scanlon was astonished to see him bungle the matter most disgracefully; instead of accomplishing what he set out to do, he succeeded in knocking the covering off altogether.

      “Pardon me,” he said, smoothly enough.

      The invalid returned some commonplace answer; and the doctor set about repairing the result of the volunteer’s awkwardness.

      “Your intentions are the best in the world,” smiled he, “but I can see that you have spent very little of your time about sick beds.”

      Then he opened the door, and signaled the Indian. The chair rolled out upon the porch, and a moment later could be heard crunching along the gravel walk.

      Ashton-Kirk smoked his black cigar with much silent deliberation, and sipped at the strong coffee. Several times during the next half hour Scanlon attempted to bring him out of this state by remarks as to the inn and its population. But he received replies of the most discouraging nature, and so gave it up. When the cigar was done, the crime specialist arose and stretched his arms wide in a yawn.

      “I think I’m for bed,” said he.

      Scanlon looked his astonishment, but said nothing. His imagination had pictured some hours of looking about among the darkened hills—just how, and what for he had little idea; and this announcement suddenly bringing the night to a close was not in the least what he had expected.

      “All right,” was his reply. “That’ll do for me, too.”

      Rooms were assigned them, and each was provided with a candle in a copper candlestick; and so they went off up the wide staircase. From the adjoining room, Bat Scanlon heard the sound of pacing feet for some time; after a little they stopped, but for all that he had no assurance that the special detective had gone to bed. So he stepped out and knocked at his door.

      Entering, he found Ashton-Kirk, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, standing staring at the grotesque flare of the candle.

      “Hello,” said the big man, “I thought you were regularly sleepy.”

      “I am—a little. But a notion occurred to me down-stairs, and I’ve been trying to follow it out.”

      Once more he resumed his pacing, his hands behind him, his eyes upon the floor.

      “Imagination СКАЧАТЬ