mystery which surrounded the entire problem.
In spite of what he had been told Preston had secretly expected to find
some kind of an opening through which a man could have entered. But
there was none. The windows, as the Postal operative took care to test
for himself, were tightly locked, though open a few inches from the
bottom. The bolt on the door very evidently had been shattered by the
entrance of the police, and the dark-brown stain on the rug near the
door showed plainly where the body had been found.
"When we broke in," explained the chief, "Montgomery was stretched out
there, facing the door. The doctor said that he had been dead about
twelve hours, but that it was impossible for the wound in his hand to
have caused his death."
"How about a poisoned bullet, fired through the opening in the window?"
"Not a chance! The only wound on the body was the one through the palm
of his hand. The bullet had struck on the outside of the fleshy part
near the wrist and had plowed its way through the bone, coming out near
the base of the index finger at the back. And it was a bullet from his
own revolver! We found it embedded in the top of the table there." And
the chief pointed to a deep scar in the mahogany and to the marks made
by the knives of the police when they had dug the bullet out.
"But how do you know it wasn't a bullet of the same caliber, fired from
outside the window?" persisted Preston.
For answer the chief produced Montgomery's revolver, with five
cartridges still in the chambers.
"If you'll note," he said, "each of these cartridges is scored or
seamed. That's an old trick--makes the lead expand when it hits and
tears an ugly hole, just like a 'dum-dum.' The bullet we dug out of the
table was not only a forty-five, as these are, but it had been altered
in precisely the same manner. So, unless you are inclined to the
coincidence that the murderer used a poisoned bullet of the same size
and make and character as those in Montgomery's gun, you've got to
discard that theory."
"Does look like pulling the long arm of coincidence out of its socket,"
Preston agreed. "So I guess we'll have to forget it. Where's the box you
were talking about?"
"The lid is on the table, just as we found it. The lower portion of the
box is on the floor, where the dead man apparently knocked it when he
fell. Except for the removal of the body, nothing in the room has been
touched."
Stooping, Preston picked up the box and then proceeded to study it in
connection with the lid and the torn piece of wrapping paper upon the
table. It was after he had examined the creases in the paper, fitting
them carefully around the box itself, that he inquired: "Do you notice
anything funny about the package, Chief?"
"Only that there's a hole at one end of it, just about big enough to put
a lead pencil through."
"Yes, and that same hole appears in the wrapping paper," announced
Preston. "Couple that with the fact that the box was empty when you
found it and I think we will have--"
"What?" demanded the chief, as Preston paused.
"The solution to the whole affair," was the reply. "Or, at least, as
much of it as refers to the manner in which Montgomery met his death. By
the way, what do you know about the dead man?"
"Very little. He came here some three years ago, bought this place,
paying cash for it; had the wall built, and then settled down. Never
appeared to do any work, but was never short of money. Has a balance of
well over fifty thousand dollars in the bank right now. Beyond the fact
that he kept entirely to himself and refused to allow anyone but Tino,
his servant, to enter the gate, he really had few eccentricities. Some
folks say that he was a miser, but there are a dozen families here that
wouldn't have had any Christmas dinner last year if it hadn't been for
him--while his contribution to the Red Cross equaled that of anyone in
town."
"Apart from his wanting to be alone, then, he was pretty close to being
human?"
"That's it, exactly--and most of us have some peculiarity. If we didn't
have we'd be even more unusual."
"What about Tino, the servant?" queried Preston.
"I don't think there's any lead there," the chief replied. "I hammered
away at him for an hour this morning. He doesn't speak English any too
well, but I gathered that Montgomery picked him up in the Philippines
just before he came over here. The boy was frightened half out of his
senses when I told him that his master had been killed. You've got to
remember, though, that if Tino had wanted to do it he had a thousand
opportunities in the open. Besides, what we've got to find out first is
how Montgomery met his death?"
"Does the Filipino know anything about his master's past?" asked
Preston, ignoring the chief's last remark.
"He says not. Montgomery was on his way back to the States from Africa
or some place--stopped off in the islands--spent a couple of months
there--hired Tino and sailed for San Francisco."
"Africa--" mused the Postal operative. Then, taking another track, he
inquired whether the chief had found out if Montgomery was in the habit
of getting much mail, especially from foreign points.
"Saunders, the postmaster, says he didn't average a letter a month--and
those he did get looked like advertisements. They remembered this
special-delivery package last night because it was the first time that
the man who brought it out had ever come to the house. He rang the bell
at the gate, he says, turned the box over to Tino, and went along."
"Any comment about the package?"
"Only that it was very light and contained something that wabbled
around. I asked him because I figured at the time that the revolver
might have been in it. But the Filipino has identified that as
Montgomery's own gun. Says he'd had it as long as he'd known him."
"Then all we know about this mysterious box," summarized Preston, "is
that it was mailed from Sacramento, that it wasn't heavy, that it had a
hole about a quarter-inch wide at one end, and that it contained
something that--what was the word the special-delivery man
used--'wabbled'?"
"That's the word. I remember because I asked him if he didn't mean
'rattled,' and he said, 'No, wabbled, sort o' dull-like.'"
"At any rate, that clears up one angle of the case. The box was not
empty when it was delivered! Granting that the Filipino was telling the
truth, it was not empty when he placed it on the table in this room!
That means that it was not empty when Marshall Montgomery, after locking
and bolting his door, took off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid!
