The Oxford Book of American Det (24 page)

At the point just opposite the sore which he had observed on Virginia’s forehead, and overlying the
sella turcica,
there was a peculiar spot on the radiograph.

“Something in that mask has affected the photographic plate,” he explained, his face now animated.

Before I could ask him what it was he had opened a cabinet where he kept many new things which he studied in his leisure moments. From it I saw him take several glass ampoules which he glanced at hastily and shoved into his pocket as we heard a footstep out in the hall. It was Chapelle, very much worried. Could it be that he knew his society clientele was at stake, I wondered. Or was it more than that?

“She’s dead!” he cried. “The old lady died last night!” Without a word Kennedy hustled us out of the laboratory, stuffing the X-ray pictures into his pocket, also, as we went.

As we hurried down-town Chapelle told us how he had tried to keep a watch by bribing one of the neighbours, who had just informed him of the tragedy.

“It was her heart,” said one of the neighbours, as we entered the poor apartment. “The doctor said so.”

“Anaemia,” insisted Chapelle, looking carefully at the body.

Kennedy bent over, also, and examined the poor, worn frame. As he did so he caught sight of a heavy linen envelope tucked under her pillow. He pulled it out gently and opened it. Inside were several time-worn documents and letters. He glanced over them hastily, unfolding first a letter.

“Walter,” he whispered, furtively, looking at the neighbours in the room and making sure that none of them had seen the envelope already. “Read these. That’s her story.” One glance was sufficient. The first was a letter from old Stuart Blakeley. Reba Rinehart had been secretly married to him—and never divorced. One paper after another unfolded her story.

I thought quickly. Then she had had a right in the Blakeley millions. More than that, the Blakeleys themselves had none, at least only what came to them by Blakeley’s will.

I read on, to see what, if any, contest she had intended to make. And as I read I could picture old Stuart Blakeley to myself—strong, direct, unscrupulous, a man who knew what he wanted and got it, dominant, close-mouthed, mysterious. He had understood and estimated the future of New York. On that he had founded his fortune.

According to the old lady’s story, the marriage was a complete secret. She had demanded marriage when he had demanded her. He had pointed out the difficulties.

The original property had come to him and would remain in his hands only on condition that he married one of his own faith. She was not of the faith and declined to become so. There had been other family reasons, also. They had been married, with the idea of keeping it secret until he could arrange his affairs so that he could safely acknowledge her.

It was, according to her story, a ruse. When she demanded recognition he replied that the marriage was invalid, that the minister had been unfrocked before the ceremony.

She was not in law his wife and had no claim, he asserted. But he agreed to compromise, in spite of it all. If she would go West and not return or intrude, he would make a cash settlement. Disillusioned, she took the offer and went to California.

Somehow, he understood that she was dead. Years later he married again.

Meanwhile she had invested her settlement, had prospered, had even married herself, thinking the first marriage void. Then her second husband died and evil times came.

Blakeley was dead, but she came East. Since then she had been fighting to establish the validity of the first marriage and hence her claim to dower rights. It was a moving story.

As we finished reading, Kennedy gathered the papers together and took charge of them. Taking Chapelle, who by this time was in a high state of excitement over both the death and the discovery, Kennedy hurried to the Blakeley mansion, stopping only long enough to telephone to Doctor Haynes and his son.

Evidently the news had spread. Cynthia Blakeley met us in the hall, half frightened, yet much relieved.

“Oh, Professor Kennedy,” she cried, “I don’t know what it is, but mother seems so different. What is it all about?”

As Kennedy said nothing, she turned to Chapelle, whom I was watching narrowly.

“What is it, Carl?” she whispered.

“I—I can’t tell,” he whispered back, guardedly. Then, with an anxious glance at the rest of us, “Is your sister any better?”

Cynthia’s face clouded. Relieved though she was about her mother, there was still that horror for Virginia.

“Come,” I interrupted, not wishing to let Chapelle get out of my sight, yet wishing to follow Kennedy, who had dashed upstairs.

