The Black Mask
Vol. 5, No. 5 (August 1922)
, ed. by
F. M. Osbourne
. New York: Pro-Distributors Publishing Co., pp. 132.
Pro-Distributors Co
New York
August 1922
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The Black Mask
Patrick Scott Belk
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AUGUST, 1922
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VOL. V
AUGUST, 1922
No. 5
The Black Mask
A MAGAZINE OF MYSTERY, THRILLS AND SURPRISE
Contents
BLUEBERRY PIE (complete mystery novelette) |
Thyra Samter Winslow |
3 |
THE PHANTOM CHECK |
George Bruce Marquis |
19 |
THE VAULT |
Murray Leinster |
30 |
MURDER IN HASTE |
John Baer |
37 |
A WEAPON OF THE LAW |
George W. Breuker |
44 |
THE MONOLITH HOTEL MYSTERY |
Lloyd Lonergan |
47 |
EXTERIOR TO THE EVIDENCE (Part V) |
J. S. Fletcher |
55 |
THE FAILURE |
Harold Ward |
72 |
THE EXPLOSIVE GENTLEMAN |
J. J. Stagg |
75 |
THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER |
Carl Clausen |
81 |
HIS THIRTEENTH WIFE |
Herbert Raymond Carter |
89 |
THE MISTAKEN SACRIFICE |
Howard Rockey |
98 |
THE POLICE SOMETIMES GUESS WRONG |
Harold Ward |
107 |
THE CATSPAW |
Ward Sterling |
114 |
THE FINGER PRINT BUREAU |
J. H. Taylor |
123 |
F. M. OSBORNE, Editor
A. W. SUTTON, President P. C. CODY, Vice-President and Circulation
Director
F. W. WESTLAKE, Secretary and Treasurer
The entire contents of this magazine is protected by copyright and must not
be reprinted.
Issued monthly by PRO-DISTRIBUTORS PUBLISHING COMPANY, Inc.
25 West 45th Street, New York, New York
YEARLY SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 SINGLE COPIES 20 CENTS
Western Advertising Office, Wrigley Building, Chicago, Ill.
Copyright 1922 by Pro-Distributors Publishing Company, Inc.
Entered as second class mail matter, March 1, 1920, at the Post Office at
New York, N. Y., under act of March 3, 1879. Printed in U. S. A.
... before she was through, the strange woman had clipped blonde hair,
instead of her former long tresses .... —Page 16
2
Blueberry Pie
[Complete Mystery Novelette]
By Thyra Samter
Winslow
I
THE Laurence Martins were at
breakfast. It was a most
charming domestic scene. The
dining-room, though small, was
one-fourth of the Martin's North
Side Chicago apartment.
The table of black enamel was set
daintily with a blue and white run-
ner and with blue and white Canton
china. In the center was a vase
holding four jonquils. The blue and
gold cretonne curtains made the thin
March sunshine seem almost as gold
as Irma Martin's smooth bobbed
hair. The Martins had been married
just four months.
Irma Martin turned the toast in the
electric toaster at her elbow. She
poured coffee. Then, her hand
trembling a little, she picked up the
morning paper and started to read.
Martin was already scanning the
headlines of his own newspaper
which he would read more thor-
oughly on his way to the office. He
glanced at his wife.
"Irma," he said, and then, as she
didn't answer, "Irma."
"Speak to me?" she looked over at
him.
"What's the matter, dear?" he
asked. "You look pale. I don't be-
lieve you slept well. I heard you
tossing."
"You're a darling to worry," she
smiled at him. "It's really nothing.
I was—a—a little restless. Not
sleeping makes me pale, I suppose."
He looked at her hand, holding the
paper.
"Why, child, you're trembling."
She got up, then, went over, put
an arm around his shoulder, her
cheek against his hair.
"You are nice," she said. "I think
it's just nerves. But I'm lots better
than I was. You said so, too. You
watch—I'll improve. I'm the nervous
sort—all my folks were, too."
"What have you got to be nervous
about? A beautiful Spring day. . , .
I honestly believe, Irma, if you didn't
read the papers so much—got your
mind on other things—reading things
like this, now . . ." he pointed to a
glaring headline.
"I know. I shouldn't have read it.
I suppose that was it. I'll forget it
in fifteen minutes. It does seem—s
awful, though. I'm going downtown
with Lois Britton. We're going to
look at bedroom curtains and slip-
pers."
Martin looked at his paper again.
"That'll be fine," he said. "I can't
blame you—reading a thing like this.
An awful thing. That was a terrible
murder. Glad the papers will be
through with it, now. How that
beast ever went on proclaiming his
innocence to the end—I see he did—
is more than I can figure out. I
don't believe in capital punishment,
as a rule, but in a case like that—
when a man deliberately murders an
innocent little woman—electrocuting
is none too good for him. He de-
served all he got."
"I—I suppose he did," agreed Irma.
"Of course. You're the softest-
hearted little thing in the world, or
you wouldn't be trembling, now. I
3
4 Blueberry Pie
ought to have kept the paper away
from you. Though I can't blame you,
if a thing like this gets on your
nerves. You were in New York
when it all happened?"
"No, it was just a few weeks after
I got there. I remember reading' it
in the papers. Just coming from New
York and the woman having light
bobbed hair and all, I felt terribly
interested."
"I suppose you did. That's right,
you came here in July, didn't you?
I bet you never thought, when you
left New York, that you'd meet the
man you were going to marry within
a month, did you?"
"You bet I didn't. Nor that I'd
marry him six months after I did
meet him. Marry in haste, you
know. ... You sorry, yet?"
"I should say not. Marrying you
is the one best thing I ever did, Irma.
You know that. Now sit down and
finish your toast. I'm late again."
Irma went back to her seat across
the table. They talked about little
things, about Irma's coming to Chi-
cago, when the aunt with whom she
had lived in New York had died, how
she just happened to pick out
Chicago because she had never been
West, how she had met Martin's
cousin at the Y. W. C. A., where she
had taken a room, and how the
cousin and she had found a place to
live together and had gone job hunt-
ing, and how Irma had met Martin
a few weeks later, with "love at first
sight." . . and here we are, with
a little apartment and married and
everything. . . ."
Martin looked at his watch. He
grabbed his paper, his hat and his
coat and said, cheerfully:
"Now put that awful murder case
out of your mind, won't you?"
"You bet I will." Irma kissed him
and the door slammed.
But little Mrs. Martin did not put
the murder case out of her mind.
She sat there, with the paper before
her and read over that awful head-
line :
DENNISON PAYS
PENALTY FOR CRIME
Electrocuted at Sing Sing Yesterday
For Murder of Irene Graham
Then, under an Ossining date line,
followed the full details of the elec-
trocution, the crime and the trial.
Irma shuddered as she read the
story to the end, the last day of the
condemned man, the resume of the
brutal deed. It was enough to make
anyone shudder.
II
The details of the Dennison case
are well-known to the average Ameri-
can. For the average American is a
newspaper reader, and no reader of
newspapers could neglect the fruity
details of that tragedy. It contained
all of the elements that make news-
paper readers.
A fairly well-to-do young man of
around thirty, just before an an-
nouncement of his engagement to' a
young woman in his own social set
was to have been made, murders the
young woman—hardly more than a
girl—with whom he had shared an
apartment for two years previous.
The details, the murder itself, the
plan to make the murder look as if a
burglar had committed it, the little
things which the murderer could not
foresee, but which proved his guilt;
the trial, and now the electrocution,
were all spectacular, fascinating, in
a morbid, gruesome way.
The first the public knew was on a
morning in July. The people in the
apartment building in the West Hun-
Blueberry Pie 5
dreds were told by their sense of
smell that something was wrong'.
Horribly unpleasant, right from the
start. The janitor and then a plum-
ber visited several apartments,
found nothing. The plumber decided
the unpleasant odors came from an
apartment on the third floor. This
was occupied by a Mr. and Mrs.
Stuart Dennison. At least, they were
supposed to be Mr. and Mrs. Denni-
son, though the acquaintances of
Mrs. Dennison, who was a friendly
little soul, knew that no marriage ex-
isted, that the girl was really named
Irene Graham. Realizing that the
irregular relations were but one of
the incidents of city living, the
neighbors thought none the less of
Miss Graham. On the contrary, their
own regular lives bored them, and
they rather welcomed her. She was
a pleasant, frank little thing, always
telling them little confidences, ask-
ing advice. Until just a few months
before, she had been awfully happy,
full of gay little stories. Since then,
she had been wistful, sad, because
Dennison was no longer kind to her.
When the plumber wanted admis-
sion into the Dennison apartment,
the janitor, a fellow by the name of
Schmidt, told him that there was no
one at home, there. He, himself, had
been told by Mrs. Dennison that she
and Dennison were going away for a
vacation of several weeks. Mrs. Den-
nison had been quite excited over
going. In fact, Schmidt had brought
up from the basement two trunks and
several suitcases. One of the trunks
had left in the morning, a whole week
ago. He had seen it leave. The
other one had gone away later in the
day, and then Mrs. Dennison had had
it sent back from the station. She
had met him in the hall, he remem-
bered, and told him that the second
trunk had contained bedding which
they weren't going to need, after all.
Mrs. Dennison had gone on up into
her apartment—had said that Denni-
son would come for her and they
were going to leave together, later.
No, he hadn't seen them leave, but
there hadn't been lights there since,
nor the noise of anyone walking
around. So they had evidently left
that night, as they had planned, and
not returned. He knew that. When
the plumber insisted, Schmidt handed
over his master's key.
Half an hour later, excited tenants
were rushing to and fro, the most
daring of them even venturing into
the apartment. Someone telephoned
for the police. Three policemen ar-
rived within half an hour, asking
questions and ordering folks to be
silent, simultaneously. In the closet
of the bedroom of the apartment the
body of Irene Graham had been
found. She had been strangled with
a towel. She had been dead just
about one week. There was no sign
of any other occupant of the apart-
ment.
One trunk was in the apartment,
half full of bedding. An empty suit-
case stood nearby. The window of
the bedroom was partly open. The
window led to a fire-escape. The
drawers of the chiffonier and the
dressing-table were pulled out, their
contents scattered, chairs were over-
turned. Evidently a struggle had
taken place.
At first glance, the police said that
a burglar had committed the crime.
But only at first glance.
Little things began to creep out.
After one day there was enough evi-
dence to hold Dennison. In three
months more he had been convicted.
Now his electrocution had followed.
To the end, as is frequently the case,
Dennison had pleaded innocence, but
there was not one single person in
6 Blueberry Pie
the city of New York, perhaps, who
believed him innocent of the crime
for which he paid with his life.
Those who looked into the affair
admitted that Dennison had planned
carefully enough to make it seem as
if a burglar had committed the crime.
There was the woman, bound,
gagged, dead. There was the win-
dow, on the fire-escape, by which the
thief could have entered and escaped.
There were the rifled drawers. Miss
Graham's jewelry—all but one piece,
that is, and even a burglar might
have overlooked a small wrist-watch
—was gone. What more natural
than that a burglar should enter an
apartment, start rifling its contents,
see a young woman, struggle with
her, finally strangle her with a towel
and make his escape?
Dennison had evidently left the
apartment for good the day the mur-
der was committed. He said he had
gone out a day or two before the
murder and had never returned, that,
when he left, he had planned not to
return. Several things pointed to the
fact that the murder was committed
on a Thursday evening. Miss Gra-
ham had planned to go away that
evening. She was never seen alive
again. A letter was found in the
letter-box. It had been delivered the
next morning. It was from Denni-
son, and in it he told her he hoped
she would be as sensible as she had
seemed, when they parted. He en-
closed a check. It was a generous
check, his lawyers pointed out. It
could well afford to be, the district
attorney answered, when Dennison
knew his victim could never cash it.
Just at first, the thing did look as
if a burglar had done it. Then, little
things—
Neighbors gave proof that helped
convict Dennison. Little Mrs. Peter-
son, who lived across the hall, had
been glad to tell her bit. It was the
first time Mrs. Peterson had ever got
into the lime-light, and she rather
gloried in it. She was a slender wo-
man with a thin nose and rather
beady eyes.
Mrs. Peterson had been a friend
of Mrs. Dennison—Miss Graham,
that is. She had always liked her—
had known her for two years. The
Dennisons—well, the two of them,
had been awfully happy for a long
time, happier than most married
couples. Then, a few months before,
things had changed. She had found
Miss Graham crying. Finally, Miss
Graham admitted that Dennison was
no longer kind to her. He was cruel
—awfully cruel. He threatened to
leave her. He said, he was in love
with another woman. Miss Graham
had done all she could, cooked the
things he liked best. She was a good
cook, a nice little woman, quiet, well-
bred, pretty, too, with short light
bobbed hair. Mrs. Peterson would
never forget how she looked—when
she saw her there, dead—4ier blonde,
bobbed hair—her poor stained fingers,
her little stained apron. . . .
Yes, the quarreling had gone on
f—got worse all the time. Then a
couple of days before—before the
end, Miss Graham had cried all the
time. But that morning, things had
changed. Miss Graham had come to
her, awfully happy, to say that Den-
nison and she had made up, that
they were going away on a two
week's vacation up in Westchester.
They'd have a lot of fun. The jani-
tor brought up the trunks — she
didn't know just when—Dennison's
trunk and Miss Graham's—of course,
the very one in the apartment. Miss
Graham and she had gone down at
the same time to answer the post-
man's ring and later, Miss Graham
had called her in as she packed and
Blueberry Pie 7
she had stood and watched her. Miss
Graham had packed blankets for use
in the cottage—Miss Graham had
told about using a cottage belonging
to a member of Dennison's firm. The
other trunk was packed, then. It
left early Thursday morning. Miss
Graham had gone out into the hall
with the boy, and coming back had
said she had told him to come later
for the other trunk.
Later, Mrs. Peterson remembered,
the square trunk had gone, though
she had seen it come back, too. Miss
Graham had opened the door for it
and she had spoken to her, again.
"Just think," she had said, "we
won't need this trunk, after all.
There are plenty of blankets at the
lodge and as we have got a long
automobile trip at the other end,
there's no use taking it. All that
bother for nothing."
Mrs. Peterson had stepped into the
Dennison apartment for a moment.
Miss Graham had been—yes—she
had been baking blueberry pie. The
pie was just finished. Miss Graham
had said that blueberry pies were
Dennison's favorite dish—Miss Gra-
ham didn't care much for it, herself.
Dennison wouldn't have a home-
made one for a couple of weeks and
blueberries might be gone by the
time they got back, so Miss Graham
was making one for his dinner. She
didn't want to cut it, now, but she'd
bring Mrs. Peterson over a piece, la-
ter. Miss Graham had worn that little
gingham housedress, with the blue
apron over it—the clothes she had
been found dead in—and her fingers,
even then, had been stained with the
berries from the blueberry pie.
Mrs. Peterson never saw Miss
Graham again. Never, that is, while
she was alive. She had looked at the
body to identify it—if identification
were needed. She had seen the
bobbed blonde hair, the little, berry-
stained apron—the terrible berry-
stained fingers—after a whole week.
She had seen the pie again, too, there
on the kitchen table, with its one
piece missing.
Mrs. Peterson's evidence was im-
portant. But there were other
things. The watch, for one. An-
other neighbor, a Mrs. Grant, had
told, eagerly, about the watch. She,
too, had seen Miss; Graham that very
Thursday—that afternoon. She, too,
had heard about the promised vaca-
tion. Miss Graham was coming in
and in the lower hall, they had
stopped and talked. Miss Graham's
arms were full of bundles.
"I'm going to bake a pie," she had
said.
Miss Graham had asked the time—
and mentioned that Mr. Dennison
was having her watch repaired—
would bring it home that night—she
was lost without it. Miss Graham
usually wore a small wrist watch—
yes, Mrs. Grant had seen it fre-
quently. Yes—the one they found on
the dressing table. Miss Graham
had glanced at her bare wrist, in-
stinctively, Mrs. Grant remembered.
She had said how she would have
hated to be away two weeks without
a watch. Mrs. Grant hadn't seen
Miss Graham again. But she had
seen the watch again—there on the
dressing table—and later in the
court-room. Yes—she had glanced at
the body with its tumbled light short
hair, its familiar little apron—a
terrible thing—you can't tell what
your neighbors will do, these days—t
Dennison had seemed like such a
nice fellow. . . .
Another neighbor testified—a fel-
low named Felix, who lived on the
floor above. The evening that the
police decided the murder had been
committed—Thursday—he had been
8 Blueberry Pie
coming upstairs to dinner about half-
past fives— he had left the office early
—when he had heard furniture fall-
ing-, heard a woman scream. Her
screams did not sound as if they were
those of a woman being attacked by
a strang-er. On the contrary, he had
heard, distinctly, "Oh, God, what are
you dcring, Stuart!" and then "Oh,
Stuart—oh God!" He had told his
wife that, when he got upstairs.
They had decided it was a family
quarrel,' not serious enough for a
strang-er to interfere. They had
talked about the Dennisons, what a
nice little thing she was, how she had
been crying, lately. Yes, he had seen
the body—mere curiosity, of course—
a gruesome sight. Of course he had
recognized it. He'd have known that
bobbed hair any place. Of course—
the state the body was in—he hadn't
looked long—but that was the least
—identifying the body—poor little
girl—it just shows—the wages of
sin—
The evidence hedged Dennison in,
closer and closer. If it hadn't been
for Margaret Harrington, though, he
might have pulled out, somehow.
Margaret Harrington had been en-
gaged to be married to Stuart Denni-
son. She was ready to announce the
engagement. She had expected him
to call on her that Thursday evening.
He was to come about six and they
were going out to dinner. Dennison
arrived a little late and she had
noticed immediately something odd
about his actions. One thing, es-
pecially—his mouth and teeth were
stained blue—as if from blueberries.
She had teased him about it. He had
seemed nervous, and, instead of
laughing if off, hadn't even admitted
eating pie, but had changed the sub-
ject, quickly, instead. The evening
had passed as they had planned.
She had seen Dennison several
times during the week that followed.
He had seemed about as usual, but
nervous, too. Then, a week later—
when Dennison was arrested—when
she had read that on the kitchen table
of his apartment had been found a
blueberry pie w'ith a piece cut out of
it and the slice missing, she had felt
that to her had been given the last
link in the chain of evidence. So she
had gone to the district attorney with
her knowledge.
She had given up Dennison, of
course, as soon as she heard of the
murder. It was not only on account
of the murder that she had given
him up; it was on account of the
whole, ugly affair. He had never
told her about Miss Graham—about
another woman. She might have for-
given him in the beginning, if he
had confessed. But to have kept on
with the other woman while he was
calling- on her—making her think he
cared only for her. That seemed
quite as bad as the tragedy, itself.
So she had felt that she must not
shield her former sweetheart. Her
own conscience demanded that she
tell what she knew about the pie.
III
No one was surprised at the jury's
decision, at the judge's sentence,
when the trial took place. Smug
citizens shook their heads with satis-
faction, young girls, about to err,
shuddered and chose less easy paths.
It worked out quite well, morally—
there was a crime—a motive—appre-
hension of the criminal—punishment.
What did it matter that Stuart
Dennison repeated over and over
again the same story. He told it to
the district attorney. He told it to
his own lawyers. He told it to re-
porters. He seemed dazed, almost,
at the lack of response his story
Blueberry Pie 9
received. All he could do was to go
over and over his version of the
affair.
Stuart Dennison's story was, to
say the least, amazing. That he
couldn't prove anything seemed the
least amazing part of it. For Den-
nison maintained that he hadn't been
near the apartment the day of the
murder. He couldn't offer an alibi
for every moment of his time. He
had been in and out of his office and
his club. But he was always going
in and out. He had occupied his
room at his club. But then, he had
always kept a room there and used
it more .or less. Most of the club
members had been away. Those who
had been at the club could not testify
when they had seen him. His story
was simple; too simple even for those
who wanted to sympathize with him.
He hadn't been near the apartment,
that was all. The watch? Yes, he
had given it to Miss Graham on a
previous Christmas.- To his knowl-
edge it had never been broken nor
mended. How could he prove that?
He couldn't. He maintained that he
had left the apartment the evening
before—that Miss Graham definitely
knew that he was not going to re-
turn. He had packed his trunk
before he had gone—had sent for it.
It had been taken to his club as he
said. Vacation trip? He knew of no
vacation trip ; had planned none. He
couldn't understand Miss Graham
saying anything about that. The sec-
ond trunk—the same thing. . . . The
little woman with the blonde bob-
bed hair, the one person who could
have proved him wrong—or right
—was buried long before the trial
began.
Dennison did explain about the
blueberry pie in a way—a peculiarly
ineffective way, everyone thought.
On the way to Miss Harrington's he
had passed, he said, a small pastry
shop. In the window he had
seen some blueberry pie. It was
near dinnertime. He knew that. But
he was fond of blueberry pie. He had
gone into the pastry shop, eaten a
small piece of pie. Later, when Miss
Harrington had asked him, he had
been embarrassed, had denied eat-
ing the pie. He hadn't remembered,
he explained, that his teeth and lips
would look blue. At the pastry shop
no one remembered him nor the pie.
One waitress had gone—no one
knew her name—no one else knew
anything about it—so many people
came in to eat pie. . . . The pie in
the apartment? He had never seen
that, of course. ... A burglar must
have come in—
The cold-blooded fact—that just
before or after he had killed the wo-
man who had been everything to him
for two years—he had eaten a piece
of pie that she had baked as a sur-
prise for him, turned people against
Dennison more than any other one
fact of the tragedy. That much is
certain.
It was a clear case, as the district
attorney sketched it. The two, Den-
nison and Miss Graham had lived
together. He had fallen in love with
someone else, had threatened to leave
her. There had been scenes. Then,
he had promised her that things
would be better—had planned the va-
cation trip to prove it. He had
packed his trunk, had gone away.
Miss Graham, all eager for his return,
had packed the big trunk, sent it
away, had probably telephoned "to
him, found out the trunk was not
needed, got a wagon to call for it
and bring it back, then had returned
and had baked the blueberry pie. Com-
ing in about five, on Thursday, Den-
nison had found her waiting. They
had quarreled. He had murdered
10 Blueberry Pie
her, perhaps without meaning to
do so.
The deed done, he had tried to get
out of it, had disarranged things,
tumbled the dressing-table drawers
on the floor and bed, opened the win-
dow, taken the simple jewelry.
Sometime, during the hours he spent
there, he had taken the watch out of
his pocket, then had forgotten to
"steal" it. Before or after the mur-
der, he had eaten the pie. He had
thrust the body into the closet,
washed his hands, straightened his
hair—had left the apartment to call
on his fiancee, Miss Harrington. A
terrible, brutal deed. No wonder he
was electrocuted for the crime. No
wonder people shuddered as they
read, avidly, details of the affair. It
was brutal. It was 'a remarkable
case, too. Perhaps it was most re-
markable, though, because it hap-
pened not to be true in any particu-
lar.
IV
It was over. When Irene woke
up, she realized that. When Denni-
son packed his trunk, the day before,
and told her that he was not going to
return, she knew that he would keep
his word. She hadn't been able to
hold him. That was the truth of it.
Now he was going to marry a society
girl. Margaret Harrington! Irene
had seen Margaret Harrington's pic-
ture, even—a beautiful girl, really
beautiful. There was absolutely
nothing Irene could do. Dennison
was gone.
"Buck up ... be a good sport,"
Dennison had said, and, "you have
known for a long time this couldn't
go on." Thing's like that.
She had been a good sport. That
is, she had tried to laugh, tried to
pretend that it didn't matter. It did
matter. It meant more than any-
thing else in the world.
Not that the thing was unexpected.
From the first—from two years ago
when she had started— and come
to Dennison's apartment—she had
known that the arrangement couldn't
last. But she had hoped—prayed—
that it would. She had even thought,
lots of times, that maybe Dennison
would marry her, that they could
settle down without this everlasting
subterfuge and this constant explana-
tion, have a home, really. Now Den-
nison was gone—was going to marry
someone else.
She really loved Dennison—had
loved him, that is. Why, she had
loved him from the first time she had
ever seen him there in McNally's.
She wondered how he had ever hap-
pened to notice her. He had never
been in a department store since, as
far as she knew. He had come in,
that day, to match a bit of silk for
the head-dress of a Persian costume
for a charity play, and she had waited
on him. She had liked him, had
gladly broken a rule when he asked
her and had given him her address,
the address of that lonely little room
in that cheap rooming house on Lex-
ington Avenue.
He had come to see her, then. The
six months that followed had been
the happiest she had ever known. She
had been in New York for over a
year, ever since her aunt died in Fer-
risville, and nothing had happened to
her, nothing that is, but long hours
of work or longer and wearier hours
of searching for work. The men she
had met had been stupid, impossible
creatures, mostly friends or brothers
of the girls who worked next to her.
Then she had met Dennison and he
had altered everything.
She remembered, now, those first
six months she had known him. He
Blueberry Pie 11
used to call for her in his neat little
car, after work. The last half hour
in the store she would spend surrep-
titiously arranging- her hair, powder-
ing her face, applying her lip stick,
though she didn't make up a great
deal, those days. At twenty-one one
doesn't need artifices. Then they'd
go to funny little restaurants Den-
nison knew about, Italian places
where you'd get awfully good things,
little French places, a Swiss restau-
rant uptown.- Sometimes, Dennison
would take her home, then, if you
can call a rooming house home.
Sometimes, they'd go to the theatre.
Then, Dennison had an accident with
the car and sold it. After a few
weeks there would creep into his
talk the desire to be with her when
no one was around, his want to "have
her to himself."
"How can I talk to you," he'd say,
"in a movie theatre or in restaurants
or parks. Am I never to have a min-
ute of you to' myself?"
It seemed not. Then he suggested
his apartment. Until then, it seemed,
Dennison had shared an apartment
with another chap. Now the other
man had left New York.
"You'd feel more at home up there,"
Dennison had told her. He'd beg her
to come up, fix him a cup of tea, be
comfortable, where he could hold her
hand if he felt like it.
She had hesitated—she had been a
simple little thing, then. She had
gone, of course. They would get din-
ner, together, after that, bringing in
a hot roasted chicken and crisp fried
potatoes from a rotisserie and pre-
paring a salad, themselves. Dennison
could make a couple of salad dress-
ings. They would buy French pas-
try and make coffee. Evenings were
happy, though always over them
hung the fact that Irene had to hurry
away, had to be up early the next
morning, was afraid of kisses that
frightened her.
"Why do1 you want to go?" Den-
nison would ask. "You know I love
you. Can't you let me take care of
you? I hate to think that my girl
has got to go to a horrid little room,
when she could stay here with me,
instead. I don't want my girl to work
all day.
That was it—his girl. She had
cared for him. She knew that. With
his arms around her, the soft
lamps, the pot of hot coffee, the occa-
sional cocktail, it hadn't been easy to
go.
One night it began to rain. She
could have got a taxi, of course. She
had gone home in taxis, other nights.
But Dennison's arms were around
her, his lips pressed to hers. She
was comfortably drowsy and awfully
happy and young.
The next day she went back to her
room, packed the square trunk, told
her landlady she was going to share
an apartment with another girl. She
gave up her position at McNally's.
Two years ago. . . .
Dennison had been all she had
dreamed he would be, that first year,
tender, affectionate, thoughtful. Then
little things began to creep in ... he
would object to thing-s she'd say, to
the way she laughed. He corrected
errors of speech rather impatiently.
But even then, he was good.
It wasn't until this last year that he
didn't come home, every evening. He
took a room at his club. It was
lonely, then. If she had been an-
other girl—another sort—Irene felt
she might have gone with other men.
She didn't. She stayed in the apart-
ment, waited. Dennison was no
longer thoughtful nor affectionate.
He found fault, didn't like the way
she did things. She tried hard to
arrange the table daintily, pored over
12 Blueberry Pie
cook-books, spent hours preparing
foods he was especially fond of.
Then he told her about Margaret
Harrington. He was going to marry
Miss Harrington—a suitable match
in every way. Irene should have
known this wouldn't last—he had
been fond of her, of course—he would
do what he could.
Then, Irene knew she hated him.
She knew that all the love she had
had for him had disappeared—had
turned into one huge hatred. She
wanted to get even. She wanted to
leap at him, pound him with her fists
. . . why . . . kill him, even. That was
it—kill him ! She remembered some-
thing she had read—in the Bible she
thought it was—"Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorned." She thought
that was it. Well, he had scorned
her. She wanted to get even.
V
Now, Dennison was gone. Lying
in bed, now, Irene thought of him.
How could she get even. Of course
—she could kill him. But she'd be
found out—sent to the electric chair.
She might get off, of course—most
women did—but she mightn't be
lucky. The chair! She shuddered.
Someone had told her, once, that a
few hours before a person was elec-
trocuted, he was doped so that when
the time came he was scarcely con-
scious of what was happening. That
was the reason cowards appeared
brave at their death, her informant
had said. Maybe that was true. She
didn't know. Even so, she didn't
want to be electrocuted. She'd be
found out, of course, if she killed Den-
nison—or if she killed Miss Har-
rington. Anyhow, it wasn't Miss
Harrington she wanted to get rid of,
after all. Miss Harrington was just
a part of a game, as she was part of a
game. No, definitely, it was Denni-
son. She must get even. Kill him?
She knew she couldn't actually kill
him, though, at that.
How could she, a poor, friendless
little thing, get even with anyone.
She didn't have any influence of any
sort. She had lived so entirely for
Dennison, these two years, that she
hadn't kept up with her acquaintances
from the store, even. The only people
she ever talked to were the neighbors.
They couldn't do anything to help her.
She felt helpless, trapped. She must
do something.
She thought of killing herself. She
couldn't quite do that, wasn't brave
enough. Why should she die, any-
how? She was too young to die, not
twenty-three, yet. No, she wanted to
live—she wanted to live and get even
—to kill Dennison.
Dennison was gone—never to come
back. The rent for the apartment
would have to be paid in a few days.
She couldn't even keep on living
there. She had a little money,
though—. What could she do?
She got up, went to the door, found
the newspaper there, brought it in,
sat on the edge of the bed reading it.
She glanced at the usual headlines ;
politics, world affairs. They didn't
interest her. She turned to the inside
pages, listlessly. What did anything
matter to her?
Little scandals, divorces, deaths.
She read them all, all seeing. What
was this ? She read a small item:
Woman Takes Gas
Miss Grace Trummer, about twenty-five
years old, a pretty little blonde
seamstress,
committed suicide at a rooming house in
- Street, last night, by inhaling gas.
Miss
Trummer left no reason for the deed, and,
as far as is known, she had no relatives—
Irene dropped the paper on the bed.
There, that was a way out—gas. She
could do that—could end things that
Blueberry Pie 13
way. What if she did? That
wouldn't hurt Dennison. He'd be
glad she was out of the way, really.
If she could be found dead! If Den-
nison could be blamed! That would
be something. He would be electro-
cuted for her murder! Of course!
That would be clever!
In her mind, now, she went over
the whole thing—how she could kill
herself—and leave little evidences
about, so that it would look as if
Dennison had killed her. She'd have
to be careful, of course. Why, of
course. She would have to make it
look as if Dennison had planned to
make it look like suicide or burglary!
Burglary would be best. Dennison
would die! She laughed almost wildly
over that. She dressed and laughed
all the while. She felt sort of funny.
Was she mad? She didn't think she
was. Of course not. Yes, that's the
way she'd do things.
But—then she would be dead. She
didn't want to be dead. She wouldn't
know about Dennison. She had to
know. No, that wouldn't do either.
She wanted to live. She was too
young to die. She must get even
with Dennison!
That woman who had died—a
blonde woman, too, nearly her age.
She wondered about her.
Then the thought came to Irene. It
came to her, suddenly. It enveloped
her, left her weak, dizzy. Could she
get that body? If that body could be
found—here—instead of hers !
The woman had no relatives—
surely that would be easy enough.
She would try. That was it. She
could do her best. It was the only
way—a way to get even. . . .
Her heart started to sing in a wild
way, a way it hadn't sung for a year
:—more than that. If she could—if
she could fix things so that it would
look as if Dennison. . . .
She thought it over. If things went
right! If not . . . well, she'd have to
take some chances, anyhow.
A ring at the door-bell. She
trembled. The mail man. She went
downstairs, a plan already formulated
in her mind. She met Mrs. Peterson
in the hall, started right in on the plaj^
—-talked with her . . . the vacation
. . . a holiday with Dennison.
She telephoned to Schmidt to bring
her trunk up. He brought it and the
bags up almost immediately. She
talked with him eagerly, nervously.
Another ring at the bell. It was
the man for Dennison's trunk. She
trembled as the man took it out. Mrs.
Peterson, again. Dennison's trunk
gone.
She finished dressing, went out, the
clipping about the woman suicide in
her purse.
Mrs. Peterson's door was still open.
That prying little woman. She'd
keep on talking—prepare her—in case
things went all right.
VI
She hurried out of the apartment
building, took a subway train, went
to the address mentioned in the news
story. It was a cheap rooming
house. She hurried up the stone
stairs, remembering to sniffle a bit.
A weary looking woman with red
eyes answered the door.
Irene's voice trembled. She really
was nervous.
"I—I read in the paper just now—"
she began.
"Yes?" the woman looked at her,
suspiciously.
"My sister—her name—she disap-
peared from home. I just happened
to be here, visiting in New York—
she could sew—she was blonde—like
me. . .
The woman's expression changed.
14 Blueberry Pie
"Your sister?" she asked sadly, but
with a certain eager curiosity.
"Yes—I—I think so," said Irene.
"Is—she—the body—here?"
"No," said the woman. "They came
last night—took her right down to
the morgue. You can see her down
there."
Irene hesitated. Her mind leaped
on.
"I—I—we want to take the body
home—if it is my sister," said Irene.
Then,
"Do you know what I could do—
how to get it?" She started to cry.
"It's too bad," said the woman. "I'm
Mrs. Figg. She's rented a room of
me for over six months, now. Never
talked much of herself. And yester-
day morning—come in, dearie. . . ."
Irene went in, saw the cheap little
room of the other woman, listened to
stories of her. No one cared for her.
It seemed the woman was herself, in
a way. That didn't matter. She
wanted—the body.
"I'll go, now—to the morgue," she
said.
"I'll go with you, if you like,
dearie," Mrs. Figg volunteered. Irene
shivered a little more at that. Then
she nodded. After all, she didn't
know how to get a body at the
morgue. With this woman, who be-
lieved her story. . . .
She sat, quiet, while the woman
dressed. They took a cross-town car.
The morgue. . . .
It was a big, gloomy building,
smelling of disinfectants, clean, sol-
emn.
They went into a bare room, with
wooden chairs about. A man asked
questions. Irene sobbed. Mrs. Figg
answered. The woman had died—no
post-mortem had been necessary.
Irene suddenly remembered those.
What if there had been. How would
she have got out of this?
Yes, they could see the body. If
Irene could identify it there would
be no objection to her taking it away.
She must get an undertaker, of
course—she could sign, authorizing
him—he could take it to his shop, em-
balm the body—have it shipped to her
home out of town. . . .
Irene didn't want an undertaker or
embalming. All she wanted was that
body, untouched, in her apartment,
without a coffin, without anything—
that body. She must get it. What
could she do? She must get it. Her
mind raced on.
Well, she'd do her best. A new
cunning seemed to come to her. If
things would only go on. . . .
The man led the way down a row
of narrow stairs into a big room, with
walls of white tile, clean, like a
kitchen. There were huge drawers
in the walls—drawers that pulled
out. . . .
"Here," said the man, and pulled
out a drawer, a long drawer' with a
woman on it—a dead woman. Was
that the woman? She looked, cov-
ered her eyes. A dead woman—a
woman she had never seen before—a
blonde woman with a sad, thin face—
not like hers—and yet—in a way—if
there was enough time before the
body was found. . . .
She glanced at Mrs. Figg through
her fingers. She had to be sure that
this was the woman—that they were
not testing her.
Mrs. Figg nodded.
"The poor, poor thing," she said.
"Yes," said Irene, "that—that's my
sister—two years older than I am—
and she'd dead—all alone . . she
sobbed. They were real tears, now.
She was thoroughly frightened.
The man turned away. He was ac-
customed to scenes.
They went up the narrow stairs.
Another man filled out a blank slip,
Blueberry Pie 15
gave it to Irene, told her the details
about getting an undertaker.
She and Mrs. Figg walked out of
the morgue. Another step was fin-
ished. She couldn't fail, now ! What
should she do?
Irene was sobbing again.
"I wonder," she said, "if—if I dare
ask you another favor. Could I bring
her—the body—-to you? Could she
be embalmed there? I could go out
and buy her a new dress—so—that,
when we got her home . . . I'll get
something right away. I can't bear
to think of her in an undertaking
shop. She wouldn't be in your house
very long. I'll have my trunk sent
there, too, with some things in it. I
live in the country—I've been here a
week—I'll go right home with—with
her. To think that Grace. . . .
"That's all right, dearie, don't
carry on," said Mrs. Figg. "Of
course, if it would make you feel any
better—have it sent right out. ..."
They stopped at an undertakers,
near the morgue. The undertaker, it
seemed, preferred embalming the
body right there—get it ready for
shipment. But, of course, if the
lady—
Irene bought a coffin, paid in ad-
vance for that and the embalming—
asked the undertaker to send the body at
once and come later in the afternoon
for the embalming, when she'd have
the clothes there. He promised. Yes,
that would be all right—the body
had been on ice in the morgue.
Irene left Mrs. Figg. She wanted
to get the dress and to have her
trunk sent, she said. She thanked
that good lady again and again—in a
little while she'd be back.
VII
Another subway ride. In her own
apartment, Irene threw a couple of
blankets into the big trunk, moved
it into the hall, so that the express-
man could get it if she were not there,
spoke to Mrs. Peterson again. That
woman! Still, if she were careful, it
might work out all right.
Irene went to a corner express of-
fice and gave an order for the trunk
to be called for at once and delivered
to Mrs. Figg's.
The subway again. A block from
Mrs. Figg's, she passed another un-
dertaker's establishment, and this
gave her a new inspiration. She went
in. She told the man a story that he
accepted, though she was quite afraid
he wouldn't. She had bought a cof-
fin for her sister, she said. The body
was to arrive there—just a block
away—quite soon. Now, her brother
had bought a better coffin. Would
the undertaker buy the one—give
her something for it. She told him
what she had paid. He offered five
dollars. She agreed, told him to call
later—she would step in and let him
know. It was taking a big chance.
She had to get rid of the coffin if she
could—had to keep Mrs. Figg from
getting suspicious. Well, she was
trusting to luck, anyhow—one thing
more or less.
At Mrs. Figg's, again. Neither the
body nor the trunk had come. Irene
sat there in that poor room, her
handkerchief over her eyes. The
trunk came first. It was put into the
room. She paid the express man,
didn't open the trunk. The body
came a little later, in the poor, cheap
coffin. The man opened th'e coffin.
She asked him to. She was afraid
she wouldn't know how. She said
she wanted another look at her sister.
Mrs. Figg came into the room, went
out again. Irene closed the door,
locked it—she wanted to be alone
with—with the dead.
She opened the trunk, worked hur-
16 Blueberry Pie
riedly. Nervously, tears streaming
down her face, her teeth clenched, she
managed, somehow, to get the stiff
body out of the coffin and into the
trunk. She locked the trunk again,
closed the coffin. That was done.
She sunk exhausted, ill, on a chair.
She couldn't stop, now. What next?
She left the house. She hailed a
passing express wagon. She had a
trunk to go away. Could the driver
take it at once? He thought he could.
Mrs. Figg was not in sight. That
saved some explaining. She watched
the man as he moved the trunk out of
the house onto the wagon. She gave
him the address of her apartment,
stood looking at him until he drove
off.
Irene stopped at the undertaker's
again, the one on the corner. She
told him to get the coffin now, at
once. Yes, she would come back for
the money, later. She couldn't, of
course—but that. . . .
She went into a drug-store, oppo-
site, called up Mrs. Figg. She had
got the telephone number from the
telephone in the hall.
"I'm—I'm sending for—for the
body, after all," she explained. "The
man is on the way. I—I couldn't
stand to have things done there, after
all. I'll write a note. Thank
you. . . ."
She hung up the receiver dizzily.
That was done. If the undertaker
could only get the empty coffin out
without Mrs. Figg suspecting—con-
necting things. . . . Mrs. Figg might
wonder. Even so—she'd never do
anything, if the coffin was taken away.
Well, there was nothing she could do
about it.
She took a taxicab, this time,- She
was too weak for the subway. She
sat there, on the edge of the seat, her
fingers clenched.
She stopped the taxi on the corner,
got out. She had left her watch at
home. She wondered about the time.
The wagon would be slow—he had
two other trunks to deliver, she knew.
She must do something to kill time—
until the trunk came—until dark,
even.
What could she do? Why, she'd
bake a pie. Of course. She stopped
in at the grocer's. She saw some
blueberries, bought some of them. A
blueberry pie—Dennison's favorite
pie. Why not? It would look so
domestic.
With the bundles in her arm, she
came into the apartment building.
She met Mrs. Grant and talked with
her. She thought of the watch—put
that in. That was a good bit!
She put on her housedress and an
apron. She got to work with the pie.
It was comforting, working in the
dough. The pie was finished—in the
oven—when the trunk—the body—
came. When it was safely in the
apartment she sat down, trembling.
It had worked out! She had the
body! Here—now! '-If only things
kept on. . . .
Mrs. Peterson in the hall! She
showed her the pie—promised her a
piece, later. What a fool!
Schmidt, the janitor, passed. She
talked to him, too.
She was alone in the apartment—
with the trunk. Irene was afraid of
corpses. She had never touched one
except a few minutes ago. She
opened the trunk. She had to stop,
start again. She was quite ill. But,
before she was throug'h, the strange
woman had clipped blonde hair, in-
stead of her former long tresses, and
was dressed in Irene's own clothes.
That was done!
She shivered. Was she going to
be caught? She prayed to her God,
a God she had rather neglected dur-
ing the past years. Her prayers
Blueberry Pie 17
were sincere enough. Why couldn't
she get away with it? Dennison—
Dennison would get what was com-
ing to him—if things went right.
That was over. She could get
ready, now. Irene started to change
her clothes. She looked at her fingers
and her apron, stained with blueber-
ries. Yes—it had to be done. She
dressed the corpse in her own house-
dress, her own berry-stained apron.
Then, her fingers wet with berry
juice, she stained the fingers of the
dead woman. Now, she covered the
face, knotted a towel around the
throat, thrust the body into the closet
of her bedroom. She heard a noise
in the hall. She sat in a chair, shud-
dered, for half an hour before she
dared move or wash her hands. She
washed them thoroughly, then. She
was afraid you caught things from
dead people.
Irene cooled herself under a shower,
made rather a careful toilet. It was
after five o'clock. There was some-
thing else to do, now.
She heard someone in the hall. She
hoped it was someone she knew—but
not too well. It was a man's step—a
man coming home.
She threw a chair against a wall,
pushed a table, kicked another chair,
said, "Oh, God, Stuart," threw an-
other chair.
That was done.
She adjusted the window, packed
her bag—not forgetting a little
bundle of things she would destroy,
later. She took her jewelry. She put
her wrist watch on the dressing-table,
to one side, so it wouldn't be too
noticeable. She hated to lose it.
Still, with her other things. She had
been economical. She could sell her
jewelry later. She could get a job,
maybe meet some young man, marry,
even.. Why not? Women did worse
things than she did and got married.
Worse? Well, she hadn't been so
bad—so really bad—if things would
work out. . . .
She turned the dressing-table draw-
ers out, disarranged the other
things.
She sat at the window behind the
white curtain, watched the traffic.
She couldn't be seen, she knew. She
couldn't light a light. She was
hungry. She couldn't go out for fear
of meeting someone, until dark. She
hated the apartment—memories—the
closet. . . .
She tiptoed around. Yes—every-
thing was right. She repacked her
bag to make sure. She could take
only a few things so it would look as
if all of her things were there. No
one knew just what she had. The bit
of paper in the corner of it—the wo-
man's hair—her clothes—she touched
it gingerly. She could get rid of that
easily enough.
