CONFLICTING THEORIES
Soon after the departure of Corporal Rand, Burnnel and Emery, the boys
sat in the big, cheerful room of Frischette’s road-house and discussed
the latest episode in the chain of mysterious events.
“I never expected to encounter anything like this,” Sandy was saying.
“Honestly, Dick, it gives me the shivers just to think about it. If I
were called upon to express an opinion, I’d say that the farther we get
into this case, the more muddled and difficult everything appears to be.
For one thing, whoever would have guessed that this sudden tragedy would
have overtaken Frischette. What is the reason for it? Do you really
believe the story about the suicide?”
“It sounds plausible, the way they tell it, but to be perfectly frank, I
think it’s a deliberate lie. Why should Frischette take his own life? It
would be rather difficult to supply a motive.”
“That’s what I think. But if he didn’t take his life, how—I mean, what
happened?”
“Simple enough. Burnnel and Emery met Frischette on the trail,
discovered that he had the poke and murdered him. Then, having committed
the crime, they became afraid. In order to save their own necks, they
devised a scheme so that it will appear that the Frenchman had taken his
own life. They probably arranged the body to bear out the story, placing
a revolver in Frischette’s hand. They emptied the poke, hid its
contents, and then came back here, intending, as they both openly
admitted, to get in touch with the police.”
“Well, that is a lot more plausible than the suicide story. Do you think
that Corporal Rand was taken in by it?”
“No; not in the least. They won’t be able to fool him for a minute. When
they return here tonight, I’ll be willing to wager every cent I have
that Burnnel and Emery are still under arrest.”
“I won’t take your bet,” said Sandy. “That’s my belief too.”
Imagine their surprise, therefore, less than four hours later, to
witness the return of Corporal Rand and to perceive that he was
unaccompanied. Burnnel and Emery were not with him. The horses which had
borne the two prospectors to the scene of the tragedy, trotted behind
the policeman’s horse at the end of a lead-rope, saddled but unmounted.
It seemed incredible to the boys that Rand, usually so careful and
cautious in matters of this kind, should permit the two miscreants to
slip out of his hands. It was not like him. What could be the reason for
it? They could hardly wait for the policeman to dismount.
“I found everything,” said Rand a few minutes later, “just as Burnnel
and Emery told us. It is unquestionably a case of suicide. Everything
pointed to it. The revolver gripped in Frischette’s hand, the position
of the body and the wound in his forehead. But what caused him to commit
such a rash act, is a problem which we may never solve.”
While the corporal was speaking, Dick could scarcely contain himself. On
two or three different occasions he started to interrupt the policeman.
At the very first opportunity he broke forth:
“Corporal Rand,” he began earnestly, “you have made your investigations
and, no doubt, are in a better position than we are to form an opinion.
But has it occurred to you that there is something unusually mysterious
about the whole affair. Sandy and I were talking it over just before you
came in. And no matter from what angle we look at it, we can draw but
one conclusion.”
“And what is that?” Rand was smiling.
“That Burnnel and Emery killed Frischette, afterward making it appear
that the road-house keeper took his own life.”
Corporal Rand moved over to where Dick stood and patted that young man
on the back good-naturedly.
“Splendid! You’ve both shown that you know how to use your heads. And
now, I’ll make an admission: That was exactly my own estimate of the
case up to a few hours ago. To use a well known expression, the thing
looked like a ‘frame-up,’ very carefully planned by Monsieurs Burnnel
and Emery. I could have sworn that they were guilty. I was absolutely
sure—as sure as I am that I’m standing here—that Frischette had not
committed suicide at all, but had been murdered. There was pretty strong
circumstantial evidence to bear out this belief. The two men had gone to
Creel to obtain the poke, and had secured it, only to lose it again
through your intervention.”
The corporal paused, clearing his throat.
