FINDING A MOTIVE
The disappearance of Creel caused the boys a lot of worry. He had left
the road-house without a word to anyone and had slipped away without
being seen. It occurred to Dick to question Fontaine and Le Sueur, in
the hope that they might be able to throw some light on the matter. But
neither of the two young half-breeds could supply any information.
“He must have gone back to his cabin,” guessed Sandy. “He’s a queer old
duffer in some ways, and probably prefers to be alone. No doubt, we’ll
find him there.”
But such did not prove to be the case. Creel’s cabin was empty. When the
boys entered, the place was strangely silent and eerie. It was so dark
within, that at first they could see nothing. It was damp and musty, and
their footsteps echoed cheerlessly through the gloom.
“Strike a match,” said Dick, “and we’ll see if you can find a candle.
Although he isn’t here, I’d like to look around a bit.”
The boys fumbled in their pockets. No one had a match, apparently, but
finally Toma found a broken stub of one and a tiny glare flickered
through the room. In its light, Sandy discovered a short piece of candle
on a soap box near the fireplace and carried it triumphantly over to
Toma before the match sputtered out.
It was well that the boys had decided to look around before pursuing
their investigations further. The room was in complete disorder.
Confusion was everywhere. Toma, who had been the last person to leave it
on the previous day, was astonished at the change which had been brought
about there.
“What you think about that?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Yesterday, when I
leave this place, everything all right. Somebody him come an’ make
trouble here.”
“Creel must have come back,” Sandy decided. “I wonder where he went to
from here?”
“That seems hardly likely,” Dick spoke up. “Everything here belongs to
Creel and he wouldn’t be apt to throw things about like this. It isn’t
at all reasonable, Sandy. Even if he was planning to leave this place
for good, he wouldn’t do this thing, unless he had suddenly gone mad.”
“Yes, that’s right. Just look at things! It’s more reasonable to think
that someone came here with a grudge against Creel and proceeded to do
as much damage as possible.”
The boys spent a few more minutes in looking about. A tall cupboard, at
one end of the room, had been completely emptied. Its contents—parcels,
packages, cans of fruit and an occasional dish or granite plate—had been
swept to the floor. Chairs had been overturned. A small trap-door,
entering upon a tiny cellar below the rough, board floor, gaped open.
Looking at it, Dick came to a sudden conclusion.
“Do you know what I think?” he began hurriedly. “This isn’t a case of
wanton revenge. There’s a reason behind it all. In Creel’s absence some
person has been ransacking this place in the hope of finding something
of value.”
“You guess right that time,” Toma nodded. “That’s what it look like.
Somebody, not Creel, come here. Mebbe he look for box, where Creel keep
all his money.”
Sandy turned upon the young Indian.
“By the way, Toma, what became of that box, the night we left here and
you took Creel over to the road-house?”
“He take box with him.”
“Whoever came here,” reasoned Dick, “must have thought that Creel’s
treasure had been left behind.”
Sandy scratched his head.
“Look here, Dick, do you think it _was_ the box? Was it the money he
came after? Why not that mysterious poke?”
Dick slapped his chum on the back.
“You have it,” he exulted. “We’re getting closer now.”
“And the plot thickens,” grinned Sandy.
“A few more tangled threads,” Dick answered, smiling. “Perhaps we’d
better give up. This case is too deep and complicated for us. We haven’t
the ability to solve it.”
“I quite agree with you. Not one of us is a Sherlock Holmes or an expert
from Scotland Yard. We’re out of our natural element.”
“Just the same,” Dick’s enthusiasm was contagious, “we’ll have lots of
fun in trying to figure it all out.”
“What we do about Creel?” Toma wanted to know.
In their interest in the new development, Dick and Sandy had completely
forgotten about the old recluse until thus reminded. Where had he gone,
and what was his purpose in going?
“No use in trying to do anything more about him tonight,” Dick came to
the obvious conclusion. “It would be foolish to start out now to look
for him. We don’t know which way he has gone.”
“Perfectly true,” said Sandy. “He has given us the slip and, even in
broad daylight, we’ll probably have plenty of trouble in picking up his
trail. We’ve been careless. I dread to think of what Corporal Rand will
say, when he hears the news.”
Dick righted an overturned bench and sat down upon it.
“Let’s rest here for a moment and then go back to the road-house.”
Toma, who had been carrying the candle about in his hand, moved forward
and placed it upon the table. Sandy drew up a chair. A short silence
ensued. Outside they could hear the plaintive whispering of the pines,
the rustling of leaves near the open window.
