enclosed in heavy wrapping paper. The parcel was about six feet long
and nearly as large around as Billy himself. Under his other arm,
Billy carried a second parcel. This was about three feet square. The
trained eye of Detective Gubb noted all this at a glance. Billy
Gribble dropped the two parcels on the floor.
"Gubby, old sport!" he said in his noisy way, "this is--"
"Now, now!" said the stranger irritably. "Now, wait! I said I would
talk to him, didn't I? What do you mean by--if you'll please let--you
are Detective Gubb, are you not?" he asked.
Philo Gubb gazed at the man. The man was tall and thin, taller and
thinner than Mr. Gubb himself. He was clean-shaven and his face showed
deep lines about the mouth and nose. His hair was closely clipped,
making his head seem pea-like in its smallness.
But Mr. Gubb was not gazing at these things. His bird-like eyes were
fastened on the end of the suitcase the stranger still held in his
hand. On the end of the case were painted in black the letters "C. M."
and the word "Chicago." The stranger glanced down at the suitcase and
put it on the floor with a suddenness that brought forth a thumping
sound.
"Clue!" he said, and he kicked the suitcase.
"I presume the honor of this call at this late hour of time," said
Philo Gubb, shifting his sheet a little, "is on a matter of business.
If it is of a social, society sort, I'll have to ask to be kindly
excused whilst I assume my pants."
"Business call, business call entirely, Mr. Gubb," said the tall
stranger. "Don't put anything on. If--if you feel embarrassed I'll
take some off. My name is--is--"
"Phineas Burke," said Billy Gribble, in a loud whisper.
"Can't you keep still?" asked the stranger crossly. "Don't you think I
know my own name? Phineas--that's my name, and I know it as well as
you do. Phineas Burns."
"Burke, not Burns," whispered Billy Gribble.
The stranger turned red with exasperation.
"Look here! Don't I know my own name?" he asked angrily. "My name is
Phineas Burns."
"All right! All right!" said Billy Gribble. "Have it your own way. You
ought to know. Only--you said Burke over at my place."
Mr. Burke-Burns glared at Billy Gribble.
"Now! There, now!" he cried. "Just for that I'll tell you you don't
know anything about it. My name isn't Burke, and it isn't Burns.
It's--it's Charles Augustus Witzel. Mr. Gubb, my name is Charles
Augustus Witzel."
"Glad to know your acquaintance, sir," said Philo Gubb. "Won't you be
seated upon one of them bundles of wall-paper?"
"I'm a detective," said Mr. Charles Augustus Witzel. "Tell him about
me, Gribble."
"Well, he--whatever his name is, but Burke was what he told me--is a
Chicago detective," said Billy Gribble. "Yes, sir, Mr. Gubb, Mr.--ah,
what is it?"
"Witzel," said Mr. Witzel.
"Mr. Witzel is one of the celebratedest Chicago detectives," said Mr.
Gribble, "and he's come over here to hunt up this man Master that's
disappeared. See? So when he strikes town he comes straight to me.
That's how it is, ain't it?"
"Ex-act-ly!" said Mr. Witzel.
"Yes, sir," said Billy Gribble. "So he comes to my laundry, and I'm in
the washroom--"
"You ain't!" said Mr. Witzel. "You're out, and you know you're out!"
"And I'm out," said Billy Gribble. "Maybe I was in the washroom and
went out the back way. Anyway, I'm out. Say," he said, as Mr. Witzel
squirmed, "if you don't like the way I'm telling this, tell it
yourself."
"I entered Mr. Gribble's laundry," said Mr. Witzel. "You'll
understand, being a detective, Mr. Gubb. I entered the laundry. Here
is the counter. I walked up to the counter. I leaned over and spoke to
the girl there. 'My dear young lady,' I said, 'is Mr. Gribble in?'
'Out,' she says. Naturally, I looked down. A detective observes
everything. My toe has hit a suitcase. On the end of the suitcase are
the initials 'C. M.' and 'Chicago.' In other words, 'Custer Master,
Chicago,'--the man I'm looking for."
"And did you get him?" asked Philo Gubb tensely.
