XII. — A DEAL IN PROPERTY
But to return. There was work that I should do—much work if I was going after the solution. In the first place, there was the house. I turned my back to the waterfront and entered the city. The streets were packed, the commerce of man jostled and threaded along the highways; there was life and action, hope, ambition. It was what I had loved so well. Yet now it was different.
I realised it vaguely, and wondered. This feeling of aloofness? It was intrinsic, coming from within, like the withering of one's marrow. I laughed at my foreboding; it was not natural; I tried to shake myself together.
I had no difficulty with the records. In less than an hour I traced out the owners, “an estate,” and had located the agent. It just so happened that he was a man with whom I had some acquaintance. We were not long in coming to business.
“The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place?”
I noticed that he was startled; there was a bit of wonder in his look—a quizzical alertness. He motioned me to a chair and closed the door.
“Sit down, Mr. Wendel; sit down. H-m! The house at No. 288 Chatterton Place? Did I hear you right?”
Again I noted the wonder; his manner was cautious and curious. I nodded.
“Want to buy it or just lease it? Pardon me, but you are sort of a friend. I would not like to lose your friendship for the sake of a mere sale. What is your—”
“Just for a residence,” I insisted. “A place to live in.”
“I see. Know anything about this place?”
“Do you?”
He fumbled with some papers. For an agent he did not strike me as being very solicitous for a commission.
“Well,” he said, “in a way, yes. A whole lot more than I'd like to. It all depends. One gets much from hearsay. What I know is mostly rumour.” He began marking with a pencil. “Of course I don't believe it. Nevertheless I would hardly recommend it to a friend as a residence.”
“And these rumours?”
He looked up; for a moment he studied; then:
“Ever hear of the Blind Spot? Perhaps you remember Dr. Holcomb—in 1905, before the 'quake. It was a murder. The papers were full of it at the time; since then it has been occasionally featured in the supplements. I do not believe in the story; but I can trust to facts. The last seen of Dr. Holcomb was in this house. It is called the Blind Spot.”
“Then you believe in the story?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Oh, you know it, eh? No, I do not. It's all bunkum; reporters' work and exaggeration. If you like that kind of stuff, it's weird and interesting. But it hurts property. The man was undoubtedly murdered. The tale hangs over the house. It's impossible to dispose of the place.”
“Then why not sell it to me?”
He dropped his pencil; he was a bit nervous.
“A fair question, Mr. Wendel—a very fair question. Well, now, why don't I? Perhaps I shall. There's no telling. But I'd rather not. Do you know, a year ago I would have jumped at an offer. Fact is, I did lease it—the lease ran out yesterday—to a man named Watson. I don't believe a thing in this nonsense; but what I have seen during the past year has tested my nerve considerably.”
“What about Watson?”
“Watson? A year ago he came to see me in regard to this Chatterton property. Wanted to lease it. Was interested in the case of Dr. Holcomb; asked for a year's rental and the privilege of renewal. I don't know. I gave it to him; but when he drops in again I am going to fight almighty hard against letting him hold it longer.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why, because I don't believe in murder. A year ago he came to me the healthiest and happiest man I ever saw; today he is a shadow. I watched that boy go down. Understand, I don't believe a damn word I'm saying; but I have seen it. It's that cursed house. I say no, when I reason; but it keeps on my nerves; it's on my conscience. It is insidious. Every month when he came here I could see disintegration. It's pitiful to see a young man stripped of life like that; forlorn, hopeless, gone. He has never told me what it is; but I have wondered. A battle; some conflict with—there I go again. It's on my nerves, I tell you, on my nerves. If this keeps up I'll burn it.”
It was a bit foreboding. Already I could feel the tugging at my heart that had done for Watson. This man had watched my friend slipping into the shadow; I had come to take his place.
“Watson has gone,” I said simply; “and that's why I am here.”
He straightened up.
