THE THIRTEENTH LETTER
GUY TRENHOLM raised his head. "May I keep this little paper in my
safe?" he asked, taking it up. "I will return it at any time should you
require it."
Miriam snapped her locket shut and slipped it inside her gown.
"The paper is far safer with you than with me," she replied, and sat
quietly in her chair until Trenholm returned from placing it in a
compartment of his safe. "It is incredible that Paul Abbott should have
been the American soldier to whom Uncle Dmitri intrusted the diamond."
"But not impossible," retorted Trenholm. "And the law of chance brought
you to his bedside just before his death. How was it you failed to
recognize him?"
"I never really saw the American soldier's face." She sat back in a
more comfortable position, conscious, for the first time, of complete
fatigue. Recounting the tragic death of her Russian relatives and
her own suffering, even to Trenholm's sympathetic ears, was a severe
strain. "We had no window in our hovel; only the faint light from a
candle. I believe he wore a beard, but I was too ill to care, at the
moment, what he looked like. My uncle trusted him and that was enough.
Five years have passed since then."
"I understand," exclaimed Trenholm sympathetically, then with a
tenaciousness which was part of the man, he added: "Was there nothing
familiar about Paul's appearance?"
She shook her head. "No. I have no doubt that illness had changed his
appearance, Mr. Trenholm, to some extent. But with the Paltoff diamond
far from my thoughts, and looking upon Mr. Abbott simply as a patient,
if he had seemed even vaguely familiar I would have attributed it to
the same feeling one has in passing a stranger in the street whom one
might have met somewhere. You know the sensation."
Trenholm nodded in agreement. "Have you made no effort to trace the
Paltoff diamond?"
"I was desperately ill for months, Mr. Trenholm; and it was fully a
year before I regained anything like my old strength. There was no one
I could rely upon--no one in whom I had confidence. I tried, however,
to interest one man, a lawyer," her lips tightened, "that experience
taught me a lesson I shall never forget." She turned scarlet and for
the first time dropped her eyes before Trenholm's glance. She missed
the sudden hot wrath which kindled in his eyes; a second later and he
had himself in hand again.
"Can you describe the diamond, Miss Ward?" he asked. "And tell me its
value?"
"It is a diamond of astonishing purity, of about forty-nine carats, and
has an extraordinary play and brilliance," answered Miriam. "Though
much smaller in size than other world-famous diamonds, it is claimed by
experts to be an absolutely flawless gem. I believe it is worth in the
neighborhood of $200,000 and possibly more."
A low whistle escaped Trenholm. "A frightful invitation to crime!" he
ejaculated.
"And Boris Zybinn was in Canada and in communication with Paul Abbott,"
pointed out Miriam slowly. "Mr. Trenholm, I know a little of the evil
accomplished by that renegade Russian. There is some significance in
those letters of his to Mr. Abbott, innocent as they may appear. I will
_never_ believe otherwise!"
Trenholm leaned forward and, picking up the letters, laid them in
Miriam's hands. "Read them over carefully," he begged. "I am open to
conviction. But look here, Miss Ward, why didn't Zybinn come down to
Abbott's Lodge and visit Paul and then steal the diamond? He might have
done that without arousing suspicion. Why write letters about it?"
"Possibly he feared arrest and extradition for a former crime if
he came into the United States," suggested Miriam, and Trenholm
straightened up abruptly.
"There may be something in that idea," he admitted. "Read the letters
aloud, Miss Ward."
Obediently Miriam opened first one and then another. Except for the
precision of the language used, none were out of the ordinary. Each
letter began: "My dear Abbott," and closed with the conventional,
"Yours sincerely," and the signature, "Boris Zybinn." The contents of
each referred only to agriculture. Miriam dropped the last one in her
lap with a despondent gesture; then her expression brightened.
"You haven't looked at the unopened letter," she exclaimed. "See, you
have left it there on the table."
Trenholm picked up the envelope and examined it carefully. "It is just
like the others in appearance," he declared. "It must have come several
days before Paul's murder," examining the postmark. "Corbin, however,
can answer that question."