Suddenly, Sandy sat up very straight on the bench, then leaned forward
eagerly, his merry blue eyes now serious.
“I’ve just had a real inspiration,” he announced. “Incidentally, I’ve
fulfilled my part of our agreement. I’ve found the motive for
Frischette’s suicide.”
“Tell us.”
Dick’s face lit in a half-smile. At the moment he did not take Sandy
seriously. He doubted very much whether Sandy would be able to advance
anything of value concerning the Frenchman’s untimely end. Yet he was
mildly curious to learn what the other had to say.
“What is your motive?”
“Before I tell you,” Sandy’s eyes were sparkling now, “I want to ask you
a question. Please comb that old wool of yours and help me out as much
as you can.”
“Fire away,” smiled Dick.
“The other night when we took the poke away from Burnnel and Emery, can
you remember what it felt like?”
Dick broke into a roar of laughter.
“Felt like? What do you mean, Sandy?”
“The poke, of course,” scowled the young Scotchman. “I’m perfectly
serious. It’s important. For nearly a minute you held that poke in your
hand. Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you look at it? What were your
sensations?”
“Why, why—I was too excited at the time. I had it in my hand, of course.
I remember it sort of fitted nicely in my hand—a little, flat poke, made
of soft leather, that was somehow pleasant to the touch.”
In his excitement, Sandy rose to his feet.
“There! That’s what I’ve been driving at. Didn’t it occur to you at the
time that the poke was curiously light?”
“No, I can’t remember that it did. On the contrary. I have a sort of
hazy memory that, although the poke was somewhat flat, it did contain
something.”
Sandy sighed. “Well, if that’s the case, I guess my theory is already
exploded.”
“What were you trying to deduce?”
“You can have it for what it’s worth. You will recall that after Burnnel
and Emery had spurned the money-box, and had knocked Creel flat across
the threshold, they went inside and found the poke—the thing they had
come after. They weren’t inside that room more than a few moments. I
don’t believe they opened the poke inside the room, and I know they
didn’t open it outside. They were probably satisfied that it contained
what they had reason to believe it contained—I mean, weren’t
suspicious.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Well, it’s just a possibility, of course, yet it seems quite
reasonable. Anyway, for the sake of argument, we’ll say that Creel had
removed everything of value from the poke. Not suspecting this ruse,
Burnnel and Emery took the poke away with them. A few yards away from
the cabin they are confronted by Toma, and then we relieve them of that
mysterious poke. We have it in our possession only a short time.
Frischette snatches it away from you. Believing that he has a fortune in
his hands, he decides to make his escape, leaving Creel, his
confederate, in the lurch.”
Sandy paused for breath, smiled soberly, then went on again:
“Let us say that he puts the poke in his pocket and hurries along,
gloating over his good fortune. At first, he’s so busy endeavoring to
put distance between him and the rest of us, that he doesn’t find it
convenient to open the poke and examine its contents.
“After a time, he slackens his pace. He pulls the poke from his pocket,
opens it, and, to his horror, discovers that it is empty. What is he
going to do? He dare not turn back. He has no money. You will remember
that Frischette was a person of sudden moods and emotions. He was
violent in everything—violently happy or utterly dejected. He feels that
there is nothing to do but to take his own life. A few hours later,
Burnnel and Emery came along and find his body and the empty poke. Now,
what do you think of that for a theory?”
“Sandy,” said Dick, in tones of deep admiration, “you’ve done well.
Splendid! Very logical. I’ve almost begun to believe in your theory
myself.”
“The trouble is,” sighed Sandy, “it has one very weak point.”
“What is it?” questioned Dick.
“You said just a moment ago that you were under the impression that,
when you had the poke in your hand, it contained something; wasn’t quite
empty.”
“No,” remembered Dick, “it wasn’t.”
“So all my clever reasoning has been in vain.” Sandy looked despondent.
“The circumstances do not fit my theory.”
Another long silence.
“Let’s not discard your theory altogether,” said Dick at length.
“Perhaps I can help you out a little. Two minds are better than one, you
know. Permit me to offer a suggestion. From what you have said, I gather
that your inference is that Creel removed the contents of the poke.
Well, perhaps he did.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sandy. “Go on.”
“And made a substitution. Put something of no value, whatsoever, in the
poke. That will bolster up your theory.”
Sandy’s eyes gleamed.
“You’re right. If we keep at it, Dick, we’ll soon be as proficient as
the great Sherlock Holmes himself.”