way about him, perhaps thirty-five years old or so, but already prominent and quite friendly with Dodge.
On a table I saw a book, as though Elaine had cast it down when the lawyer arrived to call on the daughter under pretense of waiting for her father. Crumpled on the table was the Star. They had read the story.
“Who is it, Jennings?” she asked.
“A reporter, Miss Dodge,” answered the butler glancing superciliously back at me, “and you know how your father dislikes to see anyone here at the house,” he added deferentially to her.
I took in the situation at a glance. Bennett was trying not to look discourteous, but this was a call on Elaine and it had been interrupted. I could expect no help from that quarter. Still, I fancied that Elaine was not averse to trying to pique her visitor and determined at least to try it.
“Miss Dodge,” I pleaded, bowing as if I had known them all my life, “I’ve been trying to find your father all the evening. It’s very important.”
She looked up at me surprised and in doubt whether to laugh or stamp her pretty little foot in indignation at my stupendous nerve.
She laughed. “You are a very brave young man,” she replied with a roguish look at Bennett’s discomfiture over the interruption of the tete-a-tete.
There was a note of seriousness in it, too, that made me ask quickly, “Why?”
The smile flitted from her face and in its place came a frank earnest expression which I later learned to like and respect very much. “My father has declared he will eat the very next reporter who tries to interview him here,” she answered.
I was about to prolong the waiting time by some jolly about such a stunning girl not having by any possibility such a cannibal of a parent, when the rattle of the changing gears of a car outside told of the approach of a limousine.
The big front door opened and Elaine flung herself in the arms of an elderly, stern-faced, gray-haired man. “Why, Dad,” she cried, “where have you been? I missed you so much at dinner. I’ll be so glad when this terrible business gets cleared up. Tell—me. What is on your mind? What is it that worries you now?”
I noticed then that Dodge seemed wrought-up and a bit unnerved, for he sank rather heavily into a chair, brushed his face with his handkerchief and breathed heavily. Elaine hovered over him solicitously, repeating her question.
With a mighty effort he seemed to get himself together. He rose and turned to Bennett.
“Perry,” he exclaimed, “I’ve got the Clutching Hand!”
The two men stared at each other.
“Yes,” continued Dodge, “I’ve just found out how to trace it, and tomorrow I am going to set the alarms of the city at rest by exposing—”
Just then Dodge caught sight of me. For the moment I thought perhaps he was going to fulfill his threat.
“Who the devil—why didn’t you tell me a reporter was here, Jennings?” he sputtered indignantly, pointing toward the door.
Argument, entreaty were of no avail. He stamped crustily into the library, taking Bennett with him and leaving me with Elaine. Inside I could hear them talking, and managed to catch enough to piece together the story. I wanted to stay, but Elaine, smiling at my enthusiasm, shook her head and held out her hand in one of her frank, straight-arm hand shakes. There was nothing to do but go.
At least, I reflected, I had the greater part of the story—all except the one big thing, however,—the name of the criminal. But Dodge would know him tomorrow!
I hurried back to the Star to write my story in time to catch the last morning edition.
Meanwhile, if I may anticipate my story, I must tell of what we later learned had happened to Dodge so completely to upset him.
Ever since the Consolidated Mutual had been hit by the murders, he had had many lines out in the hope of enmeshing the perpetrator. That night, as I found out the next day, he had at last heard of a clue. One of the company’s detectives had brought in a red-headed, lame, partly paralyzed crook who enjoyed the expressive monniker of “Limpy Red.” “Limpy Red” was a gunman of some renown, evil faced and having nothing much to lose, desperate. Whoever the master criminal of the Clutching Hand might have been he had seen fit to employ Limpy but had not taken the precaution of getting rid of him soon enough when he was through.
Wherefore Limpy had a grievance and now descended under pressure to the low level of snitching to Dodge in his office.
“No, Governor,” the trembling wretch had said as he handed over a grimy envelope, “I ain’t never seen his face—but here is directions how to find his hang-out.”
As Limpy ambled out, he turned to Dodge, quivering at the enormity of his unpardonable sin in gang-land, “For God’s sake, Governor,” he implored, “don’t let on how you found out!”
And yet Limpy Red had scarcely left with his promise not to tell, when Dodge, happening to turn over some papers came upon an envelope left on his own desk, bearing that mysterious Clutching Hand!
He tore it open, and read in amazement:
“Destroy Limpy Red’s instructions within the next hour.”
Dodge gazed about in wonder. This thing was getting on his nerves. He determined to go home and rest.
Outside the house, as he left his car, pasted over the monogram on the door, he had found another note, with the same weird mark and the single word:
“Remember!”
Much of this I had already gathered from what I overheard Dodge telling Bennett as they entered the library. Some, also, I have pieced together from the story of a servant who overheard.
At any rate, in spite of the pleadings of young Bennett, Dodge refused to take warning. In the safe in his beautifully fitted library he deposited Limpy’s document in an envelope containing all the correspondence that had lead up to the final step in the discovery.
It was late in the evening when I returned to our apartment and, not finding Kennedy there, knew that I would discover him at the laboratory.
“Craig,” I cried as I burst in on him, “I’ve got a case for you— greater than any ever before!”
Kennedy looked up calmly from the rack of scientific instruments that surrounded him, test tubes, beakers, carefully labelled bottles.
He had been examining a piece of cloth and had laid it aside in disappointment near his magnifying glass. Just now he was watching a reaction in a series of test tubes standing on his table. He was looking dejectedly at the floor as I came in.
“Indeed?” he remarked coolly going back to the reaction.
“Yes,” I cried. “It is a scientific criminal who seems to leave no clues.”
Kennedy looked up gravely. “Every criminal leaves a trace,” he said quietly. “If it hasn’t been found, then it must be because no one has ever looked for it in the right way.”
Still gazing at
