Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927
- Автор: Valentine, Corley H. W.
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
The hound, recognizing a voice of authority, ceased his wailing, and sidled away from Bates, watching him out of red-rimmed eyes.
“Hello in thar!” Bates called, pausing near the door. For some undefined reason he hesitated to enter. “Git up, Splinter, and greet yore comp’ny!”
No reply. The hound gave tongue in long, mournful cadence. Again Bates shivered.
“Somethin’ wrong,” he mused. “Somethin’ wrong, shore as I’m bawn! Guess I’ll hafta look inside.”
It required courage to pull the latch-string, but Frogeye mustered it. He pushed the door open cautiously, then stood for a moment on the threshold and gazed into the dark interior. Presently his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom — and he saw much.
What he saw was not pretty. Nausea assailed him, and he sought the air again, white and trembling. At length he entered the place, opened a shuttered window and allowed light to flood the room.
Splinter Hughes, a mere wisp of man, old, white of hair and beard, lay on the floor in the center of a large smear of dry blood which had poured from a terrible wound in his head. He had been dead many hours; perhaps two or three days. The cabin’s crude furnishings were overturned, and the room was in a state of wild disorder. No other person was there.
On the floor near the door lay a huge black and tan hound, mate to the animal outdoors. His head had been split open.
Frogeye Bates saw all that, but no more. He did not linger to investigate further. Racing back to his dugout, he leaped in and sent the craft downstream with all the speed he could command. Ordinary death would not have disturbed him in the least, but this was not ordinary. Murder had been done, and the mystery of it sent a chill to his heart.
By the time he reached the foot of Buck Island he had reached a conclusion. Oak Donnick lay twenty miles farther, and the headquarters of die rangers was there. Frogeye had never had much use for the rangers, but he knew they were the ones to inform of this matter.
Chief Wheeler would send a man up there to look around, and that “looking around” would certainly result in a solution of the mystery and the capture of the guilty party. Frogeye knew that; knew it because he could recall many similar cases. The rangers always solved mysteries, and always got their men.
He met other natives on the stream, but kept his mouth closed about the crime. He was intelligent enough to understand the importance of keeping his news to himself, thereby affording the rangers a chance to get on the scene before others.
“Splinter had too much money,” he reflected, recalling tales he had heard concerning the old man’s possessions. For the swamp land, he was wealthy. Industrious, saving, Hughes had accumulated considerable money — at least, such was the report. “Kep’ his money hid in his cabin, I’ll bet, an’ somebody done kilt him fur it!”
In the late afternoon he beached at Oak Donnick, went ashore and reported to Hubbard Wheeler, ranger chief.
An hour later, Inspector Jack Calhoun, accompanied by Ranger Murdock, departed up river, bound for the mouth of Little Caney, and the cabin of Splinter Hughes.
II
Jack Calhoun, tall, lean, muscular, had arisen from the ranks of the rangers to the post of chief inspector, a rank second only to that of Hubbard Wheeler himself. Beneath his thatch of straw-colored, sun bleached hair, lay a store of knowledge astonishing in its scope and depth.
His understanding of the natives of the Sunken Lands, their character and their habits, individual and in the mass, was little short of marvelous. A woodsman of the highest skill, the country itself held few secrets from him.
Homely of face, quiet and unassuming, he was not, when idle, impressive to the eye. When in action, however, he became transformed; the quiet, unassuming, seemingly indolent Cal disappeared, and in his place came the machinelike person of brain and energy which was the real Calhoun. The Calhoun who was feared and respected throughout the whole of the Sunken Lands.
Tom Murdock, the inspector’s choice as an aid when available, was much like Cal in build and in some other particulars; the same indefatigable energy, skill in woodcraft, and regard for duty.
He lacked Cal’s penchant for leadership, his keen perception — in short, his fine mental ability. Murdock excelled in execution; he could and did follow orders to the letter. The two men worked together in perfect harmony and understanding, and the fame of their joint achievements will never be forgotten in the Great Swamp.
It was those two men who set out on the trail of the murderer of Splinter Hughes. They proceeded silently, each in his own dugout. Until the scene of the crime had been reached and thoroughly examined there would be little or no conversation.
One of Calhoun’s invariable rules was not to discuss a case or speculate upon it at all even in his own thoughts, until he had inspected the premises and learned all he could therefrom.
Day had dawned when they beached their boats on the north shore of Little Caney and took their way toward the cabin. The hungry but vigilant hound challenged their approach, was quieted and fed, and the two entered the cabin.
The fact that the body of the murdered trapper, and the contents of the room, remained undisturbed so long was due, no doubt, to the lonely situation of the cabin. There was no other habitation within a radius of four or five miles, and the natives of the Sunken Lands are not much given to visiting.
Murdock sat down near the door and waited while Calhoun walked about the room, surveying it critically.
“Killed with an ax,” he said. “No struggle. Must have died instantly. Room in disorder because the killer searched for something. Two or more men ate supper here the evening of the murder. Hughes lived alone. Had a guest that night, either known to him, or a chance caller. No means of determining that. Must have happened three or four days ago, because the water in the drinking bucket is stale and has a slight scum over it.”
He paused in front of a table which sat against a wall near the fireplace, took up an empty tomato can, looked at it and replaced it on the table. Then he poked into the few pots and pans the cupboard held.
“Dishes all washed up,” he resumed. “But there was company at the meal.” He indicated some wrapping paper which lay in a wood box near the table. “That paper was removed from a side of breakfast bacon that evening. It is on top of the kindling wood in the box, and would not have been there had Splinter lived to build a fire the following morning. We may safely assume that it was torn off the bacon on the evening of the murder.
“Now,” he went on, taking a slab of bacon from the cupboard and exhibiting it, “the knife marks in the rind of this bacon, which has not been cut off, indicate that ten slices have been cut. About the amount two hungry men would eat, along with other food. There may have been more bacon, of course, and this piece may have been the reserve supply, although I can find no other rind here. We are going to assume that two men sat down to supper that night. I think that will prove to be correct.”
Calhoun gave his attention next to the corner of the room set aside for sleeping quarters. There were two bunks against the wall, one above another.
“A straw-tick in the upper bunk, but no blankets,” he reflected aloud. “Seldom used. Lower bunk in constant use, and the blankets are spread neatly over the tick. Another evidence that the killing took place after supper and before bedtime.”
“How do you account for the blankets being spread so neatly over the tick, and all the rest of the room in disorder?” Murdock queried.
“I was considering that,” Cal returned. “I think the inference is very clear. The killer found what he sought before he reached the bunk, else it, too, would have been disturbed. Yes,” he went on positively, “that bunk tells the story. The killer got the loot he slew for. No doubt about it. Now let’s take a look at the ax he used for a weapon.”