DOCTOR MURDOCK'S PROBLEM.
Sprague's stag dinner was virtually over when a servant brought in a
copy of the _Evening Tempest_. The dessert had been removed, the coffee
and liqueurs had been served, and the guests had lighted their cigars.
The host passed the newspaper to Doctor Murdock, who proceeded to
glance leisurely through its columns.
"Ah! this will do," he exclaimed, at last. "Here is something which
will, I think, answer our purpose--
"MYSTERIOUS SHOTS IN WALL STREET.
WHO FIRED THEM?
STORY OF A STRAY SATCHEL.
THE POLICE PUZZLED.
"While on his beat, at a quarter past five o'clock this afternoon,
Policeman John Flynn, hearing the report of a pistol from the
direction of the Knickerbocker bank----"
"The Knickerbocker bank!" interrupted the young broker. "Mr. Dunlap,
that interests you. Do your directors indulge in pistol practice at the
board meetings?"
"What is that about the Knickerbocker bank?" asked the man to whom
this speech was addressed. Having been engaged with his neighbor in an
earnest discussion on financial questions, he had not been listening to
the general conversation.
Murdock adjusted his eyeglasses, and quietly resumed:
"Policeman John Flynn, hearing the report of a pistol from the
direction of the Knickerbocker bank, in Wall Street, started at the
top of his speed toward that building. When he was within about
twenty yards of the bank another shot rang out, and at the same
instant a man darted down the steps and ran toward Broadway."
Richard Dunlap, president of the Knickerbocker bank, was listening
attentively enough now. Behind the calm mask of the financier there was
the evident anxiety of the bank president. For the stability of a bank,
like the honor of a woman, is at the mercy of every passing rumor.
"He carried in his hand a small satchel, which he dropped as soon
as he saw that he was pursued. After an exciting chase, Flynn
overtook his man, whom he recognized as Michael Quinlan, _alias_
Shorty Duff, a well-known sneak thief. On the way back to the bank
the policeman questioned his prisoner about the pistol shots.
Quinlan vehemently denied having fired them; but admitted that he
had stolen the satchel. His story is that, as he was passing the
bank, the outer door was ajar. Seeing the satchel in the vestibule,
he entered, crouching low in order to avoid being seen through the
inner door, the upper portion of which is of plate glass. Scarcely
had he laid his hand upon the satchel when he was startled by the
report of a pistol. For a moment he was dazed and undecided how to
act. Then, as no one seemed to take any notice of his presence,
he was quietly slipping off, when a second shot was fired.
Panic-stricken, he took to his heels, only to be captured by Flynn.
"On reaching the bank Flynn found the outer door closed but not
fastened. The heavy iron gate between it and the inner door was
securely locked, however, so that it was impossible to enter. The
Knickerbocker bank has a second entrance on Exchange Place. But
this, too, is protected by a massive iron gate, which also was
found locked. Flynn rapped for assistance, and the call having been
answered by Policemen Kirkpatrick and O'Donnell, he left the former
to watch the Exchange Place door, and the latter to guard the
entrance on Wall Street, while he took his prisoner to the police
station.
"Messengers were at once despatched to the house of Mr. Richard
Dunlap, the president of the bank, and to that of Mr. George S.
Rutherford, the cashier. The former was not at home, and the family
being out of town, there was no one who knew where he was spending
the evening."
Every eye turned toward Richard Dunlap as this paragraph was read. His
features remained impassive, under the full control of the veteran
financier; but to an observant eye like Sturgis's, the man's real
anxiety was betrayed by the unconscious action of his right hand, which
lay upon the table and played nervously with a fork.
"Yes," said the banker, carelessly, feeling the curious gaze of the
other guests upon him, and answering their unspoken questions, "yes,
that is true; I did not tell my housekeeper that I was invited to dine
by our friend Sprague this evening. There was, of course, no reason why
I should. Well, Doctor Murdock, did they find Rutherford?"
Murdock had looked up while the banker was speaking. He now leisurely
found his place and continued the reading of the article in the
_Tempest_:
"The cashier fortunately was at home, and he hurried down town at
once with his set of the bank keys. Two detectives from the Central
Office accompanied him, and the three men carefully searched the
premises. They found nothing out of the way there, except that
three gas jets were lighted and turned on full blaze. At first the
detectives were inclined to think that bank robbers had gained
an entrance to the building; and that one of them, having caught
sight of Shorty Duff as he reached in to steal the satchel from the
vestibule, had fired upon him. This would explain the pistol shots
heard by Flynn. A careful examination of the bank, however, failed
to reveal any trace of a bullet.
"The valise, when opened, proved to contain only a change of linen
for a man and a few toilet articles of but slight intrinsic value.
The satchel itself is an ordinary cheap leather handbag, stamped in
imitation of alligator skin.
"The police are now looking for its owner in the hope that he will
be able to throw some light on the mystery of the pistol shots."
