Story VI: The Diamond Maker

“I’ve called, Professor Kennedy, to see if we can retain you in a case which I am sure will tax even your resources. Heaven knows it has taxed ours.”

The visitor was a large, well-built man. He placed his hat on the table and, without taking off his gloves, sat down in an easy chair which he completely filled.

“Andrews is my name--third vice-president of the Great Eastern Life Insurance Company. I am the nominal head of the company’s private detective force, and though I have some pretty clever fellows on my staff we’ve got a case that, so far, none of us has been able to unravel. I’d like to consult you about it.”

Kennedy expressed his entire willingness to be consulted, and after the usual formalities were over, Mr. Andrews proceeded.

“I suppose you are aware that the large insurance companies maintain quite elaborate detective forces and follow very keenly such of the cases of their policy-holders as look at all suspicious. This case which I wish to put in your hands is that of Mr. Solomon Morowitch, a wealthy Maiden Lane jeweller. I suppose you have read something in the papers about his sudden death and the strange robbery of his safe?”

“Very little,” replied Craig. “There hasn’t been much to read.”

“Of course not, of course not,” said Mr. Andrews with some show of gratification. “I flatter myself that we have pulled the wires so as to keep the thing out of the papers as much as possible. We don’t want to frighten the quarry till the net is spread. The point is, though, to find out who is the quarry. It’s most baffling.”

“I am at your service,” interposed Craig quietly, “but you will have to enlighten me as to the facts in the case. As to that, I know no more than the newspapers.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly. That is to say, you know nothing at all and can approach it without bias.” He paused and then, seeming to notice something in Craig’s manner, added hastily: “I’ll be perfectly frank with you. The policy in question is for one hundred thousand dollars, and is incontestable. His wife is the beneficiary. The company is perfectly willing to pay, but we want to be sure that it is all straight first. There are certain suspicious circumstances that in justice to ourselves we think should be cleared up. That is all--believe me. We are not seeking to avoid an honest liability.”

“What are these suspicious circumstances?” asked Craig, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

“This is in strict confidence, gentlemen,” began Mr. Andrews. “Mr. Morowitch, according to the story as it comes to us, returned home late one night last week, apparently from his office, in a very weakened, a semiconscious, condition. His family physician, Doctor Thornton, was summoned, not at once, but shortly. He pronounced Mr. Morowitch to be suffering from a congestion of the lungs that was very like a sudden attack of pneumonia.

“Mr. Morowitch had at once gone to bed, or at least was in bed, when the doctor arrived, but his condition grew worse so rapidly that the doctor hastily resorted to oxygen, under which treatment he seemed to revive. The doctor had just stepped out to see another patient when a hurry call was sent to him that Mr. Morowitch was rapidly sinking. He died before the doctor could return. No statement whatever concerning the cause of his sudden illness was made by Mr. Morowitch, and the death-certificate, a copy of which I have, gives pneumonia as the cause of death. One of our men has seen Doctor Thornton, but has been able to get nothing out of him. Mrs. Morowitch was the only person with her, husband at the time.”

There was something in his tone that made me take particular note of this last fact, especially as he paused for an instant.

“Now, perhaps there would be nothing surprising about it all, so far at least, were it not for the fact that the following morning, when his junior partner, Mr. Kahan, opened the place of business, or rather went to it, for it was to remain closed, of course, he found that during the night someone had visited it. The lock on the great safe, which contained thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds, was intact; but in the top of the safe a huge hole was found--an irregular, round hole, big enough to put your foot through. Imagine it, Professor Kennedy, a great hole in a safe that is made of chrome steel, a safe that, short of a safety-deposit vault, ought to be about the strongest thing on earth.

“Why, that steel would dull and splinter even the finest diamond-drill before it made an impression. The mere taking out and refitting of drills into the brace would be a most lengthy process. Eighteen or twenty hours is the time by actual test which it would take to bore such a hole through those laminated plates, even if there were means of exerting artificial pressure. As for the police, they haven’t even a theory yet.”

“And the diamonds”

“All gone--everything of any value was gone. Even the letter-files were ransacked. His desk was broken open, and papers of some nature had been taken out of it. Thorough is no name for the job. Isn’t that enough to arouse suspicion?”