I found Craig already at the bedside of Virginia. He had broken one of the ampoules and was injecting some of the extract in it into the sleeping girl’s arm. Mrs. Blakeley bent over eagerly as he did so. Even in her manner she was changed. There was anxiety for Virginia yet, but one could feel that a great weight seemed to be lifted from her.

So engrossed was I in watching Kennedy that I did not hear Doctor Haynes and Hampton enter. Chapelle heard, however, and turned.

For a moment he gazed at Hampton. Then with a slight curl of the lip he said, in a low tone, “Is it strictly ethical to treat a patient for disease of the heart when she is suffering from anaemia—if you have an interest in the life and death of the patient?” I watched Hampton’s face closely. There was indignation in every line of it. But before he could reply Doctor Haynes stepped forward.

“My son was right in the diagnosis,” he almost shouted, shaking a menacing finger at Chapelle. “To come to the point, sir, explain that mark on Miss Virginia’s forehead!”

“Yes,” demanded Hampton, also taking a step toward the beauty doctor, “explain it—

if you dare.”

Cynthia suppressed a little cry of fear. For a moment I thought that the two young men would forget everything in the heat of their feelings.

“Just a second,” interposed Kennedy, quickly stepping between them. “Let me do the talking.” There was something commanding about his tone as he looked from one to the other of us.

“The trouble with Miss Virginia,” he added, deliberately, “seems to lie in one of what the scientists have lately designated the ‘endocrine glands’—in this case the pituitary.

My X-ray pictures show that conclusively.

“Let me explain for the benefit of the rest. The pituitary is an oval glandular body composed of two lobes and a connecting area, which rest in the
sella turcica,
enveloped by a layer of tissue, about under this point.” He indicated the red spot on her forehead as he spoke. “It is, as the early French surgeons called it,
I’organe
enigmatique.
The ancients thought it discharged the pituita, or mucus, into the nose.

Most scientists of the past century asserted that it was a vestigial relic of prehistoric usefulness. Today we know better.

“One by one the functions of the internal secretions are being discovered. Our variously acquired bits of information concerning the ductless glands lie before us like the fragments of a modern picture puzzle. And so, I may tell you, in connection with recent experimental studies in the role of the pituitary, Doctor Gushing and other collaborators at Johns Hopkins have noticed a marked tendency to pass into a profoundly lethargic state when the secretion of the pituitary is totally or nearly so removed.”

Kennedy now had every eye riveted on him as he deftly led the subject straight to the case of the poor girl before us.

“This,” he added, with a wave of his hand toward her, “is much like what is called the Frohlich syndrome—the lethargy, the subnormal temperature, slow pulse, and respiration, lowered blood pressure, and insensitivity, the growth of fat and the loss of sex characteristics. It has a name—
dystrophia adiposogenitalis.”
He nodded to Doctor Haynes, but did not pause. “This case bears a striking resemblance to the pronounced natural somnolence of hibernation. And induced hypopituitarism—under activity of the gland—produces a result just like natural hibernation. Hibernation has nothing to do with winter, or with food, primarily; it is connected in some way with this little gland under the forehead.

“As the pituitary secretion is lessened, the blocking action of the fatigue products in the body becomes greater and morbid somnolence sets in. There is a high tolerance of carbohydrates which are promptly stored as fat. I am surprised, Doctor Haynes, that you did not recognise the symptoms.”

A murmur from Mrs. Blakeley cut short Doctor Haynes’s reply. I thought I noticed a movement of the still face on the white bed.

“Virgie! Virgie!” called Mrs. Blakeley, dropping on her knee beside her daughter.

“I’m here—mother!”

Virginia’s eyes opened ever so slightly. Her face turned just an inch or two. She seemed to be making a great effort, but it lasted only a moment. Then she slipped back into the strange condition that had baffled skilled physicians and surgeons for nearly a week.

“The sleep is being dispelled,” said Kennedy, quietly placing his hand on Mrs.

Blakeley’s shoulder. “It is a sort of semi-consciousness now and the improvement should soon be great.”

“And that?” I asked, touching the empty ampoule from which he had injected the contents into her.

