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ARTHUR B. REEVE

THE BLACK CROSS

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First published in Cosmopolitan, February 1918

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2021
Version Date: 2022-09-30

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Illustration

Cosmopolitan, February 1918, with "The Black Cross"



Craig Kennedy has another opportunity of pitting his ingenuity and skill against the dastardly acts of enemies within our gates. "Devilish" is the term the great detective uses to describe the plot that he here uncovers, and we think Cosmopolitan readers will agree that the qualification errs entirely on the side of mildness.




"CENSORSHIP or no censorship, of course I won't publish a word of that thing, but what do you make of it, Kennedy?"

The managing editor of the Star shoved over at Kennedy and myself, whom he had called urgently by telephone one evening, a confidential tip that bad been sent in by messenger from the reporter assigned to the army cantonment out at Camp Mahan, on Long Island.


Something strange is going on under the surface here. Wild rumors are about that the hospital is full, that many of the officers, men, and even nurses are ill. To-night, I sent you a despatch of the death of Doctor Dwyer, bacteriologist with the New York hospital unit here. The unconfirmed story is, however, that he was murdered in the temporary laboratory. Both Wade Marline and Doctor Delano refuse absolutely to be interviewed regarding the reported epidemic or the murder. I believe the situation is really serious. Of course, not a word of it has been put on the wire by anyone, but you know how rapidly and how far such stories spread. What shall I do?


Kennedy glanced up from the note. "'Epidemic—murder,'" he repeated. "It looks very bad."

"Indeed it does!" hastened the editor. "Will you go out there as the Star's representative—not as a writer but as this newspaper's agent for national defense, so to speak?'"

"When can we get a train?" was Kennedy's laconic reply.

"Train be hanged! I'll get you a car." The editor reached for his telephone before he had finished speaking, and in less than half an hour we found ourselves in a big speedster, crossing over the bridge to Long Island.

It was a long journey out to Camp Mahan and, at this hour of the night, lonely. We passed hardly a car. Mile after mile of the splendid road we reeled off. The further we got away from the city, the sparser-settled was the country until, at last, we came to the section where there was not even a farmhouse for miles, nothing but the scrub-oaks and pines of the wastes in the center of the island.

We were bowling along with a steady hum when suddenly, round a well-banked curve to the left, loomed up a car; it seemed as though it were driving straight at us.

Craig pulled over as far on the high side of the curve as he could. The car swerved, just missing us as it banked on its own side of the road. As it flashed past, I caught just a glimpse, for a fraction of a moment, in the light from the little bulb on its dashboard, of the face of a lone rider, a man, his features set as if intent solely on speed.

"Must be a matter of life or death for that fellow to be driving like that," growled Kennedy, swinging back into the road and proceeding more cautiously.

We could not have gone a mile further when the lights of another car gleamed fiercely at us. Kennedy hugged his own side of the road, but it seemed as though the lights were stationary.

As we passed slowly, we could see that this car was standing still. Beside it, with the hood over the engine raised, stood a girl, blinking into our lights, until Craig dimmed them, and waving to us to stop. Here was a lady, alone, in distress. Kennedy yanked up on the emergency, and we pulled aside some yards beyond her. We got out and walked back.

"I was on my way to the city," she explained, looking from us in pretty helplessness at the engine. "My name is Sonia Strusky. I'm a hospital nurse at the camp."

It seemed, at first, rather strange to me that a nurse should be driving about the country in a not inexpensive car, but then, I reflected, many wealthy girls had now become nurses.

Kennedy introduced himself, and stuck his head under the hood, examining the engine. Ignition and carburetion seemed all right. In fact, he seemed to be puzzled until, finally, he climbed back of the wheel and started to let in the clutch. Nothing happened.

"Can't I—go on?" she asked, as he got out.

Craig shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. You've broken the clutch. You're from Camp Marian, you say? We were on our way out there. If you'll get in with us, we'll be glad to take you back. Your car will have to be towed, anyhow. I think there's a tow-rope in my car."