Yes—the signs of disorder—the
window. The police wouldn't think
it was a burglar—they were just
clever enough for that—yet, she hoped,
not too clever. . . .
She felt around, felt the familiar
things. She could see a little from
the street lamp, outside—. It was
nearly time to go. Dennison—would
things come out the way she had
planned? The apartment! The
closet! Did she dare? Dare? She
had to, now. There was nothing else
to do. She started in to sob, kneel-
ing at the side of her bed.
"Oh, Stuart," she sobbed, "come
back to me, come back to me. Oh
God. . . ."
She could leave, now. She could
get a ticket, go on to Chicago. That
would be best. She didn't know any-
one in Chicago. It was surprising
how few people she knew any
place. In Chicago, she'd go to the
Y. W. C. A., take a new name, find
B.M.—Aug.—2
18 Blueberry Pie
a position, even let her hair grow,
maybe.
A new name? Any name. She'd
think one up. Only she mustn't
change her initials. That would be
bad luck, unless she got married.
Any name but Irene Graham. . . .
She pinned on her hat. She could
go, now. She was hungry. She went
into the kitchen. Where, in the dim
light, she saw the pie she had made.
Why not take a piece? She didn't
care much for blueberry pie. She
wondered, now, why she had both-
ered—how she had had the nerve to
make it. Why not eat a piece, as
long as it was there. They might
blame a neighbor—the police, any-
one. She cut a piece of pie, ate it.
It was good pie. Too good for what
it was made for. To think of all the
pies she had made during the two
years, for Dennison. Stuart—she had
loved him—really had. Well, he'd
get what was coming to him. She'd
forget it all—these two years—
Stuart Dennison—the apartment—
the—inside the closet. . . .
She opened the front door, care-
fully. There was no one in sight.
She closed the door after her, quietly,
and, suitcase in hand, went out to
catch her train.
VIII
The newspaper dropped from
Irma Martin's fingers. So—it was
over. Really over, Dennison was
dead. He had "paid for his crime
with his life," as the newspapers had
said.
Mrs. Martin shuddered. She must
get over being so nervous. She knew
that. She stood up, began to gather
together the blue and white break-
fast dishes. Funny! She laughed, a
bit mirthlessly, to herself. Funny,
that she had happened to eat that
piece of blueberry pie.
The Phantom Check
By George Bruce
Marquis
I
IT was nearly six o'clock, and yet
James Hackett, teller number one of
the Wallula State Bank, tarried in his
cage. Again and again he cast up
his totals, recounted his cash, and
thumbed over the big pile of checks
which littered his counter, and still his
columns refused to balance.
The cashier of the bank, Thomas Ec-
tor, passed down the aisle on his way
out, but noting the teller still at work
paused.
"What's wrong, Hackett?" he in-
quired.
"My cash simply won't balance, Mr.
Ector," Hackett replied.
"Throw it into the Over and Short
Account, Hackett," Ector advised him.
"A few cents more or less won't mat-
ter."
"A few cents!" And Hackett turned
his flushed face toward the cashier. "I
wish it were only a matter of a few
cents. I'm short one thousand dollars!"
"A 'one' is the easiest mistake in the
world to make," Ector smiled. "Unlock
the door and let me run over your
figures."
"Well, here's hoping," Hackett
sighed. "I've run those columns up
and down, crossways and slanting till
I honestly couldn't add two and two
and be sure of the result."
"You've just got excited," Ector de-
clared as he picked up the ribbon from
the adding machine and began to com-
pare it with the stack of checks.
"How much cash did you start with
this morning?" he presently inquired.
"Five thousand dollars. Mr. Gray
counted it out and I rechecked it before
I opened my window. It was correct."
The cashier ticked off the deposit
slips, and last of all counted the cash.
Then he began to cast up the final re-
sults, humming a little tune as he did
so. Presently he ceased humming,
while a puzzled frown crept gradually
over his features.
"What's wrong here ?" he argued
with himself, "you're off, too."
"How much?" Hackett asked a little
unsteadily.
"It looks like a thousand dollars,"
Ector admitted reluctantly, "but I must
have made a mistake. Here, wait till
I run it over again."
But his second checking was as fruit-
less as his first. Hackett was undoubt-
edly short one thousand dollars.
Ector stood drumming on the counter
for a bit, lost in thought. Then he had
a sudden inspiration.
"Did you cash any thousand dollar
checks or drafts today?" he asked sur-
denly.
"A dozen, maybe," the teller an-
swered. "You know I handle most of
the big accounts, a number of real estate
firms, besides the business of half a
dozen of the biggest stores. A thousand
dollars in change with them is nothing
uncommon. Often they draw out
more."
"Then you've simply mislaid or lost
one of their checks," Ector declared
with certitude. "Dump out that waste
paper basket and let's go through it."
The basket was duly emptied and its
contents examined with microscopic
19
20 The Phantom Check
care, but without results. Besides,
Hackett got down on his hands and
knees and poked and prodded in vain
under the desks and filing cabinets in a
vain hope that a check was hidden there.
"A draft of air may have carried it
out through your window," Ector sug-
gested finally, "but that's hardly likely.
Still, I'll tell the janitor to look sharp
when he sweeps up."
"But what shall I do ?" Hackett asked
in despair.
"Do, what can you do?" the cashier
answered. "You couldn't make that big
a mistake in change and you haven't
duplicated a deposit of that size. The
only thing I can think of is for you to
try and make a list of all the thousand
dollar items and see if you have over-
looked one."
"I won't be able to sleep a wink to-
night, Mr. Ector."
"Well, you may be able to ferret it
out, then," so the other consoled him.
"I've often done that, I know. I'll bet
you that in the morning you'll have the
laugh on yourself for some foolish
oversight or other."
"Well, I certainly hope so," Hackett
ejaculated fervently. "Twelve years in
that cage and never anything like this
before."
"Forget it, Jimmy," and the cashier
slapped him on the back in friendly
fashion. "We all make them, and gen-
erally find them, too. That's the best
part."
But the morning did not bring the
promised relief. Instead, Hackett en-
tered his cage pale and shaken and the
other six tellers were in little better
frame. The phenomenal loss had been
whispered about the bank and each man
wondered if it would be his turn that
day. The result was that all the tellers
worked over time that evening adjusting
numerous little mistakes that under or-
dinary circumstances would never have
occurred.
All of them, however, were able to
eventually reduce their errors to a mat-
ter of a few cents, except teller number
one.
Ector walked down the passageway
back of the cages at five-thirty to find
them all empty save Hackett's. Here
he paused.
"How's it coming, Jimmy?" he called
out.
Teller number one turned a face
ashen with terror toward the cashier.
"Short again," he croaked.
"You don't mean it?" Ector ejacu-
lated.
"Yes sir—" Hackett faltered. "Five
hundred dollars. I'm all in, Ector. I've
checked and rechecked, and it's lost,
that's all there is to it."
With shaking fingers, the teller un-
locked his door and allowed the cashier
to enter. But Ector's efforts were as
fruitless as the day before. Five hun-.
dred dollars had taken wings and dis-
appeared.
"Jimmy," Ector said finally, "you're
up against a mighty smooth game of
some sort."
"It must be that," Hackett nodded.
"I wouldn't make two mistakes like that
hand-running."
"No," Ector agreed. "It's not a ques-
tion of mistakes. It's a lot deeper than
that. Some shrewd scheme is being
worked on you. Why, they could wreck
a bank in a little while unless somebody
cut across their little game."
"I don't believe that I can stand it an-
other day," Hackett declared. "I never
endured such a strain, not even when
they made the run on the bank eight
years ago."
"And I guess I remember that" Ec-
tor said feelingly. "Well, let's go home.
Staying here won't help us any, I im-
agine. Besides, lightning won't strike
three times in the same place, Jimmy.
And therein the cashier erred, for
the evening of the third day disclosed
The Phantom Check 21
the unbelievable fact that teller number
one was again short, this time in the
sum of one thousand dollars!
A hurried meeting of the bank direc-
tors convened at nine o'clock the next
morning in the office of President
Wines. With them met Thomas Ector,
the cashier, who quickly unfolded the
inexplicable series of robberies to which
the bank had been subjected in the past
three days.
"Do I understand that all the losses
have occurred in Hackett's cage?" one
of the directors inquired.
The cashier nodded.
"How do we know, then," the direc-
tor asked bluntly, "that he didn't take
the money?"
"Hackett has been with us twelve
years," Wines, the President, answered,
"and is one of our most reliable men."
"Even at that," the director insisted,
"he ought to be investigated: quietly, of
course."
"I have already done so," Wines as-
sured him. "I put Hayes, the Bankers'
Association detective, on that job im-
mediately. He has failed to uncover
anything in Hackett's doings that offer
even a suggestion that he's guilty. Per-
sonally, I am confident that he is above
reproach."
"Then we're up against a mighty
clever swindler," another director
growled, "and we've got to oppose him
with someone just as clever or shut up
shop. This thing's bound to leak out
among our customers, and then it's
'good night' to us."
"What do you suggest," Wines in-
quired.
"Why, get a new detective on the job,
a detective with brains, too. I assume
Hayes hasn't accomplished anything
from what you say."
"He has done as much as a man with
his limited experience could be expected
to do," the President assured him. "I
quite agree with you, Mr. Koontz, that
we need a man who has had dealings
with the shrewdest criminals and who
knows where to look for a thing of this
sort. If the Board are of the same
mind, I'll wire Pinkerton's at once to
send us their best man."
The Board were of a mind with Di-
rector Koontz, and in a few minutes a
Macedonian cry was speeding over the
wires to the Pinkerton Agency at Chi-
cago.
II
It was Thursday morning, and the
message reached the Chicago office just
as Dan Cheever entered the room to
inquire what assignment awaited him.
The chief tore open the yellow envelope
and read the message, then turned to
eye the detective.
"Ever been in Wallula, Dan?" he
asked shortly.
"Why Wallula, chief ?" the detective
countered.
"Because that's where your bill of
lading will land you," the other grunted.
"Some outsider is declaring dividends
on a bank of that city by the sea, and
the stockholders are jealous. I haven't
one of the office boys loose," he chuck-
led, "so I nominate you."
"Thanks, chief," Cheever said dryly.
"I suppose they didn't exude much in-
formation in that telegram."
"No, Dan. It's chiefly compounded
of yells for help. Guess you can get
there in a couple of days if you gallop
around."
"You telegraph the gazelles that I'll
be there, chief—" He paused to skin
over a railway timetable, "on the nine-
fifteen Saturday morning. So long."
"So long, Dan, and your usual good
luck to you."
When Cheever swung down from the
nine-fifteen that Saturday morning, he
found Director Koontz on the lookout
for him.
22 The Phantom Check
"They sent me down to meet you,"
Koontz explained, "for fear the crimi-
nals might be on the lookout and spot
one of the regular men from the bank."
"Good idea that, Mr. Koontz," the
detective chuckled. "I infer from that
that the papers haven't published the
good tidings that you've called in an
outside man."
"Not yet, Mr. Cheever," Koontz
nodded emphatically. "We're going to
wait till you catch the criminals." .
"Be patient," Cheever counselled him.
"Maybe we'll never catch them."
"You'd better," Koontz growled, "if
the bank is to be kept solvent."
Koontz let the detective into the bank
by a private door, and introduced him
at once to the President, Samuel Wines.
"What's the trouble, Mr. Wines?"
Cheever inquired.
"If we knew exactly," the other an-
swered earnestly, "we'd be in a better
position to end it. Your presence here
proves our utter helplessness."
"Well, suppose you tell me every-
thing from the very start," Cheever
suggested. "Give me the facts, I'll fill
in the theory by and by."
Wines was a man accustomed to brev-
ity and he was not long in laying the
main features of the remarkable series
of robberies before the detective.
"Some mighty clever person is at
work," Cheever declared thoughtfully.
"Don't believe I ever struck anything
that on the surface, at any rate, gave
less indication as to the how of the rob-
bery."
"You don't despair at the outset?"
Wines inquired in some little alarm.
"No," the detective answered, "but
it's a good rule to not underestimate
your foe. Somebody with brains is
engineering this job." Abruptly he
turned to the President: "How about
your employees?"
"They are reliable, I think," Wines
assured him. "At least we have nothing
to indicate the contrary, Hackett in par-
ticular."
"Remember, Mr. Wines," Cheever
suggested dryly, "that only good men ab-
scond. The others don't get the chance,
and even if the stealing is done from the
inside, Hackett may be innocent."
"How are you going to proceed?" the
President asked.
"Well, first I'll look over the bank in
a general way."
The President conducted him over
the building and finally led him along
the aisle back of the tellers' cages. Here
he halted and quietly pointed out Hackett
at window number one.
He was busy sorting out his cash pre-
paratory to the day's work and Cheever
could not fail to note his pallid features
nor the nervous twitching of his slender
fingers.
Teller number one was plainly at the
limit of his nervous energy. He might
snap at any moment.
Just off from his cage was a room
with a big table in the center practically
occupying its entire space.
The moment the detective glimpsed
this very private room and noted its
proximity to Hackett's cage, he turned
to Wines and asked quickly:
"What's this room?"
"The Directors'," the other answered.
"I'll use it," Cheever informed him.
"Now, Mr. Wines, I want the checks
from Hackett's window all brought in
here. Have one of the clerks do it
quietly, let's see, every half hour."
"What are you going to do with
them?" Wines asked in surprise.
"Play solitaire," Cheever grinned.
"Don't you want to look over the bank
any farther?"
"No, Mr. Wines, I'm satisfied. I like
this room. It's private and handy,
though not a good listening post. Don't
let any one bother me, and don't forget
to send me Hackett's checks, all of them
too, every half hour. And Mr. Wines,"
The Phantom Check 23
he added, "the clerk won't need to open
the door very wide. Just let him knock
and then stick them in through the
crack."
He entered the directors' room,
turned on the light and closed the door,
while the considerably mystified Presi-
dent proceeded to carry out his rather
remarkable orders.
III
"What do you make of him?" the
cashier inquired as Wines returned to
the front office.
"He puzzles me," the President an-
swered frankly. "Right now he's pre-
empted the directors' room."
"He's spying on the customers,"
Ector hazarded.
But the President shook his head
doubtfully.
"He's gathering in the checks that
pass through window number one;
asked me to have a clerk pass them
through the half-opened door, mind
you."
"What's the idea?"
"I can't guess. However, he told me
that he was going to play solitaire with
them, or maybe he said solo. I take it
from that that he didn't care to tell
me just exactly what he did propose
to do."
"I believe he's just beating the air,
hoping that he will stumble onto some-
thing," the cashier sniffed.
"It may be," Wrines agreed wearily,
"but we'll give him a fair chance at any
rate."
In the meantime, Cheever lighted his
pipe and then quite leisurely examined
the directors' quarters. It had but one
door, though windows opened out, both
into the lobby and onto the President's
room. All were covered with tightly
drawn blinds, so by switching off the
light and lifting a curtain slightly
Cheever was able secretly to observe the
string of customers lined up before win-
dow number one. By similar methods
he could spy equally on the President's
office, he also ascertained, though he
tarried there but long enough to demon-
strate that fact.
A knock at the door announced the
arrival of the first batch of checks, and
now the detective took them from the
clerk's fingers and proceeded to lay them
out separately on the table, face up.
They formed two tolerable rows pretty
well across the length of the big mahog-
any table, proving that Hackett's job
was at least not a sinecure.
A cursory inspection showed that he
was dealing with people accustomed to
think in considerable sums, for Cheever
found checks among them ranging up to
five thousand dollars.
"Handles the big bugs," the detective
grunted. "No penny-ante bunch this
time, Dan."
With the checks laid out end to end,
Cheever, beginning at the upper left
hand corner, subjected each in turn to
a careful and exacting scrutiny. To use
the legal phrase, "all four corners," were
examined both with the naked eye and
later with the aid of a powerful reading
glass. He had scarcely completed this,
when the second handful of checks ar-
rived. These in their turn were treated
in the same manner as the first. By
noon the top of the table was carpeted
with long lines of checks, as if so many
giant snowflakes had fallen and lay there
still unmelted.
"Mr. Cheever," a voice which he rec-
ognized as that of President Wines
called from the passageway.
The detective opened the door, and
the thick eddying tobacco smoke which
poured out made the President fairly
gasp.
"I work best under the cover of
smoke screen," Cheever grinned.
"Well, you've got a real one if I'm
any judge," Wines declared with con-
24 The Phantom Check
viction. "I dropped round to take you
to lunch."
"I'm not eating lunch, today," Cheever
assured him dryly. "All I want is a
drink of water."
"There's a drinking fountain back in
the cloakroom yonder," and Wines
jerked a thumb toward an arched door-
way in the rear of the bank. "But how's
this? Do detectives subsist solely on
smoke ?"
"When I'm on a job, I'm on the job,"
Cheever answered sententiously. Now
he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket,
found a skeleton that fitted the door,
locked it nonchalantly, and sauntered
along to the cloakroom whistling a med-
ley of popular airs. The President
watched him in undisguised wonder till
he passed out of sight, if not of sound.
In a few minutes he was back and,
re-entering the room, closed the door be-
hind him. Quite mechanically his eye
swept the table with its long lines of
checks, then paused abruptly in its rov-
ing contemplation. One of the spaces
was empty!
It was the first check in the seventh
line, a check for five hundred dollars he
remembered, though the name of the
maker eluded him. An odd name though,
and one he would know if he chanced to
glimpse it again. The door was locked
when he returned after his brief absence.
How, then, had it been removed?
Then it occurred to him that it had
probably been blown from the table by
the draft caused by opening the door,
but a careful search failed to bring it
to light.
Cheever stood up and considered the
perplexing problem. After a moment
he began to try the windows in turn, to
at last discover that one opening out on
the President's office was unlocked,
though closed. Without doubt a person
could have entered the room by that
window.
And now as he stood there lost in this
most amazing mystery, his glance wan-
dered again to the empty space and
lingered there. A bit of ash was visible,
as if flicked from the tip of a cigarette,
a pale thin drift, and yet visible on the
mahogany background. With a heavy
glass he studied it long and carefully,
finally testing it gingerly with a wet
finger-tip. Then with a puzzled frown
he swept this bit of evidence into an
envelope and stowed it away in an inside
pocket.
The bank closed at noon on Satur-
days, and now Cheever, gathering up
the checks, stepped out into the corridor
and halted back of cage number one.
Hackett was struggling with his figures,
and now he turned about at the sound
of the detective's footsteps, showing a
pale, twitching countenance, the face of
a man well gone on the road to a ner-
vous collapse.
"Mr. Hackett," said Cheever, "you'll
be short again."
"Again?" the teller stuttered.
"Yes, again, five hundred at least."
Hackett buried his face in his trem-
bling hands.
"Is tha^: all you can tell me?" he
moaned bitterly.
"Well, not all perhaps—" But before
the detective could finish he was inter-
rupted by President Wines who had
appeared unnoticed along the corridor.
"What's that you were saying, Mr.
Cheever?" he broke in impulsively. "Do
we stand another loss ?"
"Only five hundred this time,"
Cheever assured him coolly. "You're
getting ofTTucky today."
"Lucky?" came the explosive reply.
"Yes, it might have been five thou-
sand instead of five hundred."
"You don't seem very badly cut up
over it," Wines remarked pointedly.
"We could have determined that fact
without bringing you clear from Chicago
to tell us."
"Mr. Wines," Cheever said coldly,
The Phantom Check 25
"there are trains running back to Chi-
cago even from Wallula, I understand."
"I didn't mean it that way, quite,"
Wines apologized hastily. "Of course
we want you to go ahead in your own
way."
"Well, I will then. I've an idea, too.
that Monday will see the end of this
business."
"Why do you say that?" Wines in-
quired hopefully.
"A thing or two I've run onto today.
And that's about all I care to say about
it now. Mr. Wines, I'm going to think
this thing through, and I don't mind
telling you that I've some things to think
about."
"You won't tell us what your opinion
is now, I infer," the President remarked
regretfully.
The detective shook his head.
"I don't like to make guesses," he
replied. "If wrong, they only occasion
regret, and if correct—well, sometimes
they're premature."
"Meaning that there might be a leak
that would serve to warn the criminals ?"
Cheever nodded. "An injudicious re-
mark might ruin everything. I will say
this, however, we're dealing with a
mighty smooth article in the way of a
crook."
"I can believe that, at any rate,"
Wines assured him feelingly.
"I'm going into retirement at some
quiet hotel until Monday morning,"
Cheever informed him. "If we have
luck, we'll plug the leak then. So long."
IV
At ten o'clock Monday morning,
Cheever entered the bank and strolled
over to the President's room. He found
that gentleman in a fine fury. He was
holding in his hand a copy of the Wallula
Gateway, the only morning paper pub-
lished in the city.
"Look here, Mr. Cheever," and he
laid his trembling finger on a front-page
article.
Cheever took the paper and calmly
perused the article which under heavy
caps hinted at certain mysterious losses
suffered in the past week by the bank,
ending with the information that the
bank had secured the services of the
great detective Cheever, who would ar-
rive from Chicago on Tuesday to under-
take an investigation of the affair.
"Why the agitation, Mr. Wines'" the
detective inquired mildly.
"Why, they've given the criminal the
very information that you insisted must
be kept secret," Wines sputtered. "It
simply lets the cat out of the bag."
"Nay, rather spills the beans, Mr.
Wines, only they're not our beans this
time."
"I don't understand how they got the
information," Wines continued indig-
nantly.
"Well I do," Cheever grinned. "They
got it from yours truly. x\nd now wait
a minute, Mr. Wines, before you blow
up. You'll notice that the paper says
that I'll be on the job Tuesday. Well
don't forget that this is merely
Monday."
A sudden light dawned on the banker
at this point.
"You're going to hurry up their final
effort," he exclaimed. "I see it now."
"Just so, Mr. Wines, and somebody's
due to stub a toe in the rush."
He passed on into the aisle behind the
row of cages, and paused at the door
of cage number one.
"Same instructions as Saturday,
Hackett, except bring all checks to me
every fifteen minutes," he said in low
tones, "but especially watch for any large
checks drawing out entire accounts.
Send any of that character to me at
once. And keep up your courage,
Hackett," he counselled the badly shaken
teller. "I think this will be your last
day on the grill."
26 The Phantom Check
Up till the noon hour nothing out of
the ordinary happened. An assistant,
one Dykes, relieved Hackett for the
coming hour and to him Cheever re-
peated the instructions already given to
his predecessor. President Wines de-
cided to imitate the detective as to
luncheon that day and presently joined
him in the directors' room.
"Anything of importance ?" he asked.
"Not yet, Mr. Wines," Cheever an-
swered, "but remember that the day is
still young."
Soon after, Dykes knocked at the door
and passed in a dozen or so checks.
Cheever with methodical exactness be-
gan lining the bits of paper across the
table, but paused abruptly at the fifth
check.
There was nothing about it to attract
attention aside from the amount, five
thousand dollars, and even that was not
unusual for teller number one to handle
every day. But the moment the detec-
tive read the name appended to the
check, Wines, who was watching his
every move attentively, noted that he
suddenly gripped the table with his free
hand until the knuckles showed white
through the brown skin.
"What is it, Mr. Cheever?" he asked
quickly, but the detective instead of
answering countered with another ques-
tion.
"Know him?" he shot back.
"Oh yes," Wines answered, somewhat
puzzled by the abrupt interrogation.
"What do you find—"
But again Cheever cut him off.
"What do you know about him, Mr.
Wines," he demanded. "Give me facts,
not fancies, remember."
The President, somewhat ruffled, an-
swered just a little stiffly.
"He is one of our largest individual
depositors and deals in real estate
largely, though I believe in a modest
way buys and sells stocks and bonds."
"Know him long?"
"Three months possibly, Mr. Cheever,
though I fail to see—"
"You will presently," the detective
grunted.
"See what?" the other queried.
"The end of a perfect day," Cheever
answered shortly.
Then he handed the check to the now
thoroughly perplexed President with
this surprising injunction.
"Put that away in your desk, Mr.
Wines, in a very private drawer, and
lock it up. Also don't let anybody see
you put it away."
As the dazed banker started to obey,
the detective stopped him to add:
"And I want to see the bank detective
at once."
"He's in the lobby, I think," Wines
replied. "I'll send him in."
When teller Number One returned
from lunch Cheever met him at the door
of his cage.
"I'm going to work in the back of your
little shop this afternoon, Hackett," he
informed the teller. "I'll be pretending
to check over some figures or other, but
in reality, Hackett, I'll be listening to
your chatter at the window. Get me?"
"I don't know that I do entirely,"
Hackett admitted frankly.
"You will, presently at any rate," the
detective assured him grimly. "And
now Hackett, one thing more. Talk loud
enough for me to hear everything, and
don't let any customer leave the window
without pronouncing his name loud
enough so that I can hear it distinctly
Cheever busied himself in the back of
the cage, while the mystified teller
turned to his duties at the counter. But
while the detective checked and re-
checked phantom errors, he was listen-
ing with alert intentness to the bits of
conversation that floated back to him.
"What's my balance, Mr. Hackett?"
a man inquired presently. "I'm going
over to Prescott this afternoon to pick
up a block of city improvement bonds
The Phantom Check 27
and guess I'll have to wreck my account
for a day or two."
"Just a moment, Mr. Esseltine,"
Hackett replied, "while I glance over
our balance index.y
At the name, Cheever, with well simu-
lated carelessness, dropped a pencil to
the floor, and as he straightened up with
it in his fingers glanced casually at the
customer framed in the teller's window.
He was a big, well-groomed man, with
a keen, afert air, and that indefinable
something that denotes a thorough
knowledge with the world and its devi-
ous ways.
Hackett had now returned to the
counter.
"A few cents over five thousand dol-
lars, Mr. Esseltine," he informed him
respectfully.
"About what I had thought," the other
said as he pushed a check over to him.
I'll leave the few cents for a nest egg."
Cheever, without seeming to hurry,
left the cage, passed along the aisle, and
picking up his hat reached the lobby just
as Esseltine turned from the teller's
window, stowing a sljeaf of bank notes
into a big morocco-covered wallet.
Cheever, noting with satisfaction that
Hayes, the bank detective, was loitering
in the lobby, reached the street door a
deliberate sfep ahead of the man with
the plethoric wallet.
Here he turned suddenly and con-
fronted the big man.
"Mr. Esseltine," he asked pleasantly,
"didn't you overdraw your account a
trifle just now."
"Who are you to ask so insulting a
question?" Esseltine asked coldly.
"Who am I?" the detective replied
evenly. "Oh, I'm Dan Cheever of Chi-
cago. Lucky that I got here Monday
instead of Tuesday, eh, Essetine? I
see that we understand each other, which
simplifies matters. You'll come quietly
of course, which proves your good
breeding. Hayes and I will step down
to your office with you for a little
friendly chat."
V
Just at closing time Cheever re-
entered the bank and sauntered over to
the President's office. Entering, he seated
himself leisurely in a leather chair and,
waving aside the tumbling questions
with which the excited President bom-
barded him, asked for teller number one.
"Sit down, Hackett," the detective said
genially when the teller appeared.
Then he turned on him a quizzical
eye as he asked:
"How much were you short last week,
remember ?"
"I'd think so, Mr. Cheever," Hackett
assured him gloomily. "A man isn't
likely to forget four thousand dollars."
"Four thousand," Cheever mused,
"plus five thousand today, makes nine
thousand dollars. A tidy little sum,
Hackett?"
"Five thousand today," Hackett
gasped.
"Sure enough," the detective grinned
amiably, "You didn't expect anything
but a grandstand finish, did you ?"
"I'd say," the irascible Wines flared
up at this point, "that your levity is just
a little misplaced, Mr. Cheever. Losing
nine thousand dollars may seem a huge!
joke to you but most emphatically it's
mot to me."
"Losing it is not so hard," the detec-
tive chuckled, "if you get it back. See
what Esseltine returns with his com-
pliments."
Then with deliberation he drew from
his pocket a roll of bills wrapped about
with a bit of string and tossed it care-
lessly across the table to the teller.
With an inarticulate cry, Hackett
seized the roll, untwisted the string,
and with feverish haste thumbed over
the bills.
"About nine thousand there?" Chee-
28 The Phantom Check
ver inquired when the count was
finished.
"Just," the teller nodded, "though I
can hardly believe it. It seems too good.
I'm certainly a grateful man, Mr.
Cheever."
"How did he get five thousand dollars
today?" Wines asked excitedly.
The detective leaned back in his chair
and lighted his pipe before he answered.
"Simplest thing in the world, Mr.
Wines. He drew out his account twice,
that's all. Once at noon, when Dykes
was at the window, and a little later
when Hackett got back from lunch. You
see," he continued, "he was probably
about ready to quit—a game like he was
playing can't go on forever—and when
he read that little article in the paper
this morning he figured his day's work
was done. And if I hadn't interfered,"
he added, "the bank would have' been
short nine thousand, permanently."
"What makes you think that," Wines
inquired.
"Because it's a hundred to one bet
that you'd have never even suspected
Esseltine of the crooked work."
"With two of his checks in our hands,
both of them drawing out his entire
balance?" Wines sneered. "You fail to
give us credit for even average intelli-
gence, Mr. Cheever. Why, we'd have
had the wires hot all over the United
States within an hour after the bank
closed its doors tonight."
"Provided you had two checks," Chee-
ver said quietly.
"Why, what do you mean?" the banker
exclaimed excitedly. "Didn't you say
that he cashed one with Dykes and one
with Hackett? When did one plus one
cease to be two?"
"Mr. Wines," Cheever grinned cheer-
fully. "Your arithmetic is above par,
but the simple fact remains that you
now, at this present writing, have but
one check for five thousand dollars
signed by Gabriel Esseltine. And now
don't go into apoplexy just yet," he ad-
vised the banker, "but listen a moment
while I propound a simple question to
Hackett here."
"Hacket," said he, "a man carrying
an account with this bank cashes a check
at your window for one hundred dollars.
Now suppose you lose that check in the
course of the day, where would you be
at night?"
"A hundred dollars short, of course,"
Hackett answered promptly, "but there's
so little chance—"
"I said suppose you do lose it?" the
detective cut in. "You'd be short,
wouldn't you?"
Hackett nodded, dimly conscious that
back of this simple question lay a whole
realm of mystery which this calm-faced
man had already explored.
Then with startling suddenness he
turned to President Wines.
"Let me see that check I gave you for
safe keeping," he demanded.
Mechanically the banker arose, un-
locked an inconspicuous drawer in his
private desk and reached within, then
turned about slowly, empty fingers
working spasmodically.
"It's gone," he croaked.
" Where the woodbine twineth,' "
Cheever quoted softly. He sat there a
moment before he continued:
"Naturally you want to know how I
unraveled this thing. Now you'll re-
member that I took the checks which
passed through Hackett's window and
lined them up on that table in the
directors' room. And, Mr. Wines, you'll
recall that when I left the room at noon
Saturday, to get a drink, I locked the
door after me?"
Wines nodded his remembrance.
"Well, when I came back not more
than ten minutes later, I found that one
of the checks had disappeared."
The President started to ask a ques-
tion at this point but Cheever fore-
stalled it.
The Phantom Check 29
"Wait a moment," he protested. "A
careful and thorough search proved
conclusively that it was not in the room.
Now the door being in plain sight, I
discarded it as a probable means of
entrance, but I did find that this window
here, which leads into the directors'
room, was unlatched."
"Some employee then," Wines ex-
claimed, but the detective again cut him
off.
"I think that is the conclusion the
average man would come to," he said
enigmatically, "and there was but one
bit of evidence, a tiny rift of ashes on
the spot left vacant by the removal of
the check."
Abruptly he turned to Hackett.
"Ever notice any ashes mixed up in
your checks ?" he asked sharply.
"No—yes, I have too!" the teller
fairly stuttered in his excitement.
"Mr. Cheever," Wines said with
finality, "the employees of the bank are
not allowed to smoke in the building,
so—"
"Where there's ashes there's fire," the
detective assured him dryly. "Now that
little drift of ashes on the table inter-
ested me. I collected it carefully, and
Sunday spent some anxious moments
over it. Of course a novice can tell pipe
ashes from cigarette ashes—"
"Which was it?" Wines cut in eagerly.
"Mr. Wines, it was neither."
"Neither?" the banker echoed.
Cheever leaned nearer.
"Not tobacco ashes at all, Mr. Wines,
but the ash left when paper is eaten up
with certain chemicals! You see it now
of course. Esseltine cashed with you,
among his others, some checks treated
with powerful chemicals, whose mutual
reaction was so timed that in a brief
while, at least within an hour, the check
literally disappeared. Hayes and I tried
the mixture at his office just before I
came back this afternoon and it's odor-
less and colorless, with absolutely no
sensation of heat or cold. It was cer-
tainly uncanny to sit there and watch a
piece of paper disappear before your
eyes. That explains the losses at
Hackett's window. Esseltine cashed
checks that were converted into ghosts
of checks in short order."
"But Dykes and I by comparing notes
likely would have remembered an
amount as large as five thousand dol-
lars," Hackett remarked. "He could
hardly have got away."
"My guess is that he would," Cheever
replied. "His flivver was at the office,
and also' a grip well packed with dis-
guises and clothes, mostly workingmen's
stuff. We found that his hair was false,
in reality he's as bald as a cook, and he's
not as fat as he pretends. A lot of that's
padding! And of course he'd have
treated himself first of all to a shave.
At the least he'd have been out of here
three hours before you'd have fixed on
him as guilty and three hours is a long
time for a man of his shrewdness. I
think not many small-town marshals
would have picked up a smooth-faced,
bald-headed, not over-fat man in greasy
overalls and denominated him as Gabriel
Esseltine. No, Mr. Hackett, give him
an hour's start even, and Gabriel would
have been on his way."
Cheever glanced at his watch and
knocking the ashes from his pipe got
leisurely to' his feet.
"I've got about half an hour to pack
my collarbox and hit a train for Chi-
cago," he remarked.
At the office door he paused.
"A dealer in phantoms, I'd call
Esseltine," he chuckled. "The old boy
is certainly there with bells. So
long."
The Vault
By Murray Leinster
I
THE window slid up easily—too
easily—and Mike waited a long
time, listening, before he made a
move. The whole huge pile of
the factory was still. There were no
lights anywhere, except that dim one by
the gate through the stockade. Lying
quite still in the darkness, Mike waited.
There was no sound, no ringing of alarm
bells, no bustle of activity anywhere.
The manufacturing plant of the Whit-
ney Jewelry & Watch Company re-
mained as it had been before, a vast, still
pile of brick, with empty-eyed windows
staring blankly at the night.
And yet. . . . That window had
opened very easily. Mike meditated, his
little eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Then he saw a tiny flicker of light in
the distance. The window he had
opened was at the end of a long corridor,
and he saw the watchman walking un-
hurriedly away from him. The watch-
man's legs threw monstrous shadows
from the lantern he carried, Mike could
not see his face, but he could see the
uniform and note the absolute leisure
and confidence with which the man was
moving. He paused, as Mike watched,
and inserted his key in a watchman's
clock. He turned it, registering his pres-
ence and vigilance on a strip of paper
within the mechanism. Then, casually,
he went on his way. In a few moments
he turned a corner and was lost to
sight.
Mike grinned to himself in the ob-
scurity. With monkey-like agility he
scrambled through the open window,
making no sound. Once within the
walls of the factory he waited another
long minute for a noise. Distant and
hollow, he heard the watchman's foot-
falls, unhurried, methodical, as he made
his round.
Then, softly, Mike lowered the win-
dow. He wore rubber-soled shoes. His
eyes were those of a cat, and his ears
were attuned to the slightest warning of
danger, but he heard no faintest sound
—not even his own footfalls—save the
distant, regular steps of the watchman.
The watchman wore creaky shoes.
Like some night-flying moth the in-
truder slipped through the corridors of
the untenanted factory. All about him
there were smells. Oil—that would be
the delicate lathes where precious metals
were worked. Once he smelled fresh
paint. And there was that curious odor
of freshly mopped floors. The scrub-
women had come after the closing of the
factory and done their work. Then he
smelled faded flowers. Someone had
brought them and put them in a glass of
water, and they had been left.
Mike paid little or no attention to
smells. The place he sought was on the
second floor, in the rear—the colossal
vault where all the precious things in
which the factory dealt were gathered
for safety during the night. He made
his way there, silently. Every little
while he stopped to listen for the un-
varying footfalls of the watchman.
They went on, unsuspicious and con-
fident.
Through an arduous and twice inter-
30
The Vault 31
rupted apprenticeship in his chosen
trade—interruptions spent perforce be-
hind stone walls—Mike had had drilled
into him just two things. One was the
fatality of haste. The other was the
necessity for scientific, painstaking at-
tention to detail. Therefore, Mike let
his flashlight slip over the huge surface
of the vault door with barely a pause.
He knew the watchman would look in
on it as he went downstairs. Primarily,
he was looking for a place to hide dur-
ing that moment.
There was a door in the room which
contained the vault, but Mike was not
certain but that the watchman would re-
turn through it. He swept his light
around the room—keeping it low, lest
it flash out through a window—and re-
gretfully decided against remaining. He
went out again, swiftly and silently,
looking for a hiding-place.
He found it in a washroom, and
listened from there while the watchman
retraced his steps, coming downstairs
again, going to the vault and throwing
the glow from his lantern against it,
then clumping off heavily to the lower
part of the factory.
Mike emerged from hiding. He in-
spected the vault room with greater care.
He would have to work in snatches, be-
tween visits from the watchman, and he
did not want to have to tap the man on
the head. There are a great many sys-
tems of burglar protection, and one very
popular one signals the nearest police
station when a watchman fails to ring
his time clock at the appointed intervals.
Mike did not desire the intrusion of the
police, but he wanted a nearby niche to
hide in.
The watchman's footsteps died away.
Mike waited to be sure, then opened the
door he had noted. To be exact, he did
not quite open it. He merely turned the
knob, and a heavy weight leaning
against it thrust it the rest of the way
opem caromed clumsily against him, and
fell with a curiously cushioned crash to
the floor.
Mike's hair stood on end. In the frac-
tional part of a split second he knew
what had struck him, and he bounced
into the air to alight noiselessly a full
five feet away, ready for anything. But
the thing lay still upon the floor,
breathing.
Slowly and cautiously Mike sent a
momentary dart of light at it. What he
saw at once reassured him and fright-
ened him, because it was the last thing
he could possibly have expected. It was
a man—which he had known—but it
was a man with his hands and feet
bound together with leather straps, and
so entwined with ropes that he could
not even writhe. There was a gag in
the figure's mouth, and its eyes were
staring wildly about.
Mike was still for perhaps two sec-
onds, while his brain raced. Then he
sent a tiny pencil-beam at the vault door.
It was closed, solidly. No one had
been before him. But there was a man
bound hand and foot. . . .
The light played upon him again. He
was a young man, dressed as if he were
a clerk or a bookkeeper in the factory.
His eyes blinked and stared imploringly
at Mike. There was some message,
some terrible message, that he struggled
to convey, but the gag prevented him.
Mike watched him for an instant in
mounting uneasiness and suspicion.
That window had slipped up too
easily. . . .
Suddenly there was a tiny creaking,
as of a board stepped upon. Mike heard
it, catalogued it and had dismissed his
obvious refuge in an instant. Someone
was coming, softly, toward the spot.
Perhaps the watchman, alarmed by the
crash. He would certainly find the
bound man, but it might be that he
would waste precious time releasing
him.
Tensely Mike swept the walls again.
32 The Vault
He could not go out the main door.
He would run into the watchman. The
one door he had noted was that of a
closet. There was another, close beside
the back of the vault.
Dense blackness fell. A shadow but
little deeper than the darkness about
him, Mike flitted across the room. He
vanished, utterly without sound.
Then a faint scratching sound. The
bound man was struggling to release
himself, struggling with a terrible des-
peration and a horrifying futility. Mike,
crouched down in a tiny book-closet,
heard it. He was keyed up to an in-
credible pitch, every nerve quivering like
a tightly- strung wire. Mike was no
longer intent upon robbery. One of the
first rules of your old-time safe-cracker
is to go through with a job only when
everything is right. Mike was as sus-
picious of the unexpected as any wild
animal. Just now his only desire was to
get away—peacefully, if possible, but to
get away.
He lay still. The scent of books and
dust came to his nostrils, but he did not
dare make a light to see. He smelled,
too, that curious, rubbery smell of new
electric insulation. There were wires in
the closet somewhere, newly placed.
Mike lay still.
Then he felt, rather than heard, some-
one enter the vault-room. There was a
door between him and the newcomer,
but he knew the instant that the other
man entered. There was a moment of
silence. Mike saw an infinitely faint
glow through the keyhole. Someone was
using a flash.
II
Frozen in utter stillness, Mike lis-
tened for the watchman's exclamation of
astonishment at sight of the bound man
on the floor. Instead, he heard only a
faint murmur. Then he caught words,
faintly amused.
"Just got out, Jack, eh? I heard you
fall. Out of luck, though. The watch-
man was in the other building. I saw
him go in. He didn't hear you."
Then little noises as if the helpless
man were being turned over—inspected
to make sure the bonds were firmly in
place. Then Mike felt that the last-
come man was somewhat relieved.
"Don't know how you got loose,
Jack," said the voice, as before kept low-
ered, "but you didn't do any harm, any-
how. And the watchman won't be back
for an hour yet. I'll be getting to
work."
There was a sound like a groan, as if
the bound man were trying to make
some sound or plea; but footsteps
crossed lightly to the vault.
"Wondering, Jack, who I am, or did
you recognize me?" The second man
had stopped before the vault door. Mike
heard an infinitely faint rustling, as of
thin rubber being manipulated. He
guessed at rubber gloves. "I think you ~
must've recognized me when I slugged
you. Anyway, since I asked you to
wait a minute after office hours and then
hit you with a sandbag, you must have
guessed, while you've been waiting, that
I was responsible for the matter."
There was a little pause and a slight
snapping sound, as if an elastic had been
flicked into place.
"Yep, Jack, I'm Saunders, your boss.
Don't mind telling you, now, because
you're not going to split on me. I'm
going to loot the same—clean, this time,
and quit. By the way, Jack, I'm put-
ting on rubber gloves, but, rather curi-
ously, they'll leave your finger-prints on
the safe knob. You see, I've done this
twice before. Once I got away with a
lot of bullion and a few indifferent
stones. That was a year and more ago
and everyone's grown careless since
then. I managed to plant it so the
watchman "was suspected. He's in jail
now. And then, once, I fixed up the
The Vault 33
matter so that a theft of some finished
stuff was discovered while I was on va-
cation. They never suspected me. But
this time I'm going to clean out the
works, all the bullion, all the stones, and
tomorrow's payroll."
The unknown's voice changed, and
grew intent. Mike, in the dusty little
closet, could hear a muted, musical
tinkle, as he spun the combination knob.
"Got your finger-prints some time
ago, Jack, when you knew nothing about
it. I brought 'em out, photographed
them, and contrived to fix them on the
ends of these rubber gloves. I've run
'em through my hair, so they'll be
slightly oily, and they'll convict you com-
pletely of opening the safe. I'll have to
use a microphone, myself, to hear the
tumblers fall."
Mike was listening with a curious
mixture of fear and indignation and
curiosity. He, himself, had a micro-
phone apparatus in his pocket, which he
had intended to use. The other man
had beat him to it. Mike began to re-
volve a misty scheme for following the
other man and taking his loot away.
There was a clanking as of tiny bits of
metal being fitted together.
"I rather think, Jack,"—the voice be-
came amused,—"that you're thinking
of the trap that's fixed for any man who
breaks into the safe. Aren't you?"— A
moment of silence— "So that even if
someone gets inside the vault, when he
touches one of several things he'll set
off a switch, have the doors swing shut
and lock on him, and ring a loud bell in
police headquarters ? I suggested that,
Jack, and I was the one who was strong
for the bell. I told 'em a burglar would
be smothered in here in two hours, but
with the doors closing fast on him to
catch him, the police could get here, let
him out and save hig life, and catch him
with the goods. But you forget there's
a switch to run that burglar-trap on."
