V
THE PHANTOM CIRCUIT
Brixton had evidently been waiting impatiently for our arrival. "Mr.Kennedy?" he inquired, adding quickly without waiting for an answer: "Iam glad to see you. I suppose you have noticed the precautions we aretaking against intruders? Yet it seems to be all of no avail. I can notbe alone even here. If a telephone message comes to me over my privatewire, if I talk with my own office in the city, it seems that it isknown. I don't know what to make of it. It is terrible. I don't knowwhat to expect next."
Brixton had been standing beside a huge mahogany desk as we entered. Ihad seen him before at a distance as a somewhat pompous speaker atbanquets and the cynosure of the financial district. But there wassomething different about his looks now. He seemed to have aged, tohave grown yellower. Even the whites of his eyes were yellow.
I thought at first that perhaps it might be the effect of the light inthe centre of the room, a huge affair set in the ceiling in a sort ofinverted hemisphere of glass, concealing and softening the rays of apowerful incandescent bulb which it enclosed. It was not the light thatgave him the altered appearance, as I concluded from catching a casualconfirmatory glance of perplexity from Kennedy himself.
"My personal physician says I am suffering from jaundice," explainedBrixton. Rather than seeming to be offended at our notice of hiscondition he seemed to take it as a good evidence of Kennedy's keennessthat he had at once hit on one of the things that were weighing onBrixton's own mind. "I feel pretty badly, too. Curse it," he addedbitterly, "coming at a time when it is absolutely necessary that Ishould have all my strength to carry through a negotiation that is onlya beginning, important not so much for myself as for the whole world.It is one of the first times New York bankers have had a chance toengage in big dealings in that part of the world. I suppose Yvonne hasshown you one of the letters I am receiving?"
He rustled a sheaf of them which he drew from a drawer of his desk, andcontinued, not waiting for Kennedy even to nod:
"Here are a dozen or more of them. I get one or two every day, eitherhere or at my town house or at the office."
Kennedy had moved forward to see them.
"One moment more," Brixton interrupted, still holding them. "I shallcome back to the letters. That is not the worst. I've had threateningletters before. Have you noticed this room?"
We had both seen and been impressed by it.
"Let me tell you more about it," he went on. "It was designedespecially to be, among other things, absolutely soundproof."
We gazed curiously about the strong room. It was beautifully decoratedand furnished. On the walls was a sort of heavy, velvety greenwall-paper. Exquisite hangings were draped about, and on the floor werethick rugs. In all I noticed that the prevailing tint was green.
"I had experiments carried out," he explained languidly, "with theobject of discovering methods and means for rendering walls andceilings capable of effective resistance to sound transmission. One ofthe methods devised involved the use under the ceiling or parallel tothe wall, as the case might be, of a network of wire stretched tightlyby means of pulleys in the adjacent walls and not touching at any pointthe surface to be protected against sound. Upon the wire network isplastered a composition formed of strong glue, plaster of Paris, andgranulated cork, so as to make a flat slab, between which and the wallor ceiling is a cushion of confined air. The method is good in tworespects: the absence of contact between the protective and protectedsurfaces and the colloid nature of the composition used. I have goneinto the thing at length because it will make all the more remarkablewhat I am about to tell you."
Kennedy had been listening attentively. As Brixton proceeded I hadnoticed Kennedy's nostrils dilating almost as if he were a hound andhad scented his quarry. I sniffed, too. Yes, there was a faint odour,almost as if of garlic in the room. It was unmistakable. Craig waslooking about curiously, as if to discover a window by which the odourmight have entered. Brixton, with his eyes following keenly every move,noticed him.
"More than that" he added quickly, "I have had the most perfect systemof modern ventilation installed in this room, absolutely independentfrom that in the house."
Kennedy said nothing.