There was keen disappointment written on her face. But there was no other course open. She thanked us and accepted the offer, climbing in beside Kennedy, while I took the wheel of her car.

Our journey was made slowly and in comparative silence. Further than what she told us at the start, Sonia seemed to be very reticent about herself and her business.

As we drove along, I was wondering how she had come to grief, why she should have put such an unusual strain on the clutch.

It was almost midnight when, after leaving the parkway and crossing the few miles of country road, we pulled up before a hotel, a mile or so from the camp.

Sonia Strusky thanked us and flitted away to get some one to come after her car and take it to the local garage.


"FOR heaven's sake, Kennedy—you out here—and Jameson, too!"

We turned quickly, as we were mounting the hotel steps, at a familiar voice that greeted us from the shadows beside the porch. It was our old friend Burke, of the secret service.

"I saw you drive up—didn't recognize you and couldn't quite make up my mind whether to follow you or the girl. Where did you meet her?"

"On the parkway. We had just passed a fellow in a car doing about sixty, I guess. She was a mile or two further on, stalled—broken clutch."

"A fellow in another car?" said Burke. "What did he look like? Could you see him at all?"

As nearly as I could, I described him, but it was mostly cap and coat that I had seen.

"Wade Martine—director of the relief work here—I'll bet," returned Burke eagerly. "She must have been trailing him and trying to keep up with him."

Accompanied by Burke, we walked inside. No one was in the little lobby.

"What brings you out here?" parried Kennedy to Burke's further inquiry.

Burke looked about, saw no one, and lowered his voice.

"I've been assigned out here at the camp," he whispered. "It's not yet generally known, but the camp is greatly upset—wild rumors about the hospital being full—relatives and friends of the men coming out to see what is going on—and all that. Yesterday, Doctor Dwyer, the bacteriologist, died—very suddenly. Well—there's something suspicious about it—" Burke checked himself before he told too much, even to us.

"You think he was killed?" queried Kennedy, evidently hoping to catch Burke off his guard with the surprise. "Has Doctor Delano or any of them admitted anything?"

"What?" returned Burke, shaking his head. "You know about it? How do you know? How did you hear?"

"Never mind that now," Craig hastened. "I'm out here for the Star with Jameson—to help, if I can."

"You can," replied Burke fervidly. "No; Doctor Delano has had very little to say, even to us. Did you know that Dwyer had been shot with a pistol? That was how they came to send for me in the first place. Good-night, but these people are queer! After I get out here, none of them seems to help me. Oh, say, what do you make of that?"

I looked. Burke was holding out in the palm of his hand a peculiar piece of gun-metal. It was cast in the form of a Maltese cross—perfectly blue-black and smooth. Kennedy took it and turned it over as he examined it. On the other side there was nothing, either, except the simple number, "1402." Craig put it in his pocket, saying, "Where did you get it?"

"Directly after Doctor Dwyer was shot in his laboratory, as nearly as I can determine, a nurse, Thelma Dallinger, attempted suicide," replied Burke, who apparently had no objection to Kennedy's appropriating the black cross.

"Attempted suicide! How? Why?"

Burke shook his head again.

"Don't ask me. I have an operative of the service here, a woman, posing as a nurse with the others—Alda Anderson. It wasn't she who discovered Thelma unconscious—that was your friend Sonia. But Alda was with her almost immediately afterward. She found the cross on her."

"What do you think it means?" I asked.

Burke shook his head in perplexity.

"When Thelma was discovered, Alda says she was delirious. Says it looked very much as though she had taken an overdose of morphine or opium—at least enough to make her see things, I mean. In her delirium she was constantly raving about the 'Black Cross.'"

I looked at Kennedy, but his face betrayed no comprehension.

"Did she overhear anything else?"

"No. One of the doctors took her in charge. Doctor Godart. He quieted her. She isn't all right yet; but she isn't raving."