"Gone! Gone like a bird!" said Mr. Witzel. "I waited for Gribble. I
questioned Gribble. I asked him if Mr. Master had been there--"
"Hold on!" said Mr. Gribble, and then, "Oh, all right!"
"And he said, 'No,'" said Mr. Witzel, frowning. "'Very well,' I said
to Gribble, 'he'll be back. He'll come back after the suitcase.' So
Gribble hid me in his private office. I waited."
"And he came back?" asked Detective Gubb eagerly.
"He did not," said Mr. Witzel.
Philo Gubb sighed with relief. "Then I've got a chance at an
opportunity to get that five thousand dollars," he said.
"Mr. Gubb," said Mr. Witzel, "you have a chance to get twenty-five
hundred. It was to offer you the chance to get twenty-five hundred
that I came here. What did I say to you, Gribble?"
"You go ahead and tell it, if you want it told," said Gribble. "You
don't like the way I tell things. Tell 'em yourself."
"I said to Gribble," said Mr. Witzel slowly, "'Gribble, is this the
town where a detective by the name of Grubb lives?'"
"Gubb is the name," said Mr. Gubb.
"Gubb. That's what I said," said Mr. Witzel. "That made me think a
bit. 'Gribble,' I says, 'by to-morrow there will be forty Chicago
detectives in his town, all looking for Master. And I don't care a
whoop for any of them,' I says. 'I'm the leader of them all, as
anybody who has read the exploits of--of George Augustus Wechsler--.'"
"Charles Augustus Witzel," said Gribble, correctingly.
"I have so many _aliases_ I forget them," said Mr. Witzel to Mr. Gubb.
"You'll understand that perfectly. You are a detective, and I'm a
detective, Witzel or Wotzel or Wutzel--who cares? We understand each
other. Don't we?"
"I presume to suppose we will do so in the course of time," said Philo
Gubb politely.
"Pre-cise-ly!" said Mr. Witzel. "So I said to Gribble, 'I'm afraid of
Gubb! He's the man who will find Master, if I don't. But I've got an
advantage. I've got the clue.'"
He pointed to the suitcase.
"So Gribble says to me," said Mr. Witzel, "'Why don't you and Gubb
combine?' 'Great idea!' I says, and--here I am. How about it, Mr.
Gobb?"
"Gubb is the name I adhere to when not deteckating," said Mr. Gubb
kindly. "And as to how about it, I wouldn't want to enter into a
combination shutting me out from using the ability taught to me in
Chapters One to Twelve inclusive, of the Correspondence course. For
the twenty-five hundred which would fall to my share, I should expect
to detect to some considerable extent."
"Quite right! _Quite_ right!" said Mr. Witzel promptly. "That meets my
plans entirely. I make my headquarters here, I give you a free hand.
I am a--an inductive detective."
"Yes, sir. A Sherlock Holmes deteckative," said Philo Gubb.
"Ex-act-ly!" said Mr. Witzel. "I think things out. But you go out. You
shadow and snoop and trail. I remain here. For you see," he added,
"I'm so well known that if Master saw me he would disappear instantly.
Instantly!"
"I'm willing to transact it as a business bargain onto them terms,"
said Philo Gubb, and it was agreed.
Mr. Gribble immediately cut the cords that bound the two bundles, and
released a canvas cot and a bundle of bedding. Then he said good-night
and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Mr. Gubb waited until he heard Mr. Gribble's footsteps on the
brass-clad stairs.
"That Gribble man ain't what I'd term by name of a--of a--" He
hesitated. "He's not known as a strictly reliable citizen in any
respect," he ended. "I wouldn't trust him any more than need be
necessary."
"Thank you," said Mr. Witzel, who was already removing his garments.
"I don't mean to. And now, if you don't mind, I'll retire. Let's see
if Mr. Master has a night-shirt in his suitcase. I think it helps the
inductive mind to sleep in the night-shirt of the man it is hunting."
He opened the suitcase, using--oddly enough a key from his own bunch
of keys. He found a night-shirt and put it on. To his surprise it
fitted him exactly, which was odd, for Mr. Witzel was an unusually
tall and thin man. Without wasting time, he climbed into the cot and
closed his eyes. Mr. Gubb also retired.