You've searched the room thoroughly, of course?"
"Every inch of it. We didn't leave a--"
But the chief suddenly halted, his sentence unfinished. To the ears of
both men there had come a sound, faint but distinct. The sound of the
rattling of paper somewhere in the room.
Involuntarily Preston whirled and scrutinized the corner from which the
sound appeared to have come. The chief's hand had slipped to his hip
pocket, but after a moment of silence he withdrew it and a slightly
shamefaced look spread over his face.
"Sounded like a ghost, didn't it?" he asked.
"Ghosts don't rattle papers," snapped Preston. "At least self-respecting
ones don't, and the other kind haven't any right to run around loose. So
suppose we try to trap this one."
"Trap it? How?"
"Like you'd trap a mouse--only with a different kind of bait. Is there
any milk in the house?"
"Possibly--I don't know."
"Go down to the refrigerator and find out, will you? I'll stay here
until you return. And bring a saucer with you."
A few moments later, when the chief returned, bearing a bottle of milk
and a saucer, he found Preston still standing beside the table, his eyes
fixed upon a corner of the room from which the sound of rattling paper
had come.
"Now all we need is a box," said the Postal operative. "I saw one out in
the hall that will suit our purposes excellently."
Securing the box, he cut three long and narrow strips from the sides,
notched them and fitted them together in a rough replica of the figure
4, with the lower point of the upright stick resting on the floor beside
the saucer of milk and the wooden box poised precariously at the
junction of the upright and the slanting stick.
"A figure-four trap, eh?" queried the chief. "What do you expect to
catch?"
"A mixture of a ghost and the figure of Justice," was Preston's
enigmatic reply. "Come on--we'll lock the door and return later to see
if the trap has sprung. Meanwhile, I'll send some wires to Sacramento,
San Francisco, and other points throughout the state."
The telegram, of which he gave a copy to the local chief of police, "in
order to save the expense of sending it," read:
Wire immediately if you know anything of recent arrival from
Africa--probably American or English--who landed within past
three days. Wanted in connection with Montgomery murder.
The message to San Francisco ended with the phrase "Watch outgoing boats
closely," and that to Sacramento "Was in your city yesterday."
Hardly an hour later the phone rang and a voice from police
headquarters in Sacramento asked to speak to "Postal Inspector Preston."
"Just got your wire," said the voice, "and I think we've got your man.
Picked him up on the street last night, unconscious. Hospital people say
he's suffering from poisoning of some kind and don't expect him to live.
Keeps raving about diamonds and some one he calls 'Marsh.' Papers on him
show he came into San Francisco two days ago on the _Manu_. Won't tell
his name, but has mentioned Cape Town several times."
"Right!" cried Preston. "Watch him carefully until I get there. I'll
make the first train out."
That afternoon Preston, accompanied by two chiefs of police, made his
way into a little room off the public ward in the hospital in
Sacramento. In bed, his face drawn and haggard until the skin seemed
like parchment stretched tightly over his cheekbones, lay a man at the
point of death--a man who was only kept alive, according to the
physicians, by some almost superhuman effort of the will.
"It's certain that he's been poisoned," said the doctor in charge of the
case, "but he won't tell us how. Just lies there and glares and demands
a copy of the latest newspaper. Every now and then he drifts off into
delirium, but just when we think he's on the point of death he
recovers."
Motioning to the others to keep in the background, Preston made his way
to the bedside of the dying man. Then, bending forward, he said, very
clearly and distinctly: "Marshall Montgomery is dead!"
Into the eyes of the other man there sprang a look of concentrated
hatred that was almost tangible--a glare that turned, a moment later,
into supreme relief.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "Now I'm ready to die!"
"Tell me," said Preston, quietly--"tell me what made you do it."
"He did!" gasped the man on the bed. "He and his damned brutality. When
I knew him his name was Marsh. We dug for diamonds together in South
Africa--found them, too--enough to make us both rich for life. But our
water was running low--barely enough for one of us. He, the skunk, hit
me over the head and left me to die--taking the water and the stones
with him."
He paused a moment, his breath rattling in his throat, and then
continued:
"It took me five years to find him--but you say he's dead? You're not
lying?"
Preston shook his head slowly and the man on the bed settled back and
closed his eyes, content.
"Ask him," insisted the chief of police, "how he killed Montgomery?"
In a whisper that was barely audible came the words: "Sheep-stinger. Got
me first." Then his jaws clicked and there was the unmistakable gurgle
which meant that the end had come.
"Didn't he say 'sheep-stinger'?" asked the chief of police, after the
doctor had stated that the patient had slipped away from the hands of
the law.
"That's what it sounded like to me," replied Preston. "But suppose we go
back to Montgomery's room and see what our ghost trap has caught. I told
you I expected to land a figure of Justice--and if ever a man deserved
to be killed it appears to have been this same Montgomery Marshall, or
Marsh, as this man knew him."
The instant they entered the room it was apparent that the trap had
sprung, the heavy box falling forward and completely covering the saucer
of milk and whatever had disturbed the carefully balanced sticks.
Warning the chief to be careful, Preston secured a poker from an
adjoining room, covered the box with his automatic, and then carefully
lifted the box, using the poker as a lever.
A second later he brought the head of the poker down on something that
writhed and twisted and then lay still, blending in with the pattern of
the carpet in such a manner as to be almost invisible.