"I wonder why Mr. Abbott did not read it?"
"Too ill, perhaps--especially if he judged the letter unimportant."
Trenholm hunted about on his table until he found a letter opener and,
using it dextrously, succeeded in raising the flap without breaking the
seal. Taking care not to crease or otherwise mar the envelope, he drew
out the folded sheet and read aloud the brief message it contained:
SUNNYMEADE FARM
TORONTO, CANADA
January 22, 1923
DEAR ABBOTT:
Sorry to learn that you are not well. Perhaps a change may do you
good. Why not run up here for a week or two? I will be very happy to
put you up if the Nashs are not at their place.
Chisholm says the two grays are seventeen hands and entirely sound.
Would advise offer of a thousand for the pair.
Yours in haste,
BORIS ZYBINN.
Trenholm tossed down the letter in disgust. "Nothing to that!" he
exclaimed. "They have fine horses in Canada, and Paul purchased several
last year, and sold them at a good figure to one of our neighbors. What
is it, Miss Ward?" observing her changed expression.
Without answering, Miriam pulled her chair around so that she sat
facing the table. Picking up the letters she spread each one, with its
envelope, before her, and slowly counted them.
"Eleven," she explained, "and this burnt envelope is twelve, and this
last letter makes a total of thirteen _unimportant_ letters."
"What then?" asked Trenholm, struck by her manner. Going around the
table he stood looking over her shoulder.
"Have you noticed the postage?" she queried.
"Surely. They are Canadian stamps."
"Isn't postage from Canada three cents for first-class mail?"
"Yes."
"Then why does each letter bear _five one-cent_ stamps?" glancing
swiftly upward. "Boris Zybinn must have known the correct postage
required."
"Perhaps he thought that his letters weighed more than one ounce."
"If so, the postage would have been double, or _six_ cents," she
remarked quickly. "Five cents would not have covered it. Besides, I
don't believe that one of these letters weighs over an ounce."
Trenholm reached over and picked up his letter scales. "Try one," he
suggested, and, as she did so, "Not quite one ounce. Try the next."
Miriam laid each letter on the scales, first putting it back in its
proper envelope; not one was above one ounce in weight!
"They all come under the three-cent postage rate," she exclaimed. "Any
one writing as many as thirteen letters to one correspondent would have
found out that fact, especially a person living in Canada."
Trenholm considered Miriam and then the letters in silence for a
minute. Picking up the thirteenth letter, which Miriam had brought to
him unopened that afternoon, he took out the sheet of paper and held
the envelope up to the light and studied it intently. As he lowered it,
Miriam caught sight of his face and sprang to her feet.
"You have found something?"
"Yes, thanks to your persistency!" And she colored warmly at the
enthusiasm in his voice and manner. "See here!" and Trenholm again
held the envelope up to the light and at an angle so that she could
see it as well as he. "The edges of the stamps appear cut in a wedge
shape in certain places, and there are several pinholes through two
of the stamps. The cuts do not appear to result from the careless
tearing off of the stamps from the sheet, and consequent damage to the
perforations, but are apparently made with scissors."
"You are right," agreed Miriam. "And when the letter has no light
behind it, they do not show at all against the white ground of the
envelope. Is it a code?"
Trenholm twirled his mustache in perplexity. "The cuts appear at
irregular intervals," he replied. "They seem to be hastily made and are
not absolutely uniform. I wonder--" he broke off abruptly, stood in
thought for several seconds, then going over to the book shelves which
lined one of the walls, searched about until he located several books
and carried them back to the table where Miriam stood examining the
thirteenth envelope.
"Strangely enough," he explained, "Paul's father gave me his stamp
collection--a fine one--as Paul never had the craze for collecting
stamps even as a boy, and being a human magpie I keep everything
bestowed upon me," with a quick boyish smile which softened wonderfully
his usually self-repressed expression. "I hope luck is with me and I
still have tucked inside one of these albums a perforation gauge."
"A what?"
