The Oxford Book of American Det (22 page)

Reeve’s scientific sleuth, Craig Kennedy.

Reeve graduated from Princeton University with a Phi Beta Kappa key. He then studied law, but opted to practice journalism instead. He worked as an editor of Public Opinion, began writing science articles for magazines, and created detective stories in which scientific gadgets are the focus of the plot and the means of its solution.

Chemistry professor Craig Kennedy is Reeve’s sleuth. A newspaper reporter named Walter Jameson is the tag-along narrator who, in the Watson tradition, asks the questions that provoke the scientific-sounding explanations that made Reeve’s books best-sellers in the United States and Europe. Read today, some of the professor’s science seems doubtful at best; but in Reeve’s day, the pseudo-science sounded authentic enough to wow readers.

Without the science, Reeve’s plots would be mundane. Certainly, his characters are cut out of cardboard. Kennedy is a Sherlock Holmes imitation, an omniscient sleuth whose ratiocinative powers are enhanced by his specialised knowledge. Whereas Holmes is an expert on gentlemanly clues like varieties of cigar ash, Kennedy is a wiz regarding whatever is new in the world of science. Years before the Federal Bureau of Investigation and its famous crime laboratory were created, Professor Kennedy was bringing criminals to justice by identifying typewriter keys, analyzing blood stains, detecting drugs through chemistry, using X-rays, and applying modern psychological principles. The War Department was so impressed by Professor Kennedy that it asked Reeve to establish a scientific crime laboratory to help in the detection of the Kaiser’s spies during World War I.

The Beauty Mask
is typical of Reeve’s work. While readers today may chuckle delightedly at the no longer impressive ‘scientific’ explanations that Kennedy offers, his earnestness only adds to the period charm of the piece. And it is easy to imagine that the application of futuristic nuclear science to the unraveling of a crime was very exciting stuff in more innocent times.

The Beauty Mask

“Oh, Mr. Jameson, if they could only wake her up—find out what is the matter—do something! This suspense is killing both mother and myself.” Scenting a good feature story, my city editor had sent me out on an assignment, my sole equipment being a clipping of two paragraphs from the morning Star.

GIRL IN COMA SIX DAYS—SHOWS NO SIGN OF REVIVAL

Virginia Blakeley, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Mrs.

Stuart Blakeley, of Riverside Drive, who has been in a state of coma for six days, still shows no sign of returning consciousness.

Ever since Monday some member of her family has been constantly beside her. Her mother and sister have both vainly tried to coax her back to consciousness, but their efforts have not met with the slightest response. Dr. Calvert Haynes, the family physician, and several specialists who have been called in consultation, are completely baffled by the strange malady.

Often I had read of cases of morbid sleep lasting for days and even for weeks. But this was the first case I had ever actually encountered and I was glad to take the assignment.

The Blakeleys, as every one knew, had inherited from Stuart Blakeley a very considerable fortune in real estate in one of the most rapidly developing sections of upper New York, and on the death of their mother the two girls, Virginia and Cynthia, would be numbered among the wealthiest heiresses of the city.

They lived in a big sandstone mansion fronting the Hudson and it was with some misgiving that I sent up my card. Both Mrs. Blakeley and her other daughter, however, met me in the reception-room, thinking, perhaps, from what I had written on the card, that I might have some assistance to offer.

Mrs. Blakeley was a well-preserved lady, past middle-age, and very nervous.

“Mercy, Cynthia!” she exclaimed, as I explained my mission, “it’s another one of those reporters. No, I cannot say anything—not a word. I don’t know anything. See Doctor Haynes. I—“

“But, mother,” interposed Cynthia, more calmly, “the thing is in the papers. It may be that some one who reads of it may know of something that can be done. Who can tell?”

“Well, I won’t say anything,” persisted the elder woman. “I don’t like all this publicity.

Did the newspapers ever do anything but harm to your poor dear father? No, I won’t talk. It won’t do us a bit of good. And you, Cynthia, had better be careful.” Mrs. Blakeley backed out of the door, but Cynthia, who was a few years older than her sister, had evidently acquired independence. At least she felt capable of coping with an ordinary reporter who looked no more formidable than myself.