"A moment ago, Mr. Kennedy, I saw you and Mr. Jameson glancing up atthe ceiling. Sound-proof as this room is, or as I believe it to be,I--I hear voices, voices from--not through, you understand, butfrom--that very ceiling. I do not hear them now. It is only at certaintimes when I am alone. They repeat the words in some of theseletters--'You must not take up those bonds. You must not endanger thepeace of the world. You will never live to get the interest.' Over andover I have heard such sentences spoken in this very room. I haverushed out and up the corridor. There has been no one there. I havelocked the steel door. Still I have heard the voices. And it isabsolutely impossible that a human being could get close enough to saythem without my knowing and finding out where he is."
Kennedy betrayed by not so much as the motion of a muscle even a shadeof a doubt of Brixton's incredible story. Whether because he believedit or because he was diplomatic, Craig took the thing at its facevalue. He moved a blotter so that he could stand on the top ofBrixton's desk in the centre of the room. Then he unfastened and tookdown the glass hemisphere over the light.
"It is an Osram lamp of about a hundred candlepower, I should judge,"he observed.
Apparently he had satisfied himself that there was nothing concealed inthe light itself. Laboriously, with such assistance as the memory ofMr. Brixton could give, he began tracing out the course of both theelectric light and telephone wires that led down into the den.
Next came a close examination of the ceiling and side walls, the floor,the hangings, the pictures, the rugs, everything. Kennedy was tappinghere and there all over the wall, as if to discover whether there wasany such hollow sound as a cavity might make. There was none.
A low exclamation from him attracted my attention, though it escapedBrixton. His tapping had raised the dust from the velvety wall-paperwherever he had tried it. Hastily, from a corner where it would not benoticed, he pulled off a piece of the paper and stuffed it into hispocket. Then followed a hasty examination of the intake of theventilating apparatus.
Apparently satisfied with his examination of things in the den, Craignow prepared to trace out the course of the telephone and light wiresin the house. Brixton excused himself, asking us to join him in thelibrary up-stairs after Craig had completed his investigation.
Nothing was discovered by tracing the lines back, as best we could,from the den. Kennedy therefore began at the other end, and havingfound the points in the huge cellar of the house where the main trunkand feed wires entered, he began a systematic search in that direction.
A separate line led, apparently, to the den, and where this linefeeding the Osram lamp passed near a dark storeroom in a corner Craigexamined more closely than ever. Seemingly his search was rewarded, forhe dived into the dark storeroom and commenced lighting matchesfuriously to discover what was there.
"Look, Walter," he exclaimed, holding a match so that I could see whathe had unearthed. There, in a corner concealed by an old chest ofdrawers, stood a battery of five storage-cells connected with aninstrument that looked very much like a telephone transmitter, arheostat, and a small transformer coil.
"I suppose this is a direct-current lighting circuit," he remarked,thoughtfully regarding his find. "I think I know what this is, allright. Any amateur could do it, with a little knowledge of electricityand a source of direct current. The thing is easily constructed, thematerials are common, and a wonderfully complicated result can beobtained. What's this?"
He had continued to poke about in the darkness as he was speaking. Inanother corner he had discovered two ordinary telephone receivers.
"Connected up with something, too, by George!" he ejaculated.
Evidently some one had tapped the regular telephone wires running intothe house, had run extensions into the little storeroom, and wasprepared to overhear everyt
hing that was said either to or by those inthe house.
Further examination disclosed that there were two separate telephonesystems running into Brixton's house. One, with its many extensions,was used by the household and by the housekeeper; the other was theprivate wire which led, ultimately, down into Brixton's den. No soonerhad he discovered it than Kennedy became intensely interested. For themoment he seemed entirely to forget the electric-light wires and becameabsorbed in tracing out the course of the telephone trunk-line and itsextensions. Continued search rewarded him with the discovery that boththe household line and the private line were connected by hastilyimprovised extensions with the two receivers he had discovered in theout-of-the-way corner of a little dark storeroom.
"Don't disturb a thing," remarked Kennedy, cautiously picking up eventhe burnt matches he had dropped in his hasty search. "We must devisesome means of catching the eavesdropper red handed. It has all themarks of being an inside job."