“You know him then. He was not—”
“He went last night; he has left the country. He was in very poor health. That's why I am here. I know very well the cloud that hangs over the property; it is my sole reason for purchasing.”
“You don't believe in this nonsense?”
I smiled. Certainly the man was perverse in his agnosticism; he was stubborn in disbelief. It was on his nerves; on his conscience; he was afraid.
“I believe nothing,” I answered; “neither do I disbelieve. I know all the story that has been told or written. I am a friend of Watson. You need not scruple in making me out a bill of sale. It's my own funeral. I abide by the consequences.”
He gave a sigh of relief. After all, he was human. He had honour; but it was after the brand of Pontius Pilate. He wished nothing on his conscience.
Armed with the keys and the legal title, I took possession. In the daylight it was much as it had been the night before. Once across its threshold, one was in dank and furtive suppression; the air was heavy; a mould of age had streaked the walls and gloomed the shadows. I put up all the curtains to let in the rush of sunlight, likewise I opened the windows. If there is anything to beat down sin, it is the open measure of broad daylight.
The house was well situated; from the front windows one could look down the street and out at the blue bay beyond the city. The fog had lifted and the sun was shining upon the water. I could make out the ferryboats, the islands, and the long piers that lead to Oakland, and still farther beyond the hills of Berkeley. It was a long time since those days in college. Under the shadow of those hills I had first met the old doctor. I was only a boy then.
I turned into the building. Even the sound of my footsteps was foreign; the whole place was pregnant with stillness and shadow; life was gone out. It was fearful; I felt the terror clutching upon me, a grimness that may not be spoken; there was something breaking within me. I had pledged myself for a year. Frankly I was afraid.
But I had given my word. I returned to my apartments and began that very day the closing down of my practice. In a fortnight I had completed everything and had moved my things to the room of Chick Watson.
XIII. — ALBERT JEROME
Just as soon as possible I hurried over to Berkeley. I went straight to the bungalow on Dwight Way; I inquired for Miss Holcomb. She was a woman now in her late twenties, decidedly pretty, a blonde, and of intelligent bearing.
Coming on such an errand, I was at a loss just how to approach her. I noted the little lines about the corners of her eyes, the sad droop of her pretty mouth. Plainly she was worried. As I was removing my hat she caught sight of the ring upon my finger.
“Oh,” she said; “then you come from Mr. Watson. How is Chick?”
“Mr. Watson”—I did not like lying, but I could not but feel for her; she had already lost her father—“Mr. Watson has gone on a trip up-country—with Jerome. He was not feeling well. He has left this ring with me. I have come for a bit of information.”
She bit her lips; her mouth quivered.
“Couldn't you get this from Mr. Watson? He knows about the stone. Didn't he tell you? How did it come into your possession? What has happened?”
Her voice was querulous and suspicious. I had endeavoured to deceive her for her own sake; she had suffered enough already. I could not but wince at the pain in her eyes. She stood up.
“Please, Mr. Wendel; don't be clumsy. Don't regard me as a mere baby. Tell me what has happened to Chick. Please—”
She stopped in a flow of emotion. Tears came to her eyes; but she held control. She sat down.
“Tell me all, Mr. Wendel. It is what I expected.” She blinked to hold back her tears. “It is my fault. You wouldn't have the ring had nothing happened. Tell me. I can be brave.”
And brave she was—splendid. With the tug at my own heart I could understand her. What uncertainty and dread she must have been under! I had been in it but a few days; already I could feel the weight. At no time could I surmount the isolation; there was something going from me minute by minute. With the girl there could be no evasion; it were better that she have the truth. I made a clean breast of the whole affair.
“And he told you no more about the ring?”
“That is all,” I answered. “He would have told us much more, undoubtedly, had he not—”
“You saw him go—you saw this thing?”
“That is just it, Miss Holcomb. We saw nothing. One minute we were looking at Chick, and the next at nothing. Hobart understood it better than I. At least he forbade my crossing the room. There is a danger point, a spot that may not be crossed. He threw me back. It was then that the Rhamda came upon the scene.” She frowned slightly.
