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:
“You mean Billings,” Cal replied quietly. “I noticed the tear in his trouser-leg. Billings, however, is an old acquaintance of Splinter’s, and often at his cabin. That seems to let him out.”
“What!” Lundsford exclaimed. “Lets him out! How do you figure that?”
“The hound would not have attacked a man well known to him, even though the man did attack his master,” Cal explained patiently. “You know the nature of the native hound, Lundsford — or should. You could not set one on a man well known to him, even if you tried. The man who killed Splinter was a stranger — at least to the hound.”
Lundsford gave the inspector a look of disgust. “There you go,” he exclaimed, “dragging in theory and unimportant matters! Billings has a piece of cloth missing from the leg of his pants, and the dead hound had a scrap of the same cloth in his mouth! I say — watch Billings!”
“Would Billings be likely to wear the trousers, knowing the dog had tom them?” Cal asked. “A pair of new ones would be more significant.”
“Hell,” Lundsford replied, “these natives are all damned fools! He wouldn’t think anything about it.”
“There’s where you make a mistake, Lundsford,” Cal corrected. “The natives are not damned fools, or anything like that. They are shrewd and wary, for the most part. Why not try and fit the scrap of cloth to the rent in Billings’s trousers?”
“All in good time,” said Lundsford. “You don’t agree that the killer was a neighbor of Splinter’s. Why?”
“For very good reasons,” Cal replied. “The bit of cloth is unimportant. The ax is the clew. Look it over carefully—”
“Pshaw!” Lundsford interrupted. “What’s to learn from the ax? It was one of Splinter’s, kept in the cabin, of course. The killer found it handy, and used it. That’s easy to see!”
Cal shook his head negatively. “The ax did not belong to Splinter,” he stated. “It was the property of the killer, and he did not bring it here for the purpose of committing the murder. He used it because, when he made up his mind to do the deed, it was ready to his hand. After he used it, he flung it aside and forgot to take it with him when he went. Observe the ax, Lundsford — particularly the splitting edge.”
IV
Lundsford stared, puzzled. “Reckon you’ll have to explain that,” he said after a bit. “An ax is an ax, and that’s all you can make out of it. What you mean?”
“An ax, Lundsford, has individuality,” Cal replied. “Rather, it has the individuality of its owner. The careless, inaccurate axman, for instance. The handle of his ax will be splintered and scuffed where it enters the helve. That of the careful, accurate axman will be the contrary.
“That is merely one instance of the individuality of an ax. Let us look at Splinter’s ax, which is yonder near his wood pile, and see what we can learn from it.”
Followed by the sheriff, Calhoun went to where Hughes’s ax lay, and took it up.
“This is a home-made handle,” he pointed out. “Few natives ever buy a readymade ax handle. He can make better ones himself. Notice that this one, while a good, serviceable handle, lacks smoothness. Hughes was not expert with a drawing-knife, and did not give his work the fine, smooth finish it could have had.”
“Humph!” Lundsford exclaimed. “I can see that, but what of it?”
“The handle in the ax used by the murderer,” Cal pointed out, “is smooth, so expertly done as to leave no sign of a drawing knife. The maker probably sandpapered it. It is undoubtedly a homemade handle.”
“Well,” the sheriff growled grudgingly, “go on. I agree that you are right about the handle. What about that splitting edge you spoke of?”
Cal held the double-bitted helve up and traced one edge with a long forefinger. “This is what is known as a chopping or cutting edge,” he explained. “Notice that the blade is ground far back, coming down gradually to a fine, sharp edge. Such an edge is solely for chopping, since it bites deep and throws out a big chip. Do you follow me?”
Lundsford nodded. Cal then indicated the other blade, showing that it too was ground to a chopping edge.
“Let’s look at the killer’s ax,” he proposed, leading the way to the cabin, observed with deep interest by the crowd which lounged around near by.
“Now,” he said, holding the bloodstained ax up for Lundsford to observe, “note that one edge of this ax is ground for chopping.”
The sheriff examined the implement critically, then nodded. “It is,” he said.
“But,” Cal went on, exhibiting the other edge, “the blade is not so ground. The slope does not extend nearly so far up, and the edge is considerably blunter — more on a bevel. This is what is known as a splitting edge. In splitting a block of wood, Lundsford, the idea is not to cut it down its length, of course. That is impossible. A single stroke of a blunt-edge ax, in the right place, will split it through.
“A sharp, chopping edge, often bites deep into the wood and hangs there, with no resulting bursting apart of the fiber. Hence the splitting edge is required. This ax has one edge ground for chopping, and one ground for splitting.”
“Well,” Lundsford said, seeing the inspector was through, “now you’ve gone and explained all this, what good is it? How does it help catch this killer?”
Cal looked at him steadily for a moment. It was in his mind that here was a dumb man, but he did not allow the thought to show in his face. Presently he said:
“This edge, the splitting edge, is the clew in this case. It narrows our field down to a very small area. Can’t you see that?”
“Nope,” Lundsford declared. “Can’t see anything in that idea. Just one of your fine-drawn theories, Cal. No practical use at all. You asked me, and I’m telling you.”
Cal laughed. “Glad you’re frank about it,” he said good-humoredly. “And, to show you that I’m not offended, I’ll point out something else I have learned from these two axes.”
He took Hughes’s implement in hand, extended it at arm’s length, and sighted down the handle. “See, Lundsford,” he said, “how the handle of this ax bows slightly to the right. A right-handed man habitually swung this ax.”
He laid it down and took up the ax of the murderer, sighting down the handle as before. “This handle bows the other way, which indicates that it was used by a left-handed man. All this stuff, Lundsford, is elementary. Any woodsman could have pointed it out to you. However, the story told by the two axes does this:
“It tells us that the ax used as a weapon was not the property of Hughes, and that the owner swings his ax left-handed. That does not mean that he is left-handed in all things. Many right-handed men chop and hoe left-handed, as you surely must have observed. But the killer undoubtedly uses an ax left-handed.”
Lundsford could not escape the logic of that; it was too clearly drawn. But he was not willing to admit that Cal’s deductions had brought him one inch closer to the solution of the mystery than he had been to start with.
“Granting all that,” he said, “where does that get you?”
“This far: I want a man who does a bit of splitting with his ax, but not enough to warrant him in buying one and grinding both blades for the purpose. One blade, so ground, is sufficient for his needs. The other blade, ground for chopping, makes the ax a two-purpose one.
“This man is left-handed, insofar as using an ax goes, and he is neat in his work, skillful with a drawing knife, and, probably, with other carpentering tools. That, Lundsford, is where my deductions from the ax gets me.”