The Exploits of Elaine | Page 3

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 me keenly, he added, "Yes, I already knew there was
such a man at large. I have been called in on that Fletcher case--he was
a trustee of the University, you know."
"All right," I exclaimed, a little nettled that he should have anticipated
me even so much in the case. "But you haven't heard the latest."

"What is it?" he asked with provoking calmness,
"Taylor Dodge," I blurted out, "has the clue. To-morrow he will track
down the man!"
Kennedy fairly jumped as I repeated the news.
"How long has he known?" he demanded eagerly.
"Perhaps three or four hours," I hazarded.
Kennedy gazed at me fixedly.
"Then Taylor Dodge is dead!" he exclaimed, throwing off his acid-
stained laboratory smock and hurrying into his street clothes.
"Impossible!" I ejaculated.
Kennedy paid no attention to the objection. "Come, Walter," he urged.
"We must hurry, before the trail gets cold."
There was something positively uncanny about Kennedy's assurance. I
doubted--yet I feared.
It was well past the middle of the night when we pulled up in a
night-hawk taxicab before the Dodge house, mounted the steps and
rang the bell.
Jennings answered sleepily, but not so much so that he did not
recognize me. He was about to bang the door shut when Kennedy
interposed his foot.