From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon the
whirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun.
In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed of
by his trained assistants. To the advertising expert’s offices had come
that day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to the
Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lures which
Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere “Don’t.” The third was a
Spiritualist announcement behind which lurked a shrewd plot to entrap a
senile millionaire into a marriage with the medium. These having been
settled, the expert was free to muse upon a paragraph which had
appeared in all the important New York morning papers of the day
before.
REWARD-$1,000 reward for information as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog
“Rags” killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel Building, Union
Square, March 29.
“That’s too much money for a dog,” decided Average Jones. “Particularly
one that hasn’t any bench record. I’ll just have a glance into the
thing.”
Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossing
over to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the sole
survival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upward trend
of business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from the elevator at the
seventh floor, he paused underneath this sign:
MALCOLM DORR
ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST
_Hours 10 to 4_
Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes,
sitting at a desk.
“Mr. Dorr?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the fat young man nervously, “but if you are a reporter,
I must—”
“I am not,” interrupted the other. “I am an expert on advertising, and
I want that one thousand dollars reward.”
The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead.
“You mean you have—have found out something?”
“Not yet. But I intend to.”
Dorr stared at him in silence.
“You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?”
“Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly,” said the other mechanically.
Average Jones shot a sudden glance of surprise at him, then looked
dreamily at his own finger-nails.
“I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Your dog
was perhaps a green ribboner?”
“Er—oh—yes; I believe so.”
“Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medal after
medal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears, and the
slender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but so seldom seen
nowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughby curve, from his dam,
who was a famous courser.”
Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. “I didn’t know they used that kind of dog for
coursing,” he said vaguely.
Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the crease
along the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone, when next
he spoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his intimates
would have recognized in it, however, the characteristic evidence that
his mind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion.
“Mr. Dorr,” he drawled, “who—er—owned your—er—dog?”
“Why, I—I did,” said the startled chemist.
“Who gave him to you?”
“A friend.”
“Quite so. Was it that—er—friend who—er—offered the reward?”
“What makes you think that?”
“This, to be frank. A man who doesn’t know a bulldog from a bed-spring
isn’t likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge the death of
one. And the minute you answered my question as to whether you cared
for dogs, I knew you didn’t. When you fell for a green ribbon, and a
splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the brindle bull class
(there’s no such class, by the way), I knew you were bluffing. Mr.
Dorr, who—er—has been—er—threatening your life?”
The chemist swung around in his chair.
“What do you know?” he demanded.
“Nothing. I’m guessing. It’s a fair guess that a reasonably valuable
brindle bull isn’t presented to a man who cares nothing for dogs
without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is it in
your case?”
“Yes, it is,” replied the other, after some hesitation.
“And now the protection is gone. Don’t you think you’d better let me in
on this?”
“Let me speak to my—my legal adviser first.”
He called up a down-town number on the telephone and asked to be
connected with Judge Elverson. “I may have to ask you to leave the
office for a moment,” he said to his caller.
“Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney Roger
Elverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, and
remind him of the missing letter opium advertisement.”
Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway,
whither he had gone.
“Elverson says to tell you the whole thing,” said the chemist, “in
confidence, of course.”
“Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?”
“The Paragon Pressed Meat Company.”
Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimal
speck from his left cuff. “Ah,” he commented, “the Canned Meat Trust.
What have you been doing to them?”
“Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certain
by-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I found
they were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then selling
the stuff.”
“Would the meat so treated be poisonous?”
“Well—dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning them
that they must stop.”
“Did they reply?”
“A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if I
thought my invention was worth more than I’d received, his principals,
would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly after I heard that
the Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr.
Elverson.”
“Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller of
leaks than a sieve.”
“That’s probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanide
fumes a fortnight later,” remarked Dorr dryly. “I got to the outer air
alive, but not much more. A week later there was an explosion in the
laboratory. I didn’t happen to be there at the time. The odd feature of
the explosion was that I hadn’t any explosive drugs in the place.”
“Where is this laboratory?”