“Pituitrin—the extract of the anterior lobe of the pituitary body. Some one who had an object in removing her temporarily probably counted on restoring her to her former blooming womanhood by pituitrin—and by removing the cause of the trouble.” Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the second X-ray photograph he had taken. “Mrs. Blakeley, may I trouble you to get that beauty mask which your daughter wore?”

Mechanically Mrs. Blakeley obeyed. I expected Chapelle to object, but not a word broke the deathlike stillness.

“The narcolepsy,” continued Kennedy, taking the mask, “was due, I find, to something that affected the pituitary gland. I have here a photograph of her taken when she was wearing the mask.” He ran his finger lightly over the part just above the eyes. “Feel that little lump, Walter,” he directed.

I did so. It was almost imperceptible, but there was something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Located in one of the best protected and most inaccessible parts of the body,” Kennedy considered, slowly, “how could the pituitary be reached? If you will study my skiagraph, you will see how I got my first clue. There was something over that spot which caused the refractory sore. What was it? Radium—carefully placed in the mask with guards of lead foil in such a way as to protect the eyes, but direct the emission full at the gland which was to be affected, and the secretions stopped.” Chapelle gave a gasp. He was pale and agitated.

“Some of you have already heard of Reba Rinehart,” shot out Kennedy, suddenly changing the subject.

Mrs. Blakeley could not have been more astounded if a bomb had dropped before her.

Still kneeling before Virginia’s bed, she turned her startled face at Kennedy, clasping her hands in appeal.

“It was for my girls that I tried to buy her off—for their good name—their fortune—

their future,” she cried, imploringly.

Kennedy bent down, “I know that is all,” he reassured, then, facing us, went on:

“Behind that old woman was a secret of romantic interest. She was contemplating filing suit in the courts to recover a widow’s interest in the land on which now stand the homes of millionaires, hotel palaces, luxurious apartments, and popular theatres—

millions of dollars’ worth of property.”

Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of her mother.

“Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley,” proceeded Kennedy,

“knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die at any moment. But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be entirely sure of their fortune.” It flashed over me that Chapelle might have conceived the whole scheme, seeking to gain the entire fortune for Cynthia.

“Who was interested enough to plot this postponement of the wedding until the danger to the fortune was finally removed?” I caught sight of Hampton Haynes, his eyes riveted on the face on the bed before us.

Virginia stirred again. This time her eyes opened wider. As if in a dream she caught sight of the face of her lover and smiled wanly.

Could it have been Hampton? It seemed incredible.

“The old lady is dead,” pursued Kennedy, tensely. “Her dower right died with her.

Nothing can be gained by bringing her case back again—except to trouble the Blakeleys in what is rightfully theirs.”

Gathering up the beauty mask, the X-ray photographs, and the papers of Mrs.

Rinehart, Kennedy emphasized with them the words as he whipped them out suddenly.

“Postponing the marriage, at the possible expense of Chapelle, until Reba Rinehart was dead, and trusting to a wrong diagnosis and Hampton’s inexperience as the surest way of bringing that result about quickly, it was your inordinate ambition for your son, Doctor Haynes, that led you on. I shall hold these proofs until Virginia Blakeley is restored completely to health and beauty.”

SUSAN GLASPELL (1882-1948)

Susan Glaspell was not only a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright but a novelist and writer of short stories that established her as an important writer of local-colour fiction. Born in Davenport, Iowa, she relied on her Midwestern roots to nurture a writing career that took her to Provincetown, Massachusetts (where she founded the Provincetown Players with Eugene O’Neill), to New York City’s Greenwich Village, and to Greece.

Always a woman ahead of her time, Glaspell graduated from Davenport public schools and Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa. She served for two years as a court and legislative reporter for the
Des Moines Daily News
before turning to writing for women’s magazines full-time in 1901. Her short stories for such publications as
Good
Housekeeping
and
Women’s Home Companion
were set in the fictional town of Freeport, Iowa, which she based on her home town of Davenport. Her work treated romantic problems in a formula that incorporated setting the problem, flashbacks, obstacles overcome, and a happy ending. She also set out consciously to record the unique qualities of her region, including the strengths and failings of people who came of pioneer stock but possessed a small-town mentality.