“Tell me about the Nervina. When Chick spoke of her, I could always feel jealous. Is she beautiful?”
“Most beautiful, the most wonderful girl I have ever seen, though I would hardly class her as one to be jealous of. But she wants the ring. I've promised Watson, and of course I shall keep it. But I would like its history.”
“I think I can give you some information there,” she answered. “The ring, or rather the jewel, was given to father about twenty years ago by a Mr. Kennedy. He had been a pupil of father's when father taught at a local school. He came here often to talk over old times. Father had the jewel set in a ring; but he never wore it.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
“How did Watson come to link it up with the Blind Spot?”
“That, I think, was an accident. He was in college, you know, at the time of father's disappearance. In fact, he was in the Ethics class. He came here often, and during one of his visits I showed him the ring. That was several years ago.”
“I see.”
“Well, about a year ago he was here again, and asked to see the jewel. We were to be married, you understand; but I had always put it off because of father. Somehow I felt that he would return. It was in late summer, about September; it was in the evening; it was getting dark. I gave Chick the ring, and stepped into the garden to cut some flowers. I remember that Chick struck a match in the parlour. When I came back he seemed to be excited.”
“Did he ask you for the ring?”
“Yes. He wanted to wear it. And he suddenly began to talk of father. It was that night that he took it upon himself to find him.”
“I see. Not before that night? Did he take the ring then?”
“Yes. We went to the opera. I remember it well, because that night was the first time I ever knew Chick to be gloomy.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. You know how jolly he always was. When we returned that night he would scarcely say a word. I thought he was sick; but he said he was not; said he just felt that way.”
“I understand. And he kept getting glummer? Did you suspect the jewel? Did he ever tell you anything?”
She shook her head.
“No. He told me nothing, except that he would find father. Of course, I became excited and wanted to know. But he insisted that I couldn't help; that he had a clue, and that it might take time. From that night I saw very little of him. He leased the house on Chatterton Place. He seemed to lose interest in myself; when he did come over he would act queerly. He talked incoherently, and would often make rambling mention of a beautiful girl called Nervina. You say it is the ring? Tell me, Mr. Wendel, what is it? Has it really anything to do with father?”
I nodded.
“I think it has, Miss Holcomb. And I can understand poor Chick. He is a very brave man. It's a strange jewel and of terrible potency; that much I know. It devitalises; it destroys. I can feel it already. It covers life with a fog of decay. The same solitude has come upon myself. Nevertheless I am certain it has much to do with the Blind Spot. It is a key of some sort. The very interest of the Rhamda and the Nervina tells us that. I think it was through this stone that your father made his discovery.”
She thought a moment.
“Hadn't you better return it? While you still have health? If you keep it, it will be only one more.”
“You forget, Miss Holcomb, my promise to Chick. I loved your father, and I was fond of Watson. It's a great secret and, if the professor is right, one which man has sought through the ages. I'd be a coward to forgo my duty. If I fail, I have another to take my place.”
“Oh,” she said, “it's horrible. First father; then Chick; now you; and afterwards it will be Mr. Fenton.”
“It is our duty,” I returned. “One by one. Though we may fail, each one of us may pass a bit more on to his successor. In the end we win. It is the way of man.”
I had my way. She turned over all the data and notes that had been left by the professor; but I never found a thing in them that could be construed to an advantage. My real quest was to trace down the jewel. The man Kennedy's full name was, I learned, Budge Kennedy. He had lived in Oakland. It was late in the afternoon when I parted with Miss Holcomb and started for the city.
I remember it well because of a little incident that occurred immediately after our parting. I was just going down the steps when I looked up one of the side streets. A few students were loitering here and there. But there was one who was not a student. I recognised him instantly, and I wondered. It was the Rhamda. This was enough to make me suspicious. But there was one thing more. Farther up the street was another figure.