"Perforations, Miss Ward, have a definite position on each stamp with
relation to one another, though they may be irregular on two separate
stamps," went on Trenholm. "In other words, the distance between
perforations is always the same, though they may vary a fractional part
of a line in their position at the corners."
"And the gauge," she prompted, as he paused.
"Is used to measure the number of perforations to the inch," Trenholm
spoke slowly, to be sure that she understood his meaning. "By applying
a perforation gauge to the edge of a stamp, if the position of one
perforation is known, that of all the others will be indicated."
Trenholm paused and opened one of the stamp albums. He turned the pages
rapidly, and found the stamp he wanted, but no gauge. Taking up the
other album he shook it over the table. A small shower of loose stamps,
several odd envelopes and a piece of bristol board fell on the table.
With a relieved exclamation, Trenholm clutched the perforation gauge,
brushing the stamps aside.
"Here is a Canadian stamp of the same issue," he said. "Paul wrote me
when he was last in Canada, and I kept the stamp. Let's see--"
Miriam waited with absorbed attention while he applied the gauge to the
stamp. When he looked up his eyes were shining.
"The stamp has exactly fifty-two perforations," he announced. "Can it
be a coincidence or a--"
"A what?"
He looked at her without speaking for a moment. "The number is just
twice that of the letters of the alphabet." Trenholm drew in his
breath. "I have come to your way of thinking, Miss Ward. It must be a
code, and it may be that two alphabets are registered on each stamp,
the cuts corresponding to the letters according to the number of the
particular perforation affected, counting from one corner of the stamp."
Miriam, who had been following his explanation with close attention,
nodded her head wisely.
"I see," she broke in. "That would explain any irregularity in the
cuts, because for coding it would be sufficient to indicate the
perforation intended to be cut, without making a mark of a definite
character, and with this gauge of yours the number of the perforation
which has been cut would be recognized at once."
"Exactly," he answered. "Without a gauge there would be great
difficulty in determining the number of the perforation, because the
cut might seem to create new indentations if carelessly made." Trenholm
stopped and took up the envelope of the thirteenth letter and applied
his gauge to the left-hand stamp, and Miriam, pencil in hand, assisted
him.
Trenholm counted clockwise. "Five perforations are damaged," he
declared, "numbers 8, 20, 23, 27, 30. Now, if the code is based on a
double alphabet, these would become 8, 20, 23, 1, 3, or the letters H,
T, W, A, C. How are the letters to be arranged, Miss Ward?"
She looked at her pad, where she had jotted down the letters as well as
the figures. "There is only one vowel," she said. "It must be one word.
Then why use two alphabets?"
"Possibly because of the accidental chance that the stamp perforations
count up to fifty-two," replied Trenholm. "It would be convenient, in
case of a word with many letters, to prevent destroying the appearance
of the stamp by cutting too many indentations close to one another.
Have you solved the first word?" as she checked an exclamation.
"Yes--'watch.'"
"Good!" Trenholm's eyes were bright with excitement. Looking again at
the first stamp, he noticed that the first, third, and fifth letters
of the words "watch" were indicated on the first alphabet, and the
remaining letters on the second one.
Trenholm held up the envelope to the light again. "See, Miss Ward!" he
exclaimed. "The stamp on the extreme right has only four indentations,
though the left-hand corner has been cut off."
She studied the envelope in silence for a few seconds. "The letters
are G and E in the first alphabet," she pointed out. "They must be the
odd letters of the word coded, and R and V in the second alphabet,
corresponding to the even letters, but I can't make any word out of
them."
"Suppose we call the cut of the left-hand corner of the stamp an A,"
suggested Trenholm. "It may be a quick way to mark an indentation when
a corner square was involved; though better care was used in the A of
the second alphabet in the first stamp examined. What word have you
now, Miss Ward?"
"Grave."
Trenholm stared at her. "Grave," he repeated, then, suppressing
comment, went ahead decoding the message. "This center one appears the
simplest," he said. "Here the perforations cut are numbers 5, 12, 20,
5, 18, 20--odd letters, E, L, T; even letters, E, R, T. Got them down,
Miss Ward?"
