T started three months ago. Five weeks ago Basil Bennett, Dr. Morgan Lasher—he is health commissioner—and J. Kerrett O'Sann, the general manager of the Miltonvale Steel Company, called for Masters. I went with him, for it sounded interesting. Jigger Masters was still at it last week, but I had given up all hope, and returned to my studio, knowing that if any real developments occurred, Masters would be only too glad to let me in.
I would never be admitting any part in the affair at all if I had not seen the horrifying conclusion—but that is not this part of the story.
The first interview Masters and I had with O'Sann was, as I have said, in the company of Dr. Lasher and the Chief of Police. It had been Bennett who had insisted upon my friend. O'Sann naturally knew nothing of him, and Dr. Lasher, a flashy, self-sufficient bureaucrat in his own small way, had been irritated beyond measure at the summoning of a mere detective to wrestle with what he termed “a problem in the physician's province.” We met in one of Bennett's private offices.
The three were waiting for us. Basil Bennett, whom we knew of old, was heavily quiet as usual. One capable fist, loosely clenched, lay upon a file of papers before him. He bowed impressively without rising when we entered.
When he introduced us to O'Sann, the latter got up and proffered his hand. Following Masters, I had an instant's glimpse of two searching, deep-set eyes, as cold in color as the Miltonvale steel itself, yet not unkindly—just appraising, always judging and appraising men. Lasher did not rise, but nodded his acknowledgments jerkily.
Bennett plunged directly into the matter.
“This is a queer one, 'J. M.,'” he began, addressing Masters by the initials he always used. Bennett glanced apologetically toward the uncompromising face of Dr. Lasher. “The Doctor, here, thinks it isn't in your field.”
“I should say not,” affirmed Lasher snappily. I watched his face as he uttered these words, and the curling of his thin upper lip reminded me strongly of the face of a snarling, snippy fox terrier who is jealous of attention shown another dog.
“But as I said, it's a queer one!” repeated Bennett with emphasis, ignoring Lasher now. “Mr. O'Sann has agreed to have you look into the matter for him, and I think it would be a mighty good hunch. If you think we are making a bugaboo out of a series of unfortunate coincidences, why—”
Masters had been sitting with arms folded, his lank body erect in the straight-backed chair. “Tell me all about it,” he suggested, drawing his chair nearer Bennett's desk. The latter nodded to O'Sann.
HE steely eyes had taken on a faint trace of amusement while watching Lasher, but now they narrowed and became cold again. “As Chief Bennett says, this may be nothing but misfortune,” said O'Sann, and I was surprised mightily to hear the pleasant, musical inflection of his voice, “but here are the facts as we know them: The general offices of the Miltonvale Steel Company, as you doubtless know, occupy the first three floors of the Hercules Building. Over three hundred male employees, and at least as many girls, are to be found in these offices.”
“I know the general plan of the offices,” remarked Masters quietly.
O'Sann nodded quick approval. “I shall not dwell upon that phase, then,” he said. “I do not know whether you have noticed anything in the papers recently” It was the efficient office-manager talking, striving to eliminate all familiar detail.
“I believe I noticed, a few weeks ago, that your employees were having trouble with their eyes, and that Dr. Coulton, the optical and lighting specialist, had been called in to attempt a readjustment of the artificial lighting. Was that it?” Masters had fallen into a tone of voice similar, oddly enough, to that of O'Sann. It was queer indeed to be able to find any similarity, for Masters usually rumbled and growled as he talked, while O'Sann was an expert at soothing the nerves. I guessed the reason: Masters had found a man who knew how to help and not be in the way, and Masters was trying to lead him on.