We had completed our investigation of the basement without attractingany attention, and Craig was careful to make it seem that in enteringthe library we came from the den, not from the cellar. As we waited inthe big leather chairs Kennedy was sketching roughly on a sheet ofpaper the plan of the house, drawing in the location of the variouswires.
The door opened. We had expected John Brixton. Instead, a tall, spareforeigner with a close-cropped moustache entered. I knew at once thatit must be Count Wachtmann, although I had never seen him.
"Ah, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed in English which betrayed that hehad been under good teachers in London. "I thought Miss Brixton washere."
"Count Wachtmann?" interrogated Kennedy, rising.
"The same," he replied easily, with a glance of inquiry at us.
"My friend and I are from the Star" said Kennedy.
"Ah! Gentlemen of the press?" He elevated his eyebrows the fraction ofan inch. It was so politely contemptuous that I could almost havethrottled him.
"We are waiting to see Mr. Brixton," explained Kennedy.
"What is the latest from the Near East?" Wachtmann asked, with the airof a man expecting to hear what he could have told you yesterday if hehad chosen.
There was a movement of the portieres, and a woman entered. She stoppeda moment. I knew it was Miss Brixton. She had recognised Kennedy, buther part was evidently to treat him as a total stranger.
"Who are these men, Conrad?" she asked, turning to Wachtmann.
"Gentlemen of the press, I believe, to see your father, Yvonne,"replied the count.
It was evident that it had not been mere newspaper talk about thislatest rumored international engagement.
"How did you enjoy it?" he asked, noticing the title of a history whichshe had come to replace in the library.
"Very well--all but the assassinations and the intrigues," she repliedwith a little shudder.
He shot a quick, searching look at her face. "They are a violentpeople--some of them," he commented quickly.
"You are going into town to-morrow?" I heard him ask Miss Brixton, asthey walked slowly down the wide hall to the conservatory a few momentslater.
"What do you think of him?" I whispered to Kennedy.
I suppose my native distrust of his kind showed through, for Craigmerely shrugged his shoulders. Before he could reply Mr. Brixton joinedus.
"There's another one--just came," he ejaculated, throwing a letter downon the library table. It was only a few lines this time:
"The bonds will not be subject to a tax by the government, they say.No--because if there is a war there won't be any government to taxthem!"
The note did not appear to interest Kennedy as much as what he haddiscovered. "One thing is self-evident, Mr. Brixton," he remarked."Some one inside this house is spying, is in constant communicationwith a person or persons outside. All the watchmen and Great Danes onthe estate are of no avail against the subtle, underground connectionthat I believe exists. It is still early in the afternoon. I shall makea hasty trip to New York and return after dinner. I should like towatch with you in the den this evening."
"Very well," agreed Brixton. "I shall arrange to have you met at thestation and brought here as secretly as I can."
He sighed, as if admitting that he was no longer master of even his ownhouse.
Kennedy was silent during most of our return trip to New York. As formyself, I was deeply mired in an attempt to fathom Wachtmann. Hebaffled me. However, I felt that if there was indeed some subtle,underground connection between some one inside and someone outsideBrixton's house, Craig would prepare an equally subtle method ofmeeting it on his own account. Very little was said by either of us onthe journey up to the laboratory, or on the return to Woodrock. Irealised that there was very little excuse for a commuter not to bewell informed. I, at least, had plenty of time to exhaust thenewspapers I had bought.
Whether or not we returned without being observed, I did not know, butat least we did find that the basement and dark storeroom weredeserted, as we cautiously made our way again it to the corner whereCraig had made his enigmatical discoveries of the afternoon.
While I held a pocket flashlight Craig was busy concealing anotherinstrument of his own in the little storeroom. It seemed to be a littleblack disk about as big as a watch, with a number of perforated holesin one face. Carelessly he tossed it into the top drawer of the chestunder some old rubbish, shut the drawer tight and ran a flexible wireout of the back of the chest. It was a simple matter to lay the wirethrough some bins next the storeroom and then around to the passagewaydown to the subterranean den of Brixton. There Craig deposited a littleblack box about the size of an ordinary kodak.