"And is this Doctor Godart taking charge of her?"

"Yes; he would let no one else do it—wouldn't let Delano or Marline even see her. Sonia wanted to do the nursing, but Alda was too clever for her and got in first. Still, that is about all she has accomplished. Both Thelma and Doctor Godart will say nothing."

"And the rest?"

"You mean Delano and Martine? Delano is in the sanitary service. I don't know as he knows much, anyhow. I don't think he and Doctor Godart are—well, chums, exactly. As for Martine, he seems to have been much upset by Dwyer's death. He hasn't said much, but I imagine that it was he whom you saw in the car going to the city. I thought perhaps he was going to beg a bacteriologist from one of the hospitals there. As for me, except for Alda Anderson, I am playing a lone hand here. There's no one, Kennedy, could get at the truth of these things quicker than you could. Will you help?"

"That is what the Star sent us here for," returned Craig simply. "When can I see Miss Anderson?"

"The first thing in the morning. She is at the hospital."


EARLY the following morning, Kennedy lost no time in making his first visit to the camp-hospital with Burke.

There were no tents in the camp. The men lived in two-story wooden barracks a couple of hundred feet long, with kitchen and mess-hall attached. All were electrically lighted, with running water and sewers, paved streets, stables, stores, amusements—a veritable city.

At one end, we found the huge hospital building, and grouped about it the various administration buildings that had to do with the health of the encampment.

As we entered the hospital, Burke summoned an orderly and despatched him to bring Alda Anderson to meet us in a little private reception-room.

Alda Anderson proved to be a rather plain, ordinary-looking girl, though, on closer study, one found many striking features about her. It was some time before I realized that her plainness was, in reality, part of her make-up. Then I saw the fine artistic hand of Burke, for Burke's idea of a detective was some one who would not, above all else, attract attention.

"Is there anything new about Thelma?" inquired Burke, after our presence had been explained.

"Nothing since last night," she replied. "She seems to be very grateful for anything I do, but I fancy she is always on guard."

"How about Doctor Godart? Does he suspect you?"

"Not a bit. He thinks I am just like the other nurses—perhaps not so busy at gossip," she laughed. "I fancy, too, that he is constantly on guard also."

"On guard against each other—or against you?" asked Craig.

"Against everybody," she returned, then leaned over and whispered as though even the walls of the reception-room might overhear: "You know, Thelma was one of the most popular girls in the corps at the cantonment. They say that she was engaged to Wade Martine. But anyone can see that Doctor Godart is really very much interested in her."

Kennedy had glanced out into the hall and motioned quietly to us to look down, too. Some distance away, I could catch a glimpse of the girl we had towed back in the car the night before. She had stopped and was talking to a young surgeon, a rather striking man in his white-linen suit, which admirably set off his dark features.

"Who is that?' asked Kennedy.

"That is Doctor Godart, with Sonia Strusky."

"Yes? Who is this Sonia?"

Alda smiled.

"Her father is a well-to-do merchant in the city. It's a rather interesting situation that you see there. As nearly as I have been able to make it out since I came here, both Doctor Godart and Mr. Martine have been rivals for Thelma. Sonia—well, it is as you see. She seems always to be around when Doctor Godart is in the hospital. There is no doubt that Sonia likes the boys—but she seems to be just a bit more interested in Doctor Godart than in the others. But I think she'd have more success if she cultivated some of the others. Just watch." Alda's eyes indicated another white-coated young fellow who was coming toward the pair in the hall.

"Doctor Delano," she whispered, "who has charge of many of the sanitary arrangements in the camp."

As Delano bowed and paused, chatting. Godart seized the opportunity to excuse himself, leaving Sonia and Delano together. I could not notice any less cordiality in Sonia toward him, however. Together, they walked down the corridor.

"I think you'll find there is something very peculiar in the relations of these people," interposed Burke. "From what I have observed, Godart seems to take every excuse to avoid Delano, Martine and, in fact, all the rest. It's my opinion that Godart is concealing something. I want you to meet him."