“I should like to see that safe,” was all Kennedy said.

“So you shall, so you shall,” said Mr. Andrews. “Then we may retain you in our service? My car is waiting down-stairs. We can go right down to Maiden Lane if you wish.”

“You may retain me on one condition,” said Craig without moving. “I am to be free to get at the truth whether it benefits or hurts the company, and the case is to be entirely in my hands.”

“Hats on,” agreed Mr. Andrews, reaching in his vest pocket and pulling out three or four brevas. “My chauffeur is quite a driver. He can almost beat the subway down.”

“First, to my laboratory,” interposed Craig. “It will take only a few minutes.”

We drove up to the university and stopped on the campus while Craig hurried into the Chemistry Building to get something.

“I like your professor of criminal science;” said Andrews to me, blowing a huge fragrant cloud of smoke.

I, for my part, liked the vice-president. He was a man who seemed thoroughly to enjoy life, to have most of the good things, and a capacity for getting out of them all that was humanly possible. He seemed to be particularly enjoying this Morowitch case.

“He has solved some knotty cases,” was all I said. “I’ve come to believe there is no limit to his resourcefulness.”

“I hope not. He’s up against a tough one this trip, though, my boy.”

I did not even resent the “my boy.” Andrews was one of those men in whom we newspaper writers instinctively believe. I knew that it would be “pens lifted” only so long as the case was incomplete. When the time comes with such men they are ready to furnish us the best “copy” in the world.

Kennedy quickly rejoined us, carrying a couple of little glass bottles with ground-glass stoppers.

Morowitch & Co. was, of course, closed when we arrived, but we had no trouble in being admitted by the Central Office man who had been detailed to lock the barn door after the horse was stolen. It was precisely as Mr. Andrews had said. Mr. Kahan showed us the safe. Through the top a great hole had been made--I say made, for at the moment I was at a loss to know whether it had been cut, drilled, burned, blown out, or what-not.

Kennedy examined the edges of the hole carefully, and just the trace of a smile of satisfaction flitted over his face as he did so. Without saying a word he took the glass stopper out of the larger bottle which he had brought and poured the contents on the top of the safe near the hole. There it lay, a little mound of reddish powder.

Kennedy took a little powder of another kind from the other bottle and lighted it with a match.

“Stand back--close to the wall,” he called as he dropped the burning mass on the red powder. In two or three leaps he joined us at the far end of the room.

Almost instantly a dazzling, intense flame broke out, and sizzled and crackled. With bated breath we watched. It was almost incredible, but that glowing mass of powder seemed literally to be sinking, sinking right down into the cold steel. In tense silence we waited. On the ceiling we could still see the reflection of the molten mass in the cup which it had burned for itself in the top of the safe.

At last it fell through into the safe--fell as the burning roof of a frame building would fall into the building. No one spoke a word, but as we cautiously peered over the top of the safe we instinctively turned to Kennedy for an explanation. The Central Office man, with eyes as big as half-dollars, acted almost as if he would have liked to clap the irons on Kennedy. For there in the top of the safe was another hole, smaller but identical in nature with the first one.

“Thermit,” was all Kennedy said.

“Thermit?” echoed Andrews, shifting the cigar which he had allowed to go out in the excitement.

“Yes, an invention of a chemist named Goldschmidt, of Essen, Germany. It is a compound of iron oxide, such as comes off a blacksmith’s anvil or the rolls of a rolling-mill, and powdered metallic aluminum. You could thrust a red-hot bar into it without setting it off, but when you light a little magnesium powder and drop it on thermit, a combustion is started that quickly reaches fifty-four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It has the peculiar property of concentrating its heat to the immediate spot on which it is placed. It is one of the most powerful oxidising agents known, and it doesn’t even melt the rest of the steel surface. You see how it ate its way through the steel. Either black or red thermit will do the trick equally well.”

No one said anything. There was nothing to say.

“Someone uncommonly clever, or instructed by someone uncommonly clever, must have done that job,” added Craig. “Well, there is nothing more to be done here,” he added, after a cursory look about the office. “Mr. Andrews, may I have a word with you? Come on, Jameson. Good day, Mr. Kahan. Good day, Officer.”