“Then Frischette got it from you. Now, I ask you, what would be more
likely than that the two prospectors and Frischette should meet each
other, that Emery and Burnnel should learn that the Frenchman had come
into possession of the poke and eventually murder him in order to get
it. As I have said, that was the reasonable and logical deduction, and
you can imagine my astonishment to discover, almost beyond the shadow of
a doubt, that such a deduction was entirely wrong. Motive or no motive,
the Frenchman took his own life. I have proof of that.”
“What is your proof?” asked Sandy.
“Well, I made a search of the body and found something that both Burnnel
and Emery had overlooked, a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s
coat. I know his handwriting and I am positive that the note is not a
forgery.”
“What did it say?” Dick asked breathlessly.
By way of answering, Corporal Rand produced a wallet and extracted from
it a small, soiled slip of paper, handing it over to the boys to read.
For a moment they found difficulty in deciphering the sprawling, almost
illegible script. But presently Dick read aloud:
“To whom it may concern:
“I, Louis Frischette, am about to kel myself because I am veery much
desappoint. I write thes so no other man be acuse an’ put in jail for
what I do.
Signed:
“Louis Frischette.”
Dick’s hand shook as he handed the paper back to the policeman.
“I’m not convinced yet,” he declared.
“But here’s the evidence—the proof right here.” Rand patted the slip of
paper.
“It might be explained,” Dick pointed out.
“What!” The corporal looked startled.
“How do you know that Emery and Burnnel did not force Frischette to
write that note before they murdered him?”
Rand did a peculiar thing. He stared at Dick for a moment in absolute
silence, then turned without a word and walked back into the stable and
led out his horse. Not until he had sprung into the saddle did he trust
himself to speak.
“I’m going back. I ought to be jerked back there by the nape of my neck.
What have I been dreaming of? Dick, I’ll take off my hat to you. It’s a
fortunate thing that one of us, at least, has not been wholly deprived
of the faculty of sober reasoning.” He smiled grimly. “If this ever got
to Cameron’s ears, I’d be fined six months’ pay.”
“But I may be wrong,” Dick flushed at the other’s compliment.
“Right or wrong, we can’t afford to take any chances. In any event, I’m
going back before Emery and Burnnel slip out of my hands.”
And, in an incredibly short space of time, he was gone. A turn in the
woodland path shut him from view. But, even long after he had gone, Dick
and Sandy stood looking down the trail, across which laggard twilight
had flung its darkling banners. Sandy broke into an amused chuckle.
“That’s one on the corporal. He won’t be in a very pleasant frame of
mind for the remainder of the evening, will he?”
Dick scowled.
“You must remember, Sandy, that we all make mistakes. Rand’s oversight
is excusable. He’s been working on this case day and night for the last
six months. He’s tired out, and sometimes so sleepy that he can hardly
stick in the saddle.”
“Yes, that’s right.” The laugh died on the young Scotchman’s lips. “He’s
had a lot to contend with. And perhaps he hasn’t made a mistake after
all. Frischette may have committed suicide. The note might not have been
forced from him. Who can say?”
“Yes,” said Dick, “who can say? Why don’t you put on your thinking cap,
Sandy, and find a motive for Frischette’s act?”
“That’s a bargain. We’ll find the motive. We’ll go over the details
carefully in our minds and try to come to some conclusion.”
Sandy grinned. “And tomorrow morning we’ll compare notes.”
They were interrupted at this juncture by the appearance of Toma. They
could see at once, from that young man’s expression, that something
unusual had happened. His face, sober at all times, was unusually gray
and depressed. As he came forward quickly, he kept glancing from one to
the other interrogatively.
“Have you seen ’em fellow Creel?” he asked anxiously.
“Why, no, Toma,” Dick answered. “What makes you ask that?”
“Little while ago,” the young Indian enlightened them, “I think mebbe I
change bandage on that fellow’s head. I look everywhere. I no find.”
“Come to think about it,” Sandy made the assertion, “I haven’t seen him
myself since lunch.”
Toma’s face darkened.
“I ’fraid mebbe he run away.”