“Over in Flatbush, where I live—or did live. Within a month after that,
a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking up behind
me as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too, but missed
me. I reported it to the police, and they told me to be sure and not
let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it.”
Average Jones laughed. “Of course they did. Some day New York will find
out that ‘the finest police force in the world’ is the biggest sham
outside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by the regular,
advertised criminals, they’re as helpless as babies. Didn’t you take
any other precautions?”
“Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He sent a secret
service man over to live with me. Then I got a commission out in
Denver. When I came back, about a month ago, Judge Elverson gave me the
two dogs.”
“Two?”
“Yes. Rags and Tatters.”
“Where’s Tatters?”
“Dead. By the same road as Rags.”
“Killed at your place in Flatbush?”
“No. Right here in this room.”
Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the second button
of his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, he drawled,
“Er—both of—er—them?”
“Yes. Ten days apart.”
“Where were you?”
“On the spot. That is, I was here when Tatters got his death. I had
gone to the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Rags was
poisoned.”
“Why do you say poisoned?”
“What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of the
dogs.”
“Was there evidence of poison?”
“Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He was dozing
in a corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and saw him
snapping at his belly. He ran across the room, lay down and began
licking himself. Within fifteen minutes he began to whine. Then he
stiffened out in a sort of a spasm. It was like strychnine poisoning.
Before could get a veterinary here he was dead.”
“Did you make any examination?”
“I analyzed the contents of his stomach, but did not obtain positive
results.”
“What about the other dog?”
“Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over from
Flatbush and Razs was nosing around in the corner—”
“Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?”
“Yes, near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in something there
when I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes.”
“Lock the door after you?”
“It has a special spring lock which I had put on it.”
Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then his
glance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new fastening.
“You didn’t use that larger lock?”
“No. I haven’t for months. The key is lost, I think.”
Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from the
radiator, and shook his head.
“It’s not in range,” he said. “Go on.”
“As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. You may believe
I got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. I called up the
nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes the convulsions came on. The
veterinary was here when Rags died, which was within fifteen minutes of
the first spasm. He didn’t believe it was strychnine. Said the attacks
were different. Whatever it was, I couldn’t find any trace of it in the
stomach. The veterinary took the body away and made a complete
autopsy.”
“Did he discover anything?”
“Yes. The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found a circle
of small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probably swallowed
something that was left in my office, though I don’t see how it could
have got there.”
“That won’t do,” returned Average Jones positively. “A dog doesn’t cry
out when he swallows poison, unless it’s some corrosive.”
“It was no corrosive. I examined the mouth.”
“What about the radiator?” asked Average Jones, getting down on his
knees beside that antiquated contrivance. “It seems to have been the
center of disturbance.”
“If you’re thinking of fumes,” replied the chemist. “I tested for that.
It isn’t possible.”
“No; I suppose not. And yet, there’s the curious feature that the fatal
influence seems to have emanated from the corner which is the most
remote from both windows and door. Are your windows left open at
night?”
“The windows, sometimes. The transom is kept double-bolted.”
“Do they face any other windows near by?”
“You can see for yourself that they don’t.”
“There’s no fire-escape and it’s too far up for anything to come in
from the street.” Average examined the walls with attention and
returned to the big keyhole, through which he peeped.
“Do you ever chew gum?” he asked suddenly.
The Chemist stared at him. “It isn’t a habit of mine to,” he said.
“But you wouldn’t have any objection to my sending for some, in
satisfaction of a sudden irresistible craving?”
“Any particular brand? I’ll phone the corner drug store.”
“Any sort will suit, thank you.”
When the gum arrived, Average Jones, after politely offering some to
his host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out to an
extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the unused
keyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled.
“Now, what’s that for?” inquired the chemist, eying the improvised
closure with some contempt.
“Don’t know, exactly, yet,” replied the deviser, cheerfully. “But when
queer and fatal things happen in a room and there’s only one opening,
it’s just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter how small it is.
Better still, perhaps, if you’d shift your office.”
The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of the window,
and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby lines of his face
had abruptly hardened over the firm contour below.
“No. I’m hanged if I will,” he said simply.