Philo Gubb, from his cot, watched Mr. Witzel until he was sure he was
thoroughly asleep. Then the Correspondence School detective slipped
out of bed and knelt over the suitcase.
The suitcase contained linen all plainly marked. The name "C. Master"
was written in indelible ink on each piece. An extra suit of outer
garments was marked with Mr. Master's name. There were silver-backed
toilet articles, engraved with Mr. Master's name, and these Mr. Gubb
examined closely, but what caught and held his interest most was a
folded document, covered in light-blue paper and endorsed, "Last Will
and Testament of Orlando J. Higgins. Copy."
The will began with the usual preamble, but the clause that caught
Philo Gubb's bird-like eye, and held it, was the next.
"To my nephew, Custer Master," this clause said, "I give and bequeath
$450,000; but, be it understood, my said nephew, Custer Master, shall
benefit by this clause only in case he faithfully carries out the
instructions contained in the sealed envelope attached hereto, the
contents of said envelope to be read by my hereinafter named
Executors, and the said Custer Master, and not by any other persons
whatsoever; the said Executors are to be the sole judges of whether
the said Custer Master has carried out the instructions therein
contained."
This document was worn at the corners of the folds, and slightly
soiled, as if Mr. Master had carried it in his pocket some time before
dropping it in his suitcase.
With the same caution, and following closely Lesson Three and its
directions for "Searching Occupied Apartments, Etc.," Mr. Gubb
examined the articles of dress the Chicago detective had cast aside.
All were marked "C. Master" or "C. M." or with a monogram composed of
the letters "C. M." interwoven.
As cautiously as he could, Philo Gubb crossed to his trunk and took
from the left-hand compartment of the tray his trusty pistol. It was a
large and deadly looking pistol, about a foot and a half long, with a
small ramrod beneath the barrel. It was a muzzle-loader of the crop of
1854, and carried a bullet the size of a well-matured cherry. It was
as heavy as a vitrified paving-brick. Its efficiency as a firearm was
unknown, as Mr. Gubb had never discharged it, but it looked dangerous.
A man, facing Philo Gubb's trusty weapon, felt that if the gun went
off he would be utterly and disastrously blown to flinders. Mr. Gubb
pointed it at the sleeping Mr. Witzel, using both hands, and sighting
along the barrel.
"Wake up!" he exclaimed sternly.
Mr. Witzel sat straight up on the cot. For an instant he was still
dazed with sleep and did not seem to know where he was; then a look of
joy spread over his face and he jumped from the cot and, with both
hands extended, moved toward Detective Gubb.
"Superb!" he exclaimed. "A perfect specimen! Wonderfully preserved!"
"Go back!" said Philo Gubb sternly. "This article is a loaded pistol
gun, prepared for momentary explosion at any time at all. Go back!"
"Remarkable!" cried Mr. Witzel joyously. "A superb specimen. Let me
see it. Let me look at it."
He walked up to the gun and peered into its muzzle with one eye. He
bent his head to read the engraving on the top of the barrel.
"A real Briggs & Bolton 53-1/2 caliber, muzzle-loading, 1854!" he
exclaimed rapturously.
Mr. Gubb pushed him away with one hand.
"Go back there into range," he said sternly. "In shooting I aim to
kill, but not to blow into particles of pieces."
"But, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr. Witzel. "Do you know what you have
there?"
"It's a pistol gun," said Philo Gubb. "If you don't stand back, I'll
shoot you anyway."
"It's a Briggs & Bolton," said Mr. Witzel. "That's what it is. It is
the only well-preserved specimen of Briggs & Bolton I ever saw."
Mr. Gubb shook off the hand that clasped his arm.
"I don't care what it is," said Mr. Gubb. "It's a pistol gun, and it's
bung full of powder and bullet, and when I point it at you I mean that
if you make a move I'm a-going to shoot."
"And I don't care what you mean," said Mr. Witzel. "It's a Briggs &
Bolton, and I warn you that you have that gun so full of powder that
if you pull that trigger you'll blow it to bits and ruin the only
perfect specimen of that gun I ever saw!"