With Miss Anderson, we moved out now into the hall, and Burke steered round a bend and up a staircase toward which Godart had taken himself. A little search and Burke succeeded in finding him and introducing us.

"How is Miss Dallinger this morning?" he inquired.

"Doing very well, I should say." Godart returned, eyeing us furtively.

"Have you any idea yet why she should have attempted suicide?" asked Burke.

"Suicide?" parried Doctor Godart quickly. "I don't know of any suicide. Miss Dallinger, as nearly as I can determine, had a bad attack of some throat-trouble—influenza, perhaps. She may have been in pain, may have taken an over-large dose of some drug to relieve it. That is all. At any rate, I have her in a private ward until I can determine what's the matter. We miss Dwyer in such things. You'll pardon me—I see I am due at the operating-room in a few minutes. I'll see you again later, I trust."

He was gone. Burke looked at Craig.

"Influenza—the deuce! He doesn't think there is anything serious—yet he has her isolated. Confound it—these people put nothing but obstacles in your way! If this keeps up, I shall go to the Surgeon-General about it."

Some one had come to summon Alda to some duty, and, for a moment. Burke walked along, asking questions.

"I would like to meet Martine," suggested Craig, when Burke rejoined us.

Burke nodded, and with him we walked to the extreme end of the hospital buildings. Martine was in his office.

As we shook hands, I caught the resemblance to the face I had seen in the car the night before. I thought, too, that he looked both tired and worried.

"Has anything been discovered about the—er—sudden death of Doctor Dwyer?" inquired Burke.

If Martine had had any disposition to hide anything, he did not show it.

"Terrible, terrible!" he repeated, shaking his head, adding, "To be struck down that way when we so need him! Such a loss cannot easily be repaired, especially when the medical service is so short of bacteriologists. It has been a sad blow. I cannot seem to get anyone in the city. I don't know what we shall do."

We chatted for a few moments, but it was apparent that Martine had a great deal on his mind and was in no mood to prolong the conversation. As we left his office, we happened upon Sonia Strusky.

"Oh, good-morning!" she greeted, in apparent surprise. "I don't believe that I properly thanked you last night."

"How is the car this morning?" asked Kennedy.

"The garage-man has wired to the city and promises to have it running again this afternoon. If you care to go, I think I might repay your help by driving you about the camp and showing it to you."

"I should be delighted!" exclaimed Kennedy, much to my surprise, for I had a mounting suspicion of Sonia, especially now since she had, evidently, been watching us in Martine's office.


KENNEDY'S next move was to direct Burke to take us to Thelma Dallinger's ward, where we found that Alda Anderson had returned to duty. As we entered, we saw that Thelma, in health, must have been a very prepossessing young woman. Her face had an ethereal sweetness that showed the character of the girl.

Burke hung back, but Alda was quite equal to the occasion, and explained to Thelma that a specialist from the city had called at the camp and wanted to see her. She smiled wanly, but back of the languor I could see that the very mention of the word "specialist" had aroused her attention and that she was studying Kennedy closely.

Kennedy did not refer to the subject of how she had come to be in the ward, although just previously he had been talking in a low tone to Alda about her various symptoms. Instead, for some time he studied the face of the little nurse.

I was standing apart from Kennedy and Alda when I saw that he, in apparent nervousness, had begun fishing in his pockets, as though looking for something. Finally, he drew out the gun-metal black cross and returned it casually to his pocket, as though that had not been what he was looking for. The action had not escaped the quick glance of Thelma. Her pale face blanched.

Without a word, Craig reached for a packet of gauze that was lying on a little medicine-table. Wrapping a piece of it about a glass tube that was standing in a glass of sterilized water, he bent over her.

"Will you please open your mouth—wide—Miss Dallinger?" he asked.

She obeyed mechanically, not taking her eyes from his face. I saw that he was now passing the improvised swab over the back of her throat, as though trying to collect the secretions of both throat and nostrils.