An amiable grin overspread Average Jones’ face.
“You’ve got more nerve than prudence,” he observed. “But I don’t say
you aren’t right. Since you’re going to stick to the ship, keep your
eye on that gum. If it lets go its hold, wire me.”
“All right,” agreed young Mr. Dorr. “Whatever your little game is, I’ll
play it. Give me your address in case you leave town.”
“As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on special
order to dig through the files of the local and neighboring city
newspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If our
unknown has devised a new method of canicide, it’s quite possible he
may have worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can’t be
wise, be careful.”
Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular pastime
in and around New York, judging from the succession of news items which
poured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several days were
exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived, among other
data, an article from the Bridgeport _Morning Delineator_ which caused
the Ad-Visor to sit up with a jerk. It detailed the poisoning of
several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hours later he was in
the bustling Connecticut city. There he took carriage for the house of
Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable Great Dane dog had been the last
victim.
Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all grown
to a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of irascible
gleam, and a most pointed manner of speech.
“Who are you?” he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in.
Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal with
it.
“Jones!” he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the
monosyllable fairly exploded in the other’s face.
“Well, well, well,” said the elder man, his aspect suddenly mollified.
“Don’t bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what do you want of
me?”
“Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to now about your dog.”
“Reporter?”
“No.”
“Glad of it. They’re no good. Had my reporters on this case. Found
nothing.”
“Your reporters?”
“I own the Bridgeport _Delineator_.”
“What about the dog?”
“Good boy!” approved the old martinet. “Sticks to his point. Dog was
out walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot on next
square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber. Dog nosed
around. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm. Died in fifteen
minutes. And hang me, sir,” cried the old man, bringing his fist down
on Average Jones’ knee, “if I see how the poison got him, for he was
muzzled to the snout, sir!”
“Muzzled? Then—er—why do, you—er—suggest poison?” drawled the young
man.
“Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week.”
“All in this locality?”
“Yes, all on Golden Hill.”
“Any suspicions?”
“Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this.”
Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his host extended,
and read:
“WARNING—Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestly
cautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles or
outbuildings until further notice. Danger!”
“When was this published?”
“Wasn’t published. _Delineator_ refused it. Thought it was a case of
insanity.”
“Who offered it?”
“Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner with
old-fashioned conservatory.”
“How long ago?”
“About a week.”
“All the dogs you speak of died since then?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give any explanation of the advertisement?”
“No. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the office, the business
manager said. Wouldn’t sign his name to the thing. Wouldn’t say
anything about it. Begged the manager to let him have the weather
reports in advance, every day. The manager put the advertisement in
type, decided not to it, and returned the money.”
“Weather reports, eh?” Average Jones mused a moment. “How long was the
ad to run?”
“Until the first hard frost.”
“Has there—er—been a—er—frost since?” drawled Average Jones.
“No.”
“Who is this Moseley?”
“Don’t know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, I
believe. Very exclusive,” added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. “Never
sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane,
too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them.”
“How’s that?” inquired Average Jones.
The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “It got
enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The
handwriting on the envelope is his own. Look inside.”
A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in
New York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was a
small slip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber stamp. There
was no writing of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three
dots. They seemed to have been made with red ink.
“You’re sure the address is in Professor Moseley’s writing?”
“I’d swear to it.”
“It doesn’t follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should
judge that it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to
have any specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.
“Perhaps. What’s your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious young
friend?”
“Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours.”
“Well, I’ve got _my_ man. He confessed.”
“Confessed?” echoed Average Jones.
“Practically. I’ve kept the point of the story to the last. Professor
Moseley committed suicide this morning.”
If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his
visitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet
slowly, walked over to the window, returned, picked up the strange
proof with its message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the
window, and stared out into the day.
“Cut his throat about nine o’clock this morning,” pursued the other.
“Dead when they found him.”
“Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?” said Average Jones
curtly.
“Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling,”
cackled the other. “You’ re a singular young man. Have it your own
way.”
After a five minutes’ silence the visitor turned from the window and
spoke. “There has been a deadly danger loose about here for which
Professor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself.