Outside we stopped for a moment at the door of Andrews’s car.

“I shall want to see Mr. Morowitch’s papers at home,” said Craig, “and also to call on Doctor Thornton. Do you think I shall have any difficulty?”

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Andrews, “not at all. I will go with you myself and see that you have none. Say, Professor Kennedy,” he broke out, “that was marvellous. I never dreamed such a thing was possible. But don’t you think you could have learned something more up there in the office by looking around?”

“I did learn it,” answered Kennedy. “The lock on the door was intact--whoever did the job let himself in by a key. There is no other way to get in.”

Andrews gave a low whistle and glanced involuntarily up at the window with the sign of Morowitch & Co. in gold letters several floors above.

“Don’t look up. I think that was Kahan looking out at us,” he said, fixing his eyes on his cigar. “I wonder if he knows more about this than he has told! He was the ‘company, ‘ you know, but his interest in the business was only very slight. By George--”

“Not too fast, Mr. Andrews,” interrupted Craig. “We have still to see Mrs. Morowitch and the doctor before we form any theories.”

“A very handsome woman, too,” said Andrews, as we seated ourselves in the car: “A good deal younger than Morowitch. Say, Kahan isn’t a bad-looking chap, either, is he? I hear he was a very frequent visitor at his partner’s house. Well, which first, Mrs. M. or the doctor?”

“The house,” answered Craig.

Mr. Andrews introduced us to Mrs. Morowitch, who was in very deep mourning, which served, as I could not help noticing, rather to heighten than lessen her beauty. By contrast it brought out the rich deep colour of her face and the graceful lines of her figure. She was altogether a very attractive young widow.

She seemed to have a sort of fear of Andrews, whether merely because he represented the insurance company on which so much depended or because there were other reasons for fear, I could not, of course, make out. Andrews was very courteous and polite, yet I caught myself asking if it was not a professional rather than a personal politeness. Remembering his stress on the fact that she was alone with her husband when he died, it suddenly flashed across my mind that somewhere I had read of a detective who, as his net was being woven about a victim, always grew more and more ominously polite toward the victim. I know that Andrews suspected her of a close connection with the case. As for myself, I don’t know what I suspected as yet.

No objection was offered to our request to examine Mr. Morowitch’s personal effects in the library, and accordingly Craig ransacked the desk and the letter-file. There was practically nothing to be discovered.

“Had Mr. Morowitch ever received any threats of robbery?” asked Craig, as he stood before the desk.

“Not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Morowitch. “Of course every jeweller who carries a large stock of diamonds must be careful. But I don’t think my husband had any special reason to fear robbery. At least he never said anything about it. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. I merely thought there might be some hint as to the motives of the robbery,” said Craig. He was fingering one of those desk-calendars which have separate leaves for each day with blank spaces for appointments.

“‘Close deal Poissan, ‘“ he read slowly from one of the entries, as if to himself. “That’s strange. It was the correspondence under the letter ‘P’ that was destroyed at the office, and there is nothing in the letter-file here, either. Who was Poissan?”

Mrs. Morowitch hesitated, either from ignorance or from a desire to evade the question. “A chemist, I think,” she said doubtfully. “My husband had some dealings with him--some discovery he was going to buy. I don’t know anything about it. I thought the deal was off.”

“The deal?”

“Really, Mr. Kennedy, you had better ask Mr. Kahan. My husband talked very, little to me about business affairs.”

“But what was the discovery?”

“I don’t know. I only heard Mr. Morowitch and Mr. Kahan refer to some deal about a discovery regarding diamonds.”

“Then Mr. Kahan knows about it?”

“I presume so.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morowitch,” said Kennedy, when it was evident that she either could not or would not add anything to what she had said. “Pardon us for causing all this trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” she replied graciously, though I could see she was intent on every word and motion of Kennedy and Andrews.

Kennedy stopped the car at a drug-store a few blocks away and asked for the business telephone directory. In an instant, under chemists, he put his finger on the name of Poissan--”Henri Poissan, electric furnaces, --William St.,” he read.

“I shall visit him to-morrow morning. Now for the doctor.”