As he withdrew the swab and carefully preserved the piece of gauze, the look on Thelma's face was startling—almost fearful. There was a mute appeal in her gaze. But she turned away and hid her face.

A glance from Miss Anderson was sufficient hint to Kennedy that the patient should not be disturbed further. Without a word, we withdrew.

In the hall again, Burke shot an inquiring look at Kennedy.

"May I use Doctor Dwyer's laboratory?" asked Craig, ignoring the silent query. "I should like to see it, anyway."

Burke curbed his impatience, and, in a few minutes, after complying with some red-tape regulation or other, led the way to the laboratory.


SEEMINGLY oblivious of us, Kennedy stripped off his coat and immediately set to work. I could see that he was preparing to make a culture of the secretions of Thelma's throat. He looked over what was on the table and seemed mightily interested in what he found.

"I wonder if Dwyer suspected anything?" he muttered, half to himself, holding up a test-tube. "Trypsin-agar extract —just what I need!"

"Suspected what?" asked Burke.

The question went unanswered, as I knew it would, for Craig was not one to hazard guesses. I gazed about keenly.

"There seem to be windows on two sides that face the roads," I commented, quite as much to divert Burke and save Kennedy annoyance as to satisfy my own curiosity.

"Yes; it's my theory," said Burke, taking the hint, "that the shot might have been fired at Dwyer from the road. If it came from a car, no one would be the wiser—a blown shoe, a back-fire through the muffler—it might have passed for either."

Kennedy, by this time, was so deeply engrossed in whatever investigation he was making that I hinted to Burke that we leave him, and we did so.

We had hardly left the door of the bacteriological laboratory when we ran across Doctor Godart, bustling past. Evidently his business had not detained him long in the operating-room, if, indeed, he had any. I glanced about. Martine's office was not far away, either. Could it have been that he had been there? Or was he watching us? I had an uncomfortable feeling that the watchers were, in turn, watched, especially as Doctor Godart seemed to ignore us.

Burke was making a great show of investigation, though I knew that, in a case like this, nothing would get us anywhere except Kennedy's work.

Accordingly I was glad when sufficient time had elapsed to return to the laboratory.

We had come toward it from a different angle than that at which it was usually approached from the camp.

"What do you know about that?" exclaimed Burke, pulling me back of a corner we were turning.

As I drew back, I had a chance to get just a glimpse of Doctor Delano and Sonia Strusky. They had not seen us.

"Little flirt!" commented Burke. "I wonder if that is the right man that she has now? She seems to be after all of them. Why have they picked this place as their tryst?"

I glanced around cautiously.

"From where they are standing." I whispered hastily, "it must be easily possible to see Kennedy at work in Dwyer's laboratory. Do you suppose the love-making is a mask?"

"It might have been possible to take a shot at Doctor Dwyer through his window from this side," hastily pointed out Burke.

The couple had now strolled off, passing very close to the laboratory window and, I noticed, glancing in. We rejoined Kennedy.

"Have you found anything yet?" I asked, hesitating.

Kennedy glanced up, pausing in his work over a microscope.

"Yes," he replied; "Doctor Godart is wrong. Thelma Dallinger did attempt suicide. I don't know what drug she used—opium, I think—but I don't care."

"What have you found, then?" I asked.

Kennedy regarded us thoughtfully.

"I have found," he replied slowly, "in the nasopharynx secretions what I suspected—germs of spotted fever, cerebrospinal meningitis, which, you know, is a disease peculiarly common among troops."

The information came as a distinct shock.

"She has it?" I queried.

Kennedy shook his head.

"Thelma is what is known as a 'meningococcus carrier,' as the doctors would call her—a person who, without having the disease, may spread it."

"Isn't that—dangerous?" asked Burke.

"Rather," replied Craig patiently. "The fact is that there may be scores of carriers here by this time—first among the nurses, then among the men with whom they have come in contact. Every case is a carrier, in a sense. But the most dangerous are those who carry it without actually having the disease themselves."