Why?”
“Because I was on his trail,” declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Afraid to
face me.”
“Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing,
whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to
suicide.”
“Prove it.”
“Give me a morning paper.”
His host handed him the current issue of the _Delineator_.
Average Jones studied the local page.
“Where’s Galvin’s Alley?” he asked presently.
“Two short blocks from here.”
“In the Golden Hill section?”
“Yes.”
“Read that.”
Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a
paragraph telling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin’s
Alley. Cause, convulsions.
“By Jove!” said he, somewhat awed. “You can reason, young man.”
“I’ve got to, reason a lot further, if I’m to get anywhere in this
affair,” said Average Jones with conviction. “Do you care, to come to
Galvin’s Alley with me?”
Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by
white crêpe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. They
said that four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a woodpile the
afternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home, staggering. The
doctor could do nothing. The little one passed from spasm into spasm,
and died in an hour.
“Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?” asked
Average Jones.
The dead child’s father looked surprised. That, he said, was what the
strange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer, bent
little gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was kind, and
wept with them and gave them money to bury the “bambino.”
“Moseley, by the Lord Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. “But what
was the death-agent?”
Average Jones shook his head. “Too early to do more than guess. Will
you take me to Professor Moseley’s place?”
The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory on one
wing. In the front room they found the recluse’s body decently
disposed, with an undertaker’s assistant in charge. From the greenhouse
came a subdued hissing.
“What’s that?” asked Jones.
“Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the body
insisting on its being done. ‘For safety,’ it said, so I ordered it
looked to.”
“You’re in charge, then?”
“It’s my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Come and
look at his papers. You won’t find much.”
In the old-fashioned desk was a heap of undecipherable matter,
interspersed with dates, apparently bearing upon scientific
experiments; a package of letters from the Denny Research Laboratories
of St. Louis, mentioning enclosure of checks; and three self-addressed
envelopes bearing New York postmarks, of dates respectively, March 12,
March 14 and March 20. Each contained a date-stamped sheet of paper,
similar to that which Mr. Curtis Fleming had shown to Average Jones.
The one of earliest date bore two red dots; the second, three red dots,
and the third, two. All the envelopes were endorsed in Professor
Moseley’s handwriting; the first with the one word “Filled.” The second
writing was “Held for warmer weather.” The last was inscribed “One in
poor condition.”
Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of the laboratory
address. By this time the hissing of the fumigating apparatus had
ceased. The two men went to the conservatory and gazed in upon a ruin
of limp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by the powerful gases.
Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, the investigator stooped
and lifted from the floor a marvel of ermine body and pale green wings.
The moth, spreading nearly a foot, was quite dead.
“Here’s the mate, sir,” said the fumigating expert, handing him another
specimen, a trifle smaller. “The place was crowded with all kinds of
pretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now.”
Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them and
laid them carefully away in a drawer.
“The rest must wait,” he said. “I have to send a telegram.”
With the interested Mr. Curtis Fleming in attendance, he went to the
telegraph office, where he wrote out a dispatch.
“Mr. A. V. R. Jones?” said the operator. “There’s a message here for
you.”
Average Jones took the leaflet and read:
“_Found gum on floor this morning when I arrived_.
MALCOLM DORR.”
Then he recalled his own blank, tore it up, and substituted the
following, which he ordered “rushed”:
MALCOLM DORR, STENGEL BUILDING, NEW YORY CITY:
“_Leave office immediately. Do not return until it has been
fumigated thoroughly. Imperative_.
A. V. R. JONES.”
“And now,” said Average Jones to Mr. Fleming, “I’m going back to New
York. If any collectors come chasing to you for luna moths, don’t deal
with them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card.”
“Your orders shall be obeyed,” said the older man, his beady eyes
twinkling. “But why, in the name of all that’s unheard of, should
collectors come bothering me about luna moths?”
“Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the
next number of the _National Science Weekly_, and in coming issues of
the New York _Evening Register_.”