When I came down the steps the Rhamda moved, and his move was somehow duplicated by the other. In itself this was enough to clear up some of my doubts concerning the phantom. His actions were too simple for an apparition. Only a man would act like that, and a crude one. I didn't know then the nerve of the Rhamda. There was no doubt that I was being shadowed.
To make certain, I took the by-streets and meandered by a devious route to the station. There was no question; one and two they followed. I knew the Rhamda; but who was the other?
At the station we purchased tickets, and when the train pulled in I boarded a smoker. The other two took another coach—the stranger was a thick-set individual with a stubby, grey moustache. On the boat I didn't see them; but at the ferry building I made a test to see that I was followed. I hailed a taxi and gave specific instructions to the driver.
“Drive slowly,” I told him. “I think we shall be followed.”
And I was right; in a few minutes there were two cars dogging our wheel-tracks. I had no doubt concerning the Rhamda; but I couldn't understand the other. At No. 288 Chatterton Place we stopped and I alighted. The Rhamda's car passed, then the other. Neither stopped. Both disappeared round the corner. I took the numbers; then I went into the house. In about a half hour a car drew up at the curb. I stepped to the window. It was the car that had tracked the Rhamda's. The stubby individual stepped out; without ceremony he ran up the steps and opened the door. It was a bit disconcerting, I think, for both. He was plain and blunt—and honest.
“Well,” he said, “where's Watson? Who are you? What do you want?”
“That,” I answered, “is a question for both of us. Who are you, and what do you want? Where is Watson?”
Just then his eyes dropped and his glance fell and eyes widened.
“My name is Jerome,” he said simply. “Has something happened to Watson? Who are you?”
We were standing in the library; I made an indication towards the other room. “In there,” I said. “My name is Wendel.”
He took off his hat and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.
“So that pair got him, too! I was afraid of them all the while. And I had to be away. Do you know how they did it? What's the working of their game? It's devilish and certainly clever. They played that boy for a year; they knew they would get him in the end. So did I.
“He was a fine lad, a fine lad. I knew this morning when I came down from Nevada that they had him. Found your duds. A stranger. House looked queer. But I had hopes he might have gone over to see his girl. Just thought I'd wander over to Berkeley. Found that bird Rhamda under a palm tree watching the Holcomb bungalow. It was the first time I'd seen him since that day things went amiss with the professor. In about ten minutes you came out. I stayed with him while he tracked you back here; I followed him back down town and lost him. Tell me about Watson.”
He sat down; during my recital he spoke not a word. He consumed one cigar after another; when I stopped for a moment he merely nodded his head and waited until I continued. He was sturdy and frank, of an iron way and vast common sense. I liked him. When I had finished he remained silent; his grief was of a solid kind! he had liked poor Watson.
“I see,” he said. “It is as I thought. He told you more than he ever told me.”
“He never told you?”
“Not much. He was a strange lad—about the loneliest one I've ever seen. There was something about him from the very first that was not natural; I couldn't make him out. You say it is the ring. He always wore it. I laid it to this Rhamda. He was always meeting him. I could never understand it. Try as I would, I could not get a trace of the phantom.”
“The phantom?”
“Most assuredly. Would you call him human?” His grey eyes were flecked with light. “Come now, Mr. Wendel, would you?”
“Well,” I answered, “I don't know. Not after what I have seen. But for all that, I have proof of his sinews. I am inclined to blend the two. There is a law somewhere, a very natural one. The Blind Spot is undoubtedly a combination of phenomena; it has a control. We do not know what it is, or where it leads to; neither do we know the motive of the Rhamda. Who is he? If we knew that, we would know everything.”
“And this ring?”
“I shall wear it.”