"And I tell _you_," said Philo Gubb sternly, "that I can't shoot you
whilst you're rubbing your nose right into this gun. Go back there
where I can shoot you."
"I won't!" said Mr. Witzel angrily.
Philo Gubb was slow to anger, but he was sorely pressed now, and his
temper failed him.
"Look here," he said to Mr. Witzel. "If you don't go back where I can
get a shot at you, I'll--I'll smack you on the face."
"If you shoot off that gun, and bust it," said Mr. Witzel, with equal
anger, "I'll--I'll hit you on the head."
"Go back!" cried Philo Gubb menacingly. "One!"
"I'll give you fifty dollars for that gun, just as she is," said Mr.
Witzel.
"Two!" said Mr. Gubb.
"Sixty dollars!" said Mr. Witzel.
"Th--" said the paper-hanger detective, stepping backward to get room
to sight along the long barrel. Unfortunately the trunk was just
behind him and as he stepped back he tripped over it and fell
backward, doubling up like a jack-knife. But he kept his presence of
mind. The long barrel of the Briggs & Bolton protruded from between
the soles of Philo Gubb's feet in Mr. Witzel's direction.
"Hands up!" he said.
Instantly Mr. Witzel raised his hands in the air.
"I'll give you seventy dollars," he said.
"Make it seventy-five," said Mr. Gubb, "and as soon as I'm done with
it, you can have it."
"It's a bargain!" said Mr. Witzel happily. "It's my pistol. Now,
what's all this nonsense about shooting me?"
"_Nonsense_ is an insufficient word to use in relation to this here
case," said Philo Gubb grimly. "It won't be nonsense for you when you
get through with it. What did you do with the corpse?"
"With the--with the _what_?" cried Mr. Witzel.
"The remains," said Mr. Gubb. "What did you do with them?"
"The remains of what?" asked Mr. Witzel.
"Of Mister Custer Master," said Philo Gubb, easing himself a little by
shifting one waving foot. "There is no need to pretend to play
innocent. Where is the body?"
"My dear Mr. Detective Gubb!" exclaimed Mr. Witzel. "I know nothing
about any body. I am George Augustus Wetzler--"
"Maybe you are," said Philo Gubb. "Maybe so. But your clothes ain't.
Your clothes are the clothes of Mister Custer Master. The question is,
'Did you murder him alone, or did you and William Gribble murder him
together?'"
Mr. Witzel-Wetzel-Wetzler's mouth fell open.
"Murder him!" he exclaimed aghast. "But--but--"
"In the name of the law," said Philo Gubb, "I take you into custody
for the murder and disappearing bodyliness of Mister Custer Master.
Turn your back and keep your hands up until I get from behind this
trunk, and I'll put handcuffs on you in proper shape and manner.
Turn!"
Mr. Witzel turned--all but his head. He kept his face toward the
priceless (or, more properly) seventy-five-dollar Briggs & Bolton.
"Mr. Gubb," he said, "you are making a serious mistake. I am a
detective."
"You ain't!" said Philo Gubb. "I searched all your things and you
ain't got a silver badge nor a false mustache nowhere. I'm going to
turn you right over to the police to-morrow morning."
"To the police!" exclaimed Mr. Witzel. "Don't do that! Whatever you
do, don't do that!" And suddenly, like a nervous dyspeptic suddenly
overwrought, Mr. Witzel broke down and, falling on the cot, began to
sob. Philo Gubb looked at him a moment with amazement. Then he dug a
pair of handcuffs out of his trunk and, walking to where Mr. Witzel
lay, prodded him in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. Mr. Witzel
turned quickly, rolling over like an eel.
"Stop it! You're tickling me. I can't stand tickling!" he cried. "I--I
can't stand lots of things. I'm--I'm the most sensitive man in the
world. I--I can't stand cold water at all."
"Well, nobody is cold-watering you," said Philo Gubb. "Handcuffs ain't
cold water."