We had no chance to question him on the deeply ominous discovery, for a ring at the telephone interrupted us. It was Sonia. She had not forgotten Kennedy's promise of the morning. The new clutch had arrived on an early train, and she wanted to take us out that afternoon.

Kennedy promised, though, I must say, I viewed Sonia with some alarm. I was frankly uncomfortable while she was about.

"Another thing," resumed Kennedy, hanging up the receiver: "I think I have established a motive for the killing of Dwyer. You see that?" he pointed out, indicating a package in a cabinet. "It is supposed to be a fresh shipment of the antimeningitis serum to Doctor Dwyer. I discovered it, and have made a rather hasty though conclusive test. There's nothing in those tubes but colored water. Some one has substituted colored water. It is devilish. Even the cure has been doctored."

"What do you think of such a thing?" gasped Burke. "Who could do it?"

Kennedy regarded us thoughtfully.

"You recall the little piece of metal you gave me, Burke, with the number, 1402?"

Burke nodded.

"Who is trying to save our men here and in the trenches?"

"The Red Cross," replied Burke, uncomprehending.

"Who, then, more likely to fight us, even in this humane field, than a thing they might call the 'Black Cross'?" he suggested. The fiendish ingenuity of the idea burned itself into our minds. "And the number—1402," continued Kennedy; "doesn't that suggest an identification-tag to you?"

"You think Thelma might have been in this—Black Cross—that she might have tried suicide because she was about to be discovered?" hurriedly deduced Burke.

"No, no," corrected Kennedy, to whom hasty generalization was a bugbear; "I do not say that. She may have been a victim, a tool."

"But the black cross itself—I mean that thing you have with the number stamped on it," I persisted. "How was it that that was found on her?"

"When we find that out, we shall be far on the road to solving the mystery."


IT was growing late, and we decided to return to our hotel for a hasty bite of lunch and to meet Sonia.

Kennedy, Burke, and I were joined at luncheon by Joyce, the Star reporter who had sent the confidential note that had resulted in bringing us out. Joyce was very curious over what we had discovered.

"Is it true that Thelma Dallinger is so very ill?" he asked, with true reporter's persistence.

Kennedy begged the question.

"Her mother is here—in the parlor with Mr. Martine," volunteered Joyce. "We tried to interview him, but he wouldn't talk."

"Are they in there now?" Kennedy asked.

"Yes; would you like to meet her?" volunteered Joyce, in the vain hope of picking up even a crumb of knowledge.

"If they haven't gone," Craig agreed.

Joyce was on his feet in a moment. We followed him into the reception-room.

Mrs. Dallinger was a nervous little woman, and it was evident that she had been greatly worried. As Martine caught sight of us, I could see that he was calling her attention to us and, a moment later, when we approached, he introduced us.

"Perhaps Professor Kennedy can tell you even more than I can," he concluded.

Kennedy exchanged a glance with me, and I understood that he wanted to talk with Mrs. Dallinger about her daughter with only the two of us present. Together we managed to contrive it, and left the rest standing watching us as we walked out to the veranda with the old lady.

"Tell me, please," she pleaded, "is Thelma very bad? She will get well—won't she? Poor girl, poor little girl! What did she do it for, Professor Kennedy?"

"I cannot say," replied Kennedy gently. "All those questions are just the things that I want to find out, too."

"I have been to the hospital," she went on frantically. "I cannot get anything out of Doctor Godart. Everything is so secret. Oh, this cruel, cruel war! If there is anything that takes my poor little girl from me, I shall never forgive myself for letting her take up this nursing."

"Who is this Doctor Godart?" asked Kennedy, leading the conversation. "Has Thelma told you anything about him?"

"Not a word in her letters."

"And Mr. Martine?" continued Craig. "What do you know of him?"

"Nothing but that he seems to be a very sympathetic young man," she replied. "I didn't even know until I got here to-day that Thelma was engaged."