“Then God help you. I watched Watson. It's plain poison. You have a year; but you had better count on half a year; the first six months aren't so bad; but the last—it takes a man! Wendel, it takes a man! Already you're eating your heart out. Oh, I know—you have opened the windows; you want sunshine and air. In six months I shall have to fight to get one open. It gets into the soul; it is stagnation; you die by inches. Better give me the ring.”
“This Budge Kennedy,” I evaded, “we must find him. We have time. One clue may lead us on. Tell me what you know of the Blind Spot.”
“Very easy,” he answered; “you have it all. I have been here a number of years. You will remember I fell into the case through intuition. I never had any definite proof, outside the professor's disappearance, the old lady, and that bell; unless perhaps it is the Rhamda. But from the beginning I've been positive.
“Taking that lecture in ethics as a starter, I built up my theory. All the clues lead to this building. It's something that I cannot understand. It's out of the occult. It's a bit too much for me. I moved into the place and waited. I've never forgotten that bell, nor that old lady. You and Fenton are the only ones who have seen the Blind Spot.”
I had a sudden thought.
“The Rhamda! I have read that he has the manner of inherent goodness. Is it true? You have conversed with him. I haven't.”
“He has. He didn't strike me as a villain. He's intrinsic, noble, out of self. I have often wondered.”
I smiled. “Perhaps we are thinking the same thing. Is this it? The Blind Spot is a secret that man may not attain to. It is unknowable and akin to death. The Rhamda knows it. He couldn't head off the professor. He simply employed Dr. Holcomb's wisdom to trap him; now that he has him secure, he intends to hold him. It is for our own good.”
“Exactly. Yet—”
“Yet?”
“He was very anxious to put you and Fenton into this very Spot.”
“That is so. But may it not be that we, too, knew a bit too much?”
He couldn't answer that.
Nevertheless, we were both of us convinced concerning the Rhamda. It was merely a digression of thought, a conjecture. He might be good; but we were both positive of his villainy. It was his motive, of course, that weighed up his character; could we find that, we would uncover everything.
XIV. — A NEW ELEMENT
Budge Kennedy was not so easily found. There were many Kennedys. About two-thirds of Ireland had apparently migrated to San Francisco under that name and had lodged in the directory. We went through the lists on both sides of the bay, but found nothing; the old directories had mostly been destroyed by fire or had been thrown away as worthless; but at last we unearthed one. In it we found the name of Budge Kennedy.
He had two sons—Patrick and Henry. One of these, Henry, we ran down in the Mission. He was a great, red-headed, broad-shouldered Irishman. He was just eating supper when we called; there were splotches of white plaster on his trousers.
I came right to the point: “Do you know anything about this?” I held out the ring.
He took it in his fingers; his eyes popped. “What, that! Well, I guess I do! Where'd you get it?” He called out to the kitchen: “Say, Mollie, come here. Here's the old man's jool!” He looked at me a bit fearfully. “You aren't wearing it?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Why? Well, I don't know exactly. I wouldn't wear it for a million dollars. It ain't a jool; it's a piece of the divil. The old man gave it to Dr. Holcomb—or sold it, I don't know which. He carried it in his pocket once, and he came near dying.”
“Unlucky?” I asked.
“No, it ain't unlucky; it just rips your heart out. It would make you hate your grandmother. Lonesome! Lonesome! I've often heard the old man talking.”
“He sold it to Dr. Holcomb? Do you know why?”
“Well, yes. 'Twas that the old doc had some scientific work. Dad told him about his jool. One day he took it over to Berkeley. It was some kind of thing that the professor just wanted. He kept it. Dad made him promise not to wear it.”
“I see. Did your father ever tell you where he got it?”
“Oh, yes. He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a plasterer, you know—just a labourer. He was digging a basement. It was a funny basement—a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone wall right across the middle, and then there was a door of wood to look like stone. You can go down into the back cellar, but not into the front. If you don't know about the door, you'll never find it. Dad often spoke about that. He was working in the back cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in some blue clay.”
“Where was this place? Do you remember?”
“Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took the old man's dinner.”
“Do you know the number?”
“It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story house, and was built in 'ninety-one.”
I nodded. “And afterwards you moved to Oakland?”
“Yes.”
“Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in the cellar?”
“He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely a labourer, and did what he was paid for.”
“Do you know who built it?”
“Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to wear a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he showed up he would run us kids out of the building. I think he was a bachelor.”
This was all the information he could give, but it was a great deal. Certainly it was more than I had hoped for. The house had been built by a chemist; even in the construction there was mystery. I had never thought of a second cellar; when I had explored the building I had taken the stone wall for granted. It was so with Jerome. It was the first definite clue that really brought us down to earth. What had this chemist to do with the phenomena?
After all, behind everything was lurking the mind of man.
We hastened back to the house and into the cellar. By merely sounding along the wall we discovered the door; it was cleverly constructed and for a time defied our efforts; but Jerome got it open by means of a jemmy and a pick. The outside was a clever piece of sham work shaped like stone and smeared over with cement. In the dim light we had missed it.
We had high expectations. But we were disappointed. The space contained nothing; it was smeared with cobwebs and hairy mould; but outside of a few empty bottles and the gloomy darkness there was nothing. We tapped the walls and floor and ceiling. Beyond all doubt the place once held a secret; if it held it still, it was cleverly hidden. After an hour or two of search we returned to the upper part of the building.
Jerome was not discouraged.
“We're on the right track, Mr. Wendel; if we can only get started. I have an idea. The chemist—it was in 'ninety-one—that's more than twenty years.”
“What is your idea?”
“The Rhamda. What is the first thing that strikes you? His age. With everyone that sees him it's the same. At first you take him for an old man; if you study him long enough, you are positive that he is in his twenties. May he not be this chemist?”
“What becomes of the doctor and his Blind Spot?”
“The Blind Spot,” answered Jerome, “is merely a part of the chemistry.”
Next day I hunted up a jeweller. I was careful to choose one with whom I was acquainted. I asked for a private consultation. When we were alone I took the ring from my finger.
“Just an opinion,” I asked. “You know gems. Can you tell me anything about this one?”
He picked it up casually, and turned it over; his mouth puckered. For a minute he studied.
“That? Well, now.” He held it up. “Humph. Wait a minute.”
“Is it a gem?”
“I think it is. At first I thought I knew it right off; but now—wait a minute.”
He reached in the drawer for his glass. He held the stone up for some minutes. His face was a study; queer little wrinkles twisting from the corners of his eyes told his wonder. He did not speak; merely turned the stone round and round. At last he removed his glass and held up the ring. He was quizzical.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“That is something I do not care to answer. I wish to know what it is. Is it a gem? If so, what kind?”
He thought a moment and shook his head.
“I thought I knew every gem on earth. But I don't. This is a new one. It is beautiful—just a moment.” He stepped to the door. In a moment another man stepped in. The jeweller motioned towards the ring. The man picked it up and again came the examination. At last he laid the glass and ring both upon the table.
“What do you make of it, Henry?” asked the jeweller.
“Not me,” answered the second one. “I never saw one like it.”
It was as Watson had said. No man had ever identified the jewel. The two men were puzzled; they were interested. The jeweller turned to me.
“Would you care to leave it with us for a bit; you have no objection to us taking it out of the ring?”
I had not thought of that. I had business down the street. I consulted my watch.
“In half an hour I shall be back. Will that be enough time?”
“I think so.”
It was an hour before I returned. The assistant was standing at the door of the office. He spoke something to the one inside and then made an indication to myself. He seemed excited; when I came closer I noted that his face was full of wonder.
“We've been waiting,” said he. “We didn't examine the stone; it wasn't necessary. It is truly wonderful.” He was a short, squat man with a massive forehead. “Just step inside.”
Inside the office the jeweller was sitting beside a table; he was leaning back in his chair; he had his hands clasped over his stomach. He was gazing toward the ceiling; his face was a study, full of wonder and speculation.