"But cold water is," said Mr. Witzel. "Cold water kills me! It makes
me shiver, and turn blue, and goose-fleshy, and gives me cramps in the
palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I--listen: my doctor says
cold baths will kill me. The shock of 'em. Bad heart, you understand."
Philo Gubb's eyes blinked.
"I'll tell _you_," said Mr. Witzel, grasping Mr. Gubb's hand. "I can't
_stand_ cold baths. They'd kill me, you understand. It would be
suicide! So--so I knew Billy Gribble. Didn't I set him up in business
here, to get rid of him? Don't he owe me a good turn?"
"Does he?" asked Philo Gubb.
"Hasn't he two bathrooms in connection with his laundry. 'Hot and Cold
Baths, All hours. Ladies Tuesdays and Wednesdays Only?'" asked Mr.
Witzel. "Mr. Gubb, I will be frank. I am Custer Master!"
[Illustration: THE MISSING MR. MASTER]
"The reward for who--for who the reward," said Philo Gubb, seeking a
grammatical form that would sound right, "for information as to
which five thousand dollars reward is offered!"
"Exactly!" said Mr. Master. "And I will make it six thousand if you do
not give information. I admit I am Master. I am Custer Master. Here,
read this!"
He reached for his vest and from the pocket took a slip of paper. It
was typewritten and headed "Secret Stipulation Regarding Custer Master
Clause of Orlando J. Higgins Will. Copy":--
Being a firm believer in the efficacy of cold baths for the
cure of dyspepsia and having been laughed at for same by my
nephew, Custer Master, and feeling that a course of ice-cold
baths would cure him, I make it a part of my will and
testament that the sum or sums bequeathed to him shall be
given to him only after he has faithfully, and upon the
sworn testimony of an eye-witness, bathed for twelve
minutes, every morning for one month of thirty days, in
ice-cold water.
"Cleanliness may be next to godliness," said Mr. Master, "but
ice-water baths are my shortest road to a future state, and I'm not
ready for that yet. Still, I did not like to give up $450,000. To
Billy Gribble," he added, with a meaning smile, "all baths are cold
baths. I hold a mortgage on his laundry machinery."
"And so you came up here to my office to hide whilst bathing in
so-called ice-water at Mister Gribble's?" said Philo Gubb.
"Exactly!" said Mr. Master.
"If you ain't got six thousand and seventy-five dollars by you," said
Philo Gubb simply, "you can give me a check for the whole amount in
the morning, but if you go to take the bullet out of this pistol
you'll have to get an auger. I made the bullet myself and it was too
big, and I had to pound it into the gun with a hammer and
screw-driver. It's in good and safe."
"And you would have dared to pull the trigger?" asked Mr. Master.
"I would have dared so to do," said Mr. Gubb.
"It would have blown the pistol to atoms!" exclaimed Mr. Master.
"It would so have done," said Mr. Gubb, "except for the time I loaded
it being the first beginning time I ever loaded a pistol. In loading a
Briggs & Bolton, I have since subsequently learned, the powder ought
to go into it first, and the bullet second. I put the bullet in
first."
"Well, bless my stars!" exclaimed Mr. Master. "Bless my stars! If that
is the case--if that is the case, I'm going to bed again. I have to
get up before daylight to take a bath."
WAFFLES AND MUSTARD
It would not be true to say that Mr. Gubb had become suspicious of Mr.
Medderbrook's honesty. The fact that the cashier of the Riverbank
National Bank told him the Utterly Hopeless Gold-Mine stock was not
worth the paper it was printed on did pain him, however.
It pained Mr. Gubb to think his father-in-law-to-be might be guilty of
even unconscious duplicity, and when Mr. Master paid him the six
thousand and seventy-five dollars Mr. Gubb decided that only three
thousand dollars of it should pass immediately into Mr. Medderbrook's
hands. Mr. Gubb put two thousand dollars in the bank and invested the
balance in furniture for his office and in articles and instruments
that were needed for his detective career. The three thousand dollars
he took to Mr. Medderbrook and paid it to him, leaving only eight
thousand nine hundred dollars unpaid.
Mr. Medderbrook was greatly pleased with this and told Mr. Gubb so.