Mike, listening, found himself sud-
denly cold all over. If he had opened
the huge vault,—as he was confident he
could do,—he would never have thought
of anything like that! He would have
gone in, only anxious to secure his loot
and depart before the watchman's re-
turn. With luck, he would have been
able, he thought, to get the big doors
closed so his burglary would have gone
unnoticed until morning. But when he
went in, he would have touched one of
a number of concealed springs. The
huge doors would have swung to, re-
lentlessly, upon him. He would have
been trapped in an air-tight tomb, to
batter futilely at the armor-plate bar-
riers until the police came.
He was to get another shock.
"This afternoon, though," said thesoft
voice outside, interrupted now and then
by the infinitely faint musical sound of
the spinning knobs, "I did a little work
on that wiring. The doors will work,
but the alarm won't. The police will
not be notified that a burglar is caught
in the vault."
Sweat came out, cold and clammy,
on Mike's skin. He would have been
caught in there! He would have
strangled ! Hunched upon the floor of
the smelly little book-closet, he shivered
in uncontrollable terror from sheer
horror at what he had escaped. Again
he longed to get away from the factory,
at any cost.
"Most through," said the abstracted
voice, outside. "Wonder why I'm
telling you, Jack? You see, I need the
stuff in there. Need it in my business.
I'm going to take it, but I don't want to
have detectives chasing around to try
to find the thief. With your finger-
prints on the knob, they'd look for you,
of course, but you might have proved
an alibi to make 'em look farther. And
also, Jack, you're too damned fas-
cinating. I was getting along pretty
well with Ethel, until she met you. I
want to get you out of the way. With
B.M.—Aug.—3
34 The Vault
you dead, she'll marry me, sooner or
later. I'm going to tap you on the head
again, Jack, and put you in here. The
doors will close on you. In the morning
they'll find that you opened the vault,
passed out quite a lot of stuff to a con-
federate, and then by accident touched
off the alarm that closes the doors. A
sandbag doesn't leave any sign, and I
used straps to tie you up so there'll be
no marks on your wrists. I've thought
of pretty nearly everything, Jack. I've
even taken out all the pencils and foun-
tain pens from your pockets. I've no
notion of your writing an accusation of
me while you're in there; also I don't
want to kill you before you go in there.
I want you to show the signs of dying
from—er—the natural cause of being
locked in an air-tight vault. . . .
Ah. . .
There was a series of tiny clicks,
then a faint creaking. Mike, in his
hiding-place, with the smell of dust and
books and new-placed rubber insulation
in his nostrils, knew that the great doors
had swung open.
There was a pause, and the little snap
of a watch-case.
"Watchman's due in half an hour.
Plenty of time."
The voice stopped.
The man seemed to be listening. That
was what Mike would have done. He
lay utterly and completely motionless,
barely breathing. He was queerly
afraid ef the man he had not seen.
Perhaps because of that, Mike felt a
sudden cramp in one of his legs, a
sharp, tingling, shooting pain. He
could not run on a leg like that. It
might give way beneath him.
"All clear," said the voice, with a cer-
tain ghastly cheerfulness. "B.ut in case
you're thinking that I might set off the
trap, Jack, I'd like to mention that after
I had you neatly trussed up, I pulled
out the switch. It's in that little closet
back there. I shall turn it on after I've
got the stuff out—and then the doors
will close on you. But first I'll tap you
on the head, and put you inside."
Mike shivered. The smell of insula-
tion. . . . The switch was in the closet
in which he was hiding! In a little
while more the unknown would come in
where he was! Sheer panic came over
Mike. It was with a terrific effort that
he calmed himself, trying to figure out
an escape from the inevitable struggle.
The other man would open the door.
He, Mike, was inside. At best there
would be a struggle. At worst. . . .
III
Mike's whole body was bathed in
sweat at the thought of himself thrown
inside the vault with armor-plated
doors inexorably shutting out every
atom of fresh air. He clenched his
teeth to'keep them from chattering. The
man outside took on the aspect of a
monster. To Mike, he was something
more or less than human. Mike might
be a criminal, and could visualize,—
shrinking,—the thought of killing a man
in making a getaway, but not the
deliberate strangling of a man in cold
blood, for the covering of his tracks.
That was the other man's plan.
There would have to be a struggle, a
fight of some sort. Mike's leg throbbed
horribly. He doubted that it would
support his weight. And in an instant
or two more he would inevitably be
fighting. One way or another, he was
bound to be in terrible danger. If he
shot the other man, the pistol-shot would
raise an alarm. If he did not shoot. . . .
He heard a faint thump on the floor.
"One load," said the voice outside.
"Two or three more, Jack, and I'll skip."
The voice, already soft, became
muffled as its owner went into the vault.
"Here's the payroll. Nice- packet, in
itself. I've a good twenty minutes left.
You realize what will happen, Jack?
The Vault 35
I loot the vault, tap you on the head,
take off your bonds and put you in here.
Then I push on the switch, the doors
close on you, and I get away with the
stuff. In the morning they'll find you
inside, and the stuff gone. Your finger-
prints will be on the knobs. Inference
will inevitably be that the trap got you
as you were handing out the stuff to a
confederate. Pretty scheme, isn't it
Jack ?"
The man seemed to be gloating a little
over the agony of his prospective victim.
Mike, struggling to massage his leg into
some semblance of life and to make no
noise in doing so, heard the infinitely
faint sound of the bound man struggling
upon the floor. He made a curious
moan, utterly despairing.
"Just one more trip, Jack," said the
voice, filled with a terrifying amuse-
ment. "Then I'll come back for you."
Mike's throat was dry. He feared
that man he had not seen; feared him
with the ultimate of terror. And in a
moment or two more he would have to
fight him, struggle with him,
Cold to the marrow, dry-lipped with
fear, his little eyes staring, Mike started
to raise himself to his feet as he heard
the other man enter the vault. His leg
was numb. It would barely hold his
weight up. Mike's teeth began to chat-
ter. He heard the man rummaging
about inside the steel tomb. And then
Mike felt a sudden agonizing pain in
his back. Something jabbed cruelly into
his backbone, hurting horribly. And
then, with a spitting flash of bluish light,
the pain ceased. But outside, there was
a sudden rumbling and a cushioned
crash. Then a distant, muffled scream,
barely audible.
Glassy-eyed with terror, Mike flung
open the door, to run. He saw a small
electric lantern upon the floor, its beam
directed at the two huge doors of the
vault. And they zvere closed!
In the fraction of an instant Mike
knew what had happened. Rising, in
the closet, he had jammed his back into
the knife-switch that turned on the cur-
rent for the burglar-trap. It had closed
the doors, imprisoning the unknown
Saunders in the air-tight vault. And he,
the imprisoned man, had cut the wiies
that would have warned the police of
his predicament.
Uttering a little gasp that was com-
pounded of horror and fear, Mike
started forward, only to have his
numbed leg give way beneath him. The
fall sobered him to a curious, fictitious
calmness. He flashed his lamp on
the bound, still figure. Its eyes were
closed. The face was utterly white.
"Fainted," said Mike to himself,
shakily. "Safe enough, though. . .
He suddenly scrambled to his feet
again and ran. Through the dark hall-
ways and down the steps he fled. He
was possessed by an unreasoning terror.
The window through which he had
entered was open. Evidently the other
man had arranged it for his own ingress.
Mike fairly fell outside, and suddenly
was in complete possession of himself
again. With the quiet, dark night all
around him, he felt secure, and he
abruptly became conscious that he was
carrying something in one hand. He
had picked it up when his leg gave
way.
He let a faint ray trickle through his
fingers upon it. Then he grinned uncer-
tainly. Evidently he had happened
upon a portion of the payroll. He saw
yellow backs, at any rate, with the bills
in the bundle he held.
"M-my Gawd," said Mike, unevenly.
"That was a shock. There've been
shocks all around tonight. That feller
in the vault. . , An' the feller that
fainted. . . . Say"—a thought struck
him—"wonder if he'll come out of
that faint in time to tell about a feller
bein' in th' vault. M-my Gawd! May-
be he don't know!"
36 The Vault
He looked back through the window
he had left, his breath coming hurriedly,
uneasily. He saw a faint glow a long
distance away. The watchman was
making his rounds again. Mike saw
the confident, assured steps of the man
by the light of his lantern. His legs
threw monstrous shadows on the walls.
He went on his way unhurriedly,
reached a time-clock and extracted a
key. He inserted and turned it, regis-
tering his presence and vigilance upon a
strip of paper inside the mechanism.
Then, casually, he went on his way.
"Brother," Mike apostrophized the
unconscious figure, "I just hadda
shock. Two other fellers had their
shocks. An' now, ol' top, you're in for
yours. Here's hopinV'
The watchman turned a corner and
was lost to sight, but his steady, even
footsteps came dully to Mike's ears.
He was climbing the stairs, and he wore
squeaky shoes.
Mike slipped quickly and quietly
away.
Murder in Haste
By John Baer
I
OF the thousands of dentists in
the city, Detective Carr chose
to visit Dr. Raymond K. Perry
on East Forty-eighth Street. A
friend had recommended Dr. Perry;
that was the only reason for the detec-
tive's choice.
The doctor was a small, bald, round-
ish, amiable gentleman with a pleasing
personality. "Harmless" was the word
which immediately occurred to you the
first time you saw him-. Nevertheless,
the detective's eyes contracted rather
sharply when he shook hands with the
doctor. And a momentary expression
of mingled doubt and surprise clouded
his face. But he resumed his noncha-
lance immediately.
The detective's teeth were in a very
bad condition. He had several cavities
and a mild case of pyorrhea. The doc-
tor made an examination and took an
X-ray photograph. An appointment for
two days later was made.
The intervening day was an extraor-
dinarily busy one for Detective Carr.
He spent the time running down the his-
tory and official record of the Kirven
murder case, a crime which had been
committed some ten months previously.
The details of this case, with which he
renewed his acquaintance, may be
summed up briefly as follows:
At about ten-thirty in the morning
Mr. Kirven was found dead in his room
with his throat cut from ear to ear. A
blood-stained razor was lying beside
him. The body was discovered by his
housekeeper, who had come to his house
to do the cleaning.
That it was murder was plain, for
there were signs of a furious struggle.
Nor did the identity of the murderer
remain long a mystery. William Lesser,
the business partner of Mr. Kirven,
disappeared, and for apparent reasons.
The books of the firm of Kirven &
Lesser, brokers, appeared at first to be
in good order. But an investigation
revealed that several transactions in-
volving large amounts had not been
recorded. Bonds and securities which
had been intrusted to Lesser by the
firm's clients never reached the book-
keepers for entry. It was estimated that
Lesser had absconded with some two
hundred thousand dollars.
The direct cause of the murder was
not known, but it was assumed that Kir-
ven had discovered his partner's treach-
ery, had accused or perhaps threatened
him and had thus brought on a quarrel.
The police, in tracing Lesser's history,
discovered that three years previous to
the crime he had entered Kirven's office
as a clerk. He made good so quickly
that Mr. Kirven took him into partner-
ship. No clue to any fact of Lesser's
life before he entered the employ of
Mr. Kirven could be found.
The heirs of Mr. Kirven, a sister and
a nephew, offered a reward of five hun-
dred dollars for the capture of Lesser.
But months of zealous searching bore
no result. The police had only an old
photograph (found among Mr. Kirven's
effects) and the descriptions given by
employes and clients to guide them.
After several months, official interest in
the case smouldered and finally lapsed
altogether.
Detective Carr was one of the depart-
37
38 Murder in Haste
ment's famous camera-eye men. No1
disguise had as yet fooled him. He was
able to penetrate almost immediately any
artificial changes of appearance. He had
never met the missing Lesser personally,
but he had, of course, seen the pic-
tures which had been published in the
papers.
His first glance had convinced him
that the man who- was running a dental
office on Forty-eighth Street under the
name of Dr. Ferry was the man who
had disappeared under the name of
Lesser.
And this in spite of the fact that Dr.
Perry's appearance differed from Mr.
Lesser's in several important respects.
Lesser, to judge by his picture and the
descriptions of him, was a man about
five feet six in height, normal weight,
clean shaven, light complected, with a
thick crop of blond hair.
This description corresponded with
Dr. Perry's in only one respect, the
height. Dr. Perry was stout and at
least thirty pounds above normal weight.
He had a black mustache and goatee and
was dark complected. Further, the hair
on his head consisted only of a black
fringe, which ran around his temples
and the back of his neck. Under the
circumstances, it was not strange that
Detective Carr's conviction was a bit
shaken and that he decided to keep his
suspicions to himself until he had made
a thorough investigation on his own
account.
Neither of Mr. Kirven's heirs had
ever seen the missing Lesser. However,
the detective dug up two Kirven &
Lesser employees and two of the firm's
clients who had met Lesser personally
a number of times. One of these men
agreed to go up to Dr. Perry's office
and have his teeth cleaned. The other
three were posted by the detective at
different times in the restaurant where
the doctor took his lunch.
Three of the men were positive that
Mr. Lesser and Dr. Perry were not the
same person. The fourth said:
"Well, the shape of his head is a little
like Lesser's, but you couldn't get me to
swear in court that they were the same
person. No sir, not me."
Detective Carr then tried to get at the
mystery from a different angle. He
looked into Dr. Perry's past history. He
discovered that Dr. Raymond K. Perry
had graduated from the Horn Dental
College in New York in 1914. The
doctor, in accordance with the State law,
had renewed his license every year. All
of which was perfectly regular.
But—the doctor had rented his office
on Forty-eighth Street ten months ago
—or at just about the time that Mr.
Lesser disappeared—and Detective Carr
could find no record of his having prac-
tised his profession any time before
that. Further, the records in the city
bureau of taxes disclosed that Dr. Ray-
mond K. Perry owned real estate to the
value of one hundred and forty thou-
sand dollars on East One Hundred and
Fifty-seventh Street and that the prop-
erty had been purchased at about the
same time the doctor opened his dental
office.
Dr. Perry lived on Claremont Ave-
nue. No one at his address could shed
the faintest light on his past career. He
had rented the apartment ten months
ago and had always been prompt in the
payment of his rent. He never had visi-
tors. When he rented the apartment he
had remarked that he was living in
Yonkers, but desired to live in the city
in order to be closer to his office.
The detective consulted the city direc-
tories and the telephone books for the
last seven years. He examined the mem-
bership lists of all the city and State
dental societies. He telegraphed the
national organization. He visited all the
dental supply houses and manufacturers
of dental instruments. The investiga-
tion yielded the name of Raymond K.
Murder in Haste 39
Perry but twice, and these Perrys
proved to be senior and junior, with an
office in Brooklyn. The Raymond K.
on Forty-eighth Street was not related
to them.
All this would not have been unusual
if there had been evidence that Dr.
Perry had lived in another State before
opening his office on Forty-eighth
Street. But the doctor had said he had
moved down from Yonkers. That a
man practising the profession of den-
tistry and worth upward of a hundred
and forty thousand dollars could leave
an absolutely recordless existence did not
seem probable, and yet the most pains-
taking search had revealed but one fact
in the career of Dr. Perry previous to
his opening the Forty-eighth Street
office. That fact, as has been stated,
was his graduation from the dental col-
lege in 1914.
Detective Carr's weaknesses did not
include the lack of persistence. He had
great faith in his camera-eye quality and
Dr. Perry's past—or seeming absence
of a past—only stimulated his activities.
The detective began the tiresome task
of canvassing those dental offices of
New York City which were large
enough to employ additional dentists.
Carr spent eight hours every day for
seven weeks at this work; but finally his
quest bore fruit.
The payrolls in Dr. Kiekbush's office
showed that in January, 1918, a Dr.
Raymond K. Perry had been discharged
for drunkenness. Nobody in the Kiek-
bush office recalled the appearance of
Dr. Perry. Detective Carr, however,
considered it significant that only one
month later—February 1918—Mr. Wil-
liam Lesser had entered the employ of
Mr. Kirven.
The chain of evidence, though circum-
stantial, removed all doubt from the
detective's mind.
Still, although Detective Carr was
perfectly convinced of Dr. Perry's guilt,
he knew that his evidence was not con-
clusive enough to persuade a jury. The
fact that he could offer no direct identi-
fication was the weakness of his case.
He felt that he had two lines of attack
open to him. There was a chance that
he could find some person or persons
whose memory for faces was good
enough to enable them to identify Dr.
Perry as Mr. Lesser. His other hope
lay in a direct attack upon the doctor
himself.
This attack, of course, would have to
be subtle. The doctor would have to be
"squeezed," prodded and annoyed by a
series of seemingly innocuous questions
and insinuations into betraying himself
by some word or act. The work on the
detective's teeth was to be finished in
three weeks. There were to be two
appointments, each of an hour's dura-
tion, every week. Detective Carr was
to have six hours more of personal con-
tact with the suspect.
II
Detective Carr was keeping his last
appointment with Dr. Perry. The doc-
tor was putting a root canal filling into
the first molar on the upper left-hand
side. The "nerve" or dental pulp had
been removed and it remained only to
seal the cavity with gutta percha and
insert the amalgum filling.
The detective was seated comfortably
in the dentist's chair. Dr. Perry was
standing nearby preparing his instru-
ments.
"Not at all, Doctor," said Carr in
answer to a question by the dentist.
"Detective work is not nearly as excit-
ing as it is commonly supposed to be.
It's mostly dull, routine labor. Of
course there are exceptions.
"I was working on a case not so long
ago—quite an ordinary affair. A mur-
der had been committed and the suspect
had disappeared. My job was simply to
40 Murder in Haste
tramp the streets and keep my eyes
open. Hard work, Dbctor, and not
exactly exciting. I met the fellow by
accident and arrested him. But when at
headquarters the man removed his hat,
I received the shock of my life. The
prisoner was almost completely bald and
yet it had been definitely proved that
five days previous—when the crime had
been committed—he had a crop of long,
thick, brown hair.
"But this circumstance which at first
seemed to ruin our case—the prisoner
of course denied he was the wanted man
—eventually proved his undoing. Men
don't usually lose a thick crop of hair
in five days, we were sure of that. We
consequently deduced that the prisoner
had made himself bald by some artificial
method. Rather unique, eh? You fre-
quently hear of men disguising them-
selves by putting on wigs, but they sel-
dom effect a disguise by pulling out their
natural hair.
"Well, while the entire department
was trying to puzzle out a way of prov-
ing that the suspect had removed his
own hair, nature herself solved the
mystery for us. The man was held in
jail without bail. After three weeks the
entire top of his head blossomed out like
grass in the spring. That clinched it,
of course. He confessed that he had
first cut his hair short and then removed
the hairs with an electric needle. This
process required a couple of days, but
his trick would have worked, if he could
have applied the needle again on his hair
as soon as it grew."
The doctor, keeping his back turned
to the detective, replied:
"A unique case, Mr. Carr. You
might call it a bald murder."
The detective laughed.
Then after a pause :
"We were talking last time of the
murder of Mr. Kirven. Have you
changed your mind and accepted my
theory that the missing Mr. Lesser in all
probability remained in the city and
made the bold stroke of adopting some
mode of life which brings him into con-
tact with many persons daily?"
The doctor stiffened perceptibly. "An
ingenious theory, Mr. jCarr. But to
judge from the newspaper accounts of
Mr. Lesser, he was probably not clever
enough to work out so subtle a scheme."
There was little conversation after
that. Dr. Perry worked in almost com-
plete silence on the tooth until the task
was completed. The detective noticed
that the dentist's hands were a trifle
unsteady.
Detective Carr left the office deter-
mined to proceed quickly and openly
against Dr. Perry.. He had reached the
conclusion that he had succeeded in tor-
menting the doctor into such a state of
"nerves" that he would be unable to
stand up under a grilling at headquar-
tejs. It was Carr's intention to consult
the district attorney about the advisa-
bility of obtaining a warrant for Dr.
Perry's arrest.
While Carr was on his way to the
district attorney's office both of his shoe
laces became loosened. He bent over to
tie them. He held his head down for
several minutes.
Then, just as Detective Carr entered
the district attorney's' office, a strange
phenomenon occurred. The detective
was suddenly seized with a convulsion;
he fell to the floor and his body became
rigid.
A doctor was immediately summoned,
but although Carr lived for almost an
hour and a half, he could not be again
brought to consciousness.
The symptoms—the rigid muscles, the
stiffness at the back of the neck, the
asphyxia, the wide open and fixed eyes,
the ristis sardonicus (drawn aside
mouth)—convinced the doctor that De-
tective Carr had been poisoned with
strychnine. The post-mortem investi-
gation, however, only added another
Murder in Haste 41
element of mystery to the tragedy. A
chemical analysis of the stomach con-
tents showed positively that no strych-
nine was present.
If the doctor's diagnosis proved to be
correct, it followed that strychnine must
have been injected by a hypodermic
syringe. But no needle was found on
the dead man. It was also not clear
why Carr—assuming it was suicide—
had gone about it in this queer fashion.
Symptoms of strychnine poisoning
usually appear within twenty minutes or
less after the poison is taken. Where
had Detective Carr been before he came
to the attorney's office? Before the
mystery could be solved that question
had to be answered.
III
Du. Raymond K. Perry experienced
a queer feeling even during the first visit
of Detective Carr. He had the premo-
nition that the detective had penetrated
his disguise. When, a few days later,
the dentist was visited by a former client
of Lesser & Kirven—who came osten-
sibly to have his teeth cleaned—Perry's
fears increased.
A short time after, three of the
former clients of Lesser & Kirven were
in the restaurant in which the detective
took his lunch. Dr. Perry was then
certain.
Detective Carr had identified him as
the missing William Lesser. Dr. Perry
knew that his arrest was imminent. Had
any doubts remained, the actions of the
detective himself would have cleared
them away. The detective began refer-
ring—casually—to the Kirven case. He
somehow managed to bring up this
matter during every consultation. And
he spoke of artificially induced baldness
as an effective means of disguise.
The doctor was aware that in the
beginning the detective was a trifle un-
certain, but with each visit the uncer-
tainty gradually resolved itself into
conviction. Dr. Perry was in a con-
tinuous state of suspense.
It became obvious finally that the
detective would arrest him. The dentist
knew that an arrest would be his ruin.
He would be unable to account for any
of his actions previous to the last ten
months. And if they held him in jail
without bail—as is customary in murder
indictments—his hair would start grow-
ing and that would expose him.
The dentist, of course, could have
fled. But that would be equivalent to a
confession of guilt. He would invite
a man hunt. Also he would have to
sacrifice all the money he had gained
by the murder of Kirven. This money
was tied up in real estate. If he
attempted to make a sale, he would be
merely inviting immediate arrest.
There seemed to be but one other
alternative. From the fact that he was
never shadowed, the dentist reasoned
that Detective Carr had not mentioned
his suspicions to any other police offi-
cials. There was every indication that
only Detective Carr was privy to the
secret.
If, therefore, a way could be found
to dispose of Detective Carr, the status
quo would be maintained and Dr. Perry
could keep living in comfort the rest of
his life. As the dentist figured it, noth-
ing could be lost by a second murder.
They can't do more than electrocute a
man. The murder certainly seemed to
be an absolute necessity. . . .
During the detective's last visit, the
dentist made him an amalgum filling for
the first molar on the upper left-hand
side. The dental pulp or "nerve" had
been killed with arsenic and removed
previously. It remained only to put in
the gutta percha point, seal it with liquid
gutta percha and close the top of the
cavity with amalgum.
But the dentist did not use gutta
percha. Instead he inserted a paste made
42 Murder in Haste
of strychnine and rammed it into the
root canal. Strychnine acts rather rap-
idly, especially when it may be absorbed
easily into the blood. The dentist was
consequently in somewhat of a hurry
when he put in the amalgum. He was
a trifle nervous and anxious; cold-
blooded murderers exist for the most
part only in fiction.
He managed, however, to get the
detective out of the office alive, and
when that was accomplished most of his
worries were over. For there seemed
to be not the slightest chance that the
murder could be proved against him.
There would indeed be no way of prov-
ing that it was murder and not even the
most careful autopsy would be likely
to probe into the cavities of Detective
Carr's teeth.
The X-ray pictures which Dr. Perry
had taken of Detective Carr's mouth
showed that the apex of the root of the
molar in question extended into the
antrum, which is a "pocket" extending
from the nasal cavity into the bone.
This is not at all an unusual condition.
Dr. Perry knew that the strychnine
would be absorbed into the blood by
way of the antrum. Death would then
be a matter of minutes. Under normal
conditions it would take several hours
for the action to start. By then the
detective would no longer be near the
dental office and the chances were that
even if he lived long enough to give in-
formation, he would not associate the
tooth filling with the poison.
The next morning's papers,, perhaps,
would have the news of the detective's
death. It looked safe—absolutely safe.
IV
As Dr. Perry expected, the next
morning's papers contained the news of
Detective Carr's strange death, and ac-
cording to the accounts, headquarters
was at a loss to explain the mystery.
It was difficult to reconcile the known
facts with either a murder or a suicide
theory. The doctor smiled as he read
the reports; they were very satisfying
to him.
He had been in his office about an
hour when three men, who introduced
themselves as Detective Sergeant Elm,
Detective Mosher and Medical Ex-
aminer Richards called on him.
"From one of Detective Carr's
friends we learned that you have been
treating Carr's teeth," said Detective
Sergeant Elm. "Was Carr in here yes-
terday for an appointment?"
Dr. Perry, afraid that a trap was
being laid for him and that he would
betray himself by lying, was slow to
reply. "Why—I'm not sure—that is he
may have been—I'll have to consult my
records."
"Never mind. The point is you have
been treating Detective Carr. And in!
that case it is extremely unlikely that
Carr was receiving treatment from an-
other dentist also."
Then after a pause:
"Do you know that Detective Carr
died yesterday from strychnine poison-
ing?"
"No. Well, I did read something in
the papers—"
"It was very mystifying—at first,"
interrupted Detective Sergeant Elm. "A
most careful chemical analysis discov-
ered no strychnine in the stomach.
However, we found the strychnine.
Does that interest you ?"
The dentist flushed.
"It evidently does," said Elm. "You're
a mighty clever man, Dr. Perry. How-
ever, you overlooked the fact that
strychnine poisoning causes convulsions.
You made a mighty sloppy job of filling
Carr's upper molar. Murder in haste
and repent at leisure; that will be a good
proverb for you to remember. During
Carr's fit of convulsions the amalgum
filling was jarred loose and fell out of
Murder in Haste 43
his mouth. Detective Mosher found it
this morning under the desk.in the dis-
trict attorney's office."
Detective Sergeant Elm took a small
glass vial out of his pocket and held it
out toward Dr. Perry. "Your amalgum
filling is in this bottle, Doctor, and there
are traces of strychnine on it! Also the
medical examiner here afterwards found
traces of the poison in the root canal of
the tooth. That makes it pretty con-
clusive, doesn't it ?"
V
Detective Carr's story of the man
who had disguised himself by artificially
inducing baldness was a myth. How-
ever, the official records now include the
case of one Dr. Raymond K. Perry,
alias William Lesser, who grew a beau-
tiful crop of hair while awaiting his
execution. Furthermore, the doctor's
dark complexion paled noticeably under
the regular prison baths. As for his
stoutness, he had been one of those not
altogether uncommon men who can put
on or take off an appreciable amount of
weight by change of diet.
It was thus that Perry, after murder-
ing Mr. Kirven, had been able to effect
a great change in his appearance within
a week. He had then made the bold
stroke of opening a dental office and
practising the profession right under
the eyes of the police. Perry, it must
be explained, was actually a dentist.
After graduating from a dental college,
he failed to make good with Dr. Kiek-
bush and was discharged. He then ap-
plied for a position as clerk in the office
of Mr. Kirven and assumed the name of
Lesser because he intended to re-enter
the dental profession again and did not
want it to be known that he was an
ex-clerk.
Detective Carr, it transpired, had not
mentioned his suspicions concerning Dr.
Perry at headquarters. But after the
doctor had been convicted for murder-
ing the detective, he confessed his
former crime.
A Weapon of the Law
By George W.
Breuker
IT was very still in the library where
Judge Lathrop sat reading. The
lamp on the table at his elbow shed
a soft circle of light in the centre
of the room, leaving the outer edges dim
and shadowy. The house was quiet.
A small clock in the room had already
struck one. The Judge's wife and
daughter had been in bed for some
hours.
At last the Judge put down the legal
tome and sat thinking over what he had
read. He became so lost in meditation
that the door at his left was quietly
opened and closed without his hearing
it. Then a low cough brought him out
of his abstraction. He turned and gazed
at the intruder.
The man he saw standing near the
door in the semi-darkness was about
his own age—that is to say, somewhat
over forty years. He was dressed in
shabby clothes that seemed a trifle too
large for him. A slouch Hat was pulled
down over his eyes. His right hand
was thrust in the side pocket of his coat.
Even in that subdued light the gleam of
triumph in his eyes was only too ap-
parent. Judge Lathrop stared at him
blankly without moving a muscle.
"Well, Judge," said the man with a
short, hard laugh, "can you place me?"
"We've met before, then?" asked the
Judge calmly.
"Met before? That's good!" The
man chuckled evilly. "You bet your life
we met before !"
"Then I beg your pardon. You see,
you're standing in the shadow. If you'd
be good enough to turn that switch—"
The man eyed him distrustfully.
"None of your tricks, now!"
"The switch is directly behind you.
You can find it without turning," the
Judge went on in an even voice.
Without removing his eyes from
Judge Lathrop, the man groped for the
switch, found it, and flooded the room
with light. Then he pushed his hat
back and planted himself brazenly be-
fore the Judge, a sneering smile on his
lips.
"Maybe you remember me now!"
The Judge looked him over carefully
and coolly and as he turned away his
eyes a look of contempt spread over his
face.
"Humph! Jack Dodd, I believe you
call yourself. A cheap crook, a low-
down thief—scum of the earth!"
Sudden anger flared up in the man's
eyes.
"You be damned careful what you
say!" he said between clenched teeth.
"Five years ago I sentenced you to
ten years imprisonment," continued the
Judge, as if be had not heard.
"Yes," hissed the man, "and I swore
then if I ever got the chance I'd get
you—and get you good!"
"I suppose you escaped from jail."
"You suppose right. And I got these
duds—well, never mind where I got
them. Hell, we're wastin' time. I come
here to get even with you, you dog!"
The Judge folded his hands and
smiled.
"I hope you brought a revolver." He
spoke anxiously.
The man stared at him a moment, and
then brought an automatic out of his
coat pocket.
44
A Weapon of the Law 45
"I got a gun, all right."
"And I hope you're going to kill me,"
said the Judge in a lifeless tone.
This time the man's jaw dropped a
little. It was plain he was puzzled. Then
he brought his jaws together grimly.
"That's why I'm here," he said
roughly.
The Judge looked at the man with a
smile of thankfulness on his face.
"Jack Dodd, fate has sent you here at
the right moment!"
"Say, what are you driving at?" de-
manded Jack Dodd uneasily.
The Judge leaned back in his chair
with his chin on his breast.
"I have a nasty, cowardly job on my
hands, Mr. Jack Dodd. Now, you can
do it for me."
"Dirty work, eh?" sneered Dodd.
"When I'm through with you, you won't
have to worry about that."
"You promise me that?" said the
Judge, looking at him earnestly.
"Cut out the mystery," snapped Dodd
impatiently. "What's in your bonnet?"
Again the Judge dropped his eyes to
the rug. There was a pause before he
spoke.
"When you entered this room," he
said slowly, "I was on the point of—
taking my own life!"
"What!" said Dodd in an astonished
whisper.
The Judge nodded.
"Suicide is always a low thing—a
coward's trick, Dodd. But now I'm
saved that. You can kill me, Dodd!"
Dodd stared at him, a little taken
back.
"You mean you want me to kill you?"
"If you will, Dodd," answered the
Judge pleadingly.
The other made an impatient move-
ment.
"That's bunk! Why do you want to
pass out? You got everything to live
for."
"Dodd, my son was arrested tonight
for embezzlement. Tomorrow the papers
will be full of it. My name has never
been tarnished before. The disgrace of
it will be more than I can bear. I prefer
to die rather than face it."
Dodd gave a laugh.
"So the Honorable Judge has a crook
in his family! No wonder you ain't got
the nerve to face it. The upright Judge
Lathrop, all for law and order, no mercy
to criminals! Cripes! that's the best
revenge I've heard yet."
"Don't, don't!" moaned the Judge as
he hid his face in his hands.
"Go on, suffer! Go on!" chuckled
Dodd. "I'm eatin' it up."
The Judge suddenly sat up and ex-
tended his arms sidewise.
"Shoot me, Dodd!" he begged. "Put
an end to it! Dodd, for God's sake—"
"Shoot you!" laughed Dodd. "I guess
not! I got half a mind to stick here and
make you face the music. I'd go back
and do my bit with a smile on my mug
if I could see you. dragged in the slime."
The Judge's manner suddenly
changed. He flashed a dark look at
Dodd.
"You're afraid to shoot," he said in
sullen anger. "You haven't got the nerve,
you yellow pup !"
The prison pallor of Dodd's face went
whiter, still. He pressed his lips to-
gether, but said nothing.
"You low-livered, degenerate skunk!"
the Judge flung at him. "I wish I had
given you twenty years."
Dodd's hand tightened on the auto-
matic. His mouth began to twitch.
"Look out, you—" He ripped out a
stinging oath.
"That's it, Dodd!" cried the Tudge.
"Shoot! Shoot!"
"So that's it," snarled Dodd. "Tryin'
to egg me on to shoot, eh? It won't
work, mister. I wouldn't shoot you now
if you called me a dude!"
"Is that final, Dodd? You won't do
as I ask?"
46 A Weapon of the Law
"Surest thing you know. You're go-
ing to live and get your dose o' misery."
"Then I'll do it myself !"
The Judge turned to the table at his
elbow and pulled open the drawer. There
in the front of the drawer lay a blued-
steel revolver. Dodd, who was watch-
ing him narrowly, sprang forward with a
cry as he caught sight of it. Before
Judge Lathrop could get his hand on the
gun in the drawer, Dodd had clapped
his own hand, that held the automatic,
over it.
"I tell you you got to live!" he cried,
frowning down at the Judge.
The Judge returned this gaze, and for
a second they measured each other with
their eyes. Then, with his eyes still
fastened on Dodd, the Judge suddenly
gave a mighty push and jammed the
table drawer shut. There was a howl
of pain from Dodd, and the drawer
was deep enough so one could hear the
automatic fall on the wood bottom. The
Judge eased the drawer a trifle, at the
same time shoving at Dodd with his
foot. Dodd staggered across the room,
where he stood wringing his hands in
an agony of pain. The Judge quickly
opened the drawer, picked up the auto-
matic and covered Dodd with it.
"Jack Dodd," said the Judge, "the
crime for which I sentenced you is one
of the filthiest, vilest deeds on the crimi-
nal calendar. It will give me great
pleasure to return you to your keepers."
"You—you—" Dodd sputtered. "A
trick, a damnable trick!"
"Yes, a trick, Dodd. There are other
weapons beside firearms."
Dodd's lips curled back from his teeth
with venom.
"I hope that son of yours ends in the
electric chair!" And then followed a
string of vile oaths.
"My dear Dodd," said the Judge as
he took up the receiver to telephone the
police, "I have no son."
The Monolith Hotel Mystery
By Lloyd Lonergan
IT was almost eleven o'clock on a
Tuesday night, and the stately room
clerk of the Monolith Hotel stood
yawning behind the desk. The lobby
was practically deserted, for the ma-
jority of the guests had either retired
or were still at the various theatres and
restaurants.
"Excuse me, but I want to pay my
bill, and I'm rather in a hurry," were
the words that brought Pennington
Wilson out of his day dreams—or,
rather, his night musings. Facing him,
and tightly clasping a large handbag,
was a little old man, a worried expres-
sion on his face. The clerk recognized
him, smiled and bowed.
"Certainly, Mr. Henderson, cer-
tainly," he replied, in cordial tones,
"The cashier will fix things up for
you in a jiffy."
He crossed to the adjoining compart-
ment, and gave the necessary orders.
"We are always Johnny-on-the-spot
when it comes to taking in money, Mr.
Henderson," he continued with his ready
laugh, as he returned, "but I didn't
know you were leaving us tonight.
Thought your liner sailed at noon to-
morrow."
"Of course, of course," was the nerv-
ous reply, "but, you see, some friends
of mine, in—in—Brooklyn, phoned me,
and naturally, of course I had to—"
The cashier came forward with the
bill at this moment. Wilson glanced at
the total, and then passed it over.
"Because you are checking out so
late, we had to charge for the night,"
he explained. "Sorry, but that's the
usual custom."
"Perfectly satisfactory," retorted
Henderson.
He reached into his pocket and ex-
tracted a roll of bills, riffled them over,
and extracted several, which he shoved
across the desk. "Here you are.
Don't bother about the change. Give
it to the bellboys," and, with a nod,,
he hurried out. Wilson looked after
him perplexedly, then showed relief as
a husky, middle-aged man entered from
the street. The clerk beckoned to him,
and he approached the desk.
"Spencer, there's something queer
about that chap who just went out," he
whispered. "Name's Henderson ; Daniel
Henderson, of Minneapolis. First visit
here. Booked to sail for Europe on the
Cardalia tomorrow. Heavy baggage
has all gone to the dock. Just now he
ran down, checked out in a tearing
hurry, with some silly story about
having to go to Brooklyn. Nobody in
Brooklyn is awake at this hour of the
night. What do you think about it?"
"How much does he owe?" demanded
the house detective alertly. "Perhaps I
can head him off." He took a step to-
ward the door, but Wilson detained
him.
"He paid in full—and in cash,"
which caused Spencer to snort with dis-
gust and retort, "In that case, why
should we worry?- What does it matter
to us where he has gone, or why, so
long as he is straight on the books?"
"Guess I'm more nervous than usual
tonight," said the clerk apologetically.
"Just the same, I didn't like the way
he acted. Seemed as if he was trying
to hide something. You can understand
47
48 The Monolith Hotel Mystery
how a man in my position gets hunches
at times, but can't explain them."
"Sure thing," yawned the house detec-
tive, whose interest in the matter had
now entirely subsided. "Guess I'll turn
in. Had a hard day, and bed sounds
good to me. Nighty-night," and he went
toward the elevator, and from it
directly to his room. But Spencer soon
found that he was out of luck. Sleep
was something he was not going to get.
For before he had even removed his
shoes the telephone rang, and an
agitated voice directed him to report at
room 817 as speedily as possible. He
complied, and in the doorway of the
designated number found Wilson await-
ing him. The clerk beckoned, ushered
him into the room, followed, closed the
door and stood against it, gasping.
"My hunch was right!" he hysteri-
cally cried. "I know now why Hender-
son acted so queerly. But I never sus-
pected ! It is horrible—horrible!"
He half collapsed, and seemed on the
verge of fainting. Spencer jumped to
his side, put an arm about him, and led
the clerk, now babbling incoherently, to
a settee, where he made him as comfort-
able as possible.
"Pull yourself together, man," com-
manded the detective. "Take it easy,
but tell me what's going on."
He patted his frightened companion
on the shoulder. Under his ministrations
the clerk regained his self-control, sat
up and essayed a feeble smile.
"I'm all right now," he said. "The
shock of the thing was what got me.
You see, as soon as Henderson checked
out, the night maid was ordered to put
the room in shape. She went to the
bathroom and on the floor she found-—-
but you'll have to look for yourself.
I—I—can't go on," he concluded, as he
sank back again.
Spencer, absolutely devoid of nerves,
crossed to the inner door, opened it, and
peered into the bathroom, uttering an
exclamation as he did so. On the floor
was the body of a well-dressed young
woman, and a bullet wound in the side
of her head showed clearly the cause
of death. Spencer satisfied himself that
life was extinct, emerged into the main
room again, closed the bathroom door,
went back to the settee, and roughly
shook Wilson to attract his attention.
"The first thing to do," declared the
house detective, "is to start a hue and
cry for this man Henderson. The mat-
ter of motives and ways and means can
wait. You'd better wait here until I can
send some reliable person to relieve you.
I'll attend to the important part of the
work."
Aq,d he hurried out, while the clerk, a
bundle of nerves in his most placid mo-
ments, moaned and sobbed, but did not
dare to desert his. post.
Fifteen minutes later Spencer was
holding a furtive conversation in the
lobby with a man who had "city detec-
tive" marked on him as plainly as if he
carried a sign. Marty O'Donohue was
a Headquarters sleuth and possessed the
additional distinction of being a cousin
and pal of Hotel Detective Spencer,
"It's lucky I located you at the club,
Marty," whispered Spencer. "Here's
your chance to make good, big, but
you've got to cover me, of course. Re-
member, you just dropped in for a chin-
chin on your way home, and found me
about to- notify the police. So you told
me that while you wouldn't interfere,
you'd just scout around while waiting
for the precinct men. See ?"
"Naw, I don't see," was the sulky re-
sponse. "What's the use of letting the
station guys in on this? If they fool
around they may get some of the credit."
"It would cost me my job to let Cap-
tain Mahoney and his sleuths know I
played favorites," Spencer retorted im-
patiently. "You'll get the gravy, all
right, for I'm going to put you wise to a
line of stuff that you must seem to find
The Monolith Hotel Mystery 49
out for yourself. Get me? Well, I
happened to be at the front door when
this guy Henderson left, and was lucky
enough to see which taxi he picked out.
'Slimy' Foley, who's always hanging
around here, was the chauffeur, and he's
probably out there now, unless his trip
with Henderson was a long one. Dig
Foley up and you ought to get on that
murderer's trail in no time."
"Thanks. That's good dope," whis-
pered O'Donohue; then, in a louder
tone, for the benefit of the loungers in
the lobby, "Call up the precinct, Spen-
cer. It's their job. Good-night."
And he walked off.
II
The late editions of the morning pa-
pers carried brief reports of the "Mono-
lith Mystery." The victim's identity
had been established. She was a guest
of the hotel, Mrs. Kenneth Johnson,
who, with her husband, occupied suite
819. Johnson, it appeared, was down in
the writing-room on the mezzanine floor
and had known nothing of the tragedy
until long after the discovery of the
body. The accounts concluded with the
statement that Detective Desmond, of
the West Forty-seventh Street Station,-,
was trying to locate Henderson and had
several clues as to his whereabouts.
But the afternoon journals carried
scareheads narrating the unusual sleuth-
ing of Marty O'Donohue, of Headquar-
ters. O'Donohue, it appeared, had
dropped into the hotel by accident and,
learning of the murder, decided to in-
stitute an immediate search for the fugi-
tive while the trail .was still hot. Scout-
ing around, he found a taxi driver who
had taken a fare from the Monolith at
about 11 P.M., and left him at the
Grand Central Station. Most luckily the
chauffeur—his name was Foley—re-
membered that the red cap who had
taken the passenger's baggage was a
black individual known as "Limpy
Sam." "Limpy," it developed, had gone
with the man to the ticket office, and re-
called that he had purchased a ticket
and Pullman accommodations on the
11:20 express for Buffalo. Also, an ad-
ditional piece of luck, "Limpy" was
ready to swear that the berth was lower
7 in car 11. This was not surprising, for
"Limpy Sam," being a devotee of craps,
would naturally remember the "lucky
numbers."
The train had departed long before
O'Donohue arrived at the station, but
the detective acted with promptness and
intelligent decision. He got the Albany
police on the long-distance telephone
and the suspect was dragged from his
berth, handcuffed and led to a cell.
O'Donohue hustled up to Albany on the
early morning newspaper train, claimed
his prisoner and got back to New York
with him by noon.
The District Attorney, then in office,
saw a chance to make a grandstand play.
Too long had the people spoke in praise
of "Jersey justice." The Monolith case
was clear-cut and conclusive. It af-
forded a chance to establish a new rec-
ord. So, while the prisoner was being
arraigned in a police court on a short
affidavit, the necessary witnesses were
taken before the grand jury, then in ses-
sion, and Daniel Henderson, indicted for
murder in the first degree, was in the
Tombs awaiting trial, less than eighteen
hours after the body of his victim had
been discovered.
