But, as if immune to climatic conditions, Number 81 bore out the clay head of the majestic Chinaman and set it upon the table. Below him a dome, its veins gilded, every crack and cranny coated with snow, swept down gracefully to a lower parapet. Muffled noises from streets set in deep gullies, reached his ears. He returned for his glass of wine, raised his head to the leaden sky, and:
“To the day of freedom!” he cried. “To the day when we meet face to face.” And now his eyes, glaring insanely, were lowered to the clay head—“To the day when we meet face to face; when those wheels in which I am trapped, which seem to move, inexorable as the planets in their courses, are still forever.”
He drank deeply, then tossed the remainder of the wine contemptuously into the face of the modelled head. He dashed the glass on the paving at his feet and, picking up the work to which he had devoted so many hours of care, raised it in both hands high above his head.
His expression mechanical, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin, far out over the dome he hurled it. It fell with a dreadful thud on the leaden covering. It broke, the parts showering down to the parapet, to fall, meaningless fragments, into some street far below . . . .
Chapter 13
TANGLED CLUES
In the light of a grey wintry dawn creeping wanly through the windows, Nayland Smith and Mark Hepburn stood looking down at some curious objects set out upon the big corner table. These had been found in Richet’s possession.
One was a gold and ivory badge. Hepburn took it up and stared at it curiously. It bore the number 38.
“According to the taximan,” said Nayland Smith, “to whom I showed it, these badges simply mean that the wearer is an official of Harvey Bragg’s League of Good Americans. It appears that no man is eligible for employment by the Lotus Cab Corporation who is not a member of this league.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Hepburn murmured thoughtfully.
“I agree; but I don’t think the man knew it. He admitted that they sometimes had orders from wearers of such badges requiring them to pick up certain passengers at indicated points and to report where they set them down.”
“But he denied that he had any such orders last night?”
“He stuck to it grimly. According to his account, the choice of his cab by Richet was a coincidence.”
Hepburn laid the badge down.
“There are only two other points of interest,” said Nayland Smith, “although we may learn more if we can trace Richet’s baggage. These are his notes of Weaver’s Farm and of this address, and . . . that.”
The object to which he pointed, found upon the floor of the taxi, was certainly an odd thing for a man to carry about. It was a cardboard case made to hold a pack of playing cards . . . but there were no cards!
Several sheets of blank paper had also been found, folded in a manner which seemed to indicate that they had been in the cardboard case. This case, in Smith’s opinion, was the object which the driver had mistaken for a notebook.
“Richet was actually holding it in his hand, Hepburn,” he rapped energetically, “at the moment of his attack. The fact is of first-rate importance.”
Hepburn, eyes half closed, nodded slowly. The nervous energy of this man surpassed anything in his experience. And as if recognition of his companion’s weariness had come to him suddenly, Nayland Smith grasped Hepburn’s arm.
“You are asleep already!” he declared, and smiled sympathetically. “Suppose we arrange to meet for ham and eggs at noon. Don’t forget, Miss Lakin is due at four o’clock. If you meet her—not a word about Richet.”
The bell rang, and Fey, his leathery face characteristically expressionless, crossed the vestibule and opened the door. A woman stood there, tall and composed, her iron-grey hair meticulously groomed as it peeped from beneath the brim of a smart but suitable hat. She was wrapped in furs. Beside her stood a man who wore the uniform of the Regal-Athenian Hotel. He exchanged a glance with Fey, nodded, turned and went away.
“Sir Denis is expecting you, madam,” said Fey, standing aside.
And as the visitor entered the vestibule, Nayland Smith hurried from the adjoining sitting-room, hand outstretched. His lean brown features exhibited repressed excitement.
“Miss Lakin,” he exclaimed, “you are very welcome. I received the letter which you sent by special messenger, but your phone message has intrigued me more than the letter. Please come in and sit down and give me all the details.”
The sitting-room in which Miss Lakin found herself possessed several curious features. The windows which occupied nearly the whole of one wall afforded a view of a wide area of New York City. Storm clouds had passed; a wintry sun lighted a prospect which had a sort of uncanny beauty. Upon countless flat roofs far below, upon the heads of gargoyles and other grotesque ornamentations breaking the lines of the more towering buildings, snow rested. The effect was that of a city of ice gnomes magically magnified. Through clear, frosty air the harbour was visible, and one might obtain a glimpse of the distant sea. Above a littered writing-table set near one of the windows, a huge map of the city was fixed upon the wall; the remainder of this wall was occupied by a map, on a much smaller scale, of the whole of the United States. These maps had one character in common: they were studded with hundreds of coloured pins which appeared to have been stuck in at random.
“The room is rather warm, madam,” said Fey. “Allow me to take your coat.”
The heavy fur coat draped carefully across his arm:
“A cup of tea, madam?” he suggested.
“English tea,” snapped Nayland Smith.
“Thank you,” said Miss Lakin, smiling faintly; “you tempt me. Yes, I think I should enjoy a cup of tea.”
Nayland Smith stood before the mantelpiece, hands behind him. He had that sort of crisp, wavy hair, silvery now at the sides, which always looks in order; he was cleanly shaven, and his dark-skinned face offered no evidence