"This is a bully payment on account," he said, "and if you keep on
this way you'll soon be all paid up, but you don't want to let that
worry you, for I'm having a brand-new lot of stock in a brand-new mine
printed, and I'll sell you a whole lot of it as soon as we are
square. I'm going to call it the Little Syrilla Gold-Mine--"
"I don't think I'll buy any more gold-mine stock after the present lot
is paid up completely full," said Mr. Gubb.
"That's all right," said Mr. Medderbrook. "I haven't given the printer
final orders yet and if you prefer something else I'll make it
Oil-Well stock. It is all the same to me. The property will produce
just as much oil as it will gold. Every bit!"
"Have you heard from Miss Syrilla recently of late?" asked Mr. Gubb.
"Yes, I have," said Mr. Medderbrook. "I have heard two dollars and a
half's worth."
The telegram, which Mr. Medderbrook permitted Mr. Gubb to read after
he had paid the cash in hand, said:--
Heaven smiles on us. Have given up all vegetable diet. Have
given up potatoes, beets, artichokes, fried parsnips, Swiss
chard, turnips, squash, kohl-rabi, boiled radishes, sugar
beets, corn on the cob, cow pumpkin, mushrooms, string
beans, asparagus, spinach, and canned and fresh tomatoes.
Have lost ten pounds more. Weight now only nine hundred and
fifteen pounds. Dorgan worried. I dream of Gubby and love.
Mr. Gubb sighed happily. "I suppose," he said blissfully, "that by the
present moment of time Miss Syrilla has only got left a remainder of
six double chins out of seven, dear little one!" And he went back to
his office feeling that it would not be long now before the apple of
his eye was released from her side-show contract.
The next day Mr. Gubb had begun his labors on a new and interesting
case when the door opened.
"Gubb, come across the hall here!"
Gubb looked up from the labor in which he was engaged and blinked at
Lawyer Higgins.
"At the present time I am momently engaged upon a case," said Mr.
Gubb. "As soon as I am disengaged away from what I am at, I expect to
be engaged at the next thing I have to do. I shouldn't wish to assume
to be rude, Mr. Higgins, but when a deteckative is working up a case,
and has a sign on his door 'Out--Back at Midnight,' he generally means
he ain't receiving callers on no account."
"That's all right," said Higgins briskly, "but this is business. I've
got a real job for you."
"I am engaged upon a real job now," said Philo Gubb.
"This is a detective job," said Mr. Higgins. "We want you to find a
man, and if you find him, there's two hundred dollars in it for you.
What sort of a job is it you have on hand?"
"I am searching out the whereabouts of a lost party," said Gubb
earnestly. "I'm investigating clues at the present time and moment."
Higgins stepped inside the door. He walked to where Philo Gubb sat at
an elaborate mahogany desk, and looked at the apparatus Mr. Gubb was
using.
"What the dickens?" he asked.
On the slide of the desk were grouped a number of small articles, and
a large and powerful microscope. Through the lens of the microscope
Mr. Gubb was inspecting something that looked like frayed yellow-brown
wool yarn.
"You don't expect to find your missing party in that wad of wool, do
you, Gubb?" asked Mr. Higgins jestingly.
"Maybe I do, and maybe the operations of the deteckative mind are none
of your particular affair when conducted in the private seclusion of
my laboratory," said Gubb.
"Now, don't get mad," said Higgins. "It just struck me as funny. Looks
as if you were hunting for fleas in a wisp of dog hair."
Philo Gubb looked up quickly. As a matter of fact, he had but a
moment before found a flea in the wool he was examining, and the
wool was indeed a wisp of dog hair. The party Mr. Gubb had been
engaged to find was a dog, and Mr. Gubb was--by the inductive method
of detecting--trying to reason out the location of the dog. By the aid
of the microscope, Mr. Gubb was searching for the slight indications
that mean so much to detectives. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Gubb had
not yet found anything from which he could deduce anything whatever,
unless the flea in the wool might lead to the conclusion that the dog
now, or once, had fleas.
"Tell you what I want," said Mr. Higgins: "I want you to find
Mustard."