He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement:
“For Sale—Two largest known specimens of _Tropaea luna_, unmounted;
respectively 10 and 11½ inches spread. Also various other specimens
from collection of late Gerald Moseley, of Conn. Write for particulars.
Jones, Room 222 Astor Court Temple, New York.”
“What about further danger here?” inquired Mr. Fleming, as Average
Jones bade him good-by. “Would we better run that warning of poor
Moseley’s, after all?”
For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snow
enveloped the streets.
“I see,” said the old man. “The frost. Well Mr. Mysterious Jones, I
don’t know what you’re up to, but you’ve given me an interesting day.
Let me know what comes of it.”
On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. One was
to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other to the
Department of Agriculture at Washington. On the following morning he
went to Dorr’s office. That young chemist was in a recalcitrant frame
of mind.
“I’ve done about ten dollars’ worth of fumigating and a hundred
dollars’ worth of damage,” he said, “and now, I’d like to have a
Missouri sign. In other words, I want to be shown. What did some skunk
want to kill my dogs for?”
“He didn’t.”
“But they’re dead, aren’t they?”
“Accident.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“The kind in which the innocent bystander gets the worst of it. You’re
the one it was meant for.”
“Me?”
“Certainly. You’d probably have got it if the dog hadn’t.”
The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiator and
looked over, under and through it minutely. “Nothing there,” he
observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows,
book-shelf and desk, added:
“I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest side
is the best.”
“What is it? Some new game in projective germs?” demanded the chemist.
“Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs,” returned
Average Jones. “Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I’ll have
some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumber
solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can get
through it.”
Collectors of _lepidoptera_ rose in shoals to the printed offer of luna
moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came in
by, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearning
eagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones’ advertisement. All
of these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And
each day he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with
the directory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week
after the luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into
Malcolm Dorr’s office with a twinkle in his eye.
“Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?” he asked the chemist.
“Never heard of him.”
“Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the rest
of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments,
where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building.
Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of the
confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you
see?”
“I begin,” replied young Mr. Dorr.
“It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor
above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work
late at night when the elevator had stopped running and—let us say—peep
through the keyhole.”
Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean
lines of his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh.
“I don’t know what _you’re_ going to do to Mr. Ross,” he said, “but I
want to see him first.”
“I’m not going to do anything to him,” returned Average Jones,
“because, in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away,
having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of
the nerves. It’s strange how nervous your scientific murderer is.
Anyway, Ross is only an agent. I’m going to aim higher.”
“As how?”
“Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a peaceful
but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his senses; second,
I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas; and third, I
expect to raise the street selling price of the evening ‘yellow’
journals, temporarily, about one thousand per cent. What’s the answer?
The answer is ‘Buy to-night’s papers.’”
New York, that afternoon, saw something new in advertising. That it
really was advertising was shown by the “_Adv_.” sign, large and plain,
in both the papers which carried it. The favored journals were the only
two which indulged in “fudge” editions; that is, editions with glaring
red-typed inserts of “special” news. On the front page of each,
stretching narrowly across three columns, was a device showing a tiny
mapped outline in black marked Bridgeport, Conn., and a large skeleton
draft of Manhattan Island showing the principal streets. From the
Connecticut city downward ran a line of dots in red. The dots entered
New York from the north, passed down Fourth Avenue to the south side of
Union Square, turned west and terminated. Beneath this map was the
legend, also in red:
WATCH THE LINE ADVANCE IN LATER EDITIONS
It was the first time in the records of journalism that the “fudge”
device had been used in advertising.
Great was the rejoicing of the “newsies” when public curiosity made a
“run” upon these papers. Greater it grew when the “afternoon edition”
appeared, and with their keen business instinct, the urchins saw that
they could run the price upward, which they promptly did, in some cases
even to a nickel. This edition carried the same “fudge” advertisement,
but now the red dots crossed over to Fifth Avenue and turned northward
as far as Twenty-third Street. The inscription was:
UPWARD AND ONWARD SEE NEXT EXTRA
For the “Night Extra” people paid five, ten, even fifteen cents. Rumor
ran wild. Other papers, even, look the matter up as news, and commented
upon the meaning of the extraordinary advertisement. This time, the
red-dotted line went as far up Fifth Ave title as Fiftieth Street. And
the legend was ominous:
WHEN I TURN, I STRIKE
That was all that evening. The dotted line did not turn.
