Reeve THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE (& Its Sequel The Romance of Elaine)

Detective Craig Kennedy's Biggest Cases
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-80-272-4295-5
Verlag: Musaicum Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 386 Seiten

Arthur B. Reeve's 'The Exploits of Elaine' and its sequel 'The Romance of Elaine' are groundbreaking works in the genre of mystery and detective fiction. Written in the early 20th century, these novels follow the gripping adventures of the brave and resourceful Elaine Dodge as she solves mysteries and fights crime. Reeve's writing style is fast-paced and full of suspense, keeping the reader on the edge of their seat until the very end. The novels are also significant for their use of scientific advancements and cutting-edge technology as tools for crime-solving, reflecting the cultural zeitgeist of the time. The intricate plots and clever twists make these novels a must-read for fans of early detective fiction. Arthur B. Reeve, a talented and prolific writer, was known for his innovative approach to detective stories and his creation of popular characters like Elaine Dodge. His interest in science and technology is evident in the meticulous research and attention to detail present in his works. Reeve's contributions to the mystery genre have left a lasting impact on literature, and 'The Exploits of Elaine' and 'The Romance of Elaine' are exemplary examples of his storytelling prowess. I highly recommend these novels to readers who enjoy a thrilling mystery with a strong, independent protagonist and a touch of scientific flair.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Reeve, Arthur B.