“Well?” I asked.
For an answer he merely raised his finger, pointed towards the ceiling.
“Up there,” he spoke. “Your jewel or whatever it is. A good thing we weren't in open air. 'Twould be going yet.”
I looked up. Sure enough, against the ceiling was the gem. It was a bit disconcerting, though I will confess that in the first moment I did not catch the full significance.
The jeweller closed one eye and studied first myself and then the beautiful thing against the ceiling.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
Really I had not made anything; it was a bit of a shock; I hadn't grasped the full impossibility. I didn't answer.
“Don't you see, Mr. Wendel? Impossible! Contrary to nature! Lighter than air. We took it out of the ring and it shot out like a bullet. Thought I'd dropped it. Began looking on the floor. Couldn't find it; looked up and saw Reynolds, here, with his eyes popping out like marbles. He was looking at the ceiling.”
I thought for a moment.
“Then it is not a gem?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not if I'm a jeweller. Whoever heard of a stone without weight? It has no gravity, that is, apparently. I doubt whether it is a substance. I don't know what it is.”
It was puzzling. I would have given a good deal just then for a few words with Dr. Holcomb. The man, Kennedy, had kept it in his pocket. How had he held it a prisoner? The professor had use for it in some scientific work! No wonder! Certainly it was not a jewel. What could it be? It was solid. It was lighter than air. Could it be a substance? If not; what is it?
“What would you advise?”
In answer the jeweller reached for the telephone. He gave a number.
“Hello. Say, is Ed there? This is Phil. Tell him to step to the phone. Hello! Say, Ed, I want you to come over on the jump. Something to show you. Too busy! No, you're not. Not for this. I'm going to teach you some chemistry. No; this is serious. What is it? I don't know. What's lighter than air? Lots of things? Oh, I know. But what solid? That's why I'm asking. Come over. All right. At once.”
He hung up the receiver.
“My brother,” he spoke. “It has passed beyond my province and into his. He is a chemist. As an expert he may give you a real opinion.”
Surely we needed one. It was against reason. It had taken me completely off my balance. I took a chair and joined the others in the contemplation of the blue dot on the ceiling. We could speculate and conjecture; but there was not one of us deep enough even to start a theory. Plainly it was what should not be. We had been taught physics and science; we had been drilled to fundamentals. If this thing could be, then the foundations upon which we stood were shattered. But one little law! Back in my mind was buzzing the enigma of the Blind Spot. They were woven together. Some law that had eluded the ken of mankind.
The chemist was a tall man with a hook nose and black eyes that clinched like rivets. He was a bit impatient. He looked keenly at his brother.
“Well, Phil, what is it?” He pulled out a watch, “I haven't much time.”
There was a contrast between them. The jeweller was fat and complacent. He merely sat in his chair, his hand on his waistband and a stubby finger elevated toward the jewel. He seemed to enjoy it.
“You're a chemist, Ed. Here's a test for your wisdom. Can you explain that? No, over here. Above your head. That jewel?”
The other looked up.
“What's the idea? New notion for decoration? Or”?—a bit testily—“is this a joke?” He was a serious man; his black eyes and the nose spoke his character.
The jeweller laughed gently.
“Listen, Ed—” Then he went into explanation; when he was through the chemist was twitching with excitement.
“Get me a ladder. Here, let me get on the table; perhaps I can reach it. Sounds impossible, but if it's so, it's so; it must have an explanation.”
Without ado and in spite of the protests of his brother he stepped upon the polished surface of the table. He was a tall man; he could just barely reach it with the tip of his finger. He could move it; but each time it clung as to a magnet. After a minute of effort he gave it up. When he looked down he was a different man; his black eyes glowed with wonder.
“Can't make it,” he said. “Get a step-ladder. Strange!”
With the ladder it was easy. He plucked it off the ceiling. We pressed about the table. The chemist turned it about with his fingers.