Keen as newspaper conjecture is, it failed to connect the “red-line
maps,” with the fame of which the city was raging, with an item of
shipping news printed in the evening papers of the following day:
CLEARED—For South American Ports, steam yacht _Electra_, New York.
Owner John M. Colwell.
And not until the following morning did the papers announce that
President Colwell, of the Canned Meat Trust, having been ordered by his
physician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves, after
closing his house on West Fifty-first Street, had sailed in his own
yacht. The same issue carried a few lines about the “freak ads.” which
had so sensationally blazed and so suddenly waned from the “yellows.”
The opinion was offered that they represented the exploitation of some
new brand of whisky which would announce itself later. But that
announcement never came, and President Colwell sailed to far seas, and
Mr. Curtis Fleming came to New York, keen for explanations, for he,
too, had seen the “fudge” and marveled. Hence, Average Jones had him,
together with young Mr. Dorr, at a private room luncheon at the Cosmic
Club, where he offered an explanation and elucidation.
“The whole affair,” he said, “was a problem in the connecting up of
loose ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in the office of
a man with powerful and subtle enemies, that office being practically
sealed against intrusion except for a very large keyhole. Some deadly
thing is introduced through that keyhole; so much is practically proven
by the breaking out of the chewing gum with which I coated it. Probably
the scheme was carried out in the evening when the building was nearly
deserted. The killing influence reaches a corner far out of the direct
line of the keyhole. Being near the radiator, that corner represents
the attraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was some
sentient creature.”
Dorr shuddered. “Some kind of venomous snake,” he surmised.
“Not a bad guess. But a snake, however small, would have been instantly
noticed by the dogs. Now, let’s look at the Bridgeport end. Here,
again, we have a deadly influence loosed; this time by accident. A
scientific experimentalist is the innocent cause of the disaster. Here,
too, the peril is somewhat dependent upon warmth, since we know, from
Professor Moseley’s agonized eagerness for a frost, that cold weather
would have put an end to it. The cold weather fails to come. Dogs are
killed. Finally a child falls victim, and on that child is found a
circular mark, similar to the mark on Mr. Dorr’s dog’s lip. You see the
striking points of analogy?”
“Do you mean us to believe poor old Moseley a cold-blooded murderer?”
demanded Mr. Curtis Fleming.
“Far from it. At worst an unhappy victim of his own carelessness in
loosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You’re forgetting a connecting
link; the secretive red-dot communications from New York City addressed
by Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer who ordered simply by
a code of ink dots. He was the man I had to find. The giant luna moths
helped to do it.”
“I don’t see where they come in at all,” declared Dorr bluntly. “A moth
a foot wide couldn’t crawl through a keyhole.”
“No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is as harmless as it is
lovely. In this case the moths weren’t active agents. They were
important only as clues—and bait. Their enormous size showed Professor
Moseley’s line of work; the selective breeding of certain forms of life
to two or three times the normal proportions. Very well; I had to
ascertain some creature which, if magnified several times, would be
deadly, and which would still be capable of entering a large keyhole.
Having determined that—”
“You found what it was?” cried Dorr.
“One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touch with
Professor Moseley’s mysterious New York correspondent. I figured that
he must be interested in Professor Moseley’s particular branch of
research or he never could have devised his murderous scheme. So I
constructed the luna moth advertisement to draw him, and when I got a
reply from Mr. Ross, who is a fellow-tenant of Mr. Dorr’s, the chain
was complete. Now, you see where the luna moths were useful. If I had
advertised, instead of them, the _lathrodectus_, he might have
suspected and refrained from answering.”
“What’s the _lathrodectus?_” demanded both the hearers at once.
For answer Average Jones took a letter from his pocket and read:
BUREAU OF ENTOMOLOGY,
U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE,
WASHINGTON, D. C., April 7
MR. A. V. R. JONES,
Astor Court Temple, New York City.
