Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927
- Автор: Alexander R. W., Ames John
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“I had nothing to go on, but I always used to fancy Gerry might have been a decent chap without Parson Frant. Frant was the only chap likely to have a pull on Gerry. I thought it was up to me to see if I could place Parson Frant in it.
“So I came down here with my brother to have a look at him. And I’ve got this, Mr. Fortune: Frant’s doing some queer business. We trailed him to an inn in the marshes and the chaps he met there were off a foreign timber ship in Lythe harbor. We watched her—”
“You watched me, didn’t you?” Reggie smiled. “I’m afraid I rather confused you, major. You confused me.”
“Sorry, sir. Yes, my brother followed you. Thought you might be in the game. But what is the game? What’s a country parson—”
Bell lumbered up. “They’re hiding somewhere, sir. How about trying the church?”
Mr. Fortune rose. “No, I don’t think they’re in the church,” he said. “Come on.” He stepped over the railing and went down the steps to the door of the vault. “Got your torches?”
“In there?” Bell flashed a light on the iron door.
“That’s where they went.”
“Good Lord, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I thought they’d better have time to think things over.”
“But there may be a way out, sir.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. There is. But they won’t use it. I wedged the other door.”
“My God!” Bell muttered and breathed hard. “This one,” he felt it, “this one’s locked, eh? Come on, Porter.” He turned his light on the door, he took out an automatic pistol.
Porter began to force the lock; it yielded and the door slid back and the torch light revealed wide spaces of gloom; turned this way and that, it fell upon rough hewn stone, coffins thrust into a corner, set one upon another and in the midst metal chests which bore some bottles and scraps of food.
But no one was to be seen. “Come on out of it,” Bell shouted, and no one answered.
He stooped and strode in. “You stand by the door, Porter.” The beam of his torch searched the vault again and found a passage leading out of it on the far side. Into that he marched, throwing the light before him.
“What the devil!” The light came upon a fallen motorcycle. Beyond it were men: a man sitting on the ground bowed together, a man standing smoking a cigarette, a man lying between them, his white hair dabbled with blood.
“Three of you, eh?” said Bell.
“All here, officer,” the unshaven face of the smoker grinned. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Landomere’s valet, I presume,” said Reggie.
“You know a lot, don’t you? And Mr. Howard Fyle. And the Rev. blooming Frant. All present and correct.”
“You put up your hands,” said Bell. “Mr. Fortune, will you have a look at the parson? Porter! Call the other men and come along.”
Reggie bent over the little parson. “Yes, you look at him,” the valet growled. “I’ve done him proud.”
Reggie stood up. “He’s almost gone,” he said quietly. “He can’t live very much longer, Bell.”
“Take my oath he can’t,” the valet laughed, and kicked at the body.
“You’ve done enough!” Bell dragged him away. “This is murder.”
“I don’t think. Not half. And what about those Mr. blooming Frant put away, George Akers and Landomere? What about me, keeping me down here in the grave to have me trapped like a blooming rat at last? Well, I smashed him like a rat. I’ve got back on him anyway.”
“Come on with you,” Bell hustled him off. “Take that man, Porter,” he pointed to the wretched Mr. Fyle. “Send the others along for the parson.”
XI
Into the room of the chief of the criminal investigation department Mr. Fortune came to find Lomas with Superintendent Bell. “Well, well! How doth the little busy bee! This industry is very gratifying. Any little thing you haven’t got that you want?”
“It was cocaine in those boxes in the vault, Mr. Fortune,” said Bell.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. From the timber ships. Not a nice man, the late Mr. Frant. Recreations, drug-running and blackmail. Do you find anything of interest in the papers of Mr. Frant and Mr. Fyle?”
“They didn’t put much on paper,” Lomas shrugged. “But it was big business. I always said that, you know.”
“Yes, Lomas,” said Mr. Fortune quite meekly.
“And a little country parson at the head of it!” said Bell.
“One of the world’s great brains,” Mr. Fortune smiled.
“I thought there was a good brain behind all this business,” Lomas announced. “Well, we’re going to clear up a lot of mess, Reginald. Fyle’s been talking. That business in the vault seems to have broken him right open.”
“Fancy!”
“Akers was an old servant of Landomere’s; faithful retainer. Frant had been using them both for years. They shied at blackmailing this girl. Frant thought they meant to give him away. He had Akers murdered to stop his mouth and frightened Landomere.
“Landomere was badly rattled, but the way it took him was to swear he’d have no more to do with Frant. So Frant and the valet put him away. When Logan got going, the valet bolted down to the vicarage. Frant tried to ship him off—”
“Yes. Yes. We saw that. They just missed the boat. A bit of luck. The only bit of luck. The rest was simply research work.”
“Mr. Fortune,” said Bell, “when did you feel sure Frant used that vault?”
“The first time I saw it. There was a smell of tobacco coming up. And Mr. Frant was so interested in me.”
Bell gazed at him. “Would you mind telling me — after you wedged that other door — when you kept talking — did you fancy they’d quarrel down there in the grave?”
“Yes. Yes.” Reggie looked at him with large, solemn eyes. “I thought they might have trouble. I hoped they would. Yes. One of my neater cases, Bell.”
“Old Bill” Miner
by Frank Price
The story of one of the west’s oldest bad men and the one to originate that famous cry “Hands up!” is told here briefly.
An examination of the records of American outlawry since the first of the desperadoes swung into action against organized society reveals no more picturesque bad man than was “Old Bill” Miner, road agent and train robber, whose proudest boast when he lay on his death bed was that he had never knowingly killed a man.
Here was the story book bandit done to real life. Starting in life with all the advantages a boy could desire, going bad in early youth and staying that way until the end, Old Bill established a reputation for courtesy and meticulous attention to his personal appearance that was eclipsed only by his almost unfailing success in getting money the easiest way.
It was a discussion between two veteran detectives that inspired the writer to sally forth in search of information about Old Bill. They recounted some of his exploits but frankly confessed they had lost sight of him while he still was a comparatively young man.
“I can tell you this, though,” one said. “Miner was the first outlaw to give the command ‘Hands up!’ That was in his early days out in the gold fields, and believe me, son, when he barked this suggestion it was followed without argument.”
This was interesting! Who among all of us had not at one time or another speculated on this phase of banditry? True, the formula has been revised, amended and parodied in various ways — such as “Stick ’em up!” “Reach high!” and “H’ist ’em!” — but the general thought underlying each of these commands is the same. It is “Hands up!” and the reason is obvious. It renders signally impotent the real owner of such hands.