When Doctor Murdock had finished reading, everybody, except Dunlap and
Sturgis, looked disappointed. The former settled back in his chair,
the muscles of his face relaxed, and the anxious bank president once
more became the genial and polished man of the world. The reporter sat
gazing thoughtfully at his wineglass.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," said Murdock, "what do you think of my little
problem?"
"I have already been assigned to work up this case for the _Tempest_,"
answered the reporter quietly.
"Indeed? Perhaps you are the author of this very article? No? Then are
you willing to make the solution of this little mystery the subject of
our wager and the test of your theories?"
"Hold on, Doctor," exclaimed Sprague; "you are doing Sturgis an
injustice. Why pick out, as a test of his ability, a problem which, to
all intents and purposes, has already been solved by the police? Give
him some truly knotty question and he will be in his element; and then,
at least, some interest will attach to your wager."
"Ah! you think the problem has already been solved?"
"To be sure. The article you have read us started out as if it were
going to prove interesting; but, instead of that, it ends in an
anti-climax. What is the crime here? The confessed theft, by a petty
sneak thief, of a satchel worth, with its contents, perhaps eight or
ten dollars. And where is the mystery? The ownership of a few pieces of
unmarked linen of so little value that the owner does not care to take
the trouble to claim them."
"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Sprague. While the crime in this case may
be a petty theft, it contains, to my mind, interesting features, which
you appear to lose sight of in your disdainful summary. The problem, it
seems to me, involves a suitable explanation of two rather mysterious
pistol shots, to say nothing of such minor details as lighted gas jets
behind securely locked gates. As Mr. Sturgis has informed us, in his
earnest and lucid way, every effect has a cause. I should like to know
the cause that lighted the gas in the Knickerbocker bank."
"I shall probably find out that cause the day after to-morrow," said
Mr. Dunlap smiling, "and I shall give the fellow a talking to for his
carelessness in forgetting to turn out the gas when he locked up."
"Mr. Dunlap's suggestion," continued Murdock, "is plausible in itself,
and we might even assume that the same careless employé, after locking
up the bank, forgot to close the outer door on the Wall Street side.
But even then, we have not disposed of the ownership of the satchel
nor of the two pistol shots. The police theory that these shots were
fired by bank robbers seems, I admit, very far-fetched. Professional
cracksmen would hardly be likely to fire, unless cornered; and then
they would fire to kill, or at least to disable. If their bullets
failed to hit the mark, they would at any rate leave some trace."
"I beg to suggest," remarked Dunlap, "that the shots heard by the
policeman and his prisoner were not fired from the inside of the bank."
"That appears quite likely," admitted Murdock; "but they must at
any rate have been fired in close proximity to the bank, since the
witnesses agree that they appeared to come from inside. In that case,
whence were they fired? By whom? And why? On the whole, my little
puzzle does not seem to me so ill chosen. What is your own opinion,
Mr. Sturgis?"
"I quite agree with you that the problem is probably not so simple as
it seemed at first blush to Sprague."
"Very well. Then doubtless you are willing to undertake the task of
supplying whatever data may be required to complete the chain of
evidence against Quinlan?"
"By no means," replied Sturgis decidedly.
"Indeed? Ah! well, of course, if Mr. Sturgis wishes to withdraw his
bet----"
"I do not wish to withdraw my bet," said Sturgis; "I will agree to
solve your problem within thirty days or to forfeit my stakes; but
I cannot undertake to prove the truth or falsity of any _a priori_
theory. I have no personal knowledge of the matter as yet, and
therefore no theory."
"Quite so," observed Murdock ironically. "I had forgotten your
scientific methods. Of course, it may turn out that it was the
policeman who stole the satchel from Shorty Duff."
"Perhaps," answered Sturgis, imperturbably.
Murdock smiled.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, "I accept Mr. Sturgis's conditions. If you
are willing," he continued, turning to the reporter, "our host will
hold the stakes and decide the wager."
"I, for one, agree with Sprague," said Doctor Thurston. "I am
disappointed in the problem. I have seen Sturgis unravel some extremely
puzzling tangles in my day; and such a case would not be hard to find.
Why, no longer ago than this evening, on our way here, we stumbled upon
a most peculiar case----eh?----oh!----er----please pass the cognac,
Sprague. I wish I had some like it in my cellar; it is worth its weight
in gold."
Doctor Thurston had met Sturgis's steady gaze and had understood that,
for some reason or other, the reporter did not wish him to relate their
adventure of the afternoon.
Only one person appeared to notice the abrupt termination of his
story. This was Murdock, who had looked up at the speaker with mild
curiosity, and who had also intercepted the reporter's warning glance
at his friend. He observed Doctor Thurston narrowly for a full minute,
appeared to enjoy his clumsy effort to cover his retreat, and then
quietly sipped his coffee.