DEAR Sir,
Replying to your letter of inquiry, the only insect answering your
specifications is a small spider _Lathrodectus mactans_, sometimes
popularly called the Red Dot, from a bright red mark upon the back.
Rare cases are known where death has been caused by the bite of this
insect. Fortunately its fangs are so weak that they can penetrate only
very tender skin, otherwise death from its bite would be more common,
as the venom, drop for drop, is perhaps the most virulent known to
science.
This Bureau knows nothing of any experiments in breeding the
_Lathrodectus_ for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or three
times the normal size would be dangerous to life is undoubtedly
correct, and selected breeding to that end should be conducted only
under adequate scientific safeguards. A _Lathrodectus mactans_ with
fangs large enough to penetrate the skin of the hand, and a double or
triple supply of venom, would be, perhaps, more deadly than a cobra.
The symptoms of poisoning by this species are spasms, similar to those
of trismus, and agonizing general pains. There are no local symptoms,
except, in some cases, a circle of small pustules about the bitten
spot.
Commercially, the _Lathrodectus_ has value, in that the poison is used
in certain affections of the heart. For details, I would refer you to
the Denny Laboratories of St. Louis, Mo., which are purchasers of the
venom.
The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive a
severe frost. It frequents woodpiles and outhouses.
Yours truly,
L. O. HOWARD,
Chief of Bureau.
“Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spiders
which he had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the hope
that sooner or later one of them would get me,” said Dorr.
“A very reasonable expectation, too. _Vide_, the dogs,” returned
Average Jones.
“And now,” said Mr. Curtis Fleming, “will some one kindly explain to me
what this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?”
“Nothing,” replied Average Jones.
“Nothing? Was he coursing with spiders merely for sport?”
“Oh, no. You see Mr. Dorr was interfering with the machinery of one of
our ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessed
information which would have indicted all the officials. Therefore it
was desirable—even essential—that he should be removed from the pathway
of progress.”
“Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!” snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Trusts
may be unprincipled, but they don’t commit individual crimes.”
“Don’t they?” returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his own
boot-tip. “Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer’s little corset steel
which he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob the government
for the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individual oil refineries
which mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at a time when they
became annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or of the Traction
Trust’s two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in San Francisco? I’m just
mentioning a few cases from memory. Why, when a criminal trust faces
only loss it will commit forgery, theft or arson. When it faces jail,
it will commit murder just as determinedly. Self-defense, you know. As
for the case of Mr. Dorr—” and he proceeded to detail the various
attempts on the young chemist’s life.
“But why so roundabout a method?” asked Dorr skeptically.
“Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you through agents.
That didn’t work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its own
confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised a
means that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run, sure.”
“And would have been but for your skill, young Jones,” declared Mr.
Curtis Fleming, with emphasis.
“Don’t forget the fortunate coincidences,” replied Average Jones
modestly. “They’re about half of it. In fact, detective work, for all
that is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to recognize and
connect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape of the Red Dots
from Professor Moseley’s breeding cages; the coincidence of the death
of the dogs on Golden Hill, followed by the death of the child; the
coincidence of poor Moseley’s having left the red dot letters on the
desk instead of destroying them; the coincidence of Dorr’s dogs being
bitten, when it might easily have been himself had he gone to turn on
the radiator and disturbed the savage little spider—”
“And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in the
advertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to scare
off further attempts than anything else,” put in Dorr. “What became of
the spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?”
“Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The others
may well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off and the
windows open. The cleaning woman wouldn’t have been likely to notice
them when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later, if Ross had
continued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of them would have
bitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would have gone on its way
rejoicing.”
“Well, you’ve certainly saved my life,” declared Dorr, “and it’s a case
of sheer force of reasoning.”
Average Jones shook his head. “You might give some of the credit to
Providence,” he said. “Just one little event would have meant the
saving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death of
yourself, instead of the other way around.”
“And that event?” asked Mr. Curtis Fleming.
“Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport,” replied Average Jones.