It was the day of days for Marty
O'Donohue and the District Attorney.
Everybody forgot about Detective Des-
mond, and it was not known that he waS
still busily engaged on the case, a prob-
lem that, to all appearances, had been
most brilliantly cleared up. The only
person who did waste any thought on
the energetic precinct detective was
"Big Jim" Mahoney, the captain at that
time in command at West Forty-seventh
B.M.—Aug.—4
50 The Monolith Hotel Mystery
Street. When Mahoney reached the sta-
tion that Wednesday morning he found
a note from Desmond saying he was
working on a startling new lead in the
case. Mahoney waited impatiently for
his subordinate's return, scowled when
he read the newspaper eulogies of
Marty O'Donohue, and cursed bitterly
when the extras came in w7ith the news
of Henderson's indictment. The cap-
tain went out for supper at six o'clock,
and when he came back, Desmond, all
one broad grin, was waiting in his office
to report to him.
"Desmond, there's some tall explain-
ing coming from you," Mahoney began
savagely. "Headquarters has put it all
over us on this case, and is giving us
the merry laugh. What have you done ?
Nothing! What has this big stiff, Marty
O'Donohue, done? Everything! Lo-
cated the murderer, pinched, arraigned
and indicted him, all in jig time. I won-
der at your nerve in coming back here
at all. A detective who falls down as
bad as you have done ought to jump into
the river."
"Just a minute, Cap!" interrupted the
happy detective. "O'Donohue thinks he
put something over on me. That false
alarm at the hotel, Spencer, tipped him
off, I guess. I'll attend to Spencer later.
O'Donohue doesn't know he's alive.
Never did know. And the joke of it is
that, in this case, he's pinched the wrong
man.
"Anybody with common sense would
know that this poor boob, Henderson, is
telling a straight story. He claims that
after dinner Tuesday night he went to
his room, snoozed on his bed until late,
then got up, went to the bathroom,
found the woman's body, got scared and
beat it. That was the theory I had all
along, Cap, that Henderson was just the
innocent goat. And why did I feel that
way? Because, right off the bat, I sus-
pected the victim's husband. The story
he told me when I first hit the hotel
sounded fishy, mighty fishy. He claimed
be had been in the writing-room on the
mezzanine floor for several hours—his
wife was taking a nap and he didn't
want to annoy her. That's his story.
But, if Mrs. Johnson was taking a nap,
why did she have on her hat when the
body was found? Did you ever hear of
a woman lying down and going to sleep
with her hat on—unless, of course, she
was drunk?"
The captain's rage had departed. He
was giving close attention to the story
being told him, and his interest was
growing all the time.
"Your dope sounds good," he ad-
mitted, "but still," he frowned, "this
Henderson bird has been indicted. Don't
forget that."
"Just listen a little more, Cap,"
pleaded Desmond. "I'm giving you this
case in order. Nailing Johnson's first
lie, I naturally looked for others. On
the desk at which he sat were a number
of addressed and sealed letters. There
were so many that it would look as if
the man had been writing for hours and
hours. Well, I took a peek at the top
letter and read the address. It was
J. M. Devereau, 95 West 46th Street.
Does that suggest anything to you,
Cap?"
The captain shook his head; then, as
a thought struck him, he knitted his
brows. Looking at Desmond, he
grinned.
"I get you," he said. "The last num-
ber east of Sixth Avenue is 79 West
46th Street. That address is phony.
Good work!"
"Knew it would strike you," the detec-
tive went on cheerily. "You can see, as
I did, that this fellow Johnson was just
pretending to write letters, planning in
that way to establish his alibi. I didn't
let on, of course, but saw to it that
Johnson gave those notes to a bellboy
to mail. Then I got them away from
the kid, steamed them open, and found,
The Monolith Hotel Mystery 51
as I suspected, that the sheets inside
were blank.
"Of course, even then, I hadn't any
clear case—just suspicions; but my side
partner and I have kept a close shadow
on him ever since. This afternoon John-
son came down to the desk with a big
valise, told the clerk he was going to
visit his lawyer, but to keep his rooms,
as he would be back. We trailed our
man out to the Bronx and pinched him
when he got near the Sound. What do
you think we found in his grip? A floor
rug, just sopping with blood stains. And
it came from the Monolith Hotel. Bet-
ter than that, from Johnson's own room.
The murderer is now resting in one of
our best little cells, and we have all
night to chat with him, for we don't
need to take him to court until the
morning."
"Did he confess?" asked the captain
with interest.
"Not fully," was the reluctant reply.
"His story is that he went into the room
and found his wife dead upon the rug.
Like Henderson, he lost his nerve.
Strikes me both of those birds have skel-
etons in their mental closets. Anyway,
Johnson didn't dare to raise the alarm.
He remembered that the room back of
their suite was one that could be thrown
in with his if desired. In fact, the clerk
had tried to make him take them both
when he registered. The doors between
the two bathrooms have locks on both
sides, and on Henderson's side the lock
had not been thrown on. Johnson dis-
covered this, opened up the connecting
door, dragged the body into Henderson's
bathroom, locked his own side of the
door, and then went downstairs to
establish his alibi.
"These hotel people never like to talk,
but I got some good stuff out of one of
the clerks. It seems Johnson and the wo-
man had a row during the last after-
noon she was alive, and jawed so much
that other guests complained, and it was
necessary to give them a quiet calldown.
Don't know the nature of their spat, but
in the evening the woman dined alone
and went out in the street by herself,
returning shortly after nine. Couldn't
get any line on Johnson's movements,
but it is safe to assume that he was hid-
ing up in their rooms all the time, wait-
ing for her to come in so he could kill
her. Neither of the elevator boys re-
members taking him up or down to the
writing-room on the mezzanine floor.
Yes, his yarn is fishy; no one will ever
believe it, but it was probably the best he
could think up on short notice. When
we've put him over the bumps I think
he'll come across all right."
III
The above conversation took place
early on the Wednesday evening. Be-
fore noon the following day Inspector
of Detectives James Dineen went to the
Criminal Court Building in response to
an urgent call from the District Attor-
ney. He found that official in a most
unhappy mood.
"Say, Inspector, this Hotel Monolith
mystery is getting all balled up," he com-
plained with bitterness. "Captain Ma-
honey, of the Forty-seventh Street Sta-
tion, has pinched another man and seems
to have built up a fine case against him.
What do you think about it ?"
The Inspector grinned.
"It's got me winging, too," he ad-
mitted. "And what makes things worse
is that I have just put a third bird in a
cell, and I'd bet a lot of money that he
is the guilty man."
"What! Another!" gasped the Dis-
trict Attorney.
"Correct!" replied Dineen. "Ever
heard of the Beaumont Detective
Agency, a snide concern run by one
Buckingham Beaumont, real name Isi-
dore Polinsky? Well, Beaumont blew
into Headquarters at daybreak with a
yarn that sounded good. The wife of
52 The Monolith Hotel Mystery
one J. H. Brotherton, of Toledo, Ohio,
ran away some weeks ago, and Izzy was
hired to locate her. Found the dame and
her paramour at the Monolith, regis-
tered as Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Yep,
Johnson's really an alias. Guy in real
life is James Willoughby, a rich loafer
of Toledo. When Beaumont ran them
down he notified Brotherton by wire,
and he took the first train east. The sur-
prising thing is that he immediately paid
off the detectives, saying he would at-
tend to the rest himself. Wouldn't listen
to arguments that he would need cor-
roborative evidence if he meant to sue
for a divorce. Beaumont is a wise guy,
though, and he had Brotherton shad-
owed. At ten-ten the night of the mur-
der the wronged husband was seen to
slip quietly into the Monolith. Pre-
sumption is that he stole up to the room
and killed his erring wife.
"We pinched him, of course; found
him at the Astor, and he said he'd never
have been dragged into the case if he
had paid Beaumont the blackmailing
sum he demanded. Guess that part of
his story is true. Quizzed about the
tragedy, he admits going to the hotel,
but says that when he found the door
unlocked and entered the room the place
was empty, so he figured that the couple
had gone to some show, and went out-
side to wait for them.
"There is one very strong point
against him, a point that will send him
to the electric chair. In his pocket we
found,a revolver, loaded, but with one
used cartridge, and of the same calibre
as the one that killed the woman. He
says he fired the cartridge, and a lot of
others, at some shooting gallery over on
the East Side, but he couldn't remember
the location. I've had 'Brotherton in my
office, grilling him all the morning, and
was convinced that it is a dead open-
and-shut case against him. In fact, I
was just about to send him to court
when you called me up."
The District Attorney gasped, and
sank back into his chair. '
"I don't know what to do," he finally
confessed. "To tell the truth, it looks to
me as if all of these three men are guilty,
but it is also equally clear that if one of
them is the murderer, the others are in-
nocent. I don't know who to hold or
who to set free. Haven't you any sug-
gestions to make?"
"The only thing to do is to let matters
drift," was the reply. "We'll keep all
of them in jail until things clear a little."
"But we can't," protested the Dis-
trict Attorney. "They'll be suing out
writs of habaes corpus, with a chance
of going free when a hearing was
held."
"These birds haven't a Chinaman's
chance of getting out of jail," declared
the Inspector with emphasis. "Because
why? Because we haye other charges
against them. I understand now why
Henderson ran away as he did. Wasn't
afraid of the murder charge, but didn't
want to attract police attention. You
see, we identified him this morning.
Henderson is Dwight Harrison, the
fugitive cashier of a National Bank in
Osoto, Iowa. Left the bank's deposi-
tors in mourning and without funds
some weeks ago. I'm keeping his iden-
tity a secret until we decide we don't
want to try him on that murder indict-
ment. Then as for Willoughby, alias
Johnson, he can't deny that he ran away
with a woman in Ohio and brought her
to New York. The Mann White Slave
Act covers his case. Brotherton has
trouble ahead, too. He carried a re-
volver without a permit, so is liable un-
der the Sullivan Law. Yes, they'll all
stay with us for a while. In the mean-
time I'll get everybody busy and see
what we can dig up."
IV
As they say in the movies, the scene
The Monolith Hotel Mystery 53
shifts to "One Week Later." Inspector
Dineen, in his office, received word that
Tom Halloran wanted to see him, and
promptly ordered that he be admitted.
Halloran was on the retired list of police
captains, and Dineen, in his younger
days had served under the veteran and
always respected and admired him. So
he greeted his caller cordially and then
looked inquiringly at the young man in
civilian clothes who accompanied him.
"My nephew, Neil Mooney," ex-
plained Halloran. "A harness bull in
the Forty-seventh Street Station.
Brightest youngster in town, Jimmy.
You need him on your staff. He's a
real, honest-to-God detective."
The inspector shook his head.
"Sorry, my staff is full, Cap," he re-
plied. "I'd make an exception to oblige
you, if I could, but it isn't possible. I'd
be panned by the Commissioner if I let
personal friendship sway me."
"But, Jimmy," protested Halloran,
"I'm not asking you to do me a favor.
I'm doing you the favor. Listen, now.
Have your bright boys solved that Hotel
Monolith murder case?"
"Not yet," admitted the Inspector;
"but we are working hard on it."
"Your worries are over on that par-
ticular case," declared Halloran, his face
one broad smile. "This bright young
nephew of mine has cleaned it up."
Then, turning to his companion, he
commanded: "Tell him all about it,
Neil. I know Jimmy. He'll be glad to
listen to you."
"Well, Inspector," diffidently began
the young man, "I've always been ambi-
tious to become a detective, and with
that end in view I have tried to cultivate
a memory for faces. Until I went on
vacation a week ago my beat took
in the Hotel Monolith. Had the trick
from 4 P.M. to midnight. I saw the
newspaper pictures of this Mrs. John-
son, and they looked familiar, although
I couldn't place her at first. I puzzled
over the matter for a while and then I
remembered. From the street one can
look into the hotel dining-room, and I
had seen this Mrs. Johnson eating there
on several occasions, for she nearly al-
ways had a window table. And, as I
tried to recall more about her, the fact
struck me that she always wore a dis-
play of jewels. They looked as if they
were worth a lot, but after her murder
there was no mention of them."
"None of my men ever got onto that
fact," interrupted the Inspector.
"It wasn't their fault—just my good
luck," was Mooney's generous response.
"Had they known as much as I did, un-
doubtedly the idea would have struck
them that some clever crook had seen
the jewels while she sat in the dining-
room, just as I had seen them. So I
decided to test the theory that a criminal
had forced his way into the room, been
surprised by the unfortunate lady while
at work, and had killed her to make a
getaway. Of course this was only an
idea of mine, based on the assumption
that all three of the men under arrest
had told absolutely true stories.
"From the brief glances I had se-
cured at this jewelry, I was aware that
several of the pieces were odd and un-
usual designs, and I sketched them out,
roughly, from memory." He reached in
his pocket and produced a few sheets of
scratch paper with rudely drawn de-
signs. "Of course, it was like looking
for a needle in a haystack, but I spent
my vacation in going around to the va-
rious hangouts where crooks congregate
—coffee houses and saloons during th£
day, dances at night. Last evening I
dropped into the gathering of the 'Jolly
Merrymakers' and spotted a woman
who was wearing this piece of jewelry."
(Indicating one of the designs.) "Well,
I kept her under close observation and
found that her steady was that Wop
second-story worker, 'Scar-Faced Pie-
tro.' The rest was easy. I trailed him
54 The Monolith Hotel Mystery
to his home, down in Hell's Kitchen,
forced my way in when he had gone to
sleep, knocked him out after a fight,
found the jewels hidden in the bed and,
when Pietro saw I had the goods, he
came across. The Wop had spotted the
dame, just as I figured it, slipped into
her room when he thought she was at
the theatre, and, when she came back
unexpectedly, shot her down, pocketed
the jewels and walked out. All of which
goes to prove that these men now under
arrest are innocent and told the exact
truth when they were questioned."
"Now, Jimmy, where does Sherlock
Holmes get off?" gloated Halloran.
"Hasn't the boy here got it all over
him?"
"The most marvelous piece of brain
work I ever heard of," was the Inspec-
tor's reply. "Forget what I said a while
ago, Captain. Do we want him at Head-
quarters? I'll say we do. Young man,
there's a great future for you in this
department. Shake!"
V
That same evening, after dusk, one
of the benches in Central Park was oc-
cupied by a couple apparently much in-
terested in each other. The young man
was talking, the girl listening.
"And then the Inspector took me in
to see the Chief," the speaker went on,
"and the Chief said all kinds of nice
things. Made me a lieutenant of detec-
tives on the spot. It's wonderful, but—
Nora—I hated to do what I did. Never
could have done it, only you made me
promise. But all the time I wanted to
tell them that the credit didn't belong to
me, but to Nora Riley."
"Don't be stupid, Neil," retorted the
girl. "I didn't do anything bright. Just
played in luck. It was luck that I hap-
pened to be maid on that floor in the
hotel; it was luck that I made a hit with
that poor, lonely woman and that she
showed me her jewels and talked about
them. Then, more luck, you and I hap-
pened to drop into that dance, and when
I saw a girl wearing one of Mrs. John-
son's gems, why, I just gave you the tip,
and the hard work that followed was
all done by my Neil."
"But it wasn't fair for me to take the
credit," protested Mooney.
"Why not? You and I are going to
be one, and what helps you, helps me.
The only way to get ahead in this world
is to make people think you are smart.
If you'd done as you wanted to, and told
the Inspector that accident had been re-
sponsible for the solution of this crime,
he would have mumbled thanks and left
you to yarn away your life as a harness
bull. But look what my way has accom-
plished. You're famous overnight, and
in a position to do something and be
somebody."
"But I'm afraid," confessed Mooney.
"They're sending me to Headquarters to
associate as an equal with a crowd of
big, worthwhile men. How can I ever
expect to make good ?"
The girl bent over and patted her
sweetheart on the shoulder.
"See here, Neil," she said gently,
"what did these 'big men' do on the
Monolith mystery? I'll tell you: The
District Attorney fussed, the Chief
fumed, the Inspector barked out orders,
and a score of frightened detectives ran
around in circles. Perhaps it isn't modest
to say it, but the whole bunch were out-
classed by one little Irish chambermaid
and one big Irish policeman. I'm not
afraid you'll fall down, dear. You've
got the brains, they'll give you the
chance, and you're bound to make good."
"With you to help me, Nora," replied
the young man, a 3 he put his arm about
her, "with you to advise, I'm sure I'll be
a captain some day."
"Captain, nothing," responded the girl
laughingly. "The stars tell me I will be
Mrs. Inspector Mooney before I am an
old. old woman."
Exterior to the Evidence
(A Detective Novel in Five Parts.)
By J. S. Fletcher
(Author of "The Middle Temple Murder," Etc., Etc.)
PART V
SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS
SIR CHEVILLE is found dead at the foot of a precipice from which he was
apparently hurled. Etherton, a manufacturer, who owed Cheville money, and
Mrs. Stanbury, his sister-in-law, who opposed his approaching marriage to a
governess because it threatened her son's inheritance, were seen near the
scene of the crime by Pike, Etherton's secretary, who tries to use his
information to force Letty, Etherton's daughter, to marry him. She is
secretly engaged to Marston Stanbury, Cheville's heir, and scorns the
clerk's advances. Two documents bearing on the motive of the murder are
missing, one from the dead baronet's pocket, is the plan of Etherton's
valuable invention, and the other is a will executed on the day of Sir
Cheville's death in which he bequeathes 100,000 pounds to his fiancee and
the rest of his estate to Marston. Marston's growing suspicion of Birch, Sir
Cheville's lawyer and a former lover of the governess, is strengthened by
the re-port of a moor ranger who saw the couple many times late at night on
the moor, and on the night of the murder in particular. Pike overhears this
conversation and pretending to have been an eye witness, demands 5,000
pounds of Birch for his silence. Birch, frightened, complies, but Pike who
plans to hasten to America is seen entering a steamship office and is
detained by the police who suspect him. He pretends to make a full
confession, which implicates Birch. Meanwhile, the lost will is found in Sir
Cheville's locker. The police go after Birch, who is found with the
governess. She frankly confesses they were lovers and had met on the night
of the murder for a last good-bye. She further tells of leaving her lover
and on her homeward way of passing two men, wearing black masks, coming from
the direction of the precipice!
CHAPTER XXII
The Secret
WHILE Sindal became greatly
excited on seeing Bradwell
Pike enter Birch's office that
afternoon, and Marston
showed a certain amount of curiosity,
Weathershaw manifested no interest
whatever. He glanced carelessly out of
the window when Sindal pointed across
the street, and then remarking, almost
indifferently, that he must be attending
to his own affairs, went off.
The first thing he did was to turn into
a hotel and borrow a directory; out of
this he copied in his note-book the names
cf certain tradesmen in Hallithwaite,
some eight or nine in all, and that done
he proceeded to call on one after an-
other with the clockwork precision of a
commercial traveller. It was not until
he called on almost the last man on his
list that he got what he wanted: with
this man he was closeted for some time,
and when he left him he had to race to
the station to meet the express due at
six o'clock from Manchester. It came
55
56 Exterior to the Evidence
in as he hurried up the platform; a
moment later, a keen-looking fellow,
whose dress and appearance were that
of a respectable workman in his Sun-
day clothes, stepped from a compart-
ment and responded to Weathershaw's
nod with a scarcely perceptible smile.
"That's right, Hartley," said
Weathershaw. "I've a good deal for you
to do tonight, so we'll get some dinner
together. Let's find a quiet corner and
I'll give you your instructions while we
eat."
The two men sat side by side in a
recess in the station dining-room, while
Hartley took in his employer's explana-
tions, suggestions, and instructions in
silence, doing no more than nod in ac-
quiescence or understanding.
"So now," said Weathershaw, "you
know precisely what to do." He
glanced at the clock which hung in front
of them. "Catch the 6:45 out to
Lithersdale—it's the second station up a
branch line. Go straight to the place
I've told you of, and make your en-
quiries in your own way. Later—say
nine o'clock — look in at the Stan-
bury Arms in the village; you'll find me
there. No need to tell you to keep eyes
and ears open, Hartley."
Hartley responded with a quiet smile
and presently went away in the direc-
tion of the booking-office; Weathershaw,
remaining behind, ordered black coffee,
lighted a cigar, and sat for half an hour
longer, thinking. Eventually, he left the
station and strolled round to Sindat's
private rooms, to find the solicitor
leisurely eating his bachelor dinner.
"Sir Marston gone back home?"
asked Weathershaw as he dropped into
a chair.
"Just after you left," answered Sin-
day laconically.
"Hear any more of Pike and his visit
to Birch ?" enquired the agent.
"Nothing!" said the solicitor. He
was becoming almost as reserved as
Weathershaw himself. Nevertheless,
his curiosity asserted itself. "That man
of yours turned up?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," replied Weathershaw.
"Came at six o'clock."
Then, seeing that Sindal was inquisi-
tive, he added, with a smile:
"He's already at work."
"Well, you do your work in a pretty
quiet and underground fashion, I must
say!" remarked Sindal. "I hope it's
going to mature. I wish to goodness I
knew what that infernal Pike was after
this afternoon.
"If you've nothing to do this evening,"
remarked Weathershaw, "will you come
with me up to Lithersdale? I'm going
to meet my man at the Stanbury Arms
at nine o'clock—he may have some news
to give me. If so, I'll let you know
what it is."
Sindal immediately showed interest.
"News!" he exclaimed. "Of course
I'll go—I'm jolly anxious to get hold
of any news relating to this affair, I can
assure you!"
"All right," agreed Weathershaw.
"We'll get a car about half past eight;
they'll run us out in half an hour."
It was just nine o'clock when these
two turned into the Stanbury Arms,
an old wayside inn which stood a little
way outside Lithersdale village. It was
one of those places which had originally
been farmstead as well as hostelry, and
in it were a number of low-ceilinged,
wainscoted parlors; into one of these,
Sindal and his companion turned. Sin-
dal rang a handbell which stood on the
table.
"They keep particularly good ale
here," he said. "Better try some—for
the good of the house, anyway."
"Anything you like," answered
Weathershaw indifferently. "I daresay
my man will do with a glass when he
comes in."
The landlord, who presently brought
in a foaming jug of ale and clean
Exterior to the Evidence 57
glasses, looked knowingly at Sindal as
he felt in his pockets for change.
"Owt more been heard about things,
Mr. Sindal ?" he asked familiarly. "I
expect all you lawyer gentlemen's up to
t' neck in enquiries, like. It's a queer
business, an' all—and theer's some
strange things bein' said about it, my
conscience!"
"What's being said?" asked Sindal,
with a glance at Weathershaw.
"Nay, all sorts!" answered the land-
lord. "You know how folks talks when
they come and sit i' houses like this—
ivvery man 'at comes in's gotten some
theory or other. Theer's them 'at says
'at neither t' police, nor t' crowner, nor
any o' you lawyers hes gotten t' stick be
t' right end yet—'at theer's a far greater
mystery about owd Sir Cheville's death
than anybody's aware on. And that's
what I think."
"Does anybody suggest what the
mystery is?" asked Sindal.
"Well, no, sir, I couldn't say 'at any-
body does exactly that theer," answered
the landlord. "But theer were a man
in here this afternoon 'at laid t' law
down pretty dogmatic. 'Yon owd feller
weren't murdered ower that will he'd
made!' says he. 'He wor made away
wi' for summat at hed nowt to do wi'
no wills!' 'Well, an' what?' says an-
other man. 'Never ye mind!' says t'
first chap. 'What I'm sayin's reight—
ye'll see what he was slain for, i' due
time—ye mark my words!' That's t'
way 'at they will talk, you know, Mr.
Sindal," concluded the landlord as he
left the parlor.
Sindal glanced at Weathershaw when
the landlord had gone.
"That's it!" he said with a grim
laugh. "Talk, talk!—and never any-
thing at the end of it. Well, going to
try this fine old ale ?—cold as snow!"
Weathershaw, who had been looking
out of the window, suddenly moved to
the door.
"A moment!" he said. "Here's my
man!"
He went swiftly out to the road, and
Sindal, looking after him, saw him meet
Hartley, who came quietly along as if
he had no other business in hand than
to call at the inn. Together, the two
men turned aside, and became absorbed
in what was evidently an important con-
versation. Suddenly Weathershaw,
motioning his companion to follow,
turned and strode swiftly back.
"Sindal!" he exclaimed, as he came in,
with Hartley on his heels. "The time's
come for action! Will you ring up the
police at Hallithwaite, and say that you
—they don't or won't know me, so you
must take responsibility—want them to
send up superintendent, inspector, and
a couple of men, plain-clothes men, here
to the Stanbury Arms, at once. Tell
them it's most urgent—I'll tell you why,
after."
Sindal carried away by Weather-
shaw's emphasis, started for the door.
But with his hand on it, he turned, for
one word.
"Arrest?" he asked.
Weathershaw was pouring out a glass
of ale for Hartley. He answered with
equal brevity.
"Probably!" he said.
He glanced at his man when Sindal
had hurried off; Hartley, cool and un-
perturbed, was lifting his glass to his
mouth.
"Two of 'em, then?" said Weather-
shaw.
"Two!" replied Hartley.
"In the same house?"
"In the same house."
"And—both at the same game ?"
"So I found out!"
"We're on the right track, without
doubt," said Weathershaw musingly.
He pulled out his watch. "Those fel-
lows can get up here before ten," he
added. "It'll be about dark by that
time, and 'so—"
58 Exterior to the Evidence
Sindal came hurrying back.
"I say!" he said. "Marrows, the
superintendent, and Calvert, the inspec-
tor, are here in the village now—they're
at the vicarage. I'll run along there and
fetch them. Two other men are com-
ing straight up. Look here!—am I to
tell Marrows anything until—"
"Leave it to me!" broke in Weather-
shaw. "Get him and Calvert here, if
you can, at once. Then—I'll explain.
Where's that telephone ?—I want to ask
Sir Marston to run down here."
Sindal led him into the hall, pointed
out the telephone at the end of it, and
then leaving the house ran along to the
vicarage. And in his excitement on
bursting into the Vicar's study, he did
not at first notice that Birch was there,
and when, turning to look round, he saw
him, he was still so engrossed by the
needs of the moment that he failed to
connect the presence of his brother-
solicitor with that of the police.
"Come away at once, Marrows!" he
repeated. "Both of you!—you're
wanted."
But Marrows was as cool as Sindal
was excited.
"What are we wanted for, Mr. Sin-
dal?" he asked. "We've business here,
yet."
Even then Sindal made no guess at
what was happening. His sole concern
was to get the police to Weathershaw.
"The fact is," he said, seeing that an
explanation was necessary before the
superintendent would move—"the fact
is, Sir Marston and myself have been
employing a private detective in this
business—Weathershaw, of Manchester.
He's made a discovery—I can't tell you
what it is, but I know him well enough
to know that it's highly important. And
he wants your official help—just now.
He wants you to arrest somebody. Two
of your men are coming up now, from
town."
Marrows, who had listened to this
with evident astonishment, glanced at
Calvert and then turned again to Sindal.
"Just step outside a minute, Mr. Sin-
dal," he said. "We'll join you present-
ly. Now, Mr. Birch," he went on, when
Sindal had gone out into the hall,
"you've heard that? I hope there's
something in it, for your sake—for to
tell you the truth, I was just going to
tell you and Mam'selle there that you'd
have to go back to Hallithwaite with
me! But, as things are—will you give
met your word that you'll stop here
until I've seen what this new business
is?"
"With the Vicar's permission,"
answered Birch.
The Vicar waved a hand, implying
consent, and Marrows, after a mo-
ment's hesitation, signed to Calvert to
follow him and joined Sindal.
"Do you know any more than you've
told us, Mr. Sindal?" he asked, as all
three hurried down the road toward the
inn. "I know this Weathershaw by
reputation, but, of course, I'd no knowl-
edge that you were employing him.
What is it he's found out?"
"I've no more idea than you have,"
answered Sindal. But I know that he's
had a theory about this affair from the
time of his arrival, and I'm confident
that he wouldn't want your help unless
he felt sure of what his line is."
"Well, let's hope we're going to have
the thing cleared up!" said Marrows.
"Matters were beginning to look queer
for more than one person, Mr. Sindal."
Sindal made no answer and asked no
question. He hurried on and presently
led his companions into the parlor at
the Stanbury Arms. There, Weather-
shaw, Hartley, and Marston Stanbury,
the latter evidently in a state of high
surprise, stood whispering together on
the hearthrug. All three turned as Sin-
dal entered with the police officials, who
looked with professional interest at the
man who had already made his mark
Exterior to the Evidence 59
as an investigator of crime. And Mar-
rows went straight to the point.
"So this is Mr. Weathershaw, is it?"
he said, with good-natured curiosity.
"Pleased to meet you, sir-—I've heard
a good deal of you, one time or another.
You want our assistance, Mr. Weather-
shaw? Well, now, what's the exact line
you're taking?"
Weathershaw looked round at the
door, which Sindal made haste to close.
"This!" answered Weathershaw, as
the three new-comers closed round him.
"I've just explained it to Sir Marston.
There's a man in this village whom I've
suspected of having a good deal to do
with Sir Cheville Stanbury's death ever
since I began to investigate matters.
I've found out certain things about him
—quite sufficient to warrant his arrest.
And by a piece of rare good luck, I've
found out within this last hour, from
my assistant here, Mr, Hartley, that
the man'si on the point of leaving the
neighborhood, in company with an-
other man who is very probably his
accomplice. Now, I want you to "come
with me to the house where these men
lodge, where I'll put some questions to
the man I chiefly suspect. And if things
go as I think they will, I believe we
shall get at the full truth before the
night's over."
Marrows, who had listened with close
attention to Weathershaw, glanced at
Calvert when the second man was men-
tioned.
"You think—if your conclusions are
right—that there were two men in at
it, Mr. Weathershaw?" he asked.
"Two, yes!" said Weathershaw.
"And of the identity of one I'm pretty
well certain—in fact I am, personally,
quite certain. Of the) second man, I'm
not certain, but I'm not doubtful."
"Aye?—and who's the man you're
certain about, now ?" enquired the super-
intendent. "I know most of the folk
about here. Who is he ?"
Weathershaw lowered his voice as he
looked round the circle of faces.
"A man named Madgwick—one of
Mr. Lucas Etherton's foremen, or over-
lookers," he answered quietly.
There were one or two exclamations
of surprise—and the most surprised man
was Calvert, who, as a resident of
Lithersdale, knew all its people.
"Quiet and steady a man as there is
in the place!" he said. "If it is so—
well, I could scarcely believe it!"
"Just so!" observed Weathershaw
drily. "I think you'll have no room left
for doubt, though. Well—this man
lodges at a certain cottage in Marriner's
Fold, and I want to get up there at
once."
Marrows nodded, and the little com-
pany set out—to be joined outside by
the two men who had come post-haste
from Hallithwaite on Sindal's urgent
summons.
CHAPTER XXIII
Marriner's Fold
By this time, night had fallen over
the valley, not a clear, starlight night,
but a dark, gloomy night wherein the
lights of the little houses and the distant
mills shone but faintly. All was quiet,
on the road and on the hillside up which
Hartley and Calvert presently led them.
Ere very long, these two, walking in
advance, paused, and Calvert pointed to
a group of houses lying a little off the
path in a depression of the ground.
Utter darkness lay over the-houses, save
where the glow of a lamp shone feebly
through a red curtain.
"That's Marriner's Fold," whispered
Calvert, as the rest came up. "That cot-
age where the light's showing is where
Madgwick lodges—the woman's name is
Beckett—widow-woman. There's a
front entrance, here before us, and a
back door, opening on the moor."
"Somebody must go round to that,"
60 Exterior to the Evidence
said Weathershaw. "Don't let's have
any attempt at escape."
Marrows came forward and took
charge. Dividing his party into two sec-
tions, he sent one under Calvert to the
rear of the cottage; with the other he ap-
proached the front door.
"Don't bother to knock, Calvert," he
commanded. "Walk straight in, quietly,
and make for /that room where the
light's burning. We'll do the same at
this side. If there's any attempt to
bolt, stick to whoever makes it."
Marston, following closely upon the
heels of Marrows and Weathershaw, in
company with Sindal, was struck by the
strangeness of the scene on which the
two parties presently converged. There
had been no difficulty about- entering the
cottage; both doors had been open; be-
fore the occupants had time to realize
that strangers were at hand, the men had
stepped quickly down the low-ceilinged
hall and were in the living-room. And
it required but one glance to see that
such a visit as that now in process had
never been expected.
The room, half-parlor, half-kitchen,
comfortable and warm, furnished in the
homely style common to the valley, had
three occupants. One, a placid-faced,
elderly woman, sat in a hooded chair by
the fireside knitting a gray stocking.
At the table in the centre of the room
sat two men quietly eating supper. One
of the two men was in the act of carving
the beef ; the other was fishing out onions
from the jar of pickles; each paused in
his act, open-mouthed, as the captors
crowded swiftly in. And Weathershaw,
swift to note impressions, saw that
while one man's face was instantly
drawn into a scowl of anger, the other's
grew white with fear.
Marrows went straight to the matter
in hand. Before Madgwick could drop
the carving knife the superintendent and
Calvert were on either side of him, close
to his elbows; before the other man
could put down the pickle fork the two
detectives were close to him. And the
first sound was a cry from the woman
by the fire, who hastily dropped her
knitting and rose to her feet.
"All right, missis!" said Marrows,
"No harm intended to you. Now,
Madgwick, my lad!" he went on. "We
want some information out of you. I'd
better tell you straight out—you're sus-
pected of having something to do with
this affair at Black Scar the other night.
Now—keep your hands there on the
table!" he exclaimed peremptorily, as
Madgwick pushed the knife angrily
away from him and made a show of
plunging his hands into his pockets. "I
don't want to search you, just yet, but I
shall if you don't keep quiet. Put your
hands on that table—and keep 'em there
while you answer my questions."
Madgwick laid his hands on the cloth
in front of him. They were steady
enough, but the hands of the other man,
just then bidden to do the same, trem-
bled badly, and his face began to work.
Marrows pointed to him.
"You and this man!" he said, "the
two of you—here, Mrs. Beckett, what's
the name of this other lodger of yours?"
"Stones, sir—Ben Stones," answered
the woman, who was obviously much
upset. "And a quiet enough fellow. Oh,
Madgwick, whatever have you been do-
ing with him—it's ye 'at's led him off,
if—"
"Where's he work?" demanded Mar-
rows.
"At t' Old Mill, sir; Mr. Etherton's,"
replied the landlady. "Same'as Madg-
wick there does. Oh, dear me—"
"Keep quiet, missis," said Marrows.
"Here, I'll ask you a few questions first.
These two have been lodging with you
for some time, haven't they? Aye, just
so—well, now, aren't they going to leave
you a bit suddenly?"
Madgwick turned his head and gave
the landlady a warning frown.
Exterior to the Evidence 61
"Tell him nowt!" he growled. "He's
no power to ax you questions ; now, at
any rate. Say nowt to him—I shan't!"
"We'll see about that, my lad!" said
Marrows. "Come now, missis !"
"Tak' no notice on him, I tell yer!"
exclaimed Madgwick. He gave a glance
of disdain at Stones and changed it to
one of sullen anger as ha regarded
Weathershaw, who was watching him
from across the table. "Ye've no power
to ax questions, Marrows!" he said in-
solently. "I know t' law as well as ye
do. It's that theer damned feller 'at's
setten ye lot on—I thowt he wor a spy
when Etherton browt him into t' mill.
And ye're on t' wrong game—we've
nowt to do wi' t' owd man's death, and
niwer had. So theer!"
"What were you and this chap doing
on the moor on Monday night, with bits
of cloth over your faces?" asked Mar-
rows quietly. "That's a question you'll
find it difficult to answer, my lad!"
No one knew better than Marrows
that this was a shaft drawn and -dis-
charged at a venture. But it went home
:—Madgwick's face fell, in spite of his
bravado; as for Stones, he grew paler
still, and a cry half-escaped his lips.
Madgwick twisted quickly in his chair
and glared at him.
"Ho'd thi damned whist!" he growled.
"Who says we were on t' moor wi' cloth
on our faces ?" he demanded, turning to
the superintendent. "Ye've invented
that—I know your ways!"
"Now then!" said Marrows, suddenly
changing his tone to one of peremptory
decision. "You were both of you pack-
ing up your clothes and things an hour
ago. Where are their things, missis?
Upstairs ? All right—if- that's the atti-
tude you're going to take, Madgwick,
I'll have your things and you taken
straight off to Hallith waite. But—I'm
giving you a chance to speak because I
think there's somebody behind you!"
"Tell you we've nowt to do wi't' owd
man's death!" asserted Madgwick. "I
know no more of how t' owd chap came
to his end at them rocks than Sir Mars-
ton does!"
"Aye, but there's something you do
know," retorted Marrows. "Come,
now!"
"I know this!" said Madgwick. "I
know 'at t' law doesn't allow t' police
to threaten folk!"
"If there's somebody behind you, as I
believe there is," said Marrows, "I'm
giving you a chance to save your own
necks. But if—"
A sudden strange interruption came
from the other side of the table. Stones,
who had never ceased to show signs of
a nervousness almost amounting to ter-
ror since the entrance of the police, sud-
denly lost control of himself and burst
into tears.
"I tell'd thee it 'ud all come out!" he
blubbered, letting his head drop on his
folded arms. "Tha'd far better own up,
and hev done wi' it."
Madgwick's cheeks paled at that, but
the pallor swiftly died away, to be re-
placed by an angry flush.
"Ye damned white-livered rat!" he
hissed. "If I could—"
"But you can't, my lad!" interrupted
Marrows, keeping a watchful eye on his
man's movements. "And you'd better
realize that the game's up—you're going
to Hallith waite, both of you, anyway.
But if there's somebody else—"
Madgwick turned his angry face on
Stones. It was evident to everybody that
the younger man's nerve had gone; he
continued to moan and sob and to roll
his head about between his arms.
"I wish I'd brokken thy neck, Stones,
afore ever I took thee on for a job like
this!" said Madgwick, after a long look
at his accomplice. "Damn thee for a
coward! Well," he went on, raising his
voice and looking defiantly at those
around him, "I reckon 'at if I don't tell
what there is to tell, this here feller will!
62 Exterior to the Evidence
But there's not so much to tell as ye'd
like to hear, Marrows, and if I do start
on I shall tell nowt but t' truth. Ye
can eyther believe it or not, as ye like,
but—it will be t' truth. And I say again
—neyther me nor Stones theer—damn
him!—knows owt at all about what hap-
pened at Black Scar."
"What do you know about ?" de-
manded Marrows.
"Pour me out a glass o' that ale!"
said Madgwick coolly. "And I'll tell
you. But I'll say this first, Mr. Spy!"
he added, when he had drunk the ale
which Calvert handed to him, "when
I've finished wi' this job, whether it's at
ten year end, or five year end, or twelve
month end, thee look out for thisen!
It's thee 'at's done it!—I mistrusted thee
as soon as Etherton browt thee into t'
mill! Thou'rt a sharp 'un, thou art!—
thou went straight to t' root o' t' mat-
ter. He's more brains nor all ye police
put together, hes that feller, Marrows,"
he continued, pointing at Weathershaw.
"He varry soon saw where t' secret
lay!"
"Well, where?" asked Marrows.
Madgwick stared defiantly at his
listeners.
"Why, i' yon invention o' Lucas Eth-
erton's!" he exclaimed. "If he hedn't
started inventin' that theer machine 'at's
in t' strong-room at t' Owd Mill, all this
here 'ud niver ha' happened. Damn t'
machine!—I wish I'd niver heerd tell
on it!"
"Nor me eyther!" sobbed Stones.
"What'll my owd mother say?"
Madgwick gave his accomplice a
glance of scorn, and turned once more
to his captors.
"Ye see," he said, evidently not dis-
pleased to be in the position of narrator,
"when Etherton started makin' yon ma-
chine, t' news filtered out. Not about
t' machine itself, but about t' fact 'at he
wor agate o' makin' summat, and he'd
hed a strong-room built for to mak' it
in. And of course it wor known 'at
he did try at a similar invention some
years ago, and gev' it up, so it were
concluded 'at he wor makin' another
start. Anyway, there's one man i' this
valley 'at's known about it for some
time, and he's t' man 'at's behind all
this."
A dead silence followed on Madg-
wick's last sentence—broken at last by
a groan from Stones and a question
from Marrows.
"What man? Who is he?"
"I shall n't tell you till I've telled all
t' tale," retorted Madgwick. "But—a
man 'at iverybody knows reight well,
an' all! Now then, this man began
tryin' to get round me some time ago,
wantin' to know what I knew about
Etherton's machine, and so on, and he
started hintin' at what he'd pay for t'
knowledge. T' fact o' t' case is, this
man hes an idea of his own, and he
believes 'at Etherton's on t' same idea,
and he wants to be first i't' field, does
this man, not only here, but ower yon-
der i't' United States. An' it come to
this—he offered me a rare lot o' brass
if I could do two things. T' first wor
to get into that theer strong-room se-
cretly, and get a careful look at t'
model; t' second wor to get hold o' t'
drawings and specifications. Well, now,
I did manage, not so long since, to get
into t' strong-room, and I hed a varry
careful look at t' model. But I saw it
wor no good—nobody could tell exactly
what that machine wor, nor how to
mek' it wi'out t' papers—t' drawings
and so on. And of course when I telled
this man that, he wor all the more
anxious 'at I should get 'em, and in
t' end he made me an offer for 'em 'at
nobody but a fool would ha' refused."
"How much?" demanded Marrows.
"Niver ye mind!" retorted Madg-
wick defiantly. "I gotten it, and it's
wheer neyther ye, nor t' spy theer, nor
all t' police i' t' world can get at it,
whether I iver do or not! And now
Exterior to the Evidence 63
I'll tell yer how I got ho'd o' t' papers.
That Monday afternoon, I hed to go to
Etherton's private office i' t' mill. But
I heard voices in Etherton's room, so
I listened a bit, and I heard talk be-
tween him and owd Sir Cheville. An'
it wor just what I wanted, d'ye see?—
Etherton wor talkin' to t' owd feller
about t' machine, and he said he'd have
to let him into t' secret. So I slipped
away, and hid misen where I could see
'em go in and out o' t' strong-room, and
by and by they come there, and they
wor some time in it, and when they
come out/ Sir Cheville wor puttin' a
docket o' papers in his inside breast
pocket. An' I saw then how t' thing
could be done."
Madgwick glanced round the ring of
interested faces with something of an
air of triumph—one listener, at any
rate, saw that, like all criminally-minded
persons, he was intensely vain and
proud of his achievements.
"Nowt could be easier!" he contin-
ued. "I heerd Sir Cheville say that he
were goin' into Hallithwaite for t'
evenin', and 'at t' papers 'ud be safe
enough in his pocket till he could look
at 'em at home. Now I knew his habits
—I knew he'd come home by t' last
train and walk ower t' moor. An' I
knew where he could easily be waylaid
and relieved o' t' papers, and in such a
fashion 'at nobody ud ever know who'd
done it. But I wanted help—and I paid
that theer snivelin' hound for it—paid
him well for t' job!—he's five hundred
pound i' his pocket now! We went up
t' moor about half past eleven, and
waited for t' owd man this side o' Black
Scar: waited behind a bit o' old wall,
and when he came along, I gat him by
t' arms, fro' behind, and Stones there
took t' papers thro' his pocket. He
fought and kicked—but it were all over
in a minute, and we left him. We went
straight away and delivered t' papers—
all 'at we found, will an' all—and I
arranged about payment o' my re-
ward—and I tell you 'at that's all 'at
eyther me or Stones theer knows! We
know nowt about how t' owd man come
to fall ower Black Scar—when we'd
done wi' him, we went our way, and
we left him to go his. Neyther on us
meddled wi' him, except to take t'
papers—that's t' Gospil truth!"