“It is quite possible that some one who knows about such cases may learn of this,” I urged.

She hesitated as her mother disappeared, and looked at me a moment, then, her feelings getting the better of her, burst forth with the strange appeal I have already quoted.

It was as though I had come at just an opportune moment when she must talk to some outsider to relieve her pent-up feelings.

By an adroit question here and there, as we stood in the reception-hall, I succeeded in getting the story, which seemed to be more of human interest than of news. I even managed to secure a photograph of Virginia as she was before the strange sleep fell on her.

Briefly, as her sister told it, Virginia was engaged to Hampton Haynes, a young medical student at the college where his father was a professor of diseases of the heart.

The Hayneses were of a fine Southern family which had never recovered from the war and had finally come to New York. The father, Dr. Calvert Haynes, in addition to being a well-known physician, was the family physician of the Blakeleys, as I already knew.

“Twice the date of the marriage has been set, only to be postponed,” added Cynthia Blakeley. “We don’t know what to do. And Hampton is frantic.”

“Then this is really the second attack of the morbid sleep?” I queried.

“Yes—in a few weeks. Only the other wasn’t so long—not more than a day.” She said it in a hesitating manner which I could not account for. Either she thought there might be something more back of it or she recalled her mother’s aversion to reporters and did not know whether she was saying too much or not.

“Do you really fear that there is something wrong?” I asked, significantly, hastily choosing the former explanation.

Cynthia Blakeley looked quickly at the door through which her mother had retreated.

“I—I don’t know,” she replied, tremulously. “I don’t know why I am talking to you.

I’m so afraid, too, that the newspapers may say something that isn’t true.”

“You would like to get at the truth, if I promise to hold the story back?” I persisted, catching her eye.

“Yes,” she answered, in a low tone, “but—“ then stopped.

“I will ask my friend, Professor Kennedy, at the university, to come here,” I urged.

“You know him?” she asked, eagerly. “He will come?”

“Without a doubt,” I reassured, waiting for her to say no more, but picking up the telephone receiver on a stand in the hall.

Fortunately I found Craig at his laboratory and a few hasty words were all that was necessary to catch his interest.

“I must tell mother,” Cynthia cried, excitedly, as I hung up the receiver. “Surely she cannot object to that. Will you wait here?”

As I waited for Craig, I tried to puzzle the case out for myself. Though I knew nothing about it as yet, I felt sure that I had not made a mistake and that there was some mystery here.

Suddenly I became aware that the two women were talking in the next room, though too low for me to catch what they were saying. It was evident, however, that Cynthia was having some difficulty in persuading her mother that everything was all right.

“Well, Cynthia,” I heard her mother say, finally, as she left the room for one farther back, “I hope it will be all right—that is all I can say.” What was it that Mrs. Blakeley so feared? Was it merely the unpleasant notoriety? One could not help the feeling that there was something more that she suspected, perhaps knew, but would not tell. Yet, apparently, it was aside from her desire to have her daughter restored to normal. She was at sea, herself, I felt.

“Poor dear mother!” murmured Cynthia, rejoining me in a few moments. “She hardly knows just what it is she does want—except that we want Virginia well again.” We had not long to wait for Craig. What I had told him over the telephone had been quite enough to arouse his curiosity.

Both Mrs. Blakeley and Cynthia met him, at first a little fearfully, but quickly reassured by his manner, as well as my promise to see that nothing appeared in the Star which would be distasteful.

“Oh, if some one could only bring back our little girl!” cried Mrs. Blakeley, with suppressed emotion, leading the way with her daughter upstairs.

It was only for a moment that I could see Craig alone to explain the impressions I had received, but it was enough.

“I’m glad you called me,” he whispered. “There is something queer.” We followed them up to the dainty bedroom in flowered enamel where Virginia Blakeley lay, and it was then for the first time that we saw her. Kennedy drew a chair up beside the little white bed and went to work almost as though he had been a physician himself.

Partly from what I observed myself and partly from what he told me afterward, I shall try to describe the peculiar condition in which she was.

