Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Yes, we know you now,” he added. “We’ve looked up all about you. You’re Dizzy McArthur, the ex-hockey player, exaviator, and ex-speed-demon. I rather think you’ll find that fighting the Fritzies was tame compared to bucking the main mob in our burg.”

McArthur made an effort to free his arms. But they were securely bound, and the rope was heavy.

“Yes; I’ll give you credit, McArthur. You’ve knocked Harrison’s. It was some little stunt. I’ll shake hands with you before you go out. Do you know what I have here?”

“Cyanides, and some other compounds, and H₂SO₄, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and HC₁, and another acid.” replied the drug seller. He turned his watery eyes upon the prisoner. “Now don’t give Edgerly credit for any of this. It’s Bosworth’s lab, and he’s a goody-goody, a research nut. If he knew what I’m mixing here he’d fall out of bed. Ever see a generator like this, Dizzy Mac?”

The inventor frowned at it. There was a large glass receptacle with a delivery-tube, and a smaller basin of metal was fitted in at the top.

“Not so bad for a half hour’s work,” Muir suggested. “If I knew where his nibs keeps all his stuff, I’d rig up a little hood for you, too, my boy. I hate to make you take it with your eyes open.” The quiet, methodical precision of his voice was alarming.

“Cyanogen?” McArthur asked, with interest.

“You hit it,” said the other. “Possibly there’ll be a little hydrogen mixed with it. Prussic acid gas. Generally supposed to be rather poisonous, Mac. However, it has a very pleasant odor, and one tiny breath is all you’ll need.”

McArthur knew that he was not exaggerating. It was the most deadly, the most quickly fatal, of all gases.

“Now, this pan at the top is made of zinc. I’ll put the acid in there, the other mixture in the flask underneath. That will give you five or ten minutes, you see — until the acid eats through the zinc and runs down into the flask. Of course I don’t plan to be in here with you when that happens. Then we’ll start up his nibs’s patent ventilator system” — he pointed to the roof — “and draw off all the air in the lab through the top. I suppose we’ll be drawing off your last breath along with it, but that can’t be helped.”

He took the compounds which he had ground with his pestle and put them in the bottom of the flask.

“This reaction will soon go to an end through exhaustion of the solvent, and it will last long enough. We’ll take you back up the line before daybreak and leave you in the driver’s seat of that car you drove through the fence. I thought you were a driver. McArthur.

“When they mistake cyanogen poisoning for heart failure in ordinary cases,” he added. “I guess they will when you’ve just gone over an embankment. The boys won’t be blamed for your spill, either — they’re dusting it back to town for an iron-clad alibi.

“Now, don’t be alarmed—”

There was a hissing and foaming as he poured the acid. He set the generator on the floor near McArthur’s chair.

“That’s only the acid attacking the zinc. That liberates hydrogen, you know. For five or ten minutes — gentle hydrogen. Afterward — cyanogen, C₂N₂, What do you say; are you a real sport?” With a cold smile of victory, he offered his hand.

“I’m a sportsman,” replied McArthur, extending his fingers.

The drug seller reached behind the chair and gripped his palm. He took a final glance at the hissing generator; then walked rapidly to the door. He opened it, letting in a breath of the cool, clear night air.

“So long, Dizzy Mac,” he said, with another quiet and rather terrible smile. “I’m sorry, but you have too much evidence. You understand—”

He went out, and slammed the door.

Chapter LII C 2 N 2

When Muir had gone, McArthur sat gazing thoughtfully at the dull black windows of ground glass.

It was of no use, he saw. He couldn’t reach them. He had nothing to throw. And, anyway, cyanogen was too swift, too certain. He felt a conviction that this time he had come to the end.

The inventor really couldn’t say that he was afraid. He did not quite understand fear. But he was disappointed, even though he had invited it all. So many more exciting conflicts he might have waged! So many more chances he might have run!

Was there a chance now? He could see none. He knew cyanogen — instantaneous, merciless yet merciful. The rope which bound him to the chair and to the sink was large. He felt sure that in time he could loosen it, but not in ten minutes, with this engine of death hissing beside him like a serpent ready to strike.

He was glad that Muir had left the lights on, whether by accident or design, instead of leaving him alone with the thing in the dark.

The light, of course, must be showing through the windows. Was there any hope that Dr. Bosworth would awake and investigate why it was burning in the dead of the night? Or would the orderly simply explain that it had been forgotten? Beyond doubt, Collins had already been sent to guard against interruption.