Leseproben

Chapter II
The Twilight Sleep
Table of Contents Kennedy had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the solution of the mysterious Dodge case. Far into the night, after the challenge of the forged finger print, he continued at work, endeavoring to extract a clue from the meagre evidence—the bit of cloth and trace of poison already obtained from other cases, and now added the strange succession of events that surrounded the tragedy we had just witnessed. We dropped around at the Dodge house the next morning. Early though it was, we found Elaine, a trifle paler but more lovely than ever, and Perry Bennett themselves vainly endeavoring to solve the mystery of the Clutching Hand. They were at Dodge’s desk, she in the big desk chair, he standing beside her, looking over some papers. “There’s nothing there,” Bennett was saying as we entered. I could not help feeling that he was gazing down at Elaine a bit more tenderly than mere business warranted. “Have you—found anything?” queried Elaine anxiously, turning eagerly to Kennedy. “Nothing—yet,” he answered shaking his head, but conveying a quiet idea of confidence in his tone. Just then Jennings, the butler, entered, bringing the morning papers. Elaine seized the Star and hastily opened it. On the first page was the story I had telephone down very late in the hope of catching a last city edition. We all bent over and Craig read aloud: “Clutching hand” Still at large New York’s master criminal remains undetected—perpetrates new daring murder and robbery of millionaire dodge He had scarcely finished reading the brief but alarming news story that followed and laid the paper on the desk, when a stone came smashing through the window from the street. Startled, we all jumped to our feet. Craig hurried to the window. Not a soul was in sight! He stooped and picked up the stone. To it was attached a piece of paper. Quickly he unfolded it and read: “Craig Kennedy will give up his search for the “Clutching Hand”— or die!” Later I recalled that there seemed to be a slight noise downstairs, as if at the cellar window through which the masked man had entered the night before. In point of fact, one who had been outside at the time might actually have seen a sinister face at that cellar window, but to us upstairs it was invisible. The face was that of the servant, Michael. Without another word Kennedy passed into the drawing room and took his hat and coat. Both Elaine and Bennett followed. “I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me—for the present,” Craig apologized. Elaine looked at him anxiously. “You—you will not let that letter intimidate you?” she pleaded, laying her soft white hand on his arm. “Oh, Mr. Kennedy,” she added, bravely keeping back the tears, “avenge him! All the money in the world would be too little to pay—if only—” At the mere mention of money Kennedy’s face seemed to cloud, but only for a moment. He must have felt the confiding pressure of her hand, for as she paused, appealingly, he took her hand in his, bowing slightly over it to look closer into her upturned face. “I’ll try,” he said simply. Elaine did not withdraw her hand as she continued to look up at him. Craig looked at her, as I had never seen him look at a woman before in all our long acquaintance. “Miss Dodge,” he went on, his voice steady as though he were repressing something, “I will never take another case until the ‘Clutching Hand’ is captured.” The look of gratitude she gave him would have been a princely reward in itself. I did not marvel that all the rest of that day and far into the night Kennedy was at work furiously in his laboratory, studying the notes, the texture of the paper, the character of the ink, everything that might perhaps suggest a new lead. It was all, apparently, however, without result. It was some time after these events that Kennedy, reconstructing what had happened, ran across, in a strange way which I need not tire the reader by telling, a Dr. Haynes, head of the Hillside Sanitarium for Women, whose story I shall relate substantially as we received it from his own lips: It must have been that same night that a distinguished visitor drove up in a cab to our Hillside Sanitarium, rang the bell and was admitted to my office. I might describe him as a moderately tall, well-built man with a pleasing way about him. Chiefly noticeable, it seems to me, were his mustache and bushy beard, quite medical and foreign. I am, by the way, the superintending physician, and that night I was sitting with Dr. Thompson, my assistant, in the office discussing a rather interesting case, when an attendant came in with a card and handed it to me. It read simply, “Dr. Ludwig Reinstrom, Coblenz.” “Here’s that Dr. Reinstrom, Thompson, about whom my friend in Germany wrote the other day,” I remarked, nodding to the attendant to admit Dr. Reinstrom. I might explain that while I was abroad some time ago, I made a particular study of the “Daemmerschlaf”—otherwise, the “twilight sleep,” at Freiburg where it was developed and at other places in Germany where the subject had attracted great attention. I was much impressed and had imported the treatment to Hillside. While we waited I reached into my desk and drew out the letter to which I referred, which ended, I recall: “As Dr. Reinstrom is in America, he will probably call on you. I am sure you will be glad to know him.
    “With kindest regards, I am, “Fraternally yours,                              
“EMIL SCHWARZ, M. D.,
“Director, Leipsic Institute of Medicine.” “Most happy to meet you, Dr. Reinstrom,” I greeted the new arrival, as he entered our office. For several minutes we sat and chatted of things medical here and abroad. “What is it, Doctor,” I asked finally, “that interests you most in America?” “Oh,” he replied quickly with an expressive gesture, “it is the broadmindedness with which you adopt the best from all over the world, regardless of prejudice. For instance, I am very much interested in the new twilight sleep. Of course you have borrowed it largely from us, but it interests me to see whether you have modified it with practice. In fact I have come to the Hillside Sanitarium particularly to see it used. Perhaps we may learn something from you.” It was most gracious and both Dr. Thompson and myself were charmed by our visitor. I reached over and touched a call-button and our head nurse entered from a rear room. “Are there any operations going on now?” I asked. She looked mechanically at her watch. “Yes, there are two cases, now, I think,” she answered. “Would you like to follow our technique, Doctor?” I asked, turning to Dr. Reinstorm. “I should be delighted,” he acquiesced. A moment later we passed down the corridor of the Sanitarium, still chatting. At the door of a ward I spoke to the attendant who indicated that a patient was about to be anesthetized, and Reinstrom and I entered the room. There, in perfect quiet, which is an essential part of the treatment, were several women patients lying in bed in the ward. Before us two nurses and a doctor were in attendance on one. I spoke to the Doctor, Dr. Holmes, by the way, who bowed politely to the distinguished Dr. Reinstrom, then turned quickly to his work. “Miss Sears,” he asked of one of the nurses, “will you bring me that hypodermic needle? How are you getting on, Miss Stern?” to the other who was scrubbing the patient’s arm with antiseptic soap and water, thoroughly sterilizing the skin. “You will see, Dr. Reinstrom.” I interposed in a low tone, “that we follow in the main your Freiburg treatment. We use scopolamin and narkophin.” I held up the bottle, as I said it, a rather peculiar shaped bottle, too. “And the pain?” he asked. “Practically the same as in your experience abroad. We do not render the patient unconscious, but prevent her from remembering anything that goes on.” Dr. Holmes, the attending physician, was just starting the treatment. Filling his hypodermic, he selected a spot on the patient’s arm, where it had been scrubbed and sterilized, and injected the narcotic. “How simply you do it all, here!” exclaimed Reinstrom in surprise and undisguised admiration. “You Americans are wonderful!” “Come—see a patient who is just recovering,” I added, much flattered by the praise, which, from a German physician, meant much. Reinstrom followed me out of the door and we entered a private room of the hospital where another woman patient lay in bed carefully watched by a nurse. “How do you do?” I nodded to the nurse in a modulated tone. “Everything progressing favorably?” “Perfectly,” she returned, as Reinstrom, Haynes and myself formed a little group about the bedside of the unconscious woman. “And you say they have no recollection of anything that happens?” asked Reinstrom. “Absolutely none—if the treatment is given properly,” I replied confidently. I picked up a piece of bandage which was the handiest thing about me and tied it quite tightly about the patient’s arm. As we...