THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY
Two days later, on its way north to the Mackenzie River barracks, the
party stopped for the night at Meade’s Ferry. After supper Toma, Sandy
and Frederick Meade went over to the river for an evening’s fishing. The
two policemen and Dick remained behind. Sitting in the large
trading-room, they conversed quietly.
“There’s only one thing that I regret,” said Corporal Rand, “and that is
that we have been unable to recover Dewberry’s treasure.”
“What is this treasure?” Wyatt asked, then turned his head as someone
came to the doorway. “You—Mr. Meade. Step right in. You don’t need to
hesitate. This isn’t a private conference.” As soon as the free-trader
had taken a seat beside him, Wyatt repeated his question:
“What is this treasure?”
“We don’t know,” replied Rand. “However, it is an established fact that
on the night he was murdered Dewberry had a roll of bills in his pocket
and a small poke, suspended from a cord tied around his neck.”
Rand paused, reached in his pocket and brought to light a diminutive
moosehide pouch or leather sack, which he passed over to his fellow
policeman.
“There it is. That’s the poke. You see how small it is. Nevertheless, at
one time it contained something of great value. MacGregor risked his
life to get it. Frischette or Creel—as I now have reason to
believe—surprised MacGregor in the very act of committing his crime, and
took it forcibly from him. Since that night the poke has had an
interesting history. Creel kept it in his cabin, but one night he was
visited by Emery and Burnnel, who secured possession of it. A few
minutes later Dick, Toma and Sandy took it away from them. But in the
end Frischette got it and escaped. The next day his body was found by
Burnnel and Emery, who reported the news to me.”
“They murdered him.”
“No, it was suicide. I’m almost sure of that. You see, I found a note in
the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. This note was in Frischette’s
hand-writing and mentions that he is about to take his own life.”
“Burnnel and Emery might have forced him to write that note. It might be
a case of murder after all.”
“I’ve considered that too, Wyatt, but—well, to be frank, I have a
theory. My theory is that although this is the poke originally carried
by Dewberry, its contents were tampered with and a substitution made by
Creel at his cabin before Burnnel and Emery came. To make my theory more
clear to you, I’d like to say that I believe that this poke had been
filled with something of no value whatsoever. A clever deception on
Creel’s part. Not only did it fool Emery and Burnnel, but it fooled
Frischette himself. When Frischette opened the poke, you can imagine his
rage and disappointment. The treasure was not there. He was a coward at
heart and dared not return. Hopeless and despondent, he shot himself.”
Corporal Rand paused to light his pipe.
“My theory is strengthened by Creel’s subsequent actions,” the corporal
continued. “While I was out on the trail investigating the cause of
Frischette’s death, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The
assumption was that he had started out for Edmonton, or some other
point, with Dewberry’s treasure. Burnnel, Emery and ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s
wife evidently came to the same conclusion for, after locking me up at
Frischette’s road-house,” the corporal flushed at the memory, “they set
out to follow Creel. If they didn’t suspect him of having the treasure,
why did they follow him? How are you going to answer that question?”
“Your theory must be correct,” said Wyatt.
“It must be,” Meade agreed.
“It isn’t my theory particularly. Young Sandy MacClaren came to the same
conclusion. You have the facts. I needn’t go further into detail. You
know what happened over there by the river.”
“They cached the treasure somewhere,” declared Wyatt.
Corporal Rand nodded.
“It seems to be the only solution.”
Conversation wandered to other things, and Dick soon lost interest. He
yawned, rose from his chair and went outside. It was a lovely evening,
cool and exhilarating. There came to his ears the drowsy sound of the
forest. Birds peeped, preparing to nestle down for the night. The pine
trees droned their incessant chant. Here and there, rabbits scampered
into the open, their curious little muzzles twitching inquisitively.
Dick yawned again and stretched his arms above his head. It was about
time the boys were coming back. He wondered if their fishing expedition
had been successful. Bored with the inactivity, he decided to stroll
down toward the river to meet them.
He was twenty yards from the cabin when a voice called him back—the
voice of Corporal Rand. Quickly he retraced his steps.
“Sorry to trouble you, Dick,” Corporal Rand met him at the door, “but
Wyatt and I would like to see that bundle of stuff you secured that
night from Burnnel and Emery. Where is it?”
“In my bunk,” Dick answered, “rolled up in my coat. I’ll get it for
you.”
A moment later he secured the bundle, carried it to the table and opened
it. Wyatt, Rand and Meade gathered in a little circle around him. He
took up the objects, one by one, very much after the manner of a person
taking inventory.
“This is Creel’s roll of money. This is mine. These bills and coins
belong to the outlaws. This is my jack-knife and here is Sandy’s
compass. This is my watch and this is Emery’s revolver.”
There remained a pocket-comb and mirror, a pipe—its bowl somewhat
battered—two hunting knives and the ring with the two keys. As Dick
picked up the last named object, Meade gave vent to a startled cry and
jumped forward.
“Let’s see it! Let’s see it! Give it to me!”
Dick handed it over.
“Keys,” said Rand. “Who owns them?”
“I think they belong to one of the outlaws,” answered Dick.
“Outlaws!” shrieked Meade, his face distorted. “I should say not!
They’re Dewberry’s keys. I’d know them anywhere.”
A hush came over the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked loudly.
Presently Meade’s feet shuffled away from the table and he went over and
sat down. His head dropped in his hands. For several minutes he sat
there in deep abstraction. He was thinking deeply. Then, with unexpected
suddenness, he bounded to his feet.
“I’ve solved your mystery!” he shouted.
The three other occupants of the room surrounded him in a body.
“Tell us,” cried Rand.
The free-trader waved them to their chairs.
“Sit down,” he commanded, “and I’ll tell you all about it. But I must
begin at the beginning, so that it will all be clear to you.”
“Yes, yes,” breathed Rand.
“Dewberry was my friend. I was his guest one time at Peace River
Crossing. You know where his place is?” He turned to Wyatt.
“A little cottage on a hill. Overlooks the Hart River,” answered the
policeman.
“Have you ever been inside of it?”
“No.”
“Were you acquainted with Dewberry?”
“I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An
unusual character.”
“Exactly. He _was_ queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of
them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most
peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship.
He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For
months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills
prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become
absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.”
Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several
moments before he resumed:
“The minute I laid my eyes on that key-ring with its two keys, I knew
it. I’d seen it many times before.”
As he spoke, Meade exhibited the ring and selected the larger of the two
keys.
“This,” he informed them, “is the key to the front door of Dewberry’s
cottage.”
“And the second?” Rand interrupted, unable to check his curiosity.
“This key, gentlemen,” Meade held it up and announced dramatically, “is,
I think, the key to your mystery, the cause of all your trouble. It was
the thing that MacGregor wanted when he murdered its owner, that
Frischette died for, that Creel, Emery, Burnnel and the squaw fought
over. In other words, unless I am very badly mistaken—and I don’t think
I am—this key unlocks a large iron chest that stands in the front room
of Dewberry’s cottage.”