"I never laid a finger on him!" blub-
bered the accomplice. "Npwt but snatch
t' papers out o' t' inside pocket while
Madgwick theer held him !''
"An'—that's all," declared Madgwick.
"Except this," said Marrows. "The
man behind you! Now then, out with
it!"
Madgwick looked round the group
with an evil smile on his face.
"Aye !" he said. "I'll tell now ! Ye'll
be astonished. Sir John Arncliffe!"
CHAPTER XXIV
The Neighbor's Hearth
Weathershaw, to whom the name
which Madgwick has just pronounced
conveyed nothing, was immediately
aware that to the rest of his compan-
ions it meant more than he could ac-
count for. From Marrows, grim and
official, to Marston, excited and eager,
every man started and stared as if a
bomb had fallen on the supper-table;
each caught his breath sharply. A curi-
ous silence fell on the room, broken at
last by an incredulous, contemptuous
exclamation from Sindal.
"Rot!" he said.
Madgwick gave the solicitor a signifi-
cant look.
"I'm tellin' yer!" he answered.
"Ye'll see! That's t' man 'at's been
at t' bottom o' t' job—him and no
other."
Weathershaw nudged the superinten-
dent's elbow.
"Who is he ?" he asked.
"Biggest manufacturer in the dis-
trict—chairman of our bench of magis-
trates—great man altogether," muttered
64 Exterior to the Evidence
Marrows. "And—a client of Mr. Sin-
dal's."
'And I say it's all rot—utter rot!"
exclaimed Sindal, who was obviously
much perturbed. "This fellow's lying!
—to save himself."
"Looks like savin' myself, wi' all you
chaps round me, doesn't it?" sneered
Madgwick. "I'm telling you reight.
Sir John wor t' man 'at set me on to
this here, and 'at paid me an' all!"
"You've proof of this, Madgwick?"
demanded Marrows.
"Proof?—aye, plenty o' proof if,it
comes to it," replied Madgwick. "I
can prove it before and behind!"
"When were you paid ?"
"This very day—-at noon!"
"Where—and how?"
"I met him i' Hallithwaite—never
mind wheer—and he paid me i' notes,
accordin' to t' stippylation 'at I'd made."
"Got any of them?"
"I hev some—not so much," replied
Madgwick. He pointed to Stones, who
was still whimpering and bemoaning his
fate. "He hes more—hes 'em on him
now. Proof ? Aye! An' now 'at ye
know, I don't care what I tell about
Arncliffe, nor what becomes on him!
He were t' main agent—I wor nowt but
t' cat's-paw. An' ye can do nowt much
at me—nor at Stones theer. We'd nowt
to do wi't' owd man's death—we way-
laid him, and took t' papers thro' him,
it's true, but we did no more. It's nowt
but common assault, or highway rob-
bery, or summat o' that sort, at t' warst.
An' ye'll hev to put Arncliff i' t' dock
wi' us, when all's said and done. Damn
thee, spy!" he suddenly broke out, turn-
ing fiercely on Weathershaw. "If tha'd
niver come on t' scene, pokin' thi nose
into t' affair, nob'dy 'ud iver ha' foun'
it all out!"
Marrows turned to one of the detec-
tives.
"Run down to the village and get
the two local police," he said. "And
bring those cars up here, as near as you
can to this place. Calvert!" he went
on. "Take these chaps and their belong-
ings down to the town when you've got
this extra help—one in each car. As
for the rest—"
He motioned Weathershaw to come
close to him.
"I believe what this fellow's let out!"
he whispered. "It explains everything,
to me. Wait till these men are off, and
then—then we'll tackle the man that put
them up to it."
Ten minutes later, when the captives
had been carried off, Marrows led his
reduced party outside the cottage. The
moon had risen over the shoulder of
the moors while they were busied inside,
and in its light the superintendent's
face showed itself unusually grave as
he turned to his companions.
"This is a bad business!" he said in
a low voice. . "Worst business I've ever
known since I came here—and I've
been here thirty years. Sir John Arn-
cliffe, of all men!"
"It's all bosh, Marrows!" exclaimed
Sindal angrily. "I don't believe a word
of it! That fellow's invented it."
Marrows quietly tapped the solicitor's
arm and at the same time gave a know-
ing look at Marston and Weathershaw,
standing by.
"Mr. Sindal!" he said, in a voice full
of conviction. "Yon fellow wasn't in-
venting anything. He just knew the
game was up, and naturally, he turned
on the originator. I believe every word
that Madgwick's told us. Look you
here, Mr. Sindal," he went on, as the
solicitor showed signs of impatience,
"some of us have pretty good memo-
ries. And—this isn't the first time I've
heard of Sir John Arncliffe's trying to
pick other people's brains! You've
heard something of that sort, too, if I'm
not mistaken, Mr. Sindal—come, now!
What about that affair of poor young
Wilson's, some years ago?"
Exterior to the Evidence 65
"Nothing but rumor!" said Sindal.
"A good many folks, in a position to
know, say it was more than rumor,"
retorted Marrows. "They say it was
fact!"
"What was it?" asked Weathershaw.
"I'll tell you," replied Marrows. "Sir
John Arncliffe, as I said, is the biggest
manufacturer in these parts, and he's
always been known as an inventor, too.
Now, some years ago, he'd a very smart,
promising young chap in his mill who,
in his spare time, invented a machine
out of which he expected to make his
fortune. He was fool enough, when
he'd got the thing finished, to take it
one day to Sir John in his private office
—Sir John bade him leave it and he'd
see what could be done. Time passed—
the lad never heard anything. Then it
came out that Sir John had calmly pat-
ented that machine as his own, and he
told Wilson that as he was in his em-
ploy he considered his brains were his,
and threw him a cheque for some two
or three hundred pounds with the re-
mark that he ought to feel thankful for
it. Now, this Wilson was a high-strung
sort of chap—and he went home and
shot himself! That's that story, and
it makes me believe—"
"It's only one side of it!" said Sindal.
"Sir John had another."
"Aye, well!" remarked Marrows.
"I'm going to know what Sir John's
got to say to what we've just heard.
Yon's his house," he continued, pointing
to the lights of a large mansion which
stood a little beyond Low Hall. "I'm
going there at once. There's going to
be no trifling in this, Mr. Sindal."
"Stop a bit!" said Sindal. "Look
here!—we don't want such a scandal
as this'll cause, if there's any reason-
able explanation of it. Now, let me go
to him—quietly. Then—"
Marston suddenly came to the front.
"No, by George!" he exclaimed.
"None of that, Sindal! After what
I've heard, I agree with Marrows.
Come on, Marrows!"
"Yes, I'm going, Sir Marston," as-
sented the superintendent. "What do
you say, Mr. Weathershaw?"
"If you want to know what I say,"
answered Weathershaw, who had lis-
tened in silence, "I say this—I don't
know what we're waiting for! I
haven't the least doubt of this man's
guilt."
"Come along, then," said Marrows.
"It's only a stone's throw."
But Sindal hung back.
"Please yourselves, then!" he said,
suddenly. "I'm not going! Sir John
Arncliffe's my client, and—"
He turned and walked away in the
direction of the village, and Marrows
glanced at his companions.
"Bread-and-butter!" he remarked
significantly.
"Look here!" said Weathershaw, as
they approached the gates of a big
house built amidst groves of trees on a
shelving edge of the moor. "A question
before we go in: Is Sir John a member
of the club?"
"Yes!" answered Marston. "In and
out every day—spends half his time
there."
"That explains it, then," observed
Weathershaw. "He put Sir Cheville's
will in the locker. Deep!"
"Oh, he's deep enough!" muttered
Marrows. "Deep and sly. Well, now
for it. See!—you gentlemen just stand
back a bit while I ask at the door for
him. If he's in, I'll make an excuse for
all three of us to see him."
Marston and Weathershaw drew
back under the trees of the avenue while
Marrows went up to the front door. It
opened; a man in livery appeared; after
a brief conversation with him Marrows
came back, a curious smile on his face.
"Not in!" he said in a whisper. "And
where on earth do you think he is? At
Mr. Etherton's, at Low Hall! Gad!—
B.M.—Aug.—5
66 Exterior to the Evidence
that's the height of impudence, I'm
thinking. To go and call in neighborly
fashion on the man whose ideas he's
been thieving!"
"Come on!" growled Marston, with
a certain grim determination.
Half-way up the path to Low Hall,
Weathershaw called his companions to
a halt.
"If Mr. Marrows has no objection,"
he said, "I'd like to take this part of the
game in hand."
"No objection whatever," replied
Marrows. "But—give us an inkling."
"Let Sir Marston take us in," con-
tinued Weathershaw. "Let him—if we
find Sir John there—just say, casually,
to Mr. Etherton that we've been making
an enquiry or two up this way, and that
we thought we'd just drop in to give
him the latest news. Then—leave it to
me to talk. And, while I talk, you keep
your eyes on Sir John and see how he
takes it."
"Aye, aye!" agreed Marrows. "I see
—you'll lead up to the climax, eh?
Good notion! Well, Sir Marston, you'll
take us in then."
Marston quietly opened the .front
door, and led his companions down the
thickly carpeted passage to a door at
the rear of the house. He opened this
without ceremony and walked in. Mar-
rows and Weathershaw, at a sign from
him, followed close on his heels and
were in the room, with the door closed
behind them, before its occupants had
realized their presence.
It was a peaceful, domestic scene on
which they entered. In his own easy-
chair Etherton was smoking his favor-
ite briar pipe; near him Letty, in an-
other, was busied with some fancy-
work ; on the opposite side of the hearth
a short, stout, consequential-looking
man, whose mutton-chop whiskers gave
him something of an aggressive air and
whose eyes were small and sly, lolled
back in a big lounge, fingering a long,
recently-lighted cigar. Weathershaw's
glance went to him at once; somewhat
to his surprise, the man showed no sign
whatever of either interest or astonish-
ment at his sudden invasion.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Etherton, looking
round as the three men advanced.
"What brings you here?"
"Oh, nothing particular," answered
Marston, playing up to his part. "We've
been making an enquiry or two round
about, and we thought we'd just drop in
and give you a bit of news."
"News, eh!" said Etherton, handing
glasses to his guests, and pushing the
cigar-box near to them. "Aye—any-
thing fresh?"
"Weathershaw's made a few discov-
eries that he might tell about," said
Marston, nodding at the agent.
"We were just talking about it, Sir
John and I," remarked Etherton, resum-
ing his seat. "Sir John's not so very
hopeful about a complete solution. He
thinks there's a good deal deep down."
Marrows gave Weathershaw a quiet
kick under the table.
"A long way beneath the surface,
you think, Sir John?" he asked.
"Deeper than most of you fellows
would fancy," asserted Sir John, in a
half-confidential, half-knowing voice.
He looked round the half-circle of faces,
from Marrows at the table to Marston
in the corner, and winked his small right
eye. "Deep business!" he said. "My
impression—somebody wanted—badly—
to know contents of that will? D'ye see?
Somebody—clear away from the sur-
face view of things—outsider! Eh!
Will!—that's it. Will at the bottom of
the whole thing. My decided belief—
that!"
"You think Sir Cheville Stanbury
was attacked for the sake of the will,
sir?" said Weathershaw.
Sir John favored the stranger with
a lofty, supercilious glance, and nodded
his head.
Exterior to the Evidence 67
"I do!" he answered. "Tust said
so!"
Weathershaw reached for the cigars,
selected one, quietly lighted it, and be-
gan to smoke. He let a minute pass—
in silence.
"Well, I know he wasn't!" he said
suddenly, in sharp, staccato accents.
Etherton twisted round in his chair,
and Letty looked up from her work.
But Sir John, who, it was evident to
Marrows and Weathershaw, had dined
pretty freely, and was in a state of great
confidence, smiled disdainfully.
"Ah, you do, do you ?" he said. "Well
—no offence—don't know you at all,
you know—you're young! Young—
and confident, eh?"
"Confident about what I know," re-
torted Weathershaw.
"And what's that?" asked Etherton.
He was watching the detective keenly,
and as he watched, he fancied that he
saw a certain glance, which might have
been a signal, exchanged between him
and Marrows. "Sir Marston says you
might tell us something?"
"Yes!" answered Weathershaw. "I
can—now. But"—he paused and waved
his cigar in Sir John Arncliffe's direc-
tion—"as this gentleman thinks I'm
young and1—as he puts it—confident,
perhaps you'd better tell him, Mr.
Etherton, that I've been on this job—
professionally!"
"Mr. Weathershaw is a private de-
tective," said Etherton, looking at his
guest. "With a reputation!"
Sir John nodded—indulgently. Then
he shook his head again.
"No good!" he said. "Too deep—
deep down!"
Etherton smiled at Weathershaw.
"What do you know ?" he asked.
"To start with, this," responded
Weathershaw. "I know—for a fact,
now—why Sir Cheville Stanbury was
attacked on the night of his death. It
was not for any reason but one. What
his assailants wanted was—your
papers!"
CHAPTER XXV
Denounced
Weathershaw let his gaze wander
round to the consequential little man on
the lounge as he made this announce-
ment. And he immediately realized
something which at that moment was
sorely puzzling Marrows and arousing
astonishment in Marston. There was
not the slightest sign of surprise in Sir
John Arncliff e's face, and Weathershaw
suddenly knew why. Here before him
was another of those men who, born
schemers and plotters, cannot believe
that their plans can miscarry. Sir John
Arncliffe, said Weathershaw to himself,
was at that moment assuring his own
mind that the secret was safe between
Madgwick, Stones, and himself, and
would never, could never be revealed.
From that point Weathershaw began to
take an almost malicious pleasure in
unfolding his story in the presence of
the man who as yet had no suspicion
that he was concerned in it.
"When I was called into this case,"
continued Weathershaw, "I began my
work on it by reading every available
account of the inquest held on Sir
Cheville Stanbury. And I very quickly
came to the conclusion that the true ob-
ject of whoever it was that assailed Sir
Cheville on his homeward way that
night was, as I have just said, the pa-
pers relating to your invention. I had
heard, more than once, of the efforts
made by men who wished to steal the
secret of a really important invention,
and I was sure that in this case there
was somebody, behind the scenes, who
wanted, ardently, to rob you of yours!"
Weathershaw paused for a moment
and looked round. He had already got
the attention of his audience. But he
was chiefly interested in two of its
68 Exterior to the Evidence
members. Etherton had twisted round
in his chair and was watching him with
a puzzled frown on his face; Sir John
Arncliffe was lying comfortably back
against the padded lounge on which he
lolled, placidly complacent, and evident-
ly sure of his own safety.
"Now that," resumed Weathershaw,
"that pre-supposed that somebody—one
person, or two persons, or even more—
knew that you were busy with an inven-
tion. It seemed to me that such persons
must be in close touch with you; per-
sons, probably, who were employed by
you. Well, there was your clerk, Pike
—from what one could gather of the
evidence at the inquest, Pike seemed a
likely person to suspect. And I was sus-
pecting Pike when I called on you,
heard your story, and got you to show
me your strong-room, and to lend me
the key of it. But at that stage, two
things happened in quick succession.
The fact was this—my first proceeding
on getting into that strong-room was to
closely examine the key you had given
me, and the lock into which it fitted.
If you have that key on you, Mr. Ether-
ton, please hand it to me for a minute."
Etherton drew a key from his pocket
and passed it across in silence. Weather-
shaw held it up.
"Now, you'll all notice," he contin-
ued, "that this key is of very intricate
workmanship. As you see, it is cut out
of the steel in a fashion which left what
we will call niches and crevices. And
I'm sure you'd never noticed it, Mr.
Etherton, but in one of those crevices
I, immediately on making a close in-
spection of the key, discovered a tiny,
almost minute, fragment of wax—
green, soft wax. I knew, then, that the
key had been out of your possession,
and that whoever had had it possessed
it long enough to take an impression of
it, in wax. A fragment—the merest
fragment—of wax had adhered in one
of the crevices—there it was!"
Once more Weathershaw paused.
And now he noticed that the man in
whom he was particularly concerned
had removed the big cigar from his lips
and was listening more attentively.
"The next thing to do," he went on,
"was to find out who had taken that
impression. Clearly, it was somebody
who very much wanted to get into your
strong-room—to see the machine. That
somebody was a person about your
premises. I recognized that it would
probably be a very difficult matter to
fasten on the right person. But here
again chance favored me. You'll re-
member that when you took me to the
floor where that strong-room is situated,
you called one of your overlookers, a
man named Madgwick, to you, and told
him I was seeing about some altera-
tions and was to look round where I
liked. Well, after coming out, I saw
a man's coat hanging on a peg. I slipped
a hand into the inside pocket, found
some odd scraps of paper, and some
letters addressed to Madgwick, at Mrs.
Beckett's, Marriner's Fold. And on at
least three of the odd scraps of paper
there were rough pencil sketches of the
wards of a key—the very key which I
held in my possession !"
"God bless my soul!" muttered
Etherton. "A fellow that I'd have
trusted—"
"I saw through the whole thing,
then," continued Weathershaw, holding
up a finger to bespeak silence and atten-
tion. "This man had got your key at
some time, and had taken a wax im-
pression of it. But he didn't dare to
take that wax impression to any lock-
smith !—that would have been too dan-
gerous. So what he'd done was to make
a drawing of the wax model, practising
it over and over again until he'd got
something sufficiently accurate to work
upon. And just as the cleverest and
most careful criminals invariably forget
some slight detail in their schemes, so
Exterior to the Evidence 69
he, whose first crooked job this prob-
ably was, had forgotten to destroy the
results of his practice!"
"The unexpected!" muttered Mar-
rows. "Will come in!—many an in-
stance of it!"
"I was certain I was on the right
track then," Weathershaw went on.
"And the next thing to do was to find
out all I could about Madgwick. It
would never have done to do this my-
self—I couldn't go openly, or, indeed,
in any way, about Lithersdale. So I
telephoned to my office in Manchester
for an assistant of mine, Mr. Hartley,
who's very clever at making himself up
as a working man. I told Hartley to
join me in Hallithwaite at once. And in
the meantime, while I waited for him in
the town, I went round the locksmiths
there—working locksmiths, you know,
some nine or ten of them—to try to
find out if Madgwick had had a key
made by one of their number. I hit on
the man at the end of my round, a man
named Nicholson, in Back Lane. I had
to tell him who I was and what I was
after before I could get any informa-
tion from him, but he gave it freely in
the end."
Weathershaw held up the key which
Etherton had handed over, and profess-
ing to look at it, glanced at the man on
the lounge. Sir John's cigar had gone
out, but as yet Weathershaw saw no
sign of fear or of anxiety in his face.
"Nicholson," continued Weather-
shaw, "made a duplicate of this key for
Madgwick not so very long ago. Madg-
wick went to him with a pencil sketch
of a key and asked him if he could
make a key from it. He said it was for
Mr. Etherton. Nicholson made a key
from the drawing. Madgwick took that
key back twice, to be filed at one or two
points. He called again, said the key
was then all right, and paid for it."
"Bless me!" said Etherton. "Couldn't
have believed it I"
"But now," Weathershaw went on,
"I had to think out the probable course
of events. I'd no doubt that Madgwick
had looked over your machine carefully.
But I know that a man can't get at the
secret of a machine by seeing a model.
And Madwick wanted more—he
wanted the papers!—the drawings, the
specifications. Now, I had a theory. It
occurred to me that possibly Madgwick
was in collusion with Pike. Now Pike,
as I had learned, had been present, hid-
den behind a curtain, at the interview
between you, Mr. Etherton, and Sir
Cheville Stanbury, and had probably
heard your talk about the machine and,
further, had heard you say that you
would give your papers to Sir Cheville
to look through. I figured that Pike
had told Madgwick of this, and that the
two, knowing Sir Cheville's habits very
intimately, had agreed to waylay him
on his way home, and to take the papers
from him. That was my theory, up to
a certain time this evening."
Weathershaw paused for a moment
—to take a mouthful from the glass
which Etherton had placed before him
on his first entrance. His movement
seemed to remind Sir John Arncliffe
that he, too, had a glass near him; as
if mechanically, he took it up, drained
its contents, and then sat, empty glass in
hand, staring at Weathershaw as the
agent resumed his story.
"At that point," continued Weather-
shaw, "my man Hartley arrived,
dressed like a respectable artisan. I
gave him certain information and in-
structions, and sent him on to Lithers-
dale, where, in the role of a man seek-
ing lodgings, he was to go to Marriner's
Fold and see if he could find out any-
thing at all about Madgwick's move-
ments. In company with Mr. Sindal,
I followed Hartley to the village, later.
He came to me at the Stanbury Arms,
and told me that he'd had the best of
luck already. He'd gone to Mrs. Bee-
70 Exterior to the Evidence
kett's, professing- that he'd heard she
might have lodgings to let—she'd told
him at once that she would have in a
day or two, for two of her lodgers were
leaving, and were at that moment pack-
ing up. She showed him the room he
could have—Madgwick was even then
putting his luggage together in it. Hart-
ley had a bit of talk with him, pretend-
ing to ask how he'd liked the place; he
gathered that Madgwick might be leav-
ing next day—he'd got a much better
job, he said, elsewhere. So Hartley re-
turned to me—and I determined to act
at once. Mr. Sindal had heard that Su-
perintendent Marrows and Inspector
Calvert were in the village; he fetched
them to the inn; we were joined there
by two detectives, and in company with
Sir Marston Stanbury, for whom I'd
telephoned, we all went up to Marriner's
Fold."
Etherton was getting excited. He had
risen from his chair and was following
Weathershaw's story with approving
nods of the head. And from time to
time he turned to Sir John with a smile
as if to invite him to join in his own
approval; but Sir John by that time was
watching the narrator as if something
in Weathershaw's speech and manner
fascinated him.
"We went straight into Mrs. Beck-
ett's," continued Weathershaw, becom-
ing more terse and emphatic. "Two
men were there at supper: one, Madg-
wick ; the other, a younger man, Stones.
Madgwick was defiant, insolent, even
certain of himself. But the other man
suddenly gave way—nerves! Then
Madgwick—as cool a scoundrel as ever
I saw!—made a full confession. All,"
added Weathershaw, with a meaning
look, "all but one thing!"
"What—what?" exclaimed Etherton
excitedly.
"The name of the man who had been
behind him!" replied Weathershaw.
"I knew well enough that Madgwick
had not started this affair himself. He'd
been bribed. He admitted he'd been
bribed. He admitted the truth of all
that I'd suspected. He and Stones had
waylaid Sir Cheville, not at Black Scar,
but on the moor; had taken the papers
from him; had handed them over to the
man who wanted them; had received
their pay! They were, in a sense, cats-
paws. But there was a hand behind—
a man, Mr. Etherton, who was willing
to do anything, pay anything, to get at
your valuable secret!"
"In God's name, who ?" demanded
Etherton.
Sir John looked across at Weather-
shaw. And Weathershaw, in that
glance, learned another lesson in psychol-
ogy. Even now, the rich man was trust-
ing in his riches to deliver him!—
Weathershaw realized that the chief
culprit was still so confident of the
power of his money that he believed
that the price he had paid, the price he
might pay in the future, had kept and
would keep his name out of the matter.
And suddenly he spoke and those who
knew the secret felt a sense of disgust
to hear a note of sneering self-satisfac-
tion in his voice.
"He's just told you that they wouldn't
give any name!" said Sir John. "Natu-
rally Madgwick wouldn't! Likely thing
is, Etherton, my lad, that there's no
name to give."
Weathershaw found Marrows's out-
stretched foot under the table, and gave
it a quiet kick with one of his own. He
rose slowly to his feet, and Marrows
rose, too. So, also, did Marston.
"No!" said Weathershaw, looking
across, past Etherton, to his guest. "I
said Madgwick wouldn't give the name
in his confession. But he gave it when
his confession was finished! And—full
proof! Do you want to hear it? Your
name, then!—Sir John Arncliffe! Mr.
Etherton, that's the man who has your
papers! That's the man who put Sir
Exterior to the Evidence 71
Cheville Stanbury's will back in the
locker at the club ! That's the man who's
responsible—how far, God only knows!
-—for the old man's death ! Now—let
him speak!"
Etherton, as soon as Sir John's name
had fallen from Weathershaw's lips, had
drawn away from him ; Letty had stolen
up to her father's side and slipped
her hands through his arm; their eyes
were fixed on the accused man; so
were the eyes of the other
three.
"Now then?" said Etherton, at last.
"You hear?"
Sir John got to his feet. There was
no natural dignity in his short and stout
figure, but he endeavored to look stern
and magisterial.
"I'd best be going," he said. "It seems
as if there was likely to be naught but
insults and accusations under this roof!
However, there's some of you'll
hear something from my lawyer to-
morrow, and—but I'll bid you good
night."
"Not just yet, Sir John!" said Mar-
rows quietly. "I know my duty! You'd
far better answer a few questions, Sir
John—you had, indeed! Now, about
those papers?"
Weathershaw suddenly laughed;
something in the sound made the ac-
cused man start and look at him with
the first signs of real fear.
"I shouldn't wonder if he has the
papers on him!" said Weathershaw.
"Pity you can't search him here and
now, Marrows!"
He had forgotten that there was
young and impulsive blood at his elbow.
Before any of them could move, Mars-
ton, whose fingers had been itching for
the last few minutes, had thrust a hand
into the inner pocket of Sir John's coat.
Drawing out a quantity of papers, he
flung them on the table, and Etherton, a
second later, held up three folded docu-
ments.
"Here they are!" he said quietly.
A few minutes later, when Marrows
and Weathershaw had taken Sir John
Arncliffe away, and Marston and Letty
had slipped off into the adjacent draw-
ing-room, Etherton, with a look round
the scene of recent action, drew back
the curtains of his window, opened the
casement, and leaned out to look over
the moonlit valley beneath his house.
His heart was full of loathing and bit-
terness—until he suddenly remembered
that close behind him was youth and
love, and that it was better to think of
both than of the treachery and greed
which had just been led away from his
door.
The Failure
By Harold Ward
AMOS DUNCAN paused for a
second beside the time clock in
the hallway just outside the
offices of Carney & Kirk. Then,
his heart beating like a trip hammer, he
mustered up courage enough to push
open the swinging doors and peep into
the gloomy interior.
He was frightened—scared to the
point of hysteria. Yet for thirty years
he had stopped in that selfsame place
in the hallway morning and noon on
his way to work. For thirty years, fifty-
two weeks in the year, six days a week
and twice each day had he sought his
number on the time clock and pushed
the button which registered his comings
and his departures. Instinctively—for
figures were one of his hobbies—he
made the calculation in his head:
Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and
twenty times had he pushed his way
through those doors.
And never before—except possibly
the first time when he had applied for
a place with the firm—had he been as
frightened as he was now.
For this was the first time he had
ever come to rob!
Getting a grip on himself, he entered
the big office on tiptoe—an office cover-
ing nearly one-fourth of a city block—
yet he knew that old Bill Judkins, the
watchman, would be making his rounds
out in the factory at that particular
hour. It was a part of his daily work
to check up the dial on the night watch-
man's clock; he knew that the old man
traveled as true to schedule as a mail
train.
He halted just inside the doors and
listened, his eyes taking in every one of
the familiar details. From where Kei
stood he could discern the dark shapes
of row after row of desks, each identi-
cal in size and finish with its mates.
Around two sides of the big room were
innumerable cubby holes of offices di-
vided from each other by ground glass
partitions extending two-thirds of the
way to the ceiling. During working
hours they housed the elite of the office
world—the men and women who had
pushed their heads above those of their
fellows.
His own desk was second from the
front in the second row from the right
just inside the cashier's cage—a huge
affair of wire netting and glass. It gave
him renewed courage for the task ahead
as he gazed upon its outlines staring at
him out of the darkness. For twenty-
seven years—since the day of his pro-
motion from the office boy ranks—he
had occupied that desk, or one like it,
in Carney & Kirk's office, giving to Car-
ney & Kirk the best of his manhood for
starvation wages and two weeks' vaca-
tion yearly on pay. Others had gone
over his head—scores of them—men no
better fitted than he—young cubs with
"pull" or a college education. He had
long since given up hopes of promotion.
He had reached the point where he was
a mere cog in the machine—a fizzle and
a failure.
In ninety-nine cases out of every
hundred when a man goes wrong a
woman is responsible. In Amos Dun-
can's case the woman was—Mrs. Amos
Duncan!
A downtrodden cog in an office ma-
chine—a man with little force of char-
acter in the beginning—henpecked at
72
The Failure 73
home and abroad, Duncan held to the
firm opinion that his wife had conferred
a favor upon him by marrying him. The
fact that he had rescued her from a life
of drudgery in the shipping room o£
the factory changed his opinion not one
iota. Nor did Mrs. Duncan fail to keep
his memory refreshed whenever oppor-
tunity offered itself.
Amos Duncan longed to appear as a
hero in the eyes of his wife. It had
taken him two years to screw up his
courage to the point of robbing Carney
& Kirk. Yet he had planned the affair
so often that he knew he would be abso-
lutely above suspicion. And with the
money once in his hands, he could hide
it until all memory of the affair had
blown over and then, with a carefully
concocted story of a lucky speculation
on 'Change, resign and migrate to some
distant city to spend his declining years
in ease with the lady who had assumed
his name.
Carney & Kirk always paid off in
cash. Duncan knew that there was close
to fifty thousand dollars in the vault
ready to go into the pay envelopes in
the morning. As assistant cashier and
one of the old timers with the firm he
had been entrusted with the combina-
tion. He had read that skilled burglars
are able to open vaults by listening to
the whirl of the mechanism. A rag sat-
urated with alcohol would do away with
tell-tale finger prints. The police would
think the robbery the work of a profes-
sional.
Still walking on his toes, he worked
his way through the maze of desks to
the big vault in the rear of the office
behind the cashier's cage. Taking a
tiny flashlight from his pocket, he
pressed the button and allowed the
stream of light to play over the dial,
while he manipulated the affair with
fingers that trembled as from the ague.
It refused to work. ... In his nervous-
ness he had gone past the number. He
took a deep breath and with the sweat
standing out in great beads upon his
face, attacked the job again. . . .
Someone was entering the office
through one of the rear doors leading
from the factory!
He stopped for a second. Then, as
he heard the footsteps coming toward
him in the darkness, he leaped outside
the cage and drew his revolver. He had
never fired a gun in his life. He had
bought this one—a cheap, second-hand
affair—merely as a matter of precaution
and because he knew that burglars al-
ways carried such weapons.
From out of the darkness came a
flash ! A report! A bullet sped past his
head and flattened itself against the
vault door! It must be that Judkins,
the faithful, had heard something suspi-
cious and had entered. He longed to
call out to the watchman his name. . . .
The realization of his mission in the
office at that time of the night stopped
him. Involuntarily, he gave a little
squeak of fear. A second bullet passed
unpleasantly near.
Instinctively—just as a cornered rat
will fight—so his finger pressed the trig-
ger of his own gun. He fired aimlessly
in the general direction of the other,
dodging from desk to desk, knocking
over chairs. . . . He was in a panic of
fear.
The other's fire ceased suddenly.
From out of the darkness across the
great room came a dull, throaty cry.
Something metallic jangled against the
tiled floor. An instant later it was
followed by a heavier body—a body
that crashed against a desk as it
dropped.
Duncan leaped through the folding
doors and out into the hallway again.
To unlock the outer door and dash out
onto the sidewalk was but the work of
an instant. . . . Around the corner he
heard the shrill whistle of the police-
man on the beat as, attracted by the
74 The Failure
shots, he came lumbering along signal-
ling for his mate. . . .
He dodged into the shadow and
turned into the alley. Behind him he
could hear the policeman hammering on
the office door with his night stick.
From two blocks down street came the
sound of another whistle. In the dis-
tance a third shrilled, proving that re-
inforcements were on the way.
Mrs. Duncan was sleeping soundly
when he arrived home after a round-
about trip through alleys and side
streets. Letting himself into the house
with his pass key, he hastily sought the
security of his own room.
So far as he knew no one had seen
him either going to the factory nor leav-
ing it. But, God! What a fizzle he had
made of the affair. And there was blood
on his hands—the blood of poor old
Judkins. What had he gained? Nothing
—absolutely nothing.
He paced the floor, every nerve tin-
gling. He wondered. . . . Poor old
Judkins. . . . And he had a crippled
wife, too. . . . With Judkins gone she
would have to go to the poorhouse. . . .
It was something that he had not fore-
seen.
He was still pacing the floor when the
sun came up in the east. In the other
room he heard Mrs. Duncan getting up.
In less than two hours he would have to
go to the office. Of course no one would
suspect him, but—
He could hear Mrs. Duncan rattling
the pots and pans in the kitchen when
the door bell rang. He opened the bed-
room door a crack and peeped through
as she answered the summons. A gruff
voice was asking for him. He heard her
admit the visitors—there seemed to be
two of them—then she called shrilly up
the stairway for him.
He knew that they were detectives
from their heavy tread. They were after
him for killing Judkins. His brain was
in a whirl. Yet he wondered how it
happened that they associated him
with the crime. He had been so care-
ful, too. Probably he had dropped
something in his mad rush to the outer
door.
He could never face the music. . . .
And Mrs. Duncan! What would she
say? He couldn't tell her that he had
gone to the office to rob the vault for
her sake and had made a failure. . . .
The gun lay in the bureau drawer
where he had tossed it. He picked it up
and broke it open. The chambers were
all empty. He had used every cartridge
in killing poor old Judkins. . . .
From downstairs came a buzz of con-
versation. Mrs. Duncan shrieked. . . .
He heard his own name mentioned. . . .
God! They had told her what he had
done! . . . He must move rapidly.
His glance fell upon a bottle of car-
bolic acid. . . . Mrs. Duncan was at the
bottom of the stairway now, shrieking
his name. . . . He placed the bottle to
his mouth and emptied it at a gulp! . . .
With the fiery liquid eating into his
vitals—his throat afire—he reeled across
the room and tumbled in a heap upon
the bed. . . .
Outside, Mrs. Duncan was pounding
at his door.
"Amos! Wake up!" she was shout-
ing between sobs—for Mrs. Duncan
was a hysterical woman—"an awful
thing's happened. There are two de-
tectives here. Old man Judkins went
home sick from the factory last night
and while he was gone somebody broke
into the office! The robbers had a fight
'cause one of them was found dead
when the police broke in after hearing
the shots!
"Enright, the cashier, is out of town
and they want you to come down and
open the vault and see if anything is
gone. Oh, isn't it awful?
"Amos, why don't you answer?"
The Explosive Gentleman
By J. J. Stagg
I
THE steak was ordered well done
and the waiter served it rare.
This incident gave the initial im-
petus to a most terrible catas-
trophe. That so small a matter could
lead to such appalling results was due
entirely to the character and tempera-
ment of Ralph Kremp.
That young man was of the hyper-
neurotic, tempestuous type. That is, he
was easily excitable and given to acting
on impulse rather than on reason. Little
provocation was needed to drive him in-
to a rage. His temper once aroused,
soon got beyond his control and fre-
quently led him into deeds of passion
and even violence. His anger at times
was sustained through protracted per-
iods, a feature which sometimes induced
those with whom he came in contact on
such occasions to doubt his sanity.
The affair in the restaurant was
characteristic. Kremp made a caustic
remark concerning the waiter's atten-
tiveness. The waiter who was an extra,
and indifferent to the prospect of losing
his job, commented slurringly on the
fastidiousness of diners who "couldn't
tell a sirloin steak from an oyster fry
anyway."
A less combative person would prob-
ably have reported the waiter to the
management. Ralph Kremp began a
spirited denunciation and in his excite-
ment he rose from his chair. The waiter
a bit frightened, put out a hand as in a
calming gesture. His movement was a
trifle too hurried and forceful. He had
the ill-fortune to touch Kremp on the
chest while he was slightly off balance.
The light push was sufficient to upset
Kremp altogether and to topple him
back into his chair. It was a ludicrous
fall and caused several Other diners to
laugh.
That was the spark which ignited the
consuming flame of Kremp's fury. He
seized a heavy water tumbler and hurled
it at the waiter. The aim was a trifle
high. The glass tore a piece from the
waiter's scalp. A few women screamed,
several men jumped up and other wait-
ers came running from different direc-
tions.
Kremp threw himself in a low tackle
at the object of his wrath. They hit the
floor together and rolled around. Fists,
elbows, knees and feet were used as
weapons. A table was overturned. The
struggle continued beneath the debris.
The waiter eventually fought himself
free. He staggered to his feet and re-
treated. Kremp attempted to renew the
assault but was set upon by several
diners and restaurant employees. With
a madman's strength he tried to fight
them off. Before he was finally sub-
dued, two waiters and three diners bore
unmistakable marks of severe maltreat-
ment. In the confusion someone had
telephoned to the police. Kremp and
the waiter were placed under arrest.
At the police station Kremp affected
great indignation and was insulting in
his manner and language to the lieu-
tenant. He claimed to be connected
with one of the best families in the city.
He demanded the privilege of calling
up Mr. Walter Boyer on the phone.
Walter Boyer, he bragged, was his
cousin and he had pull enough to break
any man on the force. None of the
75
76 The Explosive Gentleman
officers appeared to worry any over the
threat of being broken. Nevertheless
the mention of Boyer's name did create
something of a stir. The Boyers were
shipbuilders, multi-millionaires and for
several generations prominent in the
social and political life of the city.
Owing to Kremp's extreme nervous-
ness and agitation, he could not control
his voice. He was finally compelled to
request the lieufenant to speak for him.
The lieutenant spoke for some five
minutes and then listened for some
twenty seconds. Then turning to
Kremp, he said:
"Mr. Boyer asked me to tell you that
he thinks you are a lunatic and that he
has tired of helping you out of your
foolish scrapes."
Kremp was found guilty of disorder-
ly conduct and sentenced to six months.
Thus his exaggerated ego was humili-
ated beyond forgetting or forgiving.
He suffered all the persecutory delu-
sions of a madman. He imagined the
Boyer family to be the central moving
figure in the conspiracy against him.
Every day he hated the Boyers more till
at length he could think of nothing but
revenge.
And in his anger and hate he ac-
complished that which in his saner mo-
ments had been beyond him. His entire
character seemed to change. Formerly
irritable and irascible, he now became
patient and forbearing. This change
was his first step in his yet indefinite
plan for vengeance.
Kremp's mother had been the sister
of the older Boyer. After she died
Boyer's sons and Kremp were the only
blood relatives.
Old Mr. Boyer accepted Kremp's
postures of repentance as being sincere.
After Kremp had behaved himself for
three months after his release, Boyer
offered him a clerical position. When
Kremp made good at the work, the old
gentleman again invited his nephew to
his home. It was then that Kremp's
criminal plans began to assume a defi-
nite outline.
He plotted with a madman's cunning
and patience. Scheme after scheme was
discarded because it was not safe
enough or not cruel enough. And sev-
eral ideas were dismissed because they
were not inclusive. It would have given
him no satisfaction to hurt one of the
boys. His feud was with the family.
It came to him at last—what he con-
sidered an inspiration. He realized that
a set of circumstances could be utilized
in a crime of a sweeping, all-destructive
nature. With one stroke he could an-
nihilate the entire Boyer family. Be-
sides being emotionally gratifying,
it would also be a profitable venture.
If the Boyer family were destroyed, he,
as the only blood relative, would inherit
the family fortune of over twenty mil-
lion.
This is the scene which had become
impressed on Kremp's mind: The elder
Boyer was an old-fashioned gentleman
and had retained many of the customs
and habits of his parents. Among his
idiosyncrasies was the one of using can-
dle lights. In the music room four silver
candlesticks ornamented the mantel-
piece. Red candles, about an inch in
diameter, were used.
After dinner the Boyers generally
spent half an hour in the music room.
The electric lights were extinguished
and the elder Mr. Boyer lighted the four
candles. This act was something in the
nature of a ceremony. A soft light was
thrown on the room and a quiet, do-
mestic atmosphere was created.
How Kremp intended to use this
setting for his crime will be clear from
the rehearsal of his actions.
II
Mr. Lewis Brophy was a highly re-
spected man—in some circles. He was
The Explosive Gentleman 77
a man of many and variegated accom-
plishments all of which were conducive
to inconvenience or ill-health, and some-
times even worse, to those on whom
Mr. Brophy practiced. Mr. Brophy
seldom 'sought acquaintances outside of
his own set. Sometimes, however, he
was sought. He could supply necessities
of a certain kind and he was not partic-
ular whom he served so long as he was
paid well for it.
A pickpocket whom he had met in
jail had introduced Kremp to Brophy.
On his third visit to the room of the
thug the latter passed over a small glass
bottle filled with yellowish liquid.
Kremp was highly interested in the con-
tents of the bottle and listened atten-
tively to Mr. Brophy's recital of the
peculiar properties and characteristics
of the contents.
"I boiled it down from dynamite,"
explained Mr. Brophy. "And now you
better be careful how you handle it.
Nitroglycerine is a damn tricky stuff.
And don't get the fool idea that it al-
ways explodes on concussion. That's
what a lot of story writers think—that
any jar is bound to set the stuff off. It
might explode on concussion—and it
might not. Now for instance, suppose
you put a couple of drops on a stone
and hit it a straight downward blow
with a hammer. The chances are—
mind you I say chances—that only that
part which you hit will explode. But if
you sock it a glancing blow the whole
thing will go up. Then again, to judge
by what happened to some of my
friends, the stuff can be exploded by
just looking at it kinda hard. It seems
to have whims. Sometimes it will stand
for a lot of monkeying and sometimes
it'll get all het up and blow you into a
psychic plasma without no reason at all.
Sudden heat will explode it; that's one
thing you can be pretty sure of."
A few hours later Mr. Brophy was
remarking to one of his friends:
"That guy Kremp sure gimme the
creeps. Stewed mackerel, but he was
nervous! I wouldn't be surprised if he
loses his head entirely and drinks the
stuff. I got a feeling he's going to be
an angel soon."
III
Two nights later Kremp dined with
the Boyers. He purposely arrived a
little early. While waiting for the
Boyers to come down, he sauntered into
the music room, switched on the electric
light and played a popular tune on the
piano. Thereupon he rose and stepped
noiselessly to the door which opened on
the hall. He could hear the Boyers
moving about on the floor above. From
the dining room to the rear came the
sounds of the servants who were setting
the table. He went quickly to the man-
telpiece and drew a glass bottle from a
coat pocket.
Candles generally burn to a saucer-
like hollow at the top. This is because
the tallow near the wick becomes hotter
and consequently melts more rapidly
than that around the edge. Into the
cavity of each of the four candles
Kremp poured about a spoonful of
nitroglycerine. Then he turned off the
electric light and went back into the
library.
After dinner old Mr. Boyer in-
vited him to the music room to listen
to a few new records. Kremp pleaded
a previous engagement—he had tickets
for the theatre—and regretted that he
had to leave at once. He was already
a trifle late. He took his leave in a per-
fectly calm and natural manner.
But he had no sooner reached the
street when the excitement which he
had suppressed so long got the better
of him and he began walking hurriedly
with no attention to his direction. He
kept going till the geography of the city
impeded his further progress in a
78 The Explosive Gentleman
straight line. That is he reached East
River. Then he became conscious of
his surroundings.
He retraced his steps a few blocks.
Then he hailed a passing taxi and had
himself driven to the theatre. During
the performance his excitement sub-
sided somewhat and he began reflecting
on the results of his plan.
There was always a chance, of
course, that the Boyers might change
their minds and not go into the music
room that night. That, however, did not
affect his scheme. They would go some
night and Mr. Boyer would light the
candles. That is, he would light only
one of them. There was no reason to
believe that he would notice the liquid.
The action of lighting a candle is a cas-
ual one and requires no concentration.
In all probability the old man would be
talking to one of his sons while engaged
in the process.
Nitroglycerine, Mr. Brophy had told
him, is almost certain to explode when
sudden heat is applied to it. There were
four candles, four chances. He did not
see how his scheme could fail.
He expected that in the morning
he would be notified that an unfortu-
nate accident had occurred in the Boyer
home.
IV
The Boyers had not intended going
into the music room that evening; they
had offered to entertain Kremp as a
social courtesy. After Kremp had gone
the old man went to the library to read.