For an hour or so we sat with Brixton. Neither of us said anything, andBrixton was uncommunicatively engaged in reading a railroad report.Suddenly a sort of muttering, singing noise seemed to fill the room.
"There it is!" cried Brixton, clapping the book shut and lookingeagerly at Kennedy.
Gradually the sound increased in pitch. It seemed to come from theceiling, not from any particular part of the room, but merely fromsomewhere overhead. There was no hallucination about it. We all heard.As the vibrations increased it was evident that they were shapingthemselves into words.
Kennedy had grasped the black box the moment the sound began and washolding two black rubber disks to his ears.
At last the sound from overhead became articulate It was weird,uncanny. Suddenly a voice said distinctly: "Let American dollarsbeware. They will not protect American daughters."
Craig had dropped the two ear-pieces and was gazing intently at theOsram lamp in the ceiling. Was he, too, crazy?
"Here, Mr. Brixton, take these two receivers of the detectaphone," saidKennedy. "Tell me whether you can recognise the voice."
"Why, it's familiar," he remarked slowly. "I can't place it, but I'veheard it before. Where is it? What is this thing, anyhow?"
"It is someone hidden in the storeroom in the basement," answeredCraig. "He is talking into a very sensitive telephone transmitter and--"
"But the voice--here?" interrupted Brixton impatiently.
Kennedy pointed to the incandescent lamp in the ceiling. "Theincandescent lamp," he said, "is not always the mute electricalapparatus it is supposed to be. Under the right conditions it can bemade to speak exactly as the famous 'speaking-arc,' as it was called byProfessor Duddell, who investigated it. Both the arc-light and themetal-filament lamp can be made to act as telephone receivers."
It seemed unbelievable, but Kennedy was positive. "In the case of thespeaking-arc or 'arcophone,' as it might be called," he continued, "thefact that the electric arc is sensitive to such small variations in thecurrent over a wide range of frequency has suggested that adirect-current arc might be used as a telephone receiver. All that isnecessary is to superimpose a microphone current on the main arccurrent, and the arc reproduces sounds and speech distinctly, loudenough to be heard several feet. Indeed, the arc could be used as atransmitter, too, if a sensitive receiver replaced the transmitt
er atthe other end. The things needed are an arc-lamp, an impedance coil, orsmall transformer-coil, a rheostat, and a source of energy. Thealternating current is not adapted to reproduce speech, but theordinary direct current is. Of course, the theory isn't half as simpleas the apparatus I have described."
He had unscrewed the Osram lamp. The talking ceased immediately.
"Two investigators named Ort and Ridger have used a lamp like this as areceiver," he continued. "They found that words spoken were reproducedin the lamp. The telephonic current variations superposed on thecurrent passing through the lamp produce corresponding variations ofheat in the filament, which are radiated to the glass of the bulb,causing it to expand and contract proportionately, and thustransmitting vibrations to the exterior air. Of course, in sixteen-andthirty-two-candle-power lamps the glass is too thick, and the heatvariations are too feeble."
Who was it whose voice Brixton had recognised as familiar overKennedy's hastily installed detectaphone? Certainly he must have been ascientist of no mean attainment. That did not surprise me, for Irealised that from that part of Europe where this mystical RedBrotherhood operated some of the most famous scientists of the worldhad sprung.
A hasty excursion into the basement netted us nothing. The place wasdeserted.
We could only wait. With parting instructions to Brixton in the use ofthe detectaphone we said good night, were met by a watchman andescorted as far as the lodge safely.
Only one remark did Kennedy make as we settled ourselves for the longride in the accommodation train to the city. "That warning means thatwe have two people to protect--both Brixton and his daughter."
Speculate as I might, I could find no answer to the mystery, nor to thequestion, which was also unsolved, as to the queer malady of Brixtonhimself, which his physician diagnosed as jaundice.