She lay there lethargic, scarcely breathing. Once she had been a tall, slender, fair girl, with a sort of wild grace. Now she seemed to be completely altered. I could not help thinking of the contrast between her looks now and the photograph in my pocket.

Not only was her respiration slow, but her pulse was almost imperceptible, less than forty a minute. Her temperature was far below normal, and her blood pressure low.

Once she had seemed fully a woman, with all the strength and promise of precocious maturity. But now there was something strange about her looks. It is difficult to describe. It was not that she was no longer a young woman, but there seemed to be something almost sexless about her. It was as though her secondary sex characteristics were no longer feminine, but—for want of a better word—neuter.

Yet, strange to say, in spite of the lethargy which necessitated at least some artificial feeding, she was not falling away. She seemed, if anything, plump. To all appearances there was really a retardation of metabolism connected with the trance-like sleep. She was actually gaining in weight!

As he noted one of these things after another, Kennedy looked at her long and carefully. I followed the direction of his eyes. Over her nose, just a trifle above the line of her eyebrows, was a peculiar red mark, a sore, which was very disfiguring, as though it were hard to heal.

“What is that?” he asked Mrs. Blakeley, finally.

“I don’t know,” she replied, slowly. “We’ve all noticed it. It came just after the sleep began.”

“You have no idea what could have caused it?”

“Both Virginia and Cynthia have been going to a face specialist,” she admitted, “to have their skins treated for freckles. After the treatment they wore masks which were supposed to have some effect on the skin. I don’t know. Could it be that?” Kennedy looked sharply at Cynthia’s face. There was no red mark over her nose. But there were certainly no freckles on either of the girls’ faces now, either.

“Oh, mother,” remonstrated Cynthia, “it couldn’t be anything Doctor Chapelle did.”

“Doctor Chapelle?” repeated Kennedy.

“Yes, Dr. Carl Chapelle,” replied Mrs. Blakeley. “Perhaps you have heard of him. He is quite well known, has a beauty-parlour on Fifth Avenue. He—“

“It’s ridiculous,” cut in Cynthia, sharply. “Why, my face was worse than Virgie’s.

Car—He said it would take longer.”

I had been watching Cynthia, but it needed only to have heard her to see that Doctor Chapelle was something more than a beauty specialist to her.

Kennedy glanced thoughtfully from the clear skin of Cynthia to the red mark on Virginia. Though he said nothing, I could see that his mind was on it. I had heard of the beauty doctors who promise to give one a skin as soft and clear as a baby’s—and often, by their inexpert use of lotions and chemicals, succeed in ruining the skin and disfiguring the patient for life. Could this be a case of that sort? Yet how explain the apparent success with Cynthia?

The elder sister, however, was plainly vexed at the mention of the beauty doctor’s name at all, and she showed it. Kennedy made a mental note of the matter, but refrained from saying any more about it.

“I suppose there is no objection to my seeing Doctor Haynes?” asked Kennedy, rising and changing the subject.

“None whatever,” returned Mrs. Blakeley. “If there’s anything you or he can do to bring Virginia out of this—anything safe—I want it done,” she emphasised.

Cynthia was silent as we left. Evidently she had not expected Doctor Chapelle’s name to be brought into the case.

We were lucky in finding Doctor Haynes at home, although it was not the regular time for his office hours. Kennedy introduced himself as a friend of the Blakeleys who had been asked to see that I made no blunders in writing the story for the Star. Doctor Haynes did not question the explanation.

He was a man well on toward the sixties, with that magnetic quality that inspires the confidence so necessary for a doctor. Far from wealthy, he had attained a, high place in the profession.

As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook his head with a deep sigh.

“You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys,” he remarked, at length. “I should consider it unethical to give an interview under any circumstances—much more so under the present.”

“Still,” I put in, taking Kennedy’s cue, “just a word to set me straight can’t do any harm. I won’t quote you directly.”

He seemed to realise that it might be better to talk carefully than to leave all to my imagination.

“Well,” he began, slowly, “I have considered all the usual causes assigned for such morbid sleep. It is not auto-suggestion or trance, I am positive. Nor is there any trace of epilepsy. I cannot see how it could be due to poisoning, can you?” I admitted readily that I could not.