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:
On the floor beyond the fireplace, where it had evidently been cast after the killing, lay a double-blade ax, commonly referred to as a double-bitted ax. Cal picked it up. The helve was blood-stained and there was hair on one edge. It was beyond doubt, the instrument of death.
“Hughes finished doing the dishes that night,” he said, eying the ax attentively, “then sat down and filled his pipe for an after-supper smoke. The pipe is there on the floor near him; tobacco in it, but no evidence of its having been lit.
“The killer snatched up the ax, probably when the old man leaned over to get a coal of fire from the hearth with which to light the pipe. He struck, killing Hughes with one blow. The position of the wound indicates that the victim was bending over when struck.”
He placed the ax on the table and went over to where the dead hound lay. After studying the animal for a moment, he got down on his knees, Murdock watching his every movement attentively, and pried its mouth open.
“Cloth,” he muttered, abstracting a triangular bit of material from the dog’s jaws. “Doesn’t mean much,” he went on, “as it is jeans, and virtually every man in the Sunken Lands wears jeans trousers.”
Murdock nodded agreement, and waited.
“When the killer struck,” Cal resumed, “the dog attacked. Probably bit him on a leg, tearing the trousers. The killer thrust the hound off and killed him with the ax.”
He took up the implement again, examined it critically, and nodded.
“Black hairs with the white,” he remarked. “Dog’s and master’s. Same man killed both, and with the same ax. One man only, Tom, I’ll bet my commission.”
Murdock nodded vigorously. “Right!” he declared. “Anything else you can read on that ax-helve? Does it hold any more evidence—”
The put-put-put of a motor boat caused the ranger to break off, and both went out.
“Lundsford!” Murdock ejaculated disgustedly when, a few minutes later, the burly form of the sheriff of Poinsette County broke cover and came across the clearing. He was followed by half a dozen deputies, and a crowd of native swampers brought up the rear.
Cal nodded, a grim smile playing about his lips.
III
Sheriff Lundsford, a skillful politician, held office in Poinsette because he was a good vote getter. Once in office, with all secure, he was content to draw salary and fees, attend public gatherings in the county, where he was afforded opportunities to strut and brag, and otherwise follow his indolent inclinations.
As a law officer he was a total loss. While he attempted to hide the fact, the rangers’ activities in the Sunken Lands, embracing the northern half of his county, galled him bitterly. He held them up to ridicule, when out of their sight and hearing, whenever opportunity offered, and always interfered with the operation of the organization when possible. Jack Calhoun was particularly obnoxious to him.
Calhoun, who had no room within himself to hate any man, disliked Lundsford for his officious, interfering tendencies, and for that reason never overlooked a chance to show the sheriff up. Lundsford amused, and, at the same time, disgusted him. He watched the burly sheriff amble across the clearing, apparently unconcerned.
“Hello, Cal!” Lundsford roared. “Hi, Murdock! Reckon you two famous hounds have done nosed out the trail, so there ain’t any use of me here, eh? Who done it, and why?” There was attempted sarcasm in his voice, and his words were as insulting as he dared make them.
“Howdy, Lundsford,” Cal greeted. “We’ve done very little, so far; just looked the ground over and made a few deductions. Your turn now.”
He stood aside and allowed Lundsford to enter. Murdock followed the sheriff inside, but the inspector stood on the door-log and looked the crowd of natives and deputies over. Perhaps a score were there.
Beeswax Brown, a trapper and bee-hunter from Brush Lake, Nate Billings, from the headwaters of Little Caney, Joe Hampton, from Buck Island, and a tall fellow named Eph Diggs, who combined fanning and trapping, were among those the inspector recognized. There were many others, all of whom were more or less known to him.
“You boys stay outside until Lundsford looks the place over,” Cal bade them. “Seems like the news spread pretty rapidly,” he went on suggestively. “A lot of you here.”
It was Eph Diggs who answered:
“I war comin’ up frum Marked Tree,” he said, “an’ met Frogeye goin’ down. He told me.”
“Same here,” said Beeswax.
“Frogeye told me, too,” Joe Hampton explained.
It seemed that Frogeye, after keeping his mouth shut until he reached the rangers’ headquarters, had thereafter opened it wide.
“Any of you fellows see Splinter Hughes during the past three or four days?” Cal queried.
Nat Billings had gone down Little Caney to the St. Francis, thence to Marked Tree, four days before, but had not stopped off at Splinter’s place, nor had he seen him. Eph Diggs had gone down the day following, and Splinter had not been seen by him. No one else had seen the old trapper for several days past.
“He war a dum fool, war Splinter,” Billings volunteered during a silence. “Saved up his money, but wouldn’t put it in no bank. Kep’ it in th’ cabin, an’ this here air whut cum of it!”
“How do you know he kept money in the cabin?” Lundsford asked the question, his hard eyes on the face of Billings. “How do you happen to know so much?”
“Well,” the native replied hesitatingly, “well, that’s whut th’ gineral impression is. I don’t know fur sure—”
“Then keep your mouth shut!” Lundsford snapped. “Hell is full of men that talked too damned much! Remember that—”
He broke off, eyes narrowing, while he studied a torn place on Billings’s right trouser-leg. He said nothing, but motioned Cal into the cabin.
“What do you make of things, Calhoun?” he asked, when inside.
“Murder,” the inspector answered.
“Murder, of course!” the sheriff snorted. “But who? Anything here suggesting who the guilty party is?”
Cal nodded. “Not directly to the man,” he answered. “But there’s evidence indicating the sort of person he is — occupation, for instance. At least one physical characteristic is noticeable, and it should prove no trick at all to name the locality where he probably lives. The case is young yet, of course, and may take most any shape. What do you find?”
Lundsford scratched his head. “Well,” he replied, “I find that old Splinter was killed for his money, and it’s clear that some neighbor of his done it.”
Cal raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Is that so?” he asked.
“Of course!” Lundsford declared. “A neighbor, knowing about Hughes keeping considerable money by him, drops in for a visit, kills the old man, robs him and gets away. That’s about all. And,” he lowered his voice, “I already have an eye on a likely suspect.”
“Is that so?” Cal asked, astonished. “So soon?”
Lundsford winked knowingly. “You bet!” he declared. “That piece of jeans cloth you took out of the hound’s mouth, and which Murdock showed me — that’s the clew in this case. The only clew, in fact. Now,” he went on, “there’s a native out there with a pair of jeans pants on that have been torn on the right leg, and a scrap of cloth is missing. How’s that for observing things?”