“I wonder,” he was saying. “It's a gem. Apparently. You say it has no gravity. It can't be. Whoop!” He let it slip out of his fingers. Again it popped on its way to the ceiling. He caught it with a deft movement of his hand. “The devil! Did you ever see! And a solid! Who owns this?”
That brought it back to me. I explained what I could of the manner of my possession.
“I see. Very interesting. Something I've never seen—and—frankly—something strictly against what I've been taught. Nevertheless, it's not impossible. We are witnesses at least. Would you care if I take this over to the laboratory?”
It was a new complication. If it were not a jewel there was a chance of its being damaged. I was as anxious as he; but I had been warned as to its possession.
“I shan't harm it. I'll see to that. I have suspicions and I'd like to verify them. A chemist doesn't blunder across such a thing every day. I am a chemist.” His eyes glistened.
“Your suspicions?” I asked.
“A new element.”
This gem. A new element. Perhaps that would explain the Blind Spot. It was not exactly of earth. Everything had confirmed it.
“You—A new element? How do you account for it? It defies your laws. Most of your elements are evolved through tedious process. This is picked up by chance.”
“That is so. But there are still a thousand ways. A meteor, perhaps; a bit of cosmic dust—there are many shattered comets. Our chemistry is earthly. There are undoubtedly new elements that we don't know of. Perhaps in enormous proportion.”
I let him have it. It was the only night I had been away from the ring. I may say that it is the only time I have been free from its isolation.
When I called at his office next day I found he had merely confirmed his suspicions. It defied analysis; there was no reaction. Under all tests it was a stranger. The whole science that had been built up to explain everything had here explained nothing. However there was one thing that he had uncovered—heat. Perhaps I should say magnetism. It was cold to man. I have spoken about the icy blue of its colour. It was cold even to look at. The chemist placed it in my hand.
“Is it not so?”
It was. The minute it touched my palm I could sense the weird horror of the isolation; the stone was cold. Just like a piece of ice.
This was the first time I had ever had it in direct contact with the flesh. Set in the ring its impulse had always been secondary.
“You notice it? It is so with me. Now then. Just a minute.”
He pressed a button. A young lady answered his ring; she glanced first at myself and then at the chemist.
“Miss Mills, this is Mr. Wendel. He is the owner of the gem. Would you take it in your hand? And please tell Mr. Wendel how it feels—”
She laughed; she was a bit perplexed.
“I don't understand”—she turned to me—“we had the same dispute yesterday. See, Mr. White says that it's cold; but it is not. It is warm; almost burning. All the other girls think just as I do.”
“And all the men as I do,” averred the chemist, “even Mr. Wendel.”
“Is it cold to you?” she asked. “Really—”
It was a turn I hadn't looked for. It was akin to life—this relation to sex. Could it account for the strange isolation and the weariness? I was a witness to its potency. Watson! I could feel myself dragging under. I had just one question:
“Tell me, Miss Mills. Can you sense anything else; I mean beyond its temperature?”
She smiled a bit. “I don't know what you mean exactly. It is a beautiful stone. I would like to have it.”
“You think its possession would make you happy?”
Her eyes sparkled.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I know it would! I can feel it!”
It was so. Whatever there was in the bit of sapphirine blue, it had life. What was it? It had relation to sex. In the strict line of fact it was impossible.
When we were alone again I turned to the chemist.
“Is there anything more you uncovered? Did you see anything in the stone?”
He frowned. “No. Nothing else. This magnetism is the only thing. Is there anything more?”
Now I hadn't said anything about its one great quality. He hadn't stumbled across the image of the two men. I couldn't understand it. I didn't tell him. Perhaps I was wrong. Down inside me I sensed a subtle reason for secrecy. It is hard to explain. It was not perverseness; it was a finer distinction; perhaps it was the influence of the gem. I took it back to the jeweller again and had it reset.
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