The boys went up into their own rooms.
Later "all three of them went to a di-
rectors' meeting. None of the household
went into the music room that night.
At about ten o'clock next morning—
Boyer's sons had already gone to busi-
ness—Mrs. Nolan began her house-
cleaning duties. Mrs. Nolan, it must
be said, was an energetic lady. Her
favorite polish was Elbow Grease:
when she worked she raised a dust and
a sweat. The windows of the room in
which Mrs. Nolan was carrying on were
always thrown wide open. And Mrs.
Nolan was fastidious; she cleaned un-
der as well as around the furniture.
Outdoors, the temperature that morn-
ing was below freezing. Mrs. Nolan
generated considerable heat when she
worked. As long as she was busy she
was more or less indifferent to temper-
ature. Now Mr. Brophy in his elucida-
tion of the properties of nitroglycerine,
had failed to inform Kremp of one
peculiarity. Nitroglycerine freezes at
34.04° F. and when it freezes it changes
to long whitish crystals.
Mrs. Nolan kept the windows in the
music room open for almost an hour
so the nitroglycerine which Kremp had
spilled into the hollows at the top of the
candles, froze. And Mrs. Nolan, mak-
ing her final inspection of the room,
noticed the whitish crystals at the tops
of the four candles.
With reference to what happened
next, we call to your attention the fol-
lowing proverbs: "Where ignorance is
bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." "Death may
meet us everywhere." And, "Innocence
is no protection." The first two of
these wise cracks we admit. The last
we intend to prove in the easiest way—
by citing the exception.
The whitish crystals, each one of
them potentially able to transform Mrs.
Nolan into a sudden if rather clumsy
angel, aroused that lady's curiosity.
She picked up one of the candles and
poked at the top of it with a hair pin,
but the crystals clung rather tenaciously
to the tallow, so she finally used her
fingernails. Scratch, scratch, scrape!
What was it they used to say at the
old motordrome down at Coney Island?
Oh yes,—"Come in and see the motor
cyclists race neck and neck with death!"
These fellows had nothing on Mrs.
The Explosive Gentleman 79
Nolan when it came to taking chances
As Mrs. Nolan dug the crystals off the
third candle, a small piece broke off one
of them and fell to the floor. And as
she stepped to pick up the fourth candle
she placed most of her two hundred and
twenty pounds on the frozen nitro-
glycerine. My! That crystal could
have played a nasty trick on her!
She found it a moment later, crushed
to powder on the carpet, swept it up
and spilled it with the rest of the crys-
tals into a brass ash tray. ... Well
anyhow, in that respect, Mr. Brophy
was right: concussion will explode it
sometimes, sometimes it won't. This
time it didn't.
We also know a proverb to cover the
succeeding events: "With God nothing
is accidental."
Mrs. Nolan decided to carry the stuff
out into the kitchen and throw it in the
waste pail. For no reason at all she
changed her mind and carried the asy
tray with her across the hall and into
the reception room. She placed it on
the center table and then threw all the
windows open. She had just started
cleaning when a cry and then the sound
of a body falling, came from the floor
above.
She rushed into the hall. The old
Mr. Boyer lay on the stairway near the
landing of the floor above. Mrs. Nolan
saw him seize the bannister and try to
pull himself up. But when he was half
erect, he collapsed again. Now Mr.
Boyer was ordinarily a mild-mannered
gentleman, but under certain condition
he was given to the use of colorful lan-
guage. He got Mrs. Nolan and the
butler and the chambermaid, all of
whom had rushed. to his assistance,
rather excited.
It occurred to all three of them, at
different times, that in case of accident
it's a good idea to telephone to some-
body. Three doctors, Mr. Boyer's office,
a hospital and his lawyer were called up.
No one thought of an undertaker or
the fire department. Verily, a sprain in
the ankle maketh of man an unreason-
able wretch.
Neither of Mr. Boyer's sons hap-
pened to be in the office when the three
telephone calls brought the news of the
old man's injury. They had gone to
transact outside business without leav-
ing word of their movements. A sec-
retary finally became alarmed and went
out to the clerical department to notify
Boyer's nephew, Mr. Kremp.
"There's been a terrible accident up
at the Boyer home," said the secretary.
"The old man has been hurt. ... Well
no, I couldn't make out how. They're
sure awful excited up at the home. Per-
haps you'd better go there."
Accident . . . terrible . . . awful
excitement — these were the words
which kept ringing in Kremp's ears as
he hurried up to the Boyer home. But
why had only the old gentleman been
hurt ? Had he gone into the music room
alone? . . .
Kremp was admitted by the chamber-
maid. That young lady was still in the
grip of her excitement. She led him
to the reception room door and then,
stating somewhat abruptly, that she
would inform Mr. Boyer that he had
come, turned and ran upstairs.
Now, from the hall it was apparent
that the music room was not a wreck.
This was puzzling. Still, something was
not in order. That was clear from the
maid's actions.
Kremp went into the reception room.
He was too preoccupied to notice that
the windows were open and that the
room was quite cold. He stood leaning
against the center table. After a few
moments he absently laid his lighted
cigar into a brass ash tray.
Just how much nonsense do you ex-
pect nitroglycerine to stand for? It
had been scratched, scraped, tossed
80 The Explosive Gentleman
about carelessly and stepped on. Now
the hot end of a cigar was being applied
to it. Can you blame it for raising a
splutter?
It was a terrible mess for Mrs. Nolan
to clean up.
V
"It was a most peculiar case," Mr.
Boyer will tell you. "The reception
room was blown right out of the house
and yet the most careful investigation
could not disclose the original cause.
It seems cruel to say so, but it would
appear that Mr. Kremp's torrid tem-
perament, which was long suppressed,
suddenly exploded from spontaneous
combustion. He used to have a sul-
phurous disposition, that gentleman.
He was, you might say, an explosive
fellow."
The Weight of a Feather
By Carl Clausen
I
THE State had completed its case.
The conviction of the prisoner
seemed certain, in spite of the
fact that the evidence was purely
circumstantial.
The attorney for the State was gath-
ering up his papers at his table, upon
which, facing the jury, stood a massive
bronze bust of Beethoven, the composer.
Beside the bust lay a cowboy's lariat.
Nothing else.
The attorney was a square-jawed,
deep-chested man with cold blue eyes
set much too wide apart and a bristling
gray pompadour brushed back from his
massive, corrugated forehead.
He had handled the case well. It
had been a difficult one. The method
alleged to have been used by the mur-
derer savored of dime novels. The ap-
pearance of the prisoner, too, had been
hard to overcome.
The attorney admitted grudgingly as
he let his cold, hard eyes rest for the
fraction of a moment upon the boy sit-
ting erect on the bench beside the girl,
with his head thrown back, that it was
hard to believe him guilty of a cunning,
brutal murder, and harder to convince
a jury that he had committed it.
The lad raised his eyes for an instant
to the face of his accuser, just then, but
there was no look of malice in them.
He seemed merely to be endeavoring
to fathom the reason for the vindictive-
ness that had just been directed against
himself by this man whom he had
known since boyhood.
He was not the conventional, beetle-
browed murder suspect. Indeed, he
was the one person in the crowded
court-room who seemed out of place
there. He was a little above average
height—the dark head of the girl seated
on the bench beside him came just above
his shoulders-—and slender; not slight,
but slender with the vigorous slender-
ness of youth. His eyes were blue,
large and very clear, and his hair was
crisp, and sandy from habitual exposure
to the elements.
It was early afternoon. A hush lay
over the crowded court-room following
the closing announcement of the attor-
ney for the State. It was the court-
room of a small Western city at the
foot of the snow-clad Sierra-Nevadas.
A ray of the wan winter sun entering
through the grimy window lay upon the
judge's silvery hair. The judge raised
his watery eyes and glanced out at the
snow-covered court house square where
a gang of men with shovels were mak-
ing a path for himself and his court to
walk home upon. It had been snowing
steadily all morning.
During the pause in the proceedings
the constable left his post at the door
to replenish the fire in the stove. He
was a young man and big, a typical
Western small town constable, broad-
shouldered and ruddy-faced. His uni-
form was painfully new. He moved
with clumsy momentousness on tiptoe
across the floor, opened the door of the
stove and placed two pine knots upon
the bright embers with slow delibera-
tion, as if to invest this simple act with
some of the importance he felt.
Then he closed the door of the stove,
B.M.—Aug.—6
81
82 The Weight of a Feather
softly, and started back on tiptoe to his
post. As he passed the table of the
defendant's counsel, the lawyer looked
up and said to him;
"Take the stand, Ed, please."
The constable glanced at the prose"
cuting attorney as if for permission.
Then he mounted the steps of the wit-
ness box, slowly, and upon being sworn
in by the clerk, sat down. For several
minutes he remained in his seat with-
out movement, his elbows on the arm
of the chair and his stubbled chin rest-
ing in the hollow of his great, hairy
paw, waiting for the attorney for the
defense to begin.
All eyes were turned upon the
prisoner's counsel, seated at his table
near the accused and the girl, slightly in
advance of them.
The attorney was a heavy, ponder-
ous-looking man. His face, the color
of putty, was full and shaven smoothly.
His eyes were large and china blue, and
his coarse hair lay plastered, untidily,
about his temples.
His garments were obtrusively com-
fortable. His coat fitted him like a sack
hung over a gate-post and his trousers
bagged, scandalously, at the knees.
The short, stubby fingers of his right
hand rested on the edge of the table.
His attitude was serene and unruffled.
He did not seem in the least disconcert-
ed with the task before him—the task
of discrediting the avalanche of circum-
stantial evidence that had piled itself
upon his client.
He sat relaxed in his chair looking
at the constable on the witness stand
as if he were bored at the task of having
to cross-examine him. He seemed in
no hurry to proceed, but at the impa-
tient' movement of the judge, he finally
said in a soft, lazy drawl:
"I'm going to ask you to re-construct
the crime as you think it was committed,
Ed."
The witness blinked his eyes. He
glanced, inquiringly, at the prosecuting
attorney upon whose face a sneer of
contempt rode. The attorney nodded,
reassuringly.
Arising, counsel for the defense
crossed to his opponent's table and took
from it the cowboy's lariat and the
bronze bust of Beethoven.
"With your permission," he drawled,
blandly, to the prosecutor.
Walking to the witness-box, he placed
bust and lariat on the broad railing be-
fore the officer.
Then he returned to his seat at the
table.
"Now, then, Ed, .show us how you
think it was done," he said.
II
The witness ran his heavy fingers
through his hair with a helpless sort of
motion. He was painfully flustered, but
pulling himself together, he rose, picked
up the lariat and uncoiled it.
"Well, it was something like this, I
think," he began vaguely. +
His embarrassment was painful.
With a twist of his wrist he threw the
noose of the lariat over the head of the
bronze bust, and pulled the noose tight.
"The window of his room," he said
with a jerk of his head at the prisoner,
"is twenty feet from the ground direct-
ly above the spot where I found his
uncle's body. I figured that he dropped
this bust on the old man's head from
the window, then pulled the bust up
with the lariat—afterwards—like this."
The witness let the fifteen-pound
bronze drop over the railing of the wit-
ness box, then raised it again with the
lariat, and placed it once more on top
of the railing.
Counsel for the defense smiled, ap-
provingly.
"Not bad for an amateur detective,
Ed. That thing dropped twenty feet
would cave a man's head in, all right.
The Weight of a Feather 83
What, may I ask, suggested this in-
genious method to you ?"
Counsel's tone was pleasantly inter-
rogative. There was no hint of ridi-
cule in his voice. Nevertheless, the wit-
ness shot him a quick, suspicious glance.
"When I examined his room, I found
this lariat coiled on the bust," he ex-
plained, gaining confidence. "As there
wasn't any window or door on the
ground floor at that end of the house
from which he could have struck the
blow that killed his uncle, nor any foot-
tracks in the snow except the old man's,
I figured that this was the way he must
have done it."
"Very clever, Ed," the prisoner's at-
torney drawled. "Very!"
He stuck his thumbs into the arm-
holes of his vest and surveyed the officer,
head cocked to one side.
"Let me see, Ed—you've been con-
stable of Cardinal for nearly a year
now, haven't you?" he asked.
The witness nodded.
"A year on the twenty-fifth of this
month," he replied.
"You'd like to' be sheriff of Cardinal
County, wouldn't you, Ed?"
The witness looked about with a
vague smile.
"Well, yes, Colonel," he said. "Who
wouldn't?"
The attorney smiled back.
"Your chances are pretty good—
now, Ed, ain't they?" he asked ungram-
matically, but with the merest shade of
emphasis upon the word "now."
"I suppose so! Everybody knows
me. I was born and raised here," the
witness replied, with due modesty.
The attorney nodded acquiescence.
"I know, Ed. Your chances are par-
ticularly bright now—since you have so
ably assisted the State in this prosecu-
tion, I mean."
He was still smiling but a sort of
grating edge had crept into his drawl.
A barely audible titter ran through
the crowded court-room. The prose-
cuting attorney was known to have po-
litical ambitions. A successful convic-
tion of murder—the first murder in the
county in twenty years—would count
greatly for him in the coming election.
This star witness who had aided him so
ably was sure not to be forgotten by
him.
The witness moved uneasily.
"I don't know about that, Colonel,"
he snapped with a sudden show of re-
sentment. "I did my duty, that's all."
The prosecutor was on his feet, his
hard eyes flashing.
"I object to the discrediting of the
witness by personal and irrelevant ob-
servations," he stormed. "The officer
is known to us as a reputable citizen."
"There you go again, Warren," the
defendant's counsel drawled, queru-
lously. "Losing your temper over
nothing."
The judge frowned. He glanced from
one to the other and sighed. Both men,
prosecutor and defender, were his
friends—outside the court-room. The
three of them had seen Cardinal grow
from a collection of miners' tents to a
city of some importance. He had
proper respect for his profession, but
he was not going to permit mere court
routine to shatter a friendship of thirty
years' standing, so he said in a tone of
diplomatic deprecation to the defend-
ant's counsel:
"I'll have to sustain the objection,
Colonel. Please proceed."
Before the attorney for the State sat
down, he said in a withering tone to his
opponent:
"If you don't lose your temper a
dozen times before you're through, I'll
miss my guess, Melvin Edgerly."
"Gentlemen! You're in the court!"
the judge reminded them, with some
show of severity.
The prisoner's counsel did not reply
to the observation of his opponent. He
84 The Weight of a Feather
glanced back at the dark-haired girl on.
the bench beside the prisoner, then
turned to the witness again.
"I was just trying to bring out, Ed,
how sure you are that you're going to
be our next Sheriff." He jerked one
stubby thumb over his shoulder at the
girl. "If you had been half as sure of
getting Laura, there, there'd be wedding
bells along with your inauguration, I
guess."
A wave of suppressed amusement
passed through the crowd. The young
constable's unsuccessful wooing of
Laura Hamilton was common knowl-
edge. Someone in one of the rear seats
emitted a loud guffaw.
The judge pounded his gavel.
"Another such disturbance and I'll
order the court-room cleared!" he
thundered.
The face of the witness burned a dull
red. The girl on the bench beside the
boy dropped her eyes. Her long, dark
eyelashes lay like two crescents of jet
against the clear pallor of her skin.
The prisoner's hand stole out in pro-
tecting reassurance. His eyes were
fastened upon the broad, untidy back
of his attorney as if he were trying to
read, there, the motives responsible for
the man's ill-timed digression.
The counsel consulted his notes.
"Were you alone in your office, Ed,
on the morning of the fourteenth when
the accused called up on the telephone
and informed you that his uncle had
been killed?" he asked, after a pause.
"I was," the witness snapped.
"It was eight o'clock when the tele-
phone rang, I believe you stated be-
fore ?"
"Yes."
"You are sure about the time?"
"Yes, sure."
"Looked at your watch, I suppose?"
"No, but I get down to the office at
a quarter to eight every morning. I
had been in only a short time when the
telephone rang."
"I see. You went directly to the
place ?"
"Yes. I closed my desk and left at
once."
"I don't suppose you can tell us ex-
actly to the minute when you arrived
at the scene of—the tragedy?"
"I can. It was ten minutes to
nine," the officer asserted with snappy
positiveness. "I looked at my watch
as I walked across the field to the
house."
The attorney glanced at the ceiling.
He seemed to be thinking.
"The distance from your office in the
city hall to the house is about one mile,"
he said, "Am I right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"It took you from eight o'clock to ten
minutes to nine—fifty minutes, to cover
the distance of one mile?"
"The road was in a bad condition,"
the witness explained, tersely. "It had
been thawing heavily all night. I had
to stop every little while ' to stamp the
snow off my boots."
"I see. If it hadn't been thawing so
unusually hard all night, you could have
made the distance in much less time—
in say twenty-five minutes?"
"Twenty minutes, easy," the witness
corrected. "I'm a fast walker."
The colonel pursed his lips. He
glanced at the judge, then transferred
his gaze to the jury. When he spoke
again, he seemed to be addressing no
one in particular.
"The weather records show that it
started thawing at ten-thirty the night
before. I guess the canyon road must
have been in pretty bad shape, all right.
It was the heaviest thaw on record for
this time of the year, since 1912."
He paused and leaned back in his
chair and regarded the witness, mus-
ingly.
"After you had taken charge of the
The Weight of a Feather 85
body," he resumed, "you looked around
the house and found to your surprise
that with the exception of your own
foot tracks, there were no tracks lead-
ing to or from the house in any direc-
tion. That was what first directed your
suspicion against my client, wasn't it?"
"It was. It stopped snowing at five
o'clock the night before. He,—" here
the constable pointed a heavy finger at
the prisoner—"told me that the last
time he saw his uncle alive was at ten
o'clock the night before, when the old
man was walking up and down outside
the house, smoking. It did not snow
after that," he added, triumphantly.
"So you jumped to the conclusion
that my client had murdered his uncle
because there were no foot-tracks in the
snow?"
"I didn't jump at nothing," the wit-
ness asserted with asperity. "It was
clear that the man who killed old Sar-
gent had never left the house—unless
he came and went by aeroplane," he
added with sarcasm."
"And then, being that my client was
the only other occupant of the house,
besides the dead man," the colonel went
on, imperturbably, "you decided that he
had killed his uncle, and arrested him
on the spot, on your own responsibility,
and without a warrant?"
"Well, I wasn't going to give him a
chance to make a get-away," the con-
stable defended.
"Very thoughtful of you, Ed." the
counsel drawled. "That'll be all."
III
When the witness had resumed his
post at the door, the colonel said, turn-
ing to the court:
"It has been pointed out by the prose-
cution that my client was Mr. Sargent's
only heir. That an estate of something
like a hundred thousand dollars would
come to him upon his uncle's death.
That he is engaged to be married to a
girl whom his uncle objected to, strong-
ly, because of an old grudge against her
father, which I think we are all familiar
with," he added, with a glance about
him.
"My client has admitted that Mr. Sar-
gent had forbidden him, under pains of
disinheriting him, to even see the girl
again. It has also been proven beyond
a doubt that the two men quarreled a
great deal of late—presumably over my
client's choice of a wife."
The prisoner and the girl exchanged
glances of blank amazement. Even the
prosecuting attorney moved, restlessly,
in his chair. The judge frowned, pon-
derously, and a murmur of disapproval
passed over the spectators. The coun-
sel for the defense was apparently
throwing up his hands and convicting
his client all over again instead of de-
fending him, and he, the counsel alone,
seemed oblivious of this fact. He
paused briefly, then went on in his lazy
drawl:
"Did it occur to the court that a man
with as many good reasons for commit-
ting this murder as my client had,
would be a' fool—nay, insane—to do
so ? He would automatically sign his
own death-warrant by such an act, and
that if he was cunning enough to em-
ploy the method suggested by the prose-
cution, he would not possibly have over-
looked the necessity of making a trail
in the snow to and from the house. A
trail would have been absolutely neces-
sary to the success of his plan. By not
doing so, would you have us believe that
he deliberately planned that suspicion
be directed toward him? It would have
been an easy matter to have slipped on
a pair of old shoes, and have walked
down to the road and back again, and
destroyed, or hidden the shoes after-
wards. Even destroying the shoes
would not have been necessary. The
thaw would have enlarged the foot-
prints to such an extent that identifica-
86 The Weight of a Feather
tion would have been impossible."
He paused and regarded the jury-
through half-closed lids.
"It has been established by the prose-
cution that my client is a man of ordi-
nary intellect. Such a man would not
possibly have overlooked the most vital
part of his scheme. He might have
overlooked some trifling detail, as the
brainiest of criminals do at times, but
that he should have forgotten to fake
a set of tracks when the snow was
there, as it were to order, for a perfect
alibi, is utterly absurd."
The attorney for the State arose.
"I object to generalities and far-
fetched presumptions being used to dis-
credit established facts," he insisted,
coldly.
The colonel interrupted him.
"You have established no fact, if you
please, Warren, except the fact that Mr.
Sargent is dead. Anyone can assure
himself of that by visiting the morgue."
He turned to the court. "I ask your
Honor to overrule the objection on the
ground that the State is basing its con-
viction on circumstantial evidence, and
that we of the defense are endeavoring
to present the court with as strong a
chain of circumstantial evidence for
acquittal. What is sauce for the goose
is sauce for the gander."
The attorney for the State emitted a
harsh laugh. The court frowned, per-
plexedly.
"You're out of order, Colonel," the
judge said, "still, I'll let it stand if you
can show good reason for it."
"I will show—good reason, present-
ly," counsel asserted, mildly.
He turned about in his chair and
nodded to a very tall and very old man,
seated, chair tip-tilted, a short distance
to his right, directly under the witness-
stand. The man brought the front legs
of his chair to the floor with a thump,
arose and mounted the three steps to
the witness box. He did not sit down,
but remained, standing waiting to be
sworn in. Even before the clerk had
fully finished administering the oath to
him, his clear "Yes" rang out as a chal-
lenge upon the still court-room.
The attorney for the defense leaned
back in his chair and closed his eyes for
a moment, as if to select his words care-
fully before addressing the witness.
Then he said:
"Dr. Shale, will you please show the
court what you found when you per-
formed the mortual examination upon
Mr. Sargent?"
Without replying, the witness took
from his pocket a leather wallet. Open-
ing it, he took from it a small object,
which he held up between his thumb
and fore-finger.
"This," he said, briefly.
IV
Necks were craned in his direction.
The jurymen leaned forward in their
seats, and the judge adjusted his spec-
tacles. The prosecuting attorney stared
at the object with a frown, half of an-
noyance, half of contempt—then trans-
ferred his gaze to the face of his oppo-
nent, who sat slumped in his chair, seem-
ingly the least interested of anybody.
The prisoner and the girl exchanged
glances.
The tension was broken by the Col-
onel saying in his soft, crooning voice:
"Please tell the court where you
found that—pigeon's feather, Dr.
Shale."
"I found it imbedded in the dead
man's brain, three inches below the
skull."
"That'll be all, Doctor, thanks," coun-
sel said.
When the witness returned to his seat
he leaned over and laid the feather upon
the table beside the prisoner's counsel.
The colonel picked it up and placed it
upon his blotter in plain sight of the
court.
The Weight of a Feather 87
The prosecuting attorney scowled at
Dr. Shale. The coroner's verdict had
been: "Death from blow upon the head.
Cause unknown." He had refused
point-blank to return an indictment for
murder upon the evidence submitted, so
Attorney Warren had gone ahead on
his own account.
"Pigeon's feather!" he scoffed.
"Nothing of the sort! Swallow's fea-
ther, that's what it is."
"I beg your pardon ?" There was irri-
tation in the colonel's voice for the first
time. "It's a pigeon's feather."
The jurymen looked at one another.
Most of them knew a pigeon's feather
when they saw one and all of them were
positive that the object on the colonel's
blotter—a slim, steel-blue feather—
was not a pigeon's.
A cynical smile played about the cor-
ners of the prosecutor's thin lips.
"If you expect to win this case on
ornithological decisions, you'd better
take a week off and study up on the
subject, Melvin Edgerly," he sneered.
"I'll stake my reputation, legal and
otherwise, that the feather on your blot-
ter is a swallow's feather. I think I
know what I'm talking about. I didn't
get my degree in ornithology at Stand-
ford for nothing."
"That's so," the colonel admitted,
suddenly. "I remember now, you used
to be bugs on birds' nests, and eggs, and
things, when you were a kid, Warren."
"It was my hobby, if that's what you
mean," the prosecutor replied, stiffly.
The colonel might have observed
here that robbing the nests of inoffen-
sive songsters for the purpose of study-
ing them was more of a cruelty than a
hobby, but he forebore. Instead he
leaned forward in his chair, and, fasten-
ing his china blue eyes on the prose-
cutor's face, said calmly:
"For the purpose of securing expert
testimony on a question of ornithology,
I hereby subpcena you, Robert Warren,
as a witness for the defense. Take the
stand, please."
The prosecutor's jaw dropped.
"What!"
He looked about him appealingly, at
this unheard of procedure.
"It's unethical, I know, Warren," the
colonel sighed, deprecatingly, "but I'm
within my rights." He turned to the
judge. "How about it, your Honor.''"
he asked.
"I—I suppose so, Colonel," the judge
replied, helplessly, "but—but—" he
ended lamely.
"I won't—be made a monkey of be-
fore the court," the prosecutor stormed,
shaking his fist at the colonel. "I re-
fuse—!"
"Gentle—men!" the judge admon-
ished. He turned to the outraged attor-
ney. "Better take the stand, Warren,
before I'm forced to fine you for con-
tempt of court."
"All right—!" the attorney snapped,
subsiding.
He stalked to the witness chair, suf-
fered himself to be sworn in, then shot
his opponent a baleful glance. The col-
onel looked up, blandly, and handed him!
the feather.
"Please tell the court in your own
terms—scientific terms—if you wish,
how you know that this is a swallow's
feather."
The witness cleared his throat, and
pulled himself together.
For three minutes steady he explained
to the court how he knew that the fea-
ther in his hand was a swallow's fea-
ther. Warming up to his subject, he
forgot, momentarily, his anger at his
opponent's unethical conduct. He went
into details about the differences be-
tween the feathers of birds of prey and
those of song-birds, and the comparative
wing-power of the different species. He
even touched upon the subject of pro-
tective coloration.
When he was through there was not
88 The Weight of a Feather
a man in the court-room who doubted
for a moment that the feather in his
hand was a swallow's feather, and when
the prisoner's attorney excused him he
went back to his table conscious of hav-
ing won another victory over the defense.
He replaced the feather upon his own
table beside the bronze bust and sat
down. A smile rode across his heavy
jowl. A verdict of guilty seemed a fore-
gone conclusion, now. By his rambling
digressions the prisoner's counsel had
strengthened the case of the State, in-
stead of weakening it, and now the
counsel seemed to realize it for the first
time. He sat slumped back in his chair
with his stubby fingers interlocked across
his loose-fitting vest, his putty-like face
sunk deep in apparent gloom.
Only his china blue eyes were alert.
Those who sat near him noted the odd,
veiled look that had crept into them.
"Please proceed, Colonel."
The judge's voice roused him to ac-
tion. Running his hand into his pocket,
he pulled out an old thumb-marked
note-book, opened it and took from it a
feather identical with the one on the
prosecutor's table. Leaning over he laid
the second feather beside the first one.
"I took this one from a swallow's nest
under the eaves of Sargent's house just
above my client's window," he said, in
a flat, colorless tone, as if it concerned
no one.
The jurymen looked at one another,
then at their foreman. They sensed
that something momentous was about tot
be presented to them. The colonel
glanced their way, but not at them. He
seemed to be regarding some point
above their heads, beyond them.
"Upon one of the wooden brackets
supporting the eaves, I found a deep
gouge, torn out of the soft redwood by
some hard object striking it." His voice
rose to a slightly sharper pitch as he
went on. "The bracket is two feet
above my client's window and four feet
below the lowest point of the eaves."
Arising, he walked to the window
near the judge's bench, opened it and
ran down the upper sash. The window
was in direct line of vision of the jury-
men. Pulling an old-fashioned Colts
forty-five from his pocket, he raised the
pistol and fired it upward through the
half-open sash.
The entire court-room was on its feet
before the report had died away. The
judge towered, menacingly, above the
man who had dared to disturb the tran-
quillity of his court in such an unheard
of manner. His eyes were flashing, but
they grew wide with amazement when a
heavy, transparent object shot by the
window and struck the cement pavement
outside, with a report louder than the
discharge of the pistol.
Judge, prosecutor and jury crowded
about the window and looked out. Upon
the sidewalk under the window lay the
shattered remains of a huge icicle.
The counsel for the defense was
speaking. His voice was no longer flat,
nor colorless, nor even drawling.
"The feather which my learned col-
league so obligingly and correctly classi-
fied as a swallow's feather became fro-
zen to the point of a giant icicle that
dropped from the eaves near the swal-
low's nest, and struck Old Sargent on!
the head, killing him instantly. The
icicle in its downward course struck the
redwood bracket, hence the gouge in the
wood. The feather was driven three
inches into Sarg'ent's head by the force
of the impact. The strong thaw which
dislodged the icicle melted it away .by
morning, thus obliterating completely
the weapon—if I may term it a weapon
—by which Mr. Sargent met his death.
I ask the court to instruct the jury for
acquittal."
The jurymen glanced at one another
and nodded.
"I don't think it'll be necessary," the
foreman said. "Still, as a matter of
routine, I suppose—" He smiled. "You
win, Colonel."
His Thirteenth Wife
By Herbert Raymond
Carter
I
WITH Jonas Bruckner, mar-
riage had become a habit—
and a highly profitable one.
Under various aliases, he had
led a dozen different wives to the altar
—and later followed them to the grave.
In each instance he had survived to
find himself a wiser and richer man.
Naturally, the statutes concerning
bigamy had never troubled him. In
every venture he had been legally free
of his previous bride before contracting
the responsibilities resulting from an-
other wedding. And by uncanny good
fortune, the laws against murder had
left him unscathed and unsuspected.
Since the days of his youth, Bruck-
ner had worshipped Bluebeard as his
hero. In his teens - he had devoured
newspaper accounts of the doings of
such modern maniacs. Invariably their
unskilful slaying of successive spouses,
in order to collect insurance, had ended
in their intimate association with the
scaffold, the electric chair or the guillo-
tine. Bruckner would smile in his
sleeve over their clumsiness, and in
choosing his vocation, resolved that he at
least, would never be so crude.
Insurance companies, he had learned,
were customarily curious, and the pro-
fession which Bruckner proposed to
enter made inquisitiveness on the part
of others extremely undesirable. In
the first place, he determined never
to give his name to any maiden or
widow who carried a policy on her life.
Should his prospects be insured they
must allow that protection to lapse upon
the assurance that the bridegroom
possessed plenty for two. Thus he
eliminated one source of suspicion as
to his motives. If, however, those who
ensnared his accordeon-like heart hap-
pened to be wealthy, Bruckner certainly
could not be blamed. Besides, he al-
ways made it a rule to state to the
license clerk that he was a bachelor,
casually adding that he was well-to-do
and retired.
This knowledge was also the bait he
persistently dangled in order to catch
his intended victims. The plan had
been remarkably successful, to which
Bruckner's worldly possessions bore
mute testimony. Frequently money
talks—but Bruckner's was as silent as
the graves from which it had been ob-
tained. Under each new alias, he main-
tained a modest bank account for cur-
rent expenses. None of them had been
large enough to cause him any regret
if he suddenly found it inconvenient to
cash another check or present himself
in person to claim his balance. The
bulk of his fortune he kept in cash in
several widely separated safe deposit
vaults. To the banks where these sums
were stored, he was known under
various names, and was understood to
be an eccentric man who traveled
extensively.
The names he assumed for this pur-
pose were never employed for any other
form of his activities. His long ab-
sences and semi-occasional appearances
caused no comment, and had never re-
sulted in any undue curiosity. In fact,
the officials of these "reserve" institu-
tions, as he termed them, were not
89
90 His Thirteenth Wife
aware of the contents of the boxes
Bruckner rented. Probably they imag-
ined that he used them for storing
papers.
One, however, did contain something
vastly different. In it were the tools of
his trade—poisons of varying natures
which he picked up at intervals in in-
finitesimal quantities in various parts of
the world. Being versatile, he liked to
vary his method of operation and took
a genuine pride in his work. Mad he
undoubtedly was—but the man was an
artist, and no manufacturer or financier
or creator of beautiful things ever took
more satisfaction in his accomplish-
ments than did Bruckner.
The one fly in the ointment was the
fact that he could never confide to any-
one just how clever he really was. To
atone for this, and by way of diver-
sion, he occasionally indulged in crimi-
nalities of a totally different nature, in
fields where he might share his triumphs
with others. He had a smattering of
medicine and knew, much chemistry,
both of which he studied with sinister
intent. He had played at being an
amateur cracksman and had been com-
plimented upon his skill in opening
safes. Likewise, he had participated in
several notorious Black-hand outrages
and was well and favorably known in
those circles. That is, the personality
he assumed for this purpose, was known
to such associates. Thus Bruckner had
broadened his knowledge of ways and
means of producing death in secret, and
had familiarized himself with other
branches of the trade, upon which he
might fall back in case wife murder
ever became an unhealthy occupation.
Bruckner flattered himself that dur-
ing the whole of his career he had never
made a single mistake. Not once had
he been regarded as anything but a sin-
cere mourner at the biers of his dear
departeds. Never had he run afoul of
coroner or police. At times he chuckled
over his remarkable capabilities and
congratulated himself upon his caution
and truly exceptional foresight. Per-
haps his success was due to the fact
that he concentrated upon crime in its
more subtle branches, and had never
been addicted to any vice, either petty
or great.
Nor had a pretty face ever tempted
him. During the whole of his marital
adventures, Bruckner had never once
been in love—not even the victim of a
passing infatuation. Business before
pleasure was his motto and he adhered
to it strictly. Because, he found the
courtship stage of his engagements a
trying ordeal, marriage usually followed
his proposals swiftly. With grim humor,
he often boasted to himself that he had
no heart, and in view of this fact, he
was reluctant to indulge needlessly in
silly lovemaking.
The women of his choice were in-
variably rather mature and usually
unromantic. The more homely they
might be the better satisfied he was. A
young and attractive wife might have
admirers who would interfere with his
plans. She would also be more likely
to have relatives who might have too
much to say and to whom her death
would be a real bereavement. Widows
with children were banned. He had
an aversion to stepsons and daughters
about the house. Instead, this pseudo
lonely bachelor always sought a matron
similarly situated—each with a tidy sum
to support them, and both desiring a
quiet comfortable home.
There was method in his rule. Not
only was he assured of privacy in the
domicile about to be established, but
he could not be accused of the unpar-
donable crime of marrying for money.
Bruckner was both sensitive and proud.
He valued the good opinion of the
community—because it was an asset in
his curious business. To pick out a
bride of great wealth would mean
His Thirteenth Wife 91
additional difficulty in collecting his in-
heritance after the obsequies. Such de-
tails would be bound to be annoying
and Bruckner loved simplicity in this
respect.
A few thousand dollars—always less
than his own little nest egg—and per-
haps a small property upon which no
other heirs had any claim—were to be
readily gathered in without the formal-
ity of court proceedings or the advice
of counsel. After each deal, he cashed
in his gains, opened a new bank account
under a new name, and stored his net
profits in one of his safety deposit
boxes. This had been going on for
years.
It was true that such gradual means
of accumulating wealth necessitated
many marriages. None of his wives
had lived more than three years after
the wedding, but in no case did he cause
a death under twelve months. He re-
mained prudent rather than avaricious
or hasty. He never sought a rapid
denouement at the risk of personal
safety. Moreover, his wives all died
seemingly natural deaths and were fit-
tingly interred. Bruckner would not
countenance anything so crude as to
savor of murder. Also, Bruckner had a
certain sentiment about proper burials.
As a result each simple ceremony was
marked with unostentatious respect,
while the countryside was dotted here
and there with nicely cared for graves
and tastefully adequate tombstones.
Everything he did was done very well.
II
When anaylzed, Bruckner's plan was
as simple as it was practical and result-
ful. He would go to a small town and
take a comfortable room at a cheap
hotel or boarding house, frequented
only by men. Without undue heraldry,
he would announce that he was seeking
a suitable place to end his days. After
he had attained the age of fifty, this
sounded reasonable, so he discarded the
various fantastic stories so successfully
circulated during his youth. These had
been ingenious, but rather more risky.
In fact, he now looked back with con-
cern upon the chances he had taken in
connection with his first alliance—con-
tracted when he was twenty. His initial
venture had culminated admirably,
however, and his four successive ones
—covering a scant ten years—also paid
him neat profits.
Now, when he was installed in a new
and temporary residence, Bruckner
would make it a point to scrape up a
speaking acquaintance with a few sub-
stantial but humble souls in the neigh-
borhood. He never associated with
those who were prominent or overly
endowed with worldly goods. He could
not afford to make a permanent name
for himself. He was always fading
out of or into a picture. He was but
a passing- incident in the life of each
community. To his chosen cronies, he
would casually state that he was a plain
man without frills. He regretted that
he had not settled down and taken unto
himself a life companion before he had
grown too old to think of matrimony.
Frequently this observation would
bring forth good-natured chuckles and
sly winks. Male matchmakers would
pass on the word to their romance-
hatching wives, and soon several no
longer young hopefuls would begin to
preen themselves and press Mr. Bruck-
ner to drop in for tea. Reluctantly, he
would accept, and begin to judiciously
sound out the situation. If all seemed
well, he would guardedly hint of his
state of mind and eventually suggest a
married partnership on the basis of mu-
tual contribution to costs and common
connubial convenience. If the proposi-
tion met with a favorable reception'
and the recipient of his attentions ap-
peared pliable, the marriage would be
solemnized at no distant date.
92 His Thirteenth Wife
When this portion of the program
was over, Bruckner would bide his time
before springing the climax of his little
drama. There were several phases of
the stage setting to be considered. If
his newly acquired wife was not pos-
sessed of real property, and there
seemed no reason for their remaining
where they were, he would find some
good incentive for moving to another
city. The death of a middle-aged ma-
tron causes less comment in a neigh-
borhood where she is a stranger.
Such a move made, he could proceed
at his leisure, without engendering gos-
sip or unwelcome sympathy.
Of course, where a wife possessed
valuable lots and houses, or perhaps a
little business, he must gradually make
excuses to dispose of these, or else re-
main on the spot and wait until he could
do so as sole executor. Practice had
made him perfect, no matter which
course he was forced to take.
In any event, no sooner would the
funeral be forgotten, than Bruckner
would move on. Invariably those who
had known him expressed their regret
and felt genuinely sorry for the lonely,
broken-hearted man. Once or twice a
second candidate had coyly sought his
attention, but such women had no
chance whatever. Under no conditions
would Bruckner marry twice in jthe
same town, or even under the same
name. His various ventures were widely
separated as to scene.
He would shake his name together
with the dust of the deserted commu-
nity, and assume a new and equally
commonplace one upon his arrival in the
section selected for his next proceeding.
That little matter of choice of names
indicated his extreme cleverness. Never
was he known by a distinctive cogno-
men. His surname was likely to be
the most numerously mentioned in the
local directory.
Fortune favored Bruckner in that he
was a man whose appearance made his
age seem uncertain. As he pleased, he
was readily able to subtract or add ten
to twenty years from the truth. Then,
too, he made a careful study of per-
sonal appearance, and without resort-
ing to artificial means of disguise, had
in his box of tricks several methods of
altering his looks. Little niceties of
dress—a different manner of brushing
the hair—and the time-worn cultivation
or destruction of moustaches, beards,
side-whiskers and imperials all served
his purpose upon occasion.
Possessed of an excellent memory, a
perfect capacity for forgetting the past,
and a penchant for looking into the
future, Bruckner was well equipped.
He was devoid of conscience—insensible
to sentiment—and looked forward to
the day when he might safely write his
memoirs—to be published posthumously.
III
Such was the man who found him-
self a widower for the twelfth time last
Fall.
Upon casting up his accounts after
the final ceremonies of that funeral,
Bruckner (as he then elected to style
himself) discovered that his total for-
tune amounted to some two hundred
thousand dollars. It was safely stowed
away in his safe deposit strongholds.
He had remaining—under the new name
of Bruckner—sufficient capital to see
him through his next adventure. The
surplus he did not mean to touch—as
usual.
Yet in the weeks that followed the
death and the settlement of the estate
of his most recent wife, Bruckner seri-
ously considered the idea of remaining
single. Like many another prosperous
man—after years of striving—he longed
for a life of indolence—broken of its
monotony by such pursuits as might
please him. He hated the very thought
His Thirteenth Wife 93
of a home. He had no wish to settle;
down. He had possessed a surfeit of
wives that he did not want in a personal
way. Bruckner had married them in the
casual course of business.
And this gave him a thought—in the
nature of a vacation. Suppose he
should seek a spouse who actually
pleased him. Thus far he had not expe-
rienced such a genuine pleasure. For
a man married as much as he,,fhe situa-
tion was silly. Yet Bruckner had his
doubts. If he paid court to a young
and beautiful girl—one whom he really
admired—he might, even after the pas-
sage of all these years, fall in love with
her. That would prove fatal. He had
heard of idiots, drunk with love, who
told their wives everything.
That would never do. In the first
place, the lady might not prove sympa-
thetic. Also, he was certain that sooner
or later he would desire to kill her
—from sheer force of habit or perhaps
from ennui—since he no longer needed
money. Such a situation would be
awkward if he became devoted to her—
for then he would break the heart which
had been proof against Cupid's darts
through all these years of many mar-
riages.
So he relinquished the thought and
went to New York to rest up a bit and
think the situation over. As usual, he
went to a modest hotel. Yet the days
he spent alone were tedious, and like a
fish out of water, he longed to plunge
once more into the matrimonial sea.
For a time he had whiled away some of
his hours in the company of a Russian,
who claimed to have been a watchmaker
to the late Czar. This gentleman still
made timepieces—but he made them to
put in bombs, and made them very well.
His genius appealed to Bruckner and
the two became quite friendly, although
Bruckner was slightly nervous lest the
police should visit the bombmaker's
place while he was present.
However, he had no other company.
His safe-cracking friends were all in
jail—and the others were safe beyond
the reach of the law—or else had been
reached by it and removed from this
vale of tears. So he found himself
craving for action and the further exer-
cise of his remarkable talents. Then
he met Mrs. Mary Corcoran, a healthy
husky lady who was doomed to become
his wife from the first moment he saw
her.
Mrs. Corcoran was a widow of just
the proper age—not too wealthy, Bruck-
ner thought, although she was possessed
of a trifle more than her predecessors.
She owned a place by the seashore and
was extremely fond of bathing. She
had a little motorboat, and at the time
when Bruckner entered her life, was
about to open her bungalow for the
season.
The situation appealed to Bruckner.
He needed a rest and a change of clime,
and a stay by the sea would be welcome.
It would do him good and build up his
health while he planned how to break
down hers. So he mentioned to the
widow as much of his plan as was fit-
ting for the lady to know. She proved
entirely agreeable—even eager, Bruck-
ner thought. In fact, he was rather
afraid that she was in love with him.
That might prove awkward, but it could
not be helped. So he married her and
took a solemn oath that when this ad-
venture was over, he would never again
tempt fate.
The bungalow was on a little sandy
point, some miles from the nearest town
and the railroad station. Mrs. Bruck-
ner, nee Corcoran, taxied back and
forth from the village in her motor-
boat when her fancy suggested such
journeys or purchases required them.
Bruckner spent much of his time sit-
ting on the beach with his pipe and his
thoughts, and practically lived the life
of a married hermit. They got on
94 His Thirteenth Wife
together beautifully, and Bruckner
thanked his stars that the woman did
not desire him to be eternally compli-
menting and petting her. Her sole aim
was his comfort, and never in all of
his thirteen marital ventures had he
lived so pleasantly and contentedly. It
almost seemed a shame to terminate
such an ideal arrangement. In fact, it
would be little short of a crime.
