Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

The Citadel man had to concede his lack of an idea on this subject.

“I guess I’ll just have to dope it out,” he told the other.

After a general discussion, during which he learned that the Garden killing had produced not the slightest clew, and that it was considered by the police as a gesture of defiance on the part of the “There Is” killer, Barrow left headquarters for his home, where he proposed to consider quietly the entire mystery from its beginning and then to proceed carefully from that point.

This was orthodox with Barrow. He had never made claim to greatness as a detective. But he had often given it as his conviction that the only logical way to investigate anything was from its genesis.

This fixed the starting point squarely upon the last day of Dave Gulliver’s life. Whatever had occurred later, the mystery outlaw’s depredations had begun with the deadly attack on the writer, and it was there, Barrow reasoned, that it would be well to begin his study.

He was reasonably certain that robbery had not been the original motive, for in each killing none of the victims had been searched.

“Druggan and his crowd can have their own opinion,” he told himself, “but I can’t see anything but a mad man in action here. What could Gulliver and Tasney have done to have stirred up hatred of so pronounced a type? And then there was old Balcolm, killed just because he demanded that the murderer be caught.”

Another consideration was carefully weighed by the Citadel man. Who but a crazy man would stage the killings so openly?

“It must be,” he finally concluded, “that Gulliver in some way offended somebody, either the killer or one of his friends. They might have tried blackmail. At any rate, we’ll find out about that phase.”

He telephoned to Mrs. Gulliver almost immediately and told her of his mission. She, hopeful that this might be the beginning of an investigation that would bring her husband’s slayer to justice, readily assented when he asked if he might see her.

Barrow explained his theory to the widow.

“I should like, if possible,” he suggested, “to see Mr. Gulliver’s most recent correspondence. Is it available? Did he keep a file?”

“Always,” she said, “and there’s no objection to your seeing it.”

She had put the writer’s records away, and now brought them out for the inspection of the Citadel man. There were no letters that would indicate alliances unknown to her, nothing to suggest blackmail or a quarrel of any sort.

She was examining some of the carbon copies of her husband’s stories as Barrow finished looking over the letters.

“Hello,” she suddenly observed, as she held one of the stories before her. “This is one I haven’t seen and know nothing about.”

Barrow was alert.

“A story?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s called ‘Power.’ I didn’t know he had done it. He wasn’t paid for it, at any rate. I know that.”

“Who has the original?” Barrow asked.

Mrs. Gulliver arose and walked over to a small cabinet on a near-by desk. There she opened a card index drawer. Gulliver was that methodical about his work.

“Let’s see,” she said softly. “ ‘Power.’ Here it is.”

There was a pause.

“Why,” she gasped as she turned to the Citadel man, “he was — why — oh, that can’t be — why—”

She was weeping, and Barrow crossed the room and took the card from her hand. There, written in Gulliver’s hand was the notation:

“Taken by hand to Parkinson, editor Master Sleuth. May 5, 19—”

It was Barrow’s turn to register the amazement he felt.

“Why,” he said, “he must have had it with him the morning he was — the morning it happened.”

“He did,” she breathed.

Barrow nodded.

“But it wasn’t found by the police,” he said. “Perhaps he mailed it instead.”

“That,” she replied, “is quite unlikely. Dave was very methodical. I’m certain he must have had the story with him when he was—”

“Then,” Barrow interrupted her, “it seems to me that our next move is to ask Parkinson, of the Master Sleuth, about it.” She agreed, and within three minutes Barrow was on his way to the offices of Master Sleuth, the copy of “Power” in his pocket.

Parkinson received him cordially when he told the editor who he was, and spoke to him of the story.

“Have you seen it before?” he asked, as he handed over the manuscript.

“No,” Parkinson replied. He read through a page or two before handing it back to the Citadel man.

“It’s Gulliver’s stuff all right,” he said. “I’d recognize it anywhere. But I’ve never seen this.”

Barrow was plainly disappointed.

“Well,” he offered, “selling stories is out of my line, but I promised Mrs. Gulliver I’d leave it with you for your consideration. I guess maybe she’d like to see it printed if it’s good enough.”