Doctor Thornton was an excellent specimen of the genus physician to the wealthy--polished, cool, suave. One of Mr. Andrews’s men, as I have said, had seen him already, but the interview had been very unsatisfactory. Evidently, however, the doctor had been turning something over in his mind since then and had thought better of it. At any rate, his manner was cordial enough now.

As he closed the doors to his office, he began to pace the floor. “Mr. Andrews,” he said, “I am in some doubt whether I had better tell you or the coroner what I know. There are certain professional secrets that a doctor must, as a duty to his patients, conceal. That is professional ethics. But there are also cases when, as a matter of public policy, a doctor should speak out.”

He stopped and faced us.

“I don’t mind telling you that I dislike the publicity that would attend any statement I might make to the coroner.”

“Exactly,” said Andrews. “I appreciate your position exactly. Your other patients would not care to see you involved in a scandal--or at least you would not care to have them see you so involved, with all the newspaper notoriety such a thing brings.”

Doctor Thornton shot a quick glance at Andrews, as if he would like to know just how much his visitor knew or suspected.

Andrews drew a paper from his pocket. “This is a copy of the death-certificate,” he said. “The Board of Health has furnished it to us. Our physicians at the insurance company tell me it is rather extraordinarily vague. A word from us calling the attention of the proper authorities to it would be sufficient, I think. But, Doctor, that is just the point. We do not desire publicity any more than you do. We could have the body of Mr. Morowitch exhumed and examined, but I prefer to get the facts in the case without resorting to such extreme measures.”

“It would do no good,” interrupted the doctor hastily. “And if you’ll save me the publicity, I’ll tell you why.”

Andrews nodded, but still held the death-certificate where the doctor was constantly reminded of it.

“In that certificate I have put down the cause of death as congestion of the lungs due to an acute attack of pneumonia. That is substantially correct, as far as it goes. When I was summoned to see Mr. Morowitch I found him in a semiconscious state and scarcely breathing. Mrs. Morowitch told me that he had been brought home in a taxicab by a man who had picked him up on William Street. I’m frank to say that at first sight I thought it was a case of plain intoxication, for Mr. Morowitch sometimes indulged a little freely when he made a splendid deal. I smelled his breath, which was very feeble. It had a sickish sweet odour, but that did not impress me at the time. I applied my stethoscope to his lungs. There was a very marked congestion, and I made as my working diagnosis pneumonia. It was a case for quick and heroic action. In a very few minutes I had a tank of oxygen from the hospital.

“In the meantime I had thought over that sweetish odour, and it flashed on my mind that it might, after all, be a case of poisoning. When the oxygen arrived I administered it at once. As it happens, the Rockefeller Institute has just published a report of experiments with a new antidote for various poisons, which consists simply in a new method of enforced breathing and throwing off the poison by oxidising it in that way. In either case--the pneumonia theory or the poison theory--this line of action was the best that I could have adopted on the spur of the moment. I gave him some strychnine to strengthen his heart and by hard work I had him resting apparently a little easier. A nurse had been sent for, but had not arrived when a messenger came to me telling of a very sudden illness of Mrs. Morey, the wife of the steel-magnate. As the Morey home is only a half-block away, I left Mr. Morowitch, with very particular instructions to his wife as to what to do.

“I had intended to return immediately, but before I got back Mr. Morowitch was dead. Now I think I’ve told you all. You see, it was nothing but a suspicion--hardly enough to warrant making a fuss about. I made out the death-certificate, as you see. Probably that would have been all there was to it if I hadn’t heard of this incomprehensible robbery. That set me thinking again. There, I’m glad I’ve got it out of my system. I’ve thought about it a good deal since your man was here to see me.”

“What do you suspect was the cause of that sweetish odour?” asked Kennedy.

The doctor hesitated. “Mind, it is only a suspicion. Cyanide of potassium or cyanogen gas; either would give such an odour.”

“Your treatment would have been just the same had you been certain?”

“Practically the same, the Rockefeller treatment.”

“Could it have been suicide” asked Andrews.

“There was no motive for it, I believe,” replied the doctor.

“But was there any such poison in the Morowitch house?”

“I know that they were much interested in photography. Cyanide of potassium is used in certain processes in photography.”