"They make the word--letter," briefly, not glancing up. "Go ahead."
"The next letters are E, I, T, for the odd, and E, H, N, R, for the
even." Trenholm laid down his perforation gauge and frowned. "The code
seems to fail here," he grumbled. "It has given four even letters and
only three odd. The other way around would be all right, but it is
impossible to make a word with more even than odd letters."
"Let me see the envelope." Miriam put aside her pencil and carefully
examined the stamps against the light. "Look, Mr. Trenholm, here are
pinholes opposite some of the letters--two opposite the odd T, and one
opposite the even H."
"Probably they stand for repetitions of the same letters, in which
case the letters would be: odd--E, I, T, T, T; even--E, H, H, N, R,"
declared Trenholm. "But they don't make sense." He paused and looked at
the stamps already decoded. "See here, the first letter in each word we
have deciphered is on the side of the stamp which faces the left side
of the envelope."
"Oh, then that accounts for the apparently careless manner in which the
stamps are stuck on the envelope," said Miriam. "The only letter on
the second stamp, which is indicated by a cut in the way you have just
described, is T."
"So our next word begins with T." Trenholm took up a pencil and did
some figuring on Miriam's pad. "With so many T's and H's to use,
suppose we start off with Th," he began, "and the next letter is either
E, I, or T. It must be one of the vowels. No, E is no good." Trenholm
ran his fingers through his hair until it stood upright. "We'll take I,
and here is an R available--by Jove--_thirteenth_!"
"So it is!" Miriam's excitement was rising. "The words we have so far
are, 'watch thirteenth letter----grave.'"
"Now for the last stamp!" Trenholm took up gauge and pencil. "The odd
letters are E, two I's, one indicated by another pinhole, and S. The
even letters are C, D, S, U. The position of the stamp shows that the
first letter is S. Of the four even letters available for the next
position, only the vowel can be used, making Su." Trenholm paused and
wrote rapidly several combinations of the available letters, then
looked up with a low exclamation--"Suicides."
"And the completed message then stands--'Watch thirteenth letter
suicides grave,'" repeated Miriam. "What do you make of it, Mr.
Trenholm?"
"Nothing--now," he admitted frankly. "We know the code. Help me
decipher these other eleven envelopes and the burnt one. Fortunately
the stamps on it are intact."
Half an hour later Miriam and Trenholm sat back in their chairs and
looked at each other. The latter took up one of the pads they had used.
"Here are the thirteen decoded messages, of five words each, concealed
in the stamps on the thirteen envelopes," he stated. "Listen carefully,
Miss Ward, and tell me what you make of them."
Fear Paul suspicious of Betty.
Unwise to trust her judgment.
Judge her influence is waning.
Is there any other woman?
Last interview with Paul disastrous.
He declines to return jewel.
Do not lose your nerve.
Believe he can prove nothing.
Does not guess your motive.
Situation growing tense; money required.
Learned hiding place changed often.
Next time can tell definitely.
Watch thirteenth letter; suicides grave.
Miriam wrinkled her forehead in deep thought. "For whom were those
messages intended, Mr. Trenholm?" she asked.
"For the man who later killed Paul Abbott," he replied quietly.
"And he--"
"Is some one who was with Paul and had access to his mail, and so
could read the code on these apparently innocent letters." Trenholm
rose suddenly and looked down at her. "It was a devilish scheme and
devilishly carried out."
"By Boris Zybinn's confederate." Miriam also rose. "Have you any idea
who that confederate is?"
Absently Trenholm took up his pipe and fingered it. "Some one who knew
Paul intimately," he said. "And who has been with him during the past
few months, for the dates on these letters cover that period of time.
But as to his identity--the coded messages give no clue."
"That is true," agreed Miriam. "Another question--When he murdered Paul
Abbott did he secure the Paltoff diamond?"
Trenholm had located his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe
mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere.
"Frankly," he said slowly, "I am inclined to think he didn't."