IV
But just as he knew he would, Bruck-
ner reverted to type. He simply could
not resist the temptation to kill the
woman. She did not annoy him. He
had nothing against her, and he did not
wish her money. Just the same he
wanted to kill her, and he wanted to
do it in some new and original way.
For days he thought it over, and
grew more perplexed with the passage
of the time. He could not sleep at night,
and he found himself nervous and rest-
less. His appetite began to fail—a con-
dition unheard of before—and even his
pipe and tobacco failed to solace him.
Once or twice he wondered whether it
would not be wise if he went out and
got drunk. He vetoed that idea, how-
ever, for he had always made it a rule
to keep his head clear and his brain
unfuddled. Drunken men and women,
Bruckner always said, are inclined to
talk too much—and he was a man of
silence. Besides, the hooch lately avail-
able, had, in cases, proved fatal.
During all of his meditation and per-
plexity, Mrs. Bruckner remained in
blissful ignorance of the thing which
was troubling him. It was true that
she seemed to suspect that something
was wrong, but when she pressed for
an explanation, he naturally put her
off. She appeared to be alarmed about
his health, and was constantly urging
him to go and consult a physician. He
flatly refused, and told her he had never
been sick in his life. Of course he knew
what was the matter, and also knew
very well that no physician's prescrip-
tion would cure his ailment.
His wife made more frequent trips
to the little village, and even went to
New York to bring back dainty viands
to tempt his appetite. Apparently her
sole ambition in life was to prepare a
dish that would tickle his palate, and
Brucknef was not without some appre-
ciation of her kindness and concern. At
times, he almost resolved to put away
his idea and let the woman live. But
impatience to have it over with, and to
be at peace with the world, mastered
him at last.
His intentions crystallized into action
on the morning when she announced
her intention of going over to Calder's
Point to attend a pinochle party.
Bruckner never played cards and said
that he would not go. However, he
even urged that she indulge in this
pleasant diversion.
'You stay around me too much," he
pressed her tenderly. 'You're wearing
yourself out looking after my health.
Stop worrying, and have a good time
while you may—I mean while you're
still young and have your health," he
added, realizing that he had almost
made an unfortunate slip.
"All right, I will—if you really don't
mind," she agreed, and explained that
the party would occur on the following
Monday night. She proposed to take
the motorboat over, leaving at seven
o'clock; remain for the night, and chug-
chug back again the following morning.
Bruckner was delighted. A sudden
inspiration had plunged him into an
ecstasy of joy. At last—like a bolt
from the blue—he had hit upon a plan
to do away with the woman. It was
entirely possible that the thing had been
done before, but it was new with Bruck-
ner. It could not possibly savor of design
and it would happen while she was
His Thirteenth Wife 95
away. He would be presumed to know
nothing of the accident until the heart-
rending news should be brought to him.
Then he would be stunned. Bruckner
was a past master at registering grief—
surprise—anguish.
But after the funeral he could spend
the entire summer at the bungalow in
undisturbed peace. He was glad that
he could accomplish his purpose so
early in the spring, for unlike the aver-
age man, his thoughts did not lightly
turn to love in that entrancing period.
The thought necessitated a visit to
his friend, the clockmaker to the former
Czar. He made it, and outlined his
needs minutely. That is, he told the
clockmaker precisely the sort of box
he desired—how long and how wide it
should be—and explained just how its
timepiece was to be set. It was to be
put up in a candy box and tied neatly
with ribbon. It should weigh five
pounds and bear the wrapping of a
smart confectioner. On the day he
meant to use it, Bruckner would call
for the box. It must be ready, and
everything must be fixed so that he
would not need to unwrap it.
Mrs. Bruckner was going away in her
little sea-taxi at seven o'clock. He would
arrive from the city an hour before.
He planned to reach the bungalow via
a hired launch, timing himself to get
there a little late for supper, but in time
to bid her good-bye. When he did so
he would thoughtfully put the candy
box in his wife's motorboat, calling her
attention to it, and laughingly instruct-
ing her not to nibble at its contents dur-
ing the journey. He wished her to save
it for the party and present it to her
hostess.
He hoped she would obey. The trip
would take her a little more than an
hour. She did not mind that, since she
loved the sea and could handle her craft
as well as any man. But if everything
went well, Mrs. Bruckner would never
land at the wharf at Calder's Point.
Just about fifteen minutes before she
was due to reach that settlement, the
little clock would tick its final tick, and
Mrs. Bruckner would proceed to eter-
nity instead of the pinochle party.
The complete simplicity of the scheme
appealed to him strongly. He would
put the bomb near the gasoline tank.
Its explosion would destroy that con-
tainer and everyone would surmise that
the blowing up of the fuel store had
caused the tragedy. No one but the
dead woman would know about the
candy box—that is, no one but the
clockmaker of the Czar. That gentle-
man would not be likely to speak.
Secrecy was also essential to the suc-
cess of his profession, and in such mat-
ters he was strictly honorable and thor-
oughly reliable. He need not know for
whom the box was intended and for
reasons of his own he would not inquire
too deeply into the matter.
V
Everything went as planned. On
Monday. morning Mr. Bruckner an-
nounced that it would be necessary for
him to go to the city in connection with
some business at his broker's. He prom-
ised to return as speedily as he could,
but told his wife not to wait for him
if he should not be home by the time
she intended to leave. That was camou-
flage, carefully planned. He always
thought of little details like that in order
to turn away suspicion from the minds
of his victims. Besides, he wanted to
establish an alibi and have it known
that he was away all day.
Moreover, he always disliked to be
around his victims just before the cli-
max of his cunning. Their very confi-
dence and trust in him always tended
to annoy him. But he knew very well
that he would be back on time. Other-
wise, of course, he could not place the
candy box in the little launch.
96 His Thirteenth Wife
The clockmaker was ready for him,
and the box itself was a beauty—as
creditable a piece of work as Bruckner
had ever seen. It did not weigh too
much nor too little, and while he was
assured that the watch was perfect in
its mechanism and timing, - it did not
give forth the slightest sound.
The clockmaker beamed when he
saw the look of admiration in Bruck-
ner's eyes and told him that he might
trust the little bomb implicitly. "It is
worthy to blow up a Prime Minister!"
enthused its author. "Unfortunately,
these days, kings are few and trade is
far from good. The war seems to have
caused an unreasoning dislike for ex-
plosives on the part of my very best
customers."
Bruckner condoled with the man and
took his departure. He had received
the professional word of the watch-
maker that the bomb would not go off
if he were to drop it and that it would
not explode until eight-fifteen precisely.
That was as Bruckner wished. The
detonation would be heard just as the
motorboat was entering the waters about
Calder's Point and would startle those
on shore waiting for his wife. In all
probability the bomb would tear her to
pieces and wreck the boat completely.
At least it would utterly destroy itself—
and the gasoline tank. That was, of
course, essential—for there must be no
remaining evidence, even though no clue
could possibly point to him.
But because the time schedule of the
railroad had been changed without his
knowledge, Bruckner did not arrive at
the bungalow until almost seven o'clock.
It had been a narrow escape from being
too late, and the incident made him
nervous; yet in a way, he thought, it
was fortunate.
Mrs. Bruckner was down at the land-
ing, dressed in her best bib and tucker,
and she greeted him with a smile and
an inquiry as to his health. "You look
tired, my dear," she sympathized in a
motherly sort of fashion, "I really hate
to go away and leave you."
"I am tired," Bruckner confessed.
"I guess I'm not as young as I used to
be and I haven't been right pert for the
last few weeks. I'll soon be better, how-
ever," he added cheerfully. "Just you
go on and have a good time, and don't
give a thought to me."
Then he produced the candy box and
displayed it to her. The boatman who
had brought him was gone by this time,
and he had not seen the package which
Bruckner had kept wrapped in a news-
paper until this very moment. Now
Mrs. Bruckner took it in her hands and
plucked at the ribbon, but he shook his
finger at her as he might do to a naughty
child.
"Now don't be impatient or selfish!"
he reproved. "Keep it until you get to
the party. Then offer some to the others
with my compliments."
"I suppose I should do that," she
agreed with him. "And now I must be
going. There's a light under the coffee
on the stove, and your supper's on the
table. You won't mind a cold snack,
will you?"
"No," said Bruckner, and then the
one flaw in his plan occurred to him.
How could he make sure that she would
put the candy box where it would cer-
tainly destroy the gasoline tank? He
could not, if he left it in her possession.
Of course it would kill her, but that
was not enough. His plan must work
out exactly as he had intended, and the
only way to insure its perfect success
was to go along in the boat.
That, in a way, was a risk, but Bruck-
ner was equal to the situation. It re-
quired quick thinking, but he had a
bright idea on the spot.
"Well!" he reproached himself, " if I
didn't forget my tobacco! I guess I'd
better go back as far as the station with
you, and then get one of the public
His Thirteenth Wife 97
launches to bring me home. It won't
take more than half an hour, and I'll
eat supper later."
So he took the candy box from his
wife's hands, and helped her into the
boat. She went directly to the little
engine and started it as he stepped
aboard. The bomb would not blow up
for about an hour. In twenty minutes
he would be at the station landing.
When he got out, he would put the
candy box by the gasoline tank and lay
a tarpaulin over it, with the explanation
that he did so to keep it from being
wetted by the spray. Mrs. Bruckner
would think nothing of his doing that,
and would probably forget all about the
candy until it reminded her of itself
forcibly.
Speedily the little boat chugged away
from the wharf and cut the waves like
a knife as it shot off toward the station
pier. It was twilight, growing gradu-
ally darker, and lights began to twinkle
from the group of cottages ahead.
"Perhaps," Bruckner suggested to
his wife, "I'll stay over at the post office
for a while. Maybe I can get some of
the men to play a game of pool, and go
back home about ten o'clock. Supper
being cold, it won't make any differ-
ence, and I can make some fresh—"
But he never made it. There was a
terrific crash. The little motor launch
was rent asunder. When the detonation
died away, there was nothing left but
a few pieces of floating wreckage, and,
curiously, a red ribbon floating on the
surface of the sea. Bruckner and his
wife had been blown to atoms.
The clockmaker had worked well and
the bomb had gone off precisely as he
had planned—at the hour appointed by
Bruckner himself. But the former cre-
ator of timepieces for the Czar was not
a man who read the daily papers. In
preparing the bomb and setting the
clock, he had not known of the fact
that the daylight saving law for the
season went into effect at the stroke of
two that morning. Hence the explosion
had occurred just one hour earlier than
Bruckner had expected it would.
VI
But simultaneously with the crash
that ended the lives of the Bruckners,
two strange men appeared before their
little bungalow. The visitors on the
beach looked out to sea, not knowing
that the criminal they sought was now
beyond their reach.
"Gosh!" one of them exclaimed.
"That gasoline certainly made a thor-
ough job of it! It won't even be worth
while to send out a rescue boat."
The other detective shrugged. "I'm
more interested in what we're likely to
find inside the house," he said. "Since
nobody seems to be home, suppose we
go right in."
They did, and they made a thorough
search, including a chemical analysis of
the coffee on the stove and the cold
snack on the table. It was a delicious
looking little layout of tempting mor-
sels, but the chemist who tested it
whistled loudly in amazement when his
task was finished.
"The old girl must have been in a
hurry to finish this chap !" he announced.
"She's put enough poison in all this
stuff to kill an elephant. Funny, too—
because she always worked slowly be-
fore—"
"Before?" questioned his companion.
"Is she one of those fiends who marry
a lot of men and murder them for their
insurance?"
The chemist nodded. "She was tried
twice and acquitted for lack of convict-
ing proof—but we've been watching her
ever since, and her mug's in the Rogues'
Gallery under the alias of Arsenic
Annie."
B.M.—Aug.—7
The Mistaken Sacrifice
By Howard Rockey
I
JIM HANLEY would never have
elected to bury himself in Shanghai
from choice. But an early error in
judgment regarding New York laws
and the course the stock market would
take had resulted in his residence there
for more than twenty years.
Everybody had liked Hanley and
most people liked him still. Ah Fu,
his Chinese boy, literally worshipped
him. Yet after his initial mistake and
narrow escape from a term in Sing
Sing, Hanley found that no one but
Richard Morely was willing to trust
him. It seemed rather unfair. He
thought they might have given him an-
other chance without forcing him away
from Manhattan; but his wishes in this
respect had proved in vain. The onus
of his youthful misstep had survived
long after the actual circumstances of
his defalcation had been forgotten.
It was true that Hanley had not per-
sonally profited by his fraudulent act.
Badly advised by his tempters, he had
lost every penny of the sum he had em-
bezzled. There were also extenuating
circumstances, but the men who had
been Hanley's friends did not wish to
continue their association with him, even
though some of them refused to prose-
cute. Others were not so conditionally
forgiving, and he had found himself
facing a warrant. The woman he loved
gave him his conge. Those to whom he
appealed for loans to replace what he
had stolen turned from him in cold con-
tempt. He was a social outcast—a fugi-
tive from justice—and a penniless,
broken-hearted man.
Only Richard Morely had stood by
him. It was Morely who hustled him
aboard the train for Canada before the
police could arrest him; Morely who ar-
ranged his passage on the big P. & O.
steamer : and Morely who had given
him a job. The whole affair cul-
minated at the time Morely was forming
his Yellow Dragon Trading Company.
The business was a modest one and de-
manded but little of its manager be-
sides routine attention. It practically
operated itself, yet it was a profitable
enterprise and enabled Morely to pay
Hanley an adequate salary. That his
doing so was little more than charity
everyone knew. A local Chinese bank
could have handled the matter and un-
doubtedly would have done so much
better than Hanley could.
But for over a score of years Hanley
had spent his days in the little office near
the Bund and his nights in the adjoining
bungalow, just beyond the European
quarter of the city. He belonged to
no clubs and had but few intimates—-
chiefly those of his own ilk, who railed
at the despicable climate of Shanghai,
despite the fact that they found it more
healthy to remain there than to go
home. He was a man of pleasing per-
sonality and pleasant manners, reserved
and soft spoken. He did not play the
races and he did not gamble, so far as
anyone knew. Most of his spare time
was spent alone with his books, and if
a woman appeared now and then in his
life, no one was aware of it.
The only living being who really
understood Hanley was his native
housekeeper, and even Ah Fu was some-
what mistaken in his estimate of the
98
The Mistaken Sacrifice 99
man. At first Hanley had been aided
by two assistants, but in time the busi-
ness grew so automatic, and so rela-
tively unimportant to its owner, that
Morely directed him to do without any
clerks. Willingly Hanley had dis-
missed them, and when he had done
so, Ah Fu laughed in his flowing
sleeve. He had seen for some time that
his employer had been ill at ease, and
he thought that Hanley breathed a
sigh of relief when the others were
gone.
Ah Fu also knew that Hanley spent
very little. He knew that a tidy sum,
to which Hanley was ever adding, lay
safe in the Manchu Bank. What was
more, Ah Fu had gathered that Han-
ley was discontented, and would wel-
come the day when his exile might be
over—if ever, indeed, that day should
really dawn. Hanley hoped it would,
and Ah Fu hoped so too; for the
Chinaman longed to see the rest of the
world. He knew that Hanley had
grown so used to him that he would
keep him as his servant for the rest of
his days. Hence the departure of Han-
ley from Shanghai would mean the be-
ginning of the travels of which Ah Fu
dreamed.
Hanley had taught him English and
something of the business. He had
loaned him books and told him stories
of other countries, as well as making
Ah Fu a sort of secretary. By the
time the Chinaman had mastered the
spelling of English he had contrived
to pick it out on the keys of a type-
writer. He would make up long state-
ments each January and July, from
lists of figures supplied him by his
master. These lists Hanley would com-
pile from the private books he kept—
books that were always under lock and
key and which no one but Hanley ever
looked into.
Morely had not been out to Shanghai
since the day of Hanley's arrival, and
the letters the two exchanged were
formal in the extreme. Morely had
not wished to humiliate his friend by
referring to personal matters, and Han-
ley had not presumed upon the other's
kindness to make their communications
savor in any way of a casual corre-
spondence.
All of which was well enough as
long as Morely lived, but shortly after
the world war Morely suddenly died.
He had not been married and conse-
quently had no direct heirs, but Hanley
learned in due time that the estate had
been left to a distant cousin. The man's
name was Burson and he lived in San
Francisco. It seemed that he had
never traveled to the Orient and was
suddenly possessed of a strong desire
to do so.
Hanley dreaded his visit on several
scores, neither of which he took occa-
sion to mention to Ah Fu, feeling that
the Chinaman could never understand,
and that, in any event, it was none
of the servant's business. Hanley be-
lieved in keeping his own counsel and
in living much by himself, although he
was aware that Ah Fu as well' as all
Shanghai knew of the events which had
resulted in his coming there to live.
Yet if Ah Fu was honest himself,
whether because of virtue, or perhaps
from necessity, he seemed to hold no
contempt for Hanley on account of his
criminal record. In fact, Ah Fu felt
that a man who was crafty enough to
take advantage of another in the mat-
ter of money was a person to be re-
garded with the greatest of respect.
So he typed his letters and made Han-
ley's bed, and cooked his employer's
meals, without concerning himself as
to what was written in those mysterious
books whose pages his eyes had never
scanned. But Ah Fu grew troubled
as Hanley's annoyance seemed to in-
crease.
Other letters from San Francisco
100 The Mistaken Sacrifice
caused Hanley sleepless nights, and Ah
Fu observed with concern that Hanley
no longer relished the food he pre-
pared. He wondered whether some-
thing might not be wrong, and whether
he could not somehow set that matter
right. Knowing that Hanley had once
been a thief, the Chinaman supposed
that he might be again. He shrewdly
surmised- that those guarded books
would divulge the story, if the actual
figures in them were ever to become
known. That Hanley doctored the
financial statements he sent out twice a
year, Ah Fu had no doubt. To be able
to do such a thing, and to do it for
twenty years, was an accomplishment
of which Ah Fu would have been proud.
In his estimation, Hanley was a brilliant
man.
But be that as it might, he was a
obviously worried one. His restlessness
grew with the coming of each steamer,
and Ah Fu heard him sigh with relief
when it was announced by letter that
the new owner of the Yellow Dragon
Trading Company had decided not to
come out. Instead, he was informed,
Mr. Burson was sending an auditor
over from Hong Kong. The man
would look over the books and also
look over the ground. He would de-
cide whether or not it would be best
to continue the business or to close up
its affairs. The latter would mean
Hanley's dismissal, if it resulted in
nothing else—and Hanley did not know
what he would do in that event.
No one in Shanghai would give him
a job. The charge which stood against
him back in New York was outlawed
by time, of course; but the memory of
the man and his folly had not passed
from the minds of those who still re-
membered him. He could not go back
to the States. He had no money with
which to travel elsewhere—and he did
not want those books to be examined.
Ah Fu sensed this from his master's
manner rather than from anything
Hanley said. He only knew that Han-
ley viewed with apprehension, the ar-
rival of the auditor who was coming
from Hong Kong.
At first Ah Fu was puzzled and
then grew upset himself. He would
gladly have laid down his life for his
master, but sacrificing his life would
not seem to help in this instance. Yet
Ah Fu was far from being stupid. He
had a mind that was keen in its Oriental
cunning. Now was the time to em-
ploy in the service of his master the
abilities with which he had been born.
II
Ah Fu said nothing, but went quietly
v about his business, and Hanley had
no inkling of what was in the China-
man's mind. He did not even know
that the servant suspected him of having
been steadily robbing the Morely estate.
Yet this was precisely what Ah Fu did
imagine, and what he fully intended to
try to conceal. With the falsifying of
books, he had no familiarity, and na
desire to learn. Such methods were
utterly foreign to his plan of procedure.
His manner of mending matters would
be more direct and simple, and by far
more effective. All that remained to
be done was to await the arrival of the
stranger who was en route from Hong
Kong.
In the course of three weeks he came.
The man's name was Clayburne, and
young as he was in business, he had
built up a reputation as a financial effi-
ciency engineer. He had faith in the
Orient as a place in which to make
money, but he was the relendess foe of
antiquated methods. Naturally, he as-
sumed that the system of running the
Yellow Dragon Trading Company was
at least a decade behind the time, and
surmised that a lot of red tape and lost
motion, and perhaps inefficiency, would
The Mistaken Sacrifice 101
have to be eliminated if the concern was
to go on. That was what he had come
to Shanghai prepared to find out, at the
instance of Mr. Burson.
Hanley, pale and nervous, met him
at the dock, and greeted the auditor
as cordially as he could. Clayburne pre-
tended not to notice the other's all too
evident perturbation, but what he did
see, plus what he knew of Hanley, made
him decide at once that something was
wrong.
Hanley realized his attiude, and re-
sented it keenly. Ah Fu sized up the
situation at once, and quickly made up
his mind. However, he outdid him-
self in preparing the evening meal and
in making the new arrival comfortable
in the bungalow. He served the two
Americans in silence and kept them
well supplies with liquors and cigars,
listening with the sharpest of ears to
each sentence the men exchanged.
That the business had fallen off in
the last five years, Ah Fu had known
before hand. That Mr. Morely had
been indifferent to whether or not it
paid, he had not known before. Morely,
in fact, would never have consented to
a discontinuance which might cost
Hanley his job. He had been that type
of man, and the maintenance of his
former friend in this quiet berth was
only another one of his many secret
and worthy charities. To Mr. Clay-
burne, the thing which he suspected
made Hanley's probable offense all the
more reprehensible under such circum-
stances.
"Once a crook—always a crook!" he
mused at the close of the dinner.
"There's no such thing as a defaulter
ever going straight."
It seemed as though Ah Fu read his
mind, but so far as his features indi-
cated such knowledge he might have
been a graven image. If Hanley was
conscious of the other's mental attitude,
he did not outwardly evidence the fact,
but he found himself more restless than
ever after dinner when the two sat out
on the porch overlooking the harbor
and the lights of the city.
"When do you wish to start in?"
Hanley asked with a queer sort of catch
in his voice.
"In the morning," the auditor said,
"and finish as soon as I can. Mr. Bur-
son wants my report to go back by the
Pacifica and the ship will sail on Tues-
day. So there's no time to be lost."
So it seemed, Hanley observed.
"Quite so," thought Ah Fu, but he
was not thinking of the task the audi-
tor had to perform, but of the little
job he personally had in mind.
In the kitchen, he went about his
tasks without so much as a word, and
at last, when all was in order, he slipped
out into the night. He said nothing
to his employer about his going, and
naturally did not confide to him what
he proposed to do. But half an hour
later he was in the shop of Moy Su
down in the Nanking Road.
With Moy Su he exchanged a few
complimentary salutations, felicitated
him upon his ancestors, and requested
Moy Su to do him a favor. Moy Su,
without the impertinence of asking
questions, consented to do as he was
requested, and Ah Fu went on his way.
Ten minutes later Hanley was sum-
moned to the telephone in his little bun-
galow. It was Moy Su who greeted
him respectfully and begged a thou-
sand pardons for disturbing him at that
hour. He made no mention of Ah Fu,
a visitor was in the company of Hanley,
nor did he refer to the fact that he knew
Moy Su was not supposed to be aware
of such things, and Hanley naturally
never associated the call with the de-
parture of his servant.
Moy Su wished to know whether
Hanley would care to come to his shop
that evening to see a shipment of
reprehensibly inferior jades he had just
102 The Mistaken Sacrifice
received. The stuff was the merest
trash, Moy Su explained, yet it had
the appearance of being very good. It
was just such merchandise as Hanley
sometimes purchased and sent to
America in the course of his business.
Moy Su wished Hanley to have first
choice of the jades, should Hanley wish
to buy them, and on the following morn-
ing he had promised to exhibit them
publicly.
Hanley thanked the merchant for
his courtesy and decided to go at once.
Normally he would have told the China-
man to go to the devil. Twenty years
in Shanghai had not tended to speed
up his methods of business or make
him unduly active in matters of this
sort. Now, however, under the watch-
ful eye of Clayburne, he thought it
might be good policy to show interest
and act upon the opportunity at once.
He felt that it was incumbent upon him
to make a show of enterprise and devo-
tion to duty. So he told the auditor
the purport of the phone call and asked
whether he would care to accompany
him.
"No," declined Clayburne, "I'm
rather tired tonight, and I haven't quite
got my land legs as yet. I know
nothing about the value of such things
anyway. I can tell from a set of books
whether a business pays, but I couldn't
determine the worth of actual merchan-
dise on a bet."
Hanley was just as well satisfied.
He would welcome being relieved of
the auditor's society for an hour or so
at least. The thing he would have to
face would be unpleasant enough when
he came to it the following morning.
Then would take place the interview
Hanley had dreaded for years—the
inevitable nemesis he knew he must en-
counter. And Clayburne gave no sign
of being likely to be a sympathetic
listener to the news which awaited him.
"Then," said Hanley, "I'll run down
and see this man, if you don't mind.
Just make yourself at home and I'll
return as soon as I can."
"Don't hurry," yawned the auditor,
evidently equally willing to be rid of
his host. "Sandman's after me and
I think I'll turn in soon."
"By all means," invited Hanley.
"My boy has gone out, I think, but I'll
see myself that everything's in order
in your room."
He did; arranged various articles to
insure the comfort of his unwelcome
guest, and then went out, first slipping
an automatic into his trousers pocket.
He had hesitated at first to take the
gun, and finally did so with the thought
of protection rather than with the in-
tention of employing the weapon for
any other purpose.
III
The night was balmly and clear, so
he went on foot to the shop where Moy
Su was waiting, bowing and scraping
and ready to pay him fulsome compli-
ments while he bargained with him.
Yet it developed that there was to be no
business transacted that night. Indig-
nantly, Hanley spurned the offered
jades and roundly admonished Moy Su
for even summoning him to look at
such trash. He would have none of
it. Genuinely annoyed at the merchant
and out of sorts with himself, he went
out into the night, and retraced his
steps.
As he pondered over the situation,
his fingers closed on the gun in his
pocket. Perhaps, after all, that was
the way out. He knew what Clayburne
would find when he looked at the books,
and he appreciated that nothing he
might say would explain away those
facts. His previous story was already
known by the new owner, and Hanley
did not deceive himself that Clayburne
would believe him or that Burson would
The Mistaken Sacrifice 103
forgive him. After all, it might be as
well to blow out his brains and have
done with it. Perhaps he should have
done so twenty years ago. Life had
held nothing worth while for him since
he had left New York, and he supposed
it never would. There seemed but little
purpose in his carrying on.
But whether Hanley was a coward,
or whether it was because he scorned a
cowardly act, he took his hand from the
gun and resolved not to use it. What-
ever the result might be, he meant to
go over the books with Clayburne in
the morning and confess to him the
truth. They might accept his statement
or reject it as they pleased. They might
do with him as they liked. Hanley did
not care—and that was the simple truth.
If he could not vindicate himself—and
he did not believe he could—nothing
really mattered. He had tried his best
but fate seemed to be against him.
Then, as he walked up the lonely
road, lined on each side with tall trees,
he heard a noise just ahead and a great,
threatening shape hurled itself at him
with a savage snarl. Thrusting his hand
into his pocket, he squeezed the auto-
matic, discharging it without troubling
to take it out of his pocket.
The bullet ripped his trousers, and
flew wild. But a moment later, as he
stood with the weapon in his hand, Han-
ley laughed at himself. Down the road
a big, terrified dog was scampering
He could plainly see its shadowy out-
lines as it rushed through the open.
He was nervous, that was all. There
had been no real danger and the animal
was only frightened at suddenly com-
ing upon him in the darkness. So he
trudged on toward his home at a leisure-
ly pace, until his attention was at-
tracted by a glare in the sky. An un-
easy fear came over him and he quick-
ened his footsteps, to pause on the edge
of the clearing with an exclamation of
horror.
His little bungalow and the shack he
used as an office were enveloped in
flames. Flimsy of construction, the
rickety building was burning like tinder.
Situated in a lonely spot upon the hill-
side, it had not as yet been observed by
anyone else.
With a shout he dashed on—but his
cries brought neither aid nor any re-
sponse from the bungalow.
Arriving before the door, he called
out Clayburne's name repeatedly, but
the crackle of the flames and the roar
of their triumph were his only answer.
To attempt to enter the building would
have been madness, and the roof
crumbled in while he stood there help-
less.
Now he heard others approaching,
and he felt a sickening sensation. The
crazy fire apparatus was also on its way
at a far too leisurely gait. They might
as well spare their pains.
In a daze himself, Hanley tried
vainly to answer a dozen questions at
once. To each interrogator he told the
simple truth—and each one of them
smiled. The arrival of Clayburne and
his presence in the bungalow had been
known. The intention of the owner of
the Yellow Dragon Trading Company
to wind up his business had been noised
abroad; and Hanley's previous record
was not any secret to his neighbors.
Moreover, he stood there idiotically
with a pistol clasped in his hand. People
stared at him strangely.
But when the fire had burned itself
out and the ruins were cooled with
water, the crowrd began to search with
the aid of lanterns. The Chinese police
were darting about like dogs upon the
scent, and now they dragged from what
had been the office two badly charred,
dead bodies. The clothes had been
burned from both, but the mystery of
it was, why the two victims had been
unable to get out. Despite the rapidity
with which the flames had spread, a leap
104 The Mistaken Sacrifice
through the door or a window would
have brought them both to safety.
Then the police found out why they
had died, and they turned to Hanley,
who stared at them in return and gaped
at the charred bodies in stunned amaze-
ment. Buried in the breast of the audi-
tor was a long Chinese knife. Through
the lungs of Ah Fu, a forty-four bullet
had passed. A policeman relieved
Hanley of his weapon and carefully
noted its calibre.
Not a vestige of furniture remained
in the place. The little office with its
books and papers and records of twenty
years, was completely wiped out. At
the same time the life of the man who
had come to examine them had been
taken—not by the flames which charred
his body, but by the steel which still
stuck into his breast. Ah Fu, who also
knew a great deal about the business,
had passed on to the Terrace of
Perpetual Sleep.
IV
Of course they arrested Hanley and
clapped him into jail. The examining
magistrate smiled at the story of the
dog, although Moy Su confirmed the
visit of Hanley to his little shop. Moy
Su, however, made no mention of the
reason why he had telephoned, and
only when opportunity came did he
slip a note for Hanley into the hands
of his lawyer.
That note raised the hopes of the man
who was going to defend the accused,
even though it told Hanley that his
case was hopeless. The communication
was from Ah Fu and it was done on
the typewriter. Hanley knew, of course,
that the Chinaman had written it—but
there was nothing to prove this fact to
a jury. Even the signature could not
be confirmed. None had ever seen it.
The Chinaman had never thought of
that—nor had he planned as shrewdly
as his devotion had prompted.
For a moment Hanley looked at the
typewritten text, and then tossed it
away with a contemptuous laugh, as its
worthlessness and the grim humor of
the situation fully dawned upon him:
To Honorable Police, Shanghai, China from
Ah Fu now intending to make himself quite
dead. Honorable Mr. Hanley know noth-
ing about killing the auditing pig. Ah Fu
have plenty cause hate him man Claybume.
Why so nobody business. Ah Fu stab audit-
ing pig and then take poison to go join
little lotus flower because why he kill
Clay-
burne.
It was crude fiction. Not even Han-
ley even pretended to believe it; yet he
saw in an instant what the Chinaman
had done and why he had done it. He
told the lawyer and the attorney under-
stood, but he also realized the utter
impossibility of convincing the court.
Figuring that Clayburne would find
something wrong with Hanley's books,
the devoted servant had planned to not
only kill the auditor, but to destroy the
evidence of his master's supposed guilt.
The pretended reason for his commit-
ting the crime was of course absurd
invention. Hanley did not even know
whether Ah Fu possessed a sister or a
sweetheart. If the Chinaman had
either, Hanley knew that Clayburne had
never even seen such a girl any more
than had he.
Evidently, however, Ah Fu had gone
first to kindle the fire, and had then
intended to finish Clayburne and later
still attend to the taking of his own
life. Perhaps he feared that if he lived
to be questioned, he might break down
under the examining of the magistrate
and recant his confession, thus at least
compromising his master. By dying
himself, he had evidently decided,
everything would be well. All Hanley
had to do, Ah Fu thought, was to hold
his tongue, and no one would be the
wiser.
And indeed such might have been
the case, had it not been for two things
The Mistaken Sacrifice 105
which Ah Fu did not foresee. He had
not figured the possibility of Clay-
burne's discovering him in the act of
kindling the fire. The knife he bad
hurled at the auditor had indeed found
its mark, but not before Claybtirne's
bullet had reached Ah Fu. Thus the
two wounded men died in the flames.
That in itself wTould not have convicted
Hanley.
But even the wisest of Chinamen,
with the best of misguided intentions,
could not have anticipated that Clay-
burne would carry a gun of precisely
the same calibre as Hanley's. Nor
could he have surmised that a stray,
dog in the woods would cause Hanley
to fire a shot under circumstances which
he could not prove.
As it was, everything pointed to Han-
ley's having fired the shack himself.
Evidence' indicated that he had mur-
dered his guest and his servant—one
because of what he might discover in
going over his books—and the Chinese
boy because he knew or saw too much.
The very fact that Clayburne had been
slain with a Chinese knife looked like a
clumsy attempt on Hanley's part to
direct suspicion against the Chink.
That one shell was missing from Clay-
burne's gun was perfectly natural. It
was supposed he had fired in self de-
fense and that his bullet had caused
the rent in Hanley's trousers—the tear
which he claimed had been caused by his
own shot. It was apparently only a
miracle that the ball had not lodged in
Hanley's leg.
In the face of such supposition,
Hanley might plead his innocence as
much as he pleased—but he could not
contravert the facts as the searchers
saw them.
"It's tough, old man," his attorney
declared, "but we'll do all we can for
you."
"Save your pains!" Hanley said with
disgust. "It isn't worth while. You
see, the thing that poor Ah Fu did not
know is that I was really , honest—"
The lawyer suppressed a smile which
Hanley was quick to note. It confirmed
his resignation to his fate.
"Of course you think I'm lying—
not about the murders—hut about the
money. Yet it's gospel truth I'm tell-
ing. About five years ago one of my
assistants got away with some twelve
thousand dollars before I learned of it.
I only found it out after Morely had
told me to discharge him. Then, when
he had disappeared, I was afraid to
speak—naturally imagining that Morely
would think I'd reverted to type and
was merely trying to clear myself by
telling a fanciful tale. There was
nothing but silence left for me, because
the fellow had cleverly forged my hand-
writing in making false entries in my
private set of books—"
"Did Ah Fu know that?" asked the
lawyer, and Hanley shook his head.
"He couldn't have known—but in
some way or other he scented that some-
thing was not just right, and he un-
doubtedly supposed that I was the
crook."
"Would those false entries have been
discovered by the auditor?" the attorney
queried.
"Yes," assented Hanley, "and I would
have explained them. In that way I
could have shown why the figures and
the cash in the bank did not agree. Also
that the thefts occurred while I had an
assistant. Clayburne might have scoffed
at me, but I meant to put every card
on the table. With the books to show,
I might have been able to make them
believe me. As it stands, when they
learn that the books are gone, they're
certain to consider that I destroyed them
and killed Clayburne and Ah Fu in
going about it."
"Perhaps," the lawyer agreed. "Is
there anything in your private accounts
or in your bank transactions that would
106 The Mistaken Sacrifice
suggest that you appropriated the
money ?"
"No," said Hanley. "And nothing
to show I didn't. Yet, as a matter of
fact, I've drawn only half my salary
each month since I made the discovery.
I wanted to put the money back and
thus prevent all chance of my ever be-
ing accused. Clayburne arrived about
a year too soon. I hadn't quite made
it good."
For a moment he was silent, and then
he shrugged his shoulders and laughed
bitterly.
"As it stands, Ah Fu's useless and
foolish sacrifice not only fails to clear
me, but establishes a motive which
brands me as a crook as well as a mur-
derer. He has even burned up the de-
posit book, which would show my
honest efforts at restitution. I haven't
a Chinaman's chance of proving that
I've played straight since my first and
only mistake."
"I'm genuinely sorry for you, Han-
ley," sympathized the attorney. "It's
rotten, too, after the devotion which
prompted that crazy yellow heathen
to give his life for you."
"Be sorry for him, not for me," Hart-
ley smiled. "If the world's going to
think I stole Morely's money after all
his kindness, I'd just as leave be hung
for murder. Poor Ah Fu did the best
he knew how when he tried to help me
out; but the foolish fellow will be tor-
tured through eternity when he learns—
as the dead surely must do—what a
sorry mess his good intentions really
made of things."
The Police Sometimes Guess
By Harold Ward
I
MY visitor dropped wearily into
the chair across the desk from
me, a look of horror on his
pale, weak face.
"There's been a murder!" he gasped
thickly. "Old Levi Jones—Jones, the
money lender! Stabbed! Safe opened
and rifled—-everything taken!"
"Who killed him?" I snapped.
"I—I don't know." He buried his
face in'his hands and sobbed softly for
an instant. "I went there to- rob him.
I found somebody had beat me to it and
had—killed—him! Oh, God! It's hor-
iible!" he ended, sobbing again.
"Let's get the straight of this," I
commanded gruffly. Police chiefs are
not usually the sweetest tempered men
in the world, and I am no exception to
the rule—especially when I have been
without sleep for forty-eight hours, as
in the present instance. "You say that
old Jones is dead—murdered—his safe
robbed? I've had no report of it. Now
who the devil are you and how does it
come that you know so much about the
affair?"
My visitor stopped his snivelling
abruptly.
"I'm Tompkins," he answered shortly,
as if the mention of his name settled the
whole affair.
"That fails to enlighten me," I
growled. "Elucidate."
"I am—or was until this afternoon—-
Jones' clerk. We had a racket—a quar-
rel—and he fired me. Let me go with-
out a second's notice. And he owed me
four hundred dollars commission for
dirty work that I've done for him. Re-
fused to give me a cent of it. Told me
to go to the devil when I threatened to
tell the police of some of his crooked
deals. Said that I was as deep in the
mire as he was in the mud and that
Ms word, because he was rich, would
go farther than mine anyway. That's
why I—that's the reason I went there to
rob the safe tonight—just to get what
was coming to me. I swear I didn't in-
tend to take a cent more than he owed
me."
I nodded comprehendingly.
"All right. Now go ahead with your
story," I said, a trifle more gently than
before.
Tompkins dabbed at his eyes with his
handkerchief.
"I went to the office tonight just
about midnight," he explained, "intend-
ing to let myself in with my passkey.
When we had our racket today the
old man forgot to ask me for it
and I was too sore to give it to him—
me who's done his dirty work for
five years past and then getting fired
that way.
"I knew that lie hadn't had the com-
bination on the safe changed, and he and
I were the only ones who knew it. I
knew that if I got the four hundred he
owed me he'd never dare squeal. And
even if he did I'd be far enough way by
morning to be out of danger. You know
where his office is?—fifth floor of the
Torrence Building. I climbed the stairs
107
108 The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong
rather than take the elevator, figuring
on not taking any chances.
"I didn't meet a soul on the way
going up. The office was dark. I let
myself in with my passkey, stood inside
the door listening for an instant, then
pulled down the shade so that there
would no light show through the ground-
glass panel of the door. Then I tiptoed
my way to the two windows and pulled
down their shades and then punched the
electric-light button. I don't know why
I tiptoed. No one knew that I had been
fired, and anyone in the building would
have presumed, had they noticed me,
that I was there working overtime, as I
often have in the past. I suppose that
it was the natural caution a man feels
when he knows that he is somewhere he
hadn't ought to be."
He hesitated a second. Then : "I sup-
pose that you'll think Pm a darned liar
when I tell you what happened," he
finally resumed.
"Go ahead!" I said shortly.
"When the lights flashed on I natu-
rally took a survey of the room. The
safe was standing open with a lot of
papers that had been in it strewn about
the floor.
"I knew then that somebody had been
there ahead of me—might be there then.
You can bet that I lost no time in mak-
ing for the door.
"I was scared—scared all over. I had
that creepy feeling that a fellow gets at
such times. And just as I got my hand
on the knob I heard a noise from the
private office—the office the old man
uses—used, I mean—in which to receive
his clients.
"It sounded like a moan—a sort of
dull, throaty groan!
"Every hair on my scalp rose straight
up. I turned my head involuntarily in
the direction from whence the sound
came.
"Through the door I saw the old man
sitting behind his desk, his head hang-
ing over the back of his chair! The
handle of a knife was sticking out of
his chest, and his whole breast was cov-
ered with blood!
"Right then and there I opened the
door and fled. You couldn't have held
me in that room with a million dollars."
"Did you see anyone in the corridor
as you passed out?" I asked.
Tompkins looked sheepish.
"That's one of the reasons I hurried
right here, Chief," he answered. "One
of the fellows who cleans the rooms—
janitors I guess you'd call 'em—was put-
tering around in the hallway a dozen
doors down. I'm pretty certain that he
saw me. They all knew me by sight,
probably, and I knew that as soon as the
murder was discovered he'd remember
seeing me come out and report me.
"My first idea was to beat it out of
town. But I'm short on money and I
knew that you'd get me sooner or later
anyway. So I decided to get to you
first, make a clean breast of what actu-
ally happened and turn myself over to
you for attempted burglary before you
got me for murder."
"How long ago did this happen?" I
demanded.
Tompkins shuddered.
"Not over ten minutes," he answered.
"You know the Torrence Building's
only six blocks away and I hurried
here as fast as my legs would carry
me."
I jabbed the button which brought
Moore of the Detective Bureau to my
side.
"Get a couple of your best men and
come with me!" I told him. "Some-
body's snuffed old Levi Jones's light
out."
Moore gave a quick glance at Tomp-
kins.
"The old devil's been flirting with
trouble for the past ten or fifteen
years !" he remarked dryly, as he turned
to obey my order. "Meet you in the
The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong 109
hallway, Chief, with Dugan and Miles,
in about two minutes."
II
Things in Jones's office were as
Tompkins—who was shaking as if with
the ague when we entered the room—
had described them. In the outer office
the lights were still burning as he had
said he had left them. They disclosed
to view a safe rather larger than the
ordinary, the door of which was stand-
ing wide open. Drawers had been pulled
out and their contents scattered about
the floor.
Giving Dugan, who was a finger-print
expert of more than ordinary ability, his
instructions, the remainder of us entered
the smaller office.
Jones was seated in a high-back,
broad-armed, leather-upholstered chair,
his right side turned toward, the door.
His body was slumped backward, his
head hanging over the back of the chair
in an indescribable—almost grotesque—
position. His eyes were wide open,
staring glassily at us. Never a hand-
some man, with his long hooked nose
and thin, cadaverous face surmounted
by its thatch of unkempt hair, in death
he was positively repulsive.
From his left breast protruded the
handle of a knife. It had evidently been
driven from behind over his shoulder
and with tremendous force straight to
the heart. That death had been instan-
taneous there was not a doubt. A thin
stream of blood had flown from the
wound, staining the shirtfront a dull
brownish crimson.
I took one of the old man's claw-like
hands in my own. The body was al-
ready beginning to grow cold. I deduced
—and Moore and Miles agreed with me
—that he had been dead at least an hour.
I turned to Tompkins, who had
dropped into the nearest chair and was
again sniveling to himself.
"Have you ever seen that knife be-
fore?" I asked, pointing to the weapon
in the dead man's breast.
Tompkins nodded.
"God! Yes!" he answered. "It was
his. Somebody gave it to him once—
always kept it on his desk for a paper
weight and letter opener."
I called Dugan from the other room.
"Look that knife-handle over for
prints!" I told him.
The little detective busied himself
with his magnifying glass for a brief
time. Then he turned to me with a
shrug of his thin shoulders.
"Th' fellow that did this job didn't
even go to the trouble of wearin' rubber
gloves, Chief. He did the same with
this handle that he did with the safe—
wiped everything off with a cloth.
Maybe used alcohol. There isn't even a
chicken track on either one of them!"
I turned to Moore.
"Find the caretaker and have him
bring up the janitor who takes care of
this floor," I instructed.