Though she did not say it in so many words, it was easy to see which of the two had made the better impression on the future mother-in-law.

"You didn't know?" repeated Kennedy. "Then she hasn't made you her confidant?"

"No; but I could always trust my girl," she said, with a pride that took no effort to show. "Oh, Professor Kennedy, I am sure that, when the truth is known, things will look very different for her from what they do now!"

"What did Doctor Godart say?"

"Very little. He seemed to be afraid to talk. Mr. Martine said that there was some rule doctors have that they can't repeat what patients tell them in confidence. But he might have told her mother," she reproached.

The poor woman was almost in tears. Kennedy hastened to promise that he would personally do all that he could for Thelma, for outside we could see that Sonia had come for us in her car.


FOR an hour or two we drove about the great wooden military city. Nothing happened on the drive, and Sonia prattled of the gossip of the encampment without telling anything that was of much assistance.

We were coming down the road back of the hospital and other buildings, past Martine's office, and on the side on which Burke and I had seen Delano and Miss Strusky in the morning.

Suddenly from the shrubbery across the road, and outside of the cantonment altogether, there came the crack of a gun, followed by a whirr, a ping, and a rip. It was a bullet, and it had passed through the top of the car. Miss Strusky uttered a scream.

"Who sent me that billet-doux?" Craig muttered, glancing up at the hole furred in the leather top.

By the time we could stop, there would have been plenty of chance for the attacker to escape into the scrub trees.

Had Sonia led us into a trap? Of one thing I was now sure: Some one was trying to "get" Kennedy, as they had Doctor Dwyer. Why? Was he making it too uncomfortable for some one?

The attack, however, seemed to decide Kennedy for quick action. Instead of returning directly to the laboratory, he asked Sonia to drive about a bit until he found Burke, who was amazed at the attack and apparently eager to carry out the instructions Kennedy gave him.

Together, Kennedy, Sonia, and myself returned to the laboratory where, almost immediately, Kennedy set to work. Without explanation of any sort, he prepared several swabs as carefully as he had done when he had examined Thelma's throat.

The door opened, and Alda Anderson entered. She had been sent by Burke. It was evident that no love was lost between the two women. Kennedy, however, did not stop for that. Quickly he swabbed out the throats of both nurses and prepared to make cultures.

The arrival of Doctor Godart, rather surly at Burke's peremptory orders, was followed by a repetition of the process on his throat. Burke walked in with Delano and Martine. Examination of Delano followed, and, finally, of Martine, who submitted like a good sport. The swabbings from each throat Kennedy labeled carefully and put away.

As we all waited, none said a word, although I could see that it was a situation such as delighted Kennedy.

"In this war," he remarked casually, busying himself with his culture-tubes, slides, and the microscope, "as you all know, the medical profession has a part to play second to that of no other group. It is a branch of the service concerned almost wholly with the amelioration of the horrors of war. Yet, in this instance, I have found that there is some one who is using the service to increase the horrors already unspeakable."

He turned from his work, adding forcefully, as all fixed their attention on him: "Systematic bacteriological examination of the nasopharynx of Thelma Dallinger and others has disclosed a condition that I would have pronounced unbelievable if I had not discovered it myself. Carriers of spotted fever, inoculated in some way, are being deliberately sent out to infect our men."

Before anyone could question the startling accusation, he launched forth in his exposure.

"We all know that, of the acute infectious diseases, none is more feared than epidemic meningitis. Conditions in military camps and garrisons favor such outbreaks among soldiers. Already. British and Canadian troops have had experience with it. But here we have the thing purposely promoted."

He paused a moment, then resumed. "It is spread by contact with both sick and healthy carriers. The presence of one carrier results in the development of a large number. Link by link, a chain of carriers is made. It is this starting-point of a chain of carriers that we must prevent. If you do not mind. I shall ask you all to accompany Mr. Burke and myself to the ward where Miss Dallinger is. You need not fear—those of you who are not carriers—for I shall arrange nasal sprays and other means to stamp this thing out."

Silently the group left the laboratory, and a few minutes later stood just inside the door of Thelma's room. As the little nurse looked at them in wild surprise, Kennedy moved forward.

"Tell us, Thelma," he asked, bending down; "there is something that you know, that you fear. What was it you told Doctor Godart in your delirium?"

Thelma seemed almost frantic with fright. A struggle was going on in her mind, and now there was no one to whom to appeal. It seemed criminal to badger the poor girl, but I knew that Kennedy would not have pursued the course unless it had been absolutely the only way.

"No—no," she cried, pitifully, "if I tell, they will kill him, too—as they did Doctor Dwyer!" She gazed about wildly.

"Kill whom?" demanded Kennedy remorselessly.

"Bernard!" she whispered, as though hypnotized.

Delano turned to Doctor Godart.

"You?" he demanded. "Kill you?"

At the same time, Sonia broke forward and, next to Craig, leaned over the now-trembling Thelma.

"Then you—really—love him?"

She seemed to put an eager wistfulness into the words. Thelma's lips moved, but the answer was inaudible. It did not need to be heard.

"And your engagement to Mr. Martine?"

"I did it to protect him."

Burke had stepped forward, too.

"Who will kill Godart?" he demanded harshly.

The same frightened look crossed Thelma's face. It was as though the words froze on her lips.

An unnatural color mounted to her cheeks. She lifted herself in the bed.

"The Black Cross!" she exclaimed, falling back fainting.

The Black Cross! We stood aghast as we realized the truth—the depth of the conspiracy against our own Red Cross. Alda gently pushed us all aside and tried to revive the drooping girl.

"Deliberately," rapped out Kennedy, turning from the bed, "meningococci-carriers have been sent out. Worst of all, it has been done by the use of unsuspected and unsuspecting nurses. The plot is devilish—first, the spreading of the disease: then, when it was in danger of being discovered and checked by Doctor Dwyer, the killing of the man who might have stopped it. Let me tell you another refinement of the deviltry: Whoever it was was amply protected by antimeningococcus serum—stolen from those it might later cure. That is what Thelma Dallinger knew. The strain of it, the threat against Doctor Godart, too, were too great for her."

All eyes were fixed on Godart. Instead of hesitation and surliness now, there was a look of relief that spread over his face, as though the die were cast and events had relieved him of the burden of a terrible conflict.

"Yes," he cried; "what I learned in her delirium was a secret I could not divulge—or possess. I did not know what to do. Medical ethics said, 'Keep it; it is her secret.' Then, too, I received a threat that, if I told it, would mean her life. Love said, 'Keep it.' I hoped I could save her and end the thing, too. All the time, patriotism was dinning in my ears, 'Tell what you know.' Was ever a doctor faced by a worse dilemma? Above all, loomed the threat against her."

Kennedy had pulled from his pocket and was holding up the peculiar black cross.

"That's the thing!" exclaimed Godart, catching sight of it. "It was that she raved about all the time. It was an identification-tag of some devilish secret order—each member with his number. She had stolen it—then came the threat to both of us, for playing the game as we had done."

In a flash I saw it all, even down to the engagement to the man Thelma suspected Kennedy wheeled about suddenly. Wade Martine—Martinka, a Prussian Pole, as the papers we found on him proved, had sunk back in his chair, his hand holding an empty vial he had raised to his lips.

Sonia leaned over and massaged Thelma's forehead as her eyes fluttered open.

"I didn't know you suspected, too." she murmured. "I thought I was alone when I tried to follow him to New York. He must have gone to warn the headquarters of his danger."

There flitted for a moment a cynical smile over the set face of the medical spy. It seemed as if something seized the smile and congealed it mockingly.

"Black Cross, Number 1402," remarked Kennedy quickly, "has done his bit for the Fatherland and has cheated both American court martial and firing squad."


THE END


Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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