Then I commanded Tompkins to
make a hurried inventory of the con-
tents of the safe. He skimmed over the
various papers inside of the pigeon-
holes and on the floor, completing his
task inside of five minutes.
"There was over five thousand dol-
lars in there when I quit this afternoon,"
he announced. "In addition several se-
curities that I have noticed in one of the
drawers—valued probably at ten or fif-
teen thousand—are gone. I know that
they were there when I left the office,
because the old man had been checking
them over, and I saw him put 'em back.
It was past banking hours, then, so that
the thief must have taken them."
I looked at Dugan.
"How was the box cracked ?" I asked.
The little detective grinned.
"'Twasn't cracked, Chief," he an-
swered. "The fellow that got inside that
box worked the combination. The only
110 The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong
fellow that I know who's clever enough
for such a job is Eddie New."
The sniveling Tompkins let out a
lusty squawk.
"I tell you it can't be!" he wailed.
"Nobody knew the combination except
old Jones and myself!"
I turned to the telephone on the desk
and called up Headquarters.
"Lenny," I instructed the sergeant
who answered, "look up the records and
tell me where Eddie New is right now."
In less than a minute the answer came
back over the wire: "Chief, Eddie's laid
up with a broken leg—result of an au-
tomobile smashup—in Greely's hangout.
Got hurt the week after he got out of
stir."
I hung up the receiver with a bang.
Obviously the murderer and thief was
not Eddie New, the only crook in the
city really competent of opening a
strictly modern safe such as that before
us without damaging the mechanism.
Nor was Eddie New the sort of man to
commit & murder; he was of the more
modern, "Jimmie Valentine" sort—
clever with his fingers, clever with his
head, planning his work as carefully as a
business man plans his deals, guarding
every contingency before taking a step.
There was a bare possibility that
Jones had opened the safe himself while
entertaining some visitor, and that later
the visitor had taken his life and made
away with the money and securities. But
granting that such was the case, why
had the murderer gone to the trouble of
carefully wiping the finger prints off
from the safe? For in such a case the
only prints would be those of the dead
man himself. Verily the affair was
assuming some angles that gave food
for thought.
III
Moore entered with Grady, the head
janitor, and a pale, dull-appearing man
whom he introduced as Billy Murphy,
who, according to Grady, did the clean-
ing on the fifth floor. Tompkins identi-
fied him at once as the man he had seen
cleaning the corridor at the time he
made his escape from the office after
discovering the murder.
Murphy, readily admitting that he
had noticed Tompkins leave the office
hurriedly about midnight, came forward
with a story which complicated matters
worse than ever:
He had been working some distance
down the hallway between ten and
eleven o'clock. At that time, chancing
to pass Jones's office, he had seen a light
shining through the ground-glass door.
About half an hour later, again passing
the door, he had heard the sound of
voices—one low and indistinct, the other
plainly recognizable as that of the money
lender himself.
He imagined that he had heard a cry.
Yet he was not certain. At any rate,
Jones's voice had stopped suddenly, but
inasmuch as he, Murphy, was moving
down the corridor at the time, he had
given the matter no more thought.
Later he remembered again passing
the office and noticing that the light had
been extinguished. That was all that
he knew about the affair until he saw
Tompkins rush out of the place about
midnight.
The man was plainly nervous and ill
at ease, as is usually the case of the
more ignorant when brought face to
face with the law for the first time. Yet
something about his manner caused me
to do some hurried thinking. When he
had completed his story I ordered him
searched.
Hidden in his inside coat pocket
'Moore found a package of bills amount-
ing to nearly one thousand dollars!
IV
Whence came that money? Hun-
dred-dollar-a-month janitors are not apt
to be carrying huge amounts of cash
The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong 111
about their clothes. Breaking down un-
der our questioning he said that he had
found the money in the hallway close
to the door at the time he had passed the
office a third time and discovered it dark.
He was a poor man, he said, with a wife
and family to support. He had at first
intended turning the money in to Grady,
his superior, but later decided to keep
it, hiding it until the hue and cry which
was certain to follow its loss had blown
over, when he would bank it a small
amount at a time.
There was nothing for me to do but
hold William Murphy for the murder
of Levi Jones.
He confessed.
Yet after he had admitted to the kill-
ing of Levi Jones I felt that he was a liar
even though his confession as I had
written it and with his rambling signa-
ture at the end lay before me. The
pieces refused to dovetail together.
Although policemen refuse to admit
that there is such a thing as the "Third
Degree," seldom is a confession secured
without using some method which would
not stand the limelight of publicity. The
newspaper boys know it and wink at it.
It is necessary and, in some form or an-
other, is used the world over. It is part
of the price the criminal pays for his
war against society. I used the "Third
Degree" on William Murphy.
A glance at his peculiar complexion
and the nervous twitching of his facial
muscles showed that he was a "dope."
The presence of a small quantity of
cocaine in his pocket substantiated the
fact.
It was nearly morning when we ar-
rested Murphy. He had been working
all night. Naturally, he was tired and
sleepy. For the remainder of that day
and half of the following night Moore,
Dugan, Miles and myself took turns
keeping him awake. We questioned him
constantly and from a thousand angles.
He refused to tell a different story than
the one he had given us at first—that of
finding the money in the hallway.
On the table before his weary eyes we
laid a big package of "dope." At fre-
quent intervals we brought into the room
other "snowbirds." We gave them free
rein to the "snow." The joyous light
that overspread their features as they
sniffed the poison was enough to break
a stronger will than that of William
Murphy. He finally gave up.
I read to him the confession as I had
reconstructed the crime. According to
my deductions Jones had gone to his
office to work. He had opened the safe
and was in his private office when Mur-
phy entered to do the cleaning. In
front of Jones was a package of bills
he was counting. The paper cutter lay
before him. Naturally he thought noth-
ing of seeing Murphy—a man who was
in the office daily—busied about his
duties.
Working up to a point close to the
money lender, Murphy had suddenly
leaped forward, seized the old man by
the throat with one hand and with the
other plunged the knife into his breast.
Even if there had been an outcry, no
one would have heard it at that time of
night and on that deserted floor. Re-
calling the stories he had heard of the
folly of leaving finger-prints, he had
hastily wiped off the knife-handle and
the safe dial with his dust cloth—after
looting the safe—and hurried back to
his work, springing the lock on the door
after him.
This was the crime as I reconstructed
it and the confession in substance that
Murphy signed.
He repudiated it next day at the pre-
liminary hearing, upon the advice of his
attorney.
And I, despite the fact that he had
confessed to me, felt that the confession
was a falsehood. For there was one
weak spot in the whole affair.
Tompkins stuck to his assertion that
112 The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong
there had been at least five thousand dol-
lars in cash in the safe and securities
amounting to between ten and fifteen
thousand dollars. There was every
reason to believe that as Jones's clerk
he knew what he was talking about.
We had found less than a thou-
sand dollars on Murphy when we
searched him.
Granted that I was right and that the
confession I had forced from the janitor
was the truth, what had become of the
remainder of the money? Murphy was
not clever enough to hide it and keep it
hidden in the face of the terrific grilling
we had given him. Nor, on the other
hand, was he clever enough to act
as the tool for someone else, the
payment being the money we had
found on his person, and keep from dis-
closing the fact under the "Third
Degree."
There was something decidedly rotten
in Denmark. I was man enough to
admit this fact to Moore and his men
during the recess after Murphy had
taken the stand at preliminary hearing
and to admit to them also that if Tomp-
kins confirmed his statement regarding
the amount of money when he took the
stand that we would have considerable
trouble in getting a conviction when the
case came to trial. For the court had
appointed to defend the janitor a young
attorney of more than ordinary ability
—a man who might be expected to do
his utmost for his client on account of
the advertising he would receive in case
of an acquittal.
V
Tompkins was the first witness called
after recess. He was visibly nervous,
yet he retold the story he had told to
me almost word for word. The prose-
cuting attorney was about to turn him
over to the attorney for the defense for
cross-examination when, like a bolt out
of a clear sky, the truth suddenly came
to me.
I leaned across the table and whis-
pered to the prosecutor. A startled look
flashed across his face, and an instant
later he was on his feet moving for an
adjournment. His motion was granted.
Five minutes later he, Tompkins, Mur-
phy and his attorney, Dugan, Moore,
Miles and myself were closeted in the
prosecutor's rooms.
I turned upon Tompkins.
"You cur!" I shouted, shaking my fist
under his nose; "you killed Levi Jones
yourself, and I, like a fool, almost sent
an innocent man to the gallows for your
crime!"
He shrank back, while a gasp of
astonishment went up from the others
in the room.
"I—I—" he commenced to stammer.
But I stopped him.
"Let me tell you just what happened,"
I went on. "You and old Jones were
working in the office during the early
part of the evening. Murphy says that
he saw a light when he passed the door.
You lie when you say that Jones fired
you during the afternoon. The truth
of the matter is that the altercation took
place at the time when Murphy says
that he heard angry voices as he again
passed the door.
"You had probably often quarreled
before. Therefore, Jones had no sus-
picion when you passed behind him.
You seized the knife and plunged it into
his heart!
"The remainder was easy—for you
are a smooth customer—so smooth that
you had me hoodwinked all the way
through! You rifled the safe, wiped off
the finger-prints from it and the knife-
handle, and then, watching your chance,
tossed the roll of bill out into the hall-
way where you knew Murphy would
find them when he started his cleaning.
You knew that he was simple-minded—
a dope fiend—knew just what his mental
The Police Sometimes Guess Wrong 113
process would be and that he would
admit anything under the terrors of the
"third degree." That you guessed right
is proved by the result.
"Then you turned out the lights and
watched your chance. You probably
had the door open a crack. You saw
Murphy pick up the roll of money, stuff
it into his pocket and, after looking
around to see that he was unobserved,
busy himself with his pail and mop.
Then, when you were certain that he
could see you, you rushed from the office
and past him to the stairway.
"Your scheme was clever—diaboli-
cally so. I'm intensely human—human
enough not to suspect a man who openly
confesses that he went to a place to
commit a burglary and finds that a mur-
der had been committed. I swallowed
your story like a veritable boob.
"You realized that, under ordinary
circumstances, you would probably be
suspected. Therefore, by coming
straight to police headquarters, ad-
mitting your premeditated guilt and
telling of the murder, you threw any
suspicions I might otherwise have had
to the winds. I went into the investi-
gation firmly convinced that you were
innocent. I might have run into evi-
dence against you, but you had it all
discounted in advance.
"You made one fatal mistake. I
made the other. Mine nearly hanged
poor Murphy, here, while yours will
hang yourself."
Tompkins gulped. Then: "All right,
Chief, you've got me foul, I gues§. I
put the money and securities in an en-
velope addressed to myself and dropped
it down the mail chute. It should have
been delivered yesterday afternoon at
my home address. There's just one
question I'd like to ask:
I nodded. "Fire away."
"I'll admit that I thought I had things
fixed up so that you wouldn't suspect
me. And besides I'm a pretty fair actor
and I pulled the sob stuff pretty de-
cently you'll admit. But you say that
I made one mistake. Do you mind tell-
ing me what it was?"
It was my turn to smile.
"Tompkins," I said, "your story was
too perfect. Remember you told me—-
and you repeated the same story on the
witness stand just now—that you
seized the knob of the outer door ready
to bolt when you heard a moan. You
turned quickly, you claimed, and
through the door you saw Jones sitting
at his desk, his head hanging over the
back of his chair, the handle of a knife
sticking out of his chest and his breast
covered with blood. That's where you
made you big mistake."
Tompkins looked puzzled.
"I'm still in the dark," he declared.
"Because," I answered, "the position
of Jones's desk is such that he was
seated with his right side toward the
door. He was slumped down in his
chair—which is leather upholstered
with huge arms, his head hanging over
the back and side. It was not until
you told your story a second time on
the witness stand and I visualized the
scene of the crime that the truth sud-
denly flashed over me.
"From the position of Jones's desk
and the way he was sitting with his
right side turned toward the doorway,,
a man standing at the outer doorway
couldn't see the handle of the knife
which was plunged into his heart!"
The Catspaw
By Ward Sterling
I
THE Peck mansion was as care-
fully guarded as a prison. At
the front and rear doors armed
operatives from the best detec-
tive bureau in the city—all tried men—
were posted day and night. Others
patrolled the grounds. There was not
one chance in ten million for anyone to
creep through the network of protection
we had thrown about the aged million-
aire and his family.
Yet the first murder occurred within
twenty-four hours of the time set by
Lon Bixby!
Lannagan, the second man, did not
report for duty in the morning as usual.
Jenkins, the butler, entering the room
when he did not respond found him cold
in death.
The tragedy had taken place some
time during the night. The body was
cold and rigid when we rushed into the
chamber in response to the butler's
frantic calls for help.
Bloated to nearly double his natural
size, blackened, the limbs twisted as
from convulsions, the face drawn out
of shape, the unfortunate man pre-
sented a terrifying spectacle.
Doctor Maxwell, Peck's regular phy-
sician, who was locked up in the house
with the remainder of us, gave as his
opinion after a hurried examination that
death was the result of poisoning.
Yet Lannagan had eaten nothing, to
the best of our knowledge and belief,
that the rest of us had not also eaten.
That had been a part of our agreement
—that we would all partake of the same
food—in order to protect Peck from
poison. Nor had anything in the pro-
vision line been brought to the house.
Prepared to stand a siege, everything—
even the fresh meats—had been pur-
chased in advance and stored away in
the refrigerating plant downstairs.
Doctor Frye, the coroner, summoned
by telephone as soon as the tragedy was
discovered, agreed with his colleague
that Lannagan had been poisoned. It
was his belief, however, that the poison
had been administered by injection into
a vein.
Both physicians made a careful ex-
amination of the body. Just above the
knee they found two minute punctures
in the skin! Here, too, the swelling
seemed more aggravated than elsewhere,
while the spot had turned a darker hue.
The body had every sympton of death
from snake bite. Yet we knew that
there was not a snake in the house nor
could there have been one in the room.
Lannagan had, according to my instruc-
tions, slept with his windows and door
locked. They were in this condition
when the body was found, for it had
been necessary for the butler to let him-
self into the room Avith his pass-key.
The other servants had locked them-
selves in in the same way. An alert
detective ha$l been posted all night in
each corridor.
In spite of the precautions, in order
to make certain, we removed every piece
of furniture from the dead man's room.
There was no possibility of a reptile
having been hidden there. Nor could a
man have, in any possible way, entered
the house.
To make matters more complicated
we knew that Lannagan had not left the
114
The Catspaw 115
house that day nor the day before. For
this was a part of the arrangement that
we had made.
Ponder as I would, I could think of
no possible solution to the puzzle. It
was as mysterious as Poe's "Mystery of
the Rue Morgue."
Peck, the storm center—the man for
whom all these precautions were taken
and for whom poor Lannagan had died
—was the calmest of us all.
Five minutes after the appearance of
the coroner, the millionaire was sum-
moned to the phone. In accordance
with my determination not to allow him
out of my sight day or night, I accom-
panied him to the library.
A harsh, metallic voice—a voice so
loud that it could be heard all over-the
big room—informed him that the death
of a member of his household had been
a warning—a warning sent to prove to
him that in spite of all his precautions
his enemies were able to strike when and
where they pleased. His own death
would follow in good time.
Shaking slightly, yet game to the core,
he motioned to' me and handed me the
instrument. The voice died out in a,
mirthless, diabolical chuckle. Then the
receiver at the other end of the wire was
hung up with a click.
Jiggling the hook up and down, I suc-
ceeded in getting "Central" within a few
seconds. An instant later I was con-
nected with my friend, Armstrong,
manager of the traffic department, to
whom I hurriedly explained the situa-
tion and.requested that the call be traced.
Armstrong moved speedily. For, in
spite of the fact that hundreds of calls
go through the Capital Hill exchange
every hour, so thorough is their system
that inside of five minutes he had me
back on the wire.
The call had originated in one of the
pay stations at the Pennsylvania depot,
ten miles away!
II
Perhaps in my efforts to hold the
reader's attention I have not explained
matters as thoroughly as I should. Then,
too, like all detectives, I am a poor nar-
rator of my own experiences. What
seems to the average person to be an
exciting adventure is to us only a part
of the day's work—an episode to be for-
gotten as speedily as possible after it has
been disclosed to judge and jury. Yet
the Morgan Peck case is so unique in
criminal annals as to be worthy of being
put in a class by itself.
The reader will recall the sensation in
financial circles caused by the appear-
ance of Alonzo Bixby, the South Afri-
can magnate. For two short years he was
one of the king pins of The Exchange.
Then came the battle between Bixby
and Peck. It was short, but memorable.
Peck, backed by his years of experience,
crushed his enemy beneath his heel as
a farmer scotches a harmless worm.
Bixby, cornered, his fangs bared,
showed his makeup by turning crook.
Timothy Owen, Peck's right-hand man,
was killed. Over the body of his friend
Morgan Peck swore vengeance. Qne of
Bixby's retainers, arrested by the police,
admitted the murder, charging Bixby
with having instigated the crime. All of
Peck's gigantic fortune was placed at
the disposal of the prosecution. The
trial lasted for weeks, an army of law-
yers battling for every point.
In the end the jury sent Bixby to the
penitentiary for life.
The day that sentence was pro-
nounced is one that will long be remem-
bered in newspaper and legal circles.
Bixby, surrounded by his lawyers, his
beautiful young wife at his side, listened
impassively to the judge's voice. It was
not until the officers seized him to part
him forever from the woman he loved
that he gave way to his emotions.
116 The Catspaw
Leaping to his feet, his rough-hewn
face quivering with diabolical rage, he
shook his huge fist at Morgan Peck!
"Damn you! In prison or out, I'll
get you!" he shouted. "I'll make you
suffer as you're making me! An eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth!"
Raving like a madman, they dragged
him away.
Remember, Bixby was still a wealthy
man and money will buy almost any-
thing—even liberty. There were those
among us who predicted that Bixby
would not remain long behind prison
walls. We were correct in our surmises.
In just eleven months and three days
he was at liberty. With him disap-
peared half a dozen guards. How much
he paid them for his liberty no one will
probably ever know for none of them
were ever captured. Some of us hold
to the theory that after helping Bixby
make his escape, they were killed at
his orders. But that is another story.
Three weeks after Bixby made his
break from prison an effort was made
to blow up Peck's office with a bomb.
Fortunately the financier was absent
when the package was received. The
secretary who opened it lost his life.
A week later someone fired a shot at
Peck in the dark. Only the fact that the
old man moved slightly at that instant
prevented the assassin's bullet from
finding its mark. As it was, only a slight
flesh wound rewarded the attempt.
Then Peck's colleagues took a hand.
He was the center around which one
of the biggest financial deals ever pulled
off was being engineered—a deal that
involved governments. His death would
have meant a world panic. In spite of
his sneers at their fears—for Peck was
a battler who fought for the sheer love
of the sport—they finally induced him to
obey their commands.
He was locked in his own house, sur-
rounded by guards as I have stated.
The best detective bureau in the city was
engaged to look after his safety. Half
a hundred operatives were put to work
combing the country for his enemies.
I—and I trust that the reader will
pardon the seeming egotism displayed—
as the best man available among all of
the detectives in the city, was placed in
charge of the guards surrounding Mor-
gan Peck.
Two hours after we had taken our
precautions a special delivery letter
mailed from a downtown station was
received. It read as follows:
Peck: I swore that I'd get you and I
meant
it. By cooping yourself up like a sick
chicken
you have opened the way for my vengeance.
Inside of forty-eight hours' I'll strike!
God
help you from now on.
"Bixby."
III
Morgan Peck was said by his ene-
mies to be a man without feeling, nerves
or love. A widower, his only daughter
dying in childhood, having few near rel-
atives, he had schooled himself against
emotion. Yet that afternoon after the
body of poor Lannagan had been re-
moved from the house and we sat to-
gether in the big library discussing the
affair, two things took place which threw
a different light on the old man's char-
acter.
Gladys Peck, his niece—an orphan
and his nearest relative—a girl whom he
had raised from childhood, passed
through the room. The old face lighted
up and, as she passed out of hearing,
he turned savagely to me.
"I don't give a damn about myself,"
he growled. "I'm old enough to cash
in—time's coming sooner or later any-
way. But God help Bixby if he harms
that girl! And God help you if you
let him!"
That was all. Yet in his face was an
odd light that betrayed the gruffness
of his voice. I wondered if his enemies
knew of his love for this orphan girl.
The Catspaw 117
I shuddered as I thought of what might
happen if they chanced to learn—and
struck him through her.
The other incident I mention w|as
when a cat—an ordinary, common vari-
ety of feline—entered the room and,
with back arched, rubbed purringly
against the millionaire's leg.
"Funny little devil!" he grumbled.
"Picked him up five years ago when he
was a kitten. Somebody'd turned him
out to die—freeze to death. Damn such
people! Stuck him in my overcoat
pocket and brought him home. Never
cared for cats—Angoras, Persians and
the blue-blooded aristocracy of catdom
—but this little cuss made a hit with
me. Scrapper! See that spot of red
hair on his head ? That shows it. He'd
fight the Old Nick! Intelligent, too.
Makes the servants all stand around.
Got a habit of biting 'em on their ankles.
They all like him, though. Funny, ain't
it? Got a lot of human traits in him.
Reminds me a little bit of myself," he
added with a smile, reaching down and
rubbing the cat's head affectionately.
And this was the man whose enemies
claimed him to be without a heart!
. . . . .
That same afternoon the coffin came!
An undertaker's wagon stopped at
the front door and two solemn-faced
men brought the casket up the steps.
In accordance with his orders, the
detective on duty refused to admit them,
but called me. Cross-questioned, they
knew nothing. The coffin had been
ordered from the Morgenstein Casket
Company and they were here to deliver
it. The address was plainly marked.
Detaining them after ordering the un-
sightly reminder of the death, that was
constantly in our midst, replaced in the
wagon, I hurried Holdridge, one of the
brightest operatives under my direction,
over to the offices of the casket company.
He returned inside of thirty minutes.
The casket had been ordered by mail.
A bank draft for four hundred dollars
drawn by the First National Trust and
Savings Bank—one of Peck's own insti-
tutions—had accompanied the letter.
The letter merely stated that a death
would shortly occur at the Peck home
and asked that the coffin be delivered
immediately.
A telephone call to the bank proved
fruitless. The draft clerk remembered
drawing the draft, which was paid for
in cash, but, owing to the large number
of similar papers which passed through
his hands daily, had no recollection as
to who his customer had been. In fact,
only the number on the draft recalled
the incident to mind at all.
I released the two men from the fac-
tory. In my own mind I was convinced
that the affair had been pulled off by
Bixby merely in an effort to break down
Peck's morale.
But they failed to reckon with the old
man's fighting spirit.
IV
The remainder of the afternoon and
the night passed uneventfully, everyone,
warned by what had happened the night
before, doubling his vigilance.
I spent the following morning in go-
ing over the reports of the fifty-odd
operatives scattered about the city in
quest of Bixby. Despite the fact that
the former haunts of the big South
African had been combed by our men
not only could no trace be found of the
financier himself, but several of his
closest friends—men who at the trial
were proved to have done his bidding
without question—had also disappeared.
As for Mrs. Bixby, it appeared that
she had left the quiet hotel, where she
had remained since the trial, nearly a
month before her husband had made his
escape. And the trail was too old to
follow. She had dropped out of sight
as completely as though the earth had
opened up and swallowed her.
118 The Catspaw
For two hours I sat at the big library-
table and went over the case from every
angle. There were a number of things
that puzzled me more than I was willing
to admit. In the first place who and
what had killed Michael Lannagan ?
I had proved to my own satisfaction
and to that of Peck that the second man
had not been absent from the house an
instant from the time that he, like the
rest of us, went into seclusion. Eight
trained detectives—each an ex-police-
man—men with years of service behind
them—were ready to swear that no one
had entered the mansion. These men
had taken turns in watching the place
and grounds in shifts of two hours on
and two hours off during the entire time
since we had been in a state of siege. On
the other hand I realized that Bixby had
money and that money will buy almost
anything. Yet I was not ready to con-
demn these men on mere conjecture.
Then, too, there was the matter of
the special delivery letter. Who was in
such close touch with the money-master
that they were able to find out to the
minute when he had been driven into se-
clusion ? Outside of our own party only
his closest friends knew of our plans.
And had it been a mere coincidence that
the telephone call from the pay station
at the Pennsylvania depot had come in
just after the arrival of the coroner?
Was there someone in the house who
was signaling the happenings inside to
our enemies on the outside?
Was one of our own number the
murderer? Would he, when the time
came, strike down Peck as he had struck
down Lannagan?
I reached for the list of those who
made up our party and checked it over
in the hope that through it I might
arrive at the truth. In addition to Peck,
his niece and myself, there was Doctor
Maxwell, an old friend—a man im-
mensely wealthy in his own name and
who had been the millionaire's private
physician for thirty years. All of the
servants had been in the old man's em-
ploy for periods ranging from over a
quarter of a century of service on the
part of Mrs. Langtry, the housekeeper,
to ten years on the part of Lannagan,
the murdered second man. Peck had
hired them all and vouched for them.
The detectives, as I have stated, were
all men with years of service behind
them.
No, on the face of it, it seemed like
an impossibility. Yet there was the
murder of Lannagan to prove the falsity
of my reasoning.
It was shortly after noon when Peck
and I, smoking in the library, were
brought to our feet by a shriek for help
from the servants' quarters at the rear
of the house. Drawing my revolver
and shoving the millionaire, who would
have taken the lead, behind me, I rushed
in the direction from which the sound
came.
Fred Deets, who acted as chauffeur
and valet for Peck was lying on his
back in the middle of the kitchen in con-
vulsions. Beside him stood Mrs. Mul-
cahey, the cook, from whose voluminous
lungs the shouts for help were ema-
nating. Coincident with my arrival
came the others with the exception of
the two men stationed at the doors.
They, like the veterans they were, re-
mained at their posts.
In response to my orders Jenkins
summoned Doctor Maxwell, who was
asleep in his room. Inside of a minute
the physician, his emergency kit in his
hand, made his appearance.
He shook his head as he bent over
the stricken man and felt his pulse. For
a second there was silence. Then the
physician straightened up with a shrug
of his shoulders.
"He's dying!" he said quietly, while
Mrs. Mulcahey let out a wail of despair.
I turned to the physician. "Do you
think—"
The Catspaw 119
"Same as Lannagan!" he answered.
"See for yourself how the poor fellow's
starting to bloat. After nearly half a
century of medical experience it's the
first case I ever failed to diagnose—or at
least make a fairly good guess at."
He stopped suddenly. A shudder
over the body of the man on the floor.
Then his jaw dropped.
Fred Deets was dead!
V
I turned to Mrs. Mulcahey.
"Tell me just what happened!" I
commanded.
"Sure, and that's th' worst of it," she
sobbed. "There was nothin' happened at
all. He was sittin' here as happy as
you please talkin' to Teta when—"
"Teta? Who's Teta?" I demanded.
"The cat," Peck answered grimly.
"Deets was one of Teta's warmest
friends. The little animal is decidedly
emphatic in his likes and dislikes, but
poor Fred was one of his favorites."
I nodded. Then to Mrs. Mulcahey:
"Go ahead with your story!"
"Well, sor, as I was sayin' he was
sitting there talkin' to Teta when all of
a sudden I heard him give a little gasp.
Me back was turned to him at the time.
I looked around quickly—just in time
to see him slide from th' chair with th'
froth c.omin' out of his mouth. I yelled
for help and you seen th' rest."
Mrs. Mulcahey had been with Peck
for eighteen years, my records showed.
That she was not the murderer was a
certainty. Yet Deets had been killed
under her very eyes. I questioned her
for nearly half an hour, in the hope that
she might recall having seen some other
member of the household in or near the
kitchen at or about the time Deets was
stricken down. But she was emphatic.
She and she alone had been with the
dead chauffeur.
There was nothing to do but send for
the coroner again.
Meanwhile the body had been re-
moved to an upstairs room where Doctor
Maxwell made an examination. He
called as I passed through the hall. As
I entered the room he pointed to the
naked body of the murdered chauffeur.
Close to the knee of the right leg the
skin was blacker than elsewhere.
And in the center of the dark spot
was a tiny puncture similar to the ones
we had found on Lannagan's leg!
A detective occasionally gets
"hunches." If he is a good one he plays
them to the limit. I, as I have stated
before, believe—and I trust that the
reader will not accuse me of egotism—
that I am among the top notchers de-
spite the poor opinion he has received
of me through my rambling account of
the murders in the Peck mansion. Just
now I got a "hunch." I decided to
play it.
Hardly taking time to thank my
friend, the physician, for his courtesy,
I hurried downstaids to the library
where Peck was busy reading, the big
cat curled up in a ball on the chair
opposite.
The millionaire looked up in astonish-
ment at my catapultic entrance.
"Mr. Peck!" I burst forth, "I want
to borrow Teta!"
The millionaire elevated his brows.
"You what?" he demanded.
"I want to borrow Teta—the cat, here.
I've an idea that he'd make a first class
detective. I'll promise you that I'll not
injure him in the least, but I am firm
in the conviction that he can lead us to
the murderers of Lannagan and Deets
—the men who are trying to get at you
and, possibly, at Miss Gladys through
you."
As I spoke the big cat arched his
back and got onto his feet with a yawn,
exercising his digits by drawing and
withdrawing his claws in the padding of
the chair half a dozen times. The action
decided the old man. He looked up at
120 The Catspaw
me with a suspicion of a twinkle in
his eyes.
"The little cuss is a scrapper as I told
you," he chuckled. "Look at the way
he girds up his loins for action at the
mere mention of taking a part in the
scrap. Take him and welcome—but
don't let him get hurt."
With a curt nod of thanks, I picked
up the cat and carried him upstairs to
my own room. For the next half hour
the little animal and myself were busily
engaged among the retorts and tubes
which Doctor Maxwell had brought
from his laboratory for experimental
purposes during his enforced detention
and w'hich I borrowed for my own uses.
When I had completed my task I turned
to the furred beauty with a smile of
satisfaction:
"Teta," I whispered, "this whole af-
fair is a secret between the two of us.
I thought that I was on the right track—
and now I know it. You're the boy
who'll bring home the bacon. It's up
to you to get the men who killed your
pals—Lannagan and Deets. Will you
do it?"
There are some people who claim that
cats have no intelligence. I stand ready
to swear that Teta, Morgan Peck's cat,
understood every word I said. For he
rubbed against my leg with a loud
pur-r-r-r of satisfaction and immediately
took up his station close to the door as
if clamoring for action.
We went down the stairs together.
I stopped at both front and rear doors
and gave my instructions to- the opera-
tives on watch:
"I want to be informed the minute the
cat meows to get out," I instructed them.
"Pass this word on to the men who will
relieve you. Remember, no excuses go.
Before he is let out, I am to be called!"
Fifteen minutes later Olmstead, on
duty at the rear door, called to me:
"The cat's howling at my station," he
said.
I followed the animal to the door and
personally let him outside.
VI
Across the lawn I followed the cat
with my eyes until he disappeared
around the corner of a nearby garage.
O'Leary and Cain, the two men on duty
on the grounds, had had their orders.
As Teta disappeared down the alley I
saw O'Leary dodge around a nearby
bush and follow him. A second later
he reappeared and approached the
house.
"Your friend, the cat, went into a barn
that's been transformed into a garage
at 1424 North Tenth, just five houses
below here," he reported with a grin.
"And if you'll pardon the joke, chief,
I've shadowed darned near everything
that walks, but it's the first time I ever
trailed a cat."
Stepping to the telephone, I called up
my friend Hitchens, chief of detectives,
who was cooperating with us in every
way possible. Satisfied with the results
of my conversation, I sat down to spend
the remainder of the afternoon among
Peck's books.
Suddenly the phone at my elbow
jangled. Turning, I picked up the re-
ceiver and answered the call.
The same metallic voice that had
talked to Peck the day of Lannagan's
murder answered my gruff "Hello!"
"Peck ?" he asked.
"I'll call him," I responded.
"Never mind," the other answered.
Then as I hesitated for words, the voice
went on:
"Tell your boss he can prepare for an-
other killing! It may be him and it may
be another, but his time is coming soon!"
The voice died away in the same harsh
laughter that I had heard before.
I hung up the receiver with a bang
and jiggled the hook to attract the atten-
tion of "Central." An instant later I was
connected with my friend Armstrong
The Catspaw 121
to whom I again explained matters,
while Peck looked on, his furrowed
face wrinkled in doubt.
This time Armstrong was speedier
than before. Scarcely had I hung up
the receiver than he called me back.
"The phone call was from the booth
in a drug store at the busiest corner of
the city. To trace the person who had
called would be an impossibility."
Packard, on duty at the rear door,
called me at fifteen minutes past five
o'clock.
"The cat just came in!" he yelled.
The afternoon's hunting had evidently
been of the best for the cat was purring
contentedly as he passed down the hall-
way on his way to the library. But I
was taking no chances of a scratch from
his sharp claws, for I protected my
hands with heavy gloves as I tenderly
picked him up and carried him upstairs
to my room. Ten minutes later I was
at the telephone with my friend Hitch-
ens at the other end.
Half an hour afterward there came
a sudden blast of a police whistle. From
a dozen different directions from where
they had been stationed hurried police-
men and detectives, all centering on
the big brick house at 1424 North
Tenth.
There was no response to our knocks.
A burly policeman hurled his bulk
against the door h It refused to give
way'! He swung an axe over his head!
Came a sound of splitting wood! A
second later we were inside the hallway.
A revolver spit at us from down the
corridor! Another flashed from the
head of the stairs! We answered them
shot for shot, bullet for bullet. For five
minutes the battle waged. Then our
superior numbers told.
We dashed through the smoke-filled
rooms, gathering in our prisoners. Four
men were caught in the net—and one
woman. She was Mrs. Lon Bixby. Her
husband, suffering from a severe wound
in the shoulder, was one of the four.
The remainder were merely his tools.
VII
Battersby, one of Bixby's aids, con-
fronted with the murders of Lannagan
and Deets, turned state's evidence and
confessed. Slick, one of the others,
backed him up in his statements.
Bixby, as I had figured from the first,
wras the instigator of the whole dia-
bolical affair. How he made his escape
from prison, however, is something that
he refused to divulge—even when he
and his confederates were taken to the
gallows to answer for their crimes.
How did they kill Lannagan and
Deets? By means of Teta!
Unwittingly, the little animal was the
indirect cause of both murders. Bat-
tersby, according to his own confession,
had been posted by Bixby, who had,
while still in prison had him engage the
place at 1424 North Tenth Street under
an alias in order that he might watch the
Peck home.
In his guise as a servant he had got
acquainted with Deets while the latter
was working with one of the cars. He
had noticed Teta come out of the barn
at 1424 which, having been empty for
a number of years, was filled with rats.
As the cat passed Deets, the latter had
bent over and scratched it, making a
chance remark about Peck's affection for
the animal. He had also remarked writh
a chuckle at a fondness the pet had for
drawing and withdrawing his claws in
whatever he chanced to be lying on—a,
habit which all cats indulge in at times.
Battersby, alert to give every detail
to his employer, had remarked this fact
to Bixby in his report. The latter sawr
an opportunity to turn the incident to'
his own advantage. Learning that-
Peck's cat frequented the barn, he had)
catered to the animal in every possible
way until the animal passed a great deal
of its time in and about the Bixby place.!
122 The Catspaw
Failing in his attempts to kill Peck,
the instant that he had chased the mil-
lionaire to cover Bixby seized upon the
cat to carry out his own diabolical ends.
Covering the animal's claws with a con-
centrated extract of venom made from
the poison of a cobra, he had turned it
loose leaving it to Fate as to where
death would strike.
Peck was likely to be the first. He
was the cat's master and the animal
would be more likely to be with him
than anyone else. That it was Lanna-
gan who was the first was simply one
of those peculiar freaks of chance.
The cat, purring contentedly on Lan-
nagan's lap, had stuck his claws slightly
into the servant's knee. Lannagan had
worn thick trousers and, as a result, a
great deal of the poison was rubbed off
as the claws went through. He was
therefore not stricken until during the
night when the venom had gone entirely
through his system.
On the other hand Deets, wearing a
pair of thin trousers—and there might
have been more of the poison on the
cat's claws or it may have been fresher
—was stricken almost immediately after
the sharp points had penetrated his
flesh.
Bixby, a native of South Africa, was
an adept on poisons which led to the
fact that he finally selected this subtle
method of committing his crimes.
Located so close to the Peck home, he
was able to see from his window a great
deal of what was going on around the
mansion. As a result, when the coroner
called, he knew that death—through the
cat—had struck. But he did not know
who. He had a confederate stationed
downtown somewhere close to the
Pennsylvania station. It was but the
work of seconds to call the latter up and
instruct him to call Peck to the phone.
When the latter answered in person the
confederate knew that death had struck
someone else and so informed Bixby.
The second telephone call was sent in
a spirit of mere braggadocio after Teta's
claws had been smeared for the third
time with the poison. The coffin was
sent for the same reason—and to break
down Peck's morale.
How did I know these things? Con-
jecture, and conjecture only. At first
glance I imagined—as did Doctor Max-
well and the coroner—that the two punc-
tures in Lannagan's leg were caused by
the fangs of a snake. The fact that the
symptoms were all those of snake bite
led to this deduction. It was not until
after Deets had die dand Mrs. Mulcahey
had told me that Teta had been on his
lap at the time that the idea suddenly
came to me.
Coupled with this fact was that of
finding a puncture on Deets' leg similar
to that on the leg of Lannagan. I had
noticed the cat's habit of pressing his
claws into everything on which he sat.
Peck had told me that the cat was a
favorite with the two men who had died.
I put two and two together and made
four of them.
When I borrowed the cat I took him
to my room and, with my hands gloved,
I scraped his claws and submitted the
scrapings to chemical tests. The results
showed snake venom.
The remainder was easy. I had only
to disinfect the cat's claws and then turn
him loose. When my men reported
where he went, I summoned Hitchens
and asked him to station his men near
the house. When the cat returned, I
seized him before he had had an oppor-
tunity of killing anyone else and again
scraped his claws. The chemical tests
showed snake venom in great quantities.
The raid on the house at 1424 fol-
lowed.
I've often wondered if Teta knows
the part he played in the death of his
two friends and the detection of the
murderers ? Who knows ?
The Finger Print Bureau
By J. H. Taylor
Beginning with this issue, the Finger Print Department will be conducted by
Mr. J. H. Taylor. Mr. Taylor is Superintendent, Bureau of Identification,
Department of Navigation of the Navy Department. Readers desiring
information or advice on subjects relating to Finger Prints may communicate
with Mr. Taylor, in care of The Black Mask Magazine. There is no charge for
this service. Mr. Taylor requests, however, that letters requiring replies
be accompanied by a stamped, addressed envelope. Letters of general
interest, together with their answers, will be printed in each issue.
EVER since the world began, some-
one has endeavored to find two
things that are exactly alike, but
from a scientific point of view
this has never been accomplished. The
leaves on the trees resemble each other
so closely that it is extremely difficult
for anyone not experienced in botany
to detect the difference. An experienced
botanist can at a glance see that there
is no resemblance whatever.
The closest resemblance ever found
in the world is believed to have been
between twins. Their facial expression
is in a great many cases as near alike
as it is possible to be; even their man-
nerisms, likes and dislikes are the same,
and if these twins are dressed alike it
is practically impossible to tell one from
the other. It is a well-known fact in
the case of the mother of the twins, who
could not tell one from the other, that
she washed one baby twice and did not
wash the other, as she said that it was
impossible for her to tell which was
which when they were undressed; their
physical appearance being so near alike.
The reason for twins resembling each
other so closely has been thoroughly
explained in several magazine articles,
and it is claimed that identical twins
spring from a single germ which is fer-
tile and breaks, thereby producing twins,
and it can be clearly understood why
the disposition and facial expressions of
these children would be exactly alike,
but God in His wonderful workings has
made it possible for the scientific
world to differentiate these twins by
the lines on the soles of the feet, the
palms of the hands, and the finger-tips.
In identical twins it is known to those
who have had occasion to examine the
impressions of the feet that the pat-
terns of the right foot of a twin will
be very similar to the patterns on the
right foot of the other twin. This has
confused a great many people, and they
are of the opinion that twins are iden-
tical in every way, but when the minute
ridge characteristics in the finger prints
and the soles of the feet are examined/
to the finger print expert it is easily
shown that there is no more resemblance
between the twins than there is between
people of different parentage.
Of all the people in the w^orld since'
the year 400 B. C. there have never
been found two individuals who have
had the same finger prints, or foot-
prints. Photographs and descriptions
have been found very misleading to the
various Police Departments throughout
the country, and at times they have
caused very serious mistakes in identity,
as it is a well-known fact that there are
a great many people, who though they
are not related, have practically the same
facial expression, walk, or mannerisms,
and by a person not experienced in iden-
tification, the persons would to all in-
tents and purposes be pronounced the
same.
123
124 The Finger Print Bureau
In identification work in the Army,
Navy and Marine Corps where they
have to deal with thousands of men
every year, no other system that has
ever been invented would answer the
purpose other than the finger print sys-
tem, as by this system no matter whether
they are identical twins, or their facial
expressions are identically the same,
they are known by their finger prints,
and there can never be any mistake as
to their identity.
Identical twins are those who resemble
each other the most, and unless some
system had been devised such as the
finger print system, there would never
have been any way of differentiating
twins, or people who closely resembled
one another. In the case of criminals
and fugitives from justice, these men
will resort to every possible method to
change their general appearance, such
as using chemicals to change the color
of their hair, and will also at times use
pneumatic suits in order to change their
appearance from slender to stout, but
with all of these disguises there has
never been found any plan by which
they can change their finger prints,
and their identity is forever known
once their finger prints have been taken.
Anyone who has had occasion to ex-
amine the photographs of a given indi-
vidual taken at different periods of life
will see the most marked changes in
each photograph, and a novice would be
unable to state whether or not they were
taken of the same person. The resem-
blance in photographs has been so close
that some of the foremost Bertillon
operators in this country have been
baffled. In the case of two negroes in
the Leavenworth Penitentiary, both
under the name of William West, their
facial expressions and measurements
(Continued on page 126)
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126 The Finger Print Bureau
(Continued from page 124)
were so much alike that the Bertillon
operator could not state positively by
their photographs that they were differ-
ent individuals, but their finger prints
showed them to be entirely different.
In the Navy there have been any
number of twins who have enlisted, and
the only possible way they could have
been told apart was by their finger
prints, as when they are placed in uni-
forms of the same rating their general
appearance is more marked, and harder
to tell apart than when in civilian
clothes.
The finger prints of the human race
are divided into four (4) general types,
and these impressions will be found in
the fingers of everyone, but the ridge
characteristics which determine identity
have never been known to appear in the
same place in a different person's fingers.
The possibility of a ridge characteristic
appearing in the same place in two dif-
ferent persons' fingers is one in a mil-
lion, and a great many of the courts
throughout the United States have ac-
cepted seven (7) ridge characteristics
appearing in the same place in two im-
pressions as positive proof of identity,
and by this method there is no possibility
of a person losing his identity if his
finger prints have ever been recorded,
regardless of how closely he might re-
semble someone else.
FINGER PRINT PATTERNS—
PART III
WHORLS
Last month, you were told that the
Whorl pattern would be explained to
you. The accompanying illustration
shows two Whorls. A Whorl is a pat-
tern in which the ridges make a Whorl,
or a complete turn, about one central
point. You can distinguish a Whorl by
the fact that it has two Deltas while a
Loop has but one Delta. (A Delta is
the outer terminus of a pattern, the
point from which we start to count
ridges. It is called a "Delta" because
it usually resembles the Greek letter
"Delta" or a small triangle.)
Maybe you have a Whorl pat-
tern on one of your fingers. Study
them closely and see if you can find any
Whorls.
WHORLS
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1920 Sunnyside Avenue, Chicago, Illinois
University of Applied Science, Dept. C-152
1920 Sunnyside Avenue, Chicago, Illinois
Please send me full information on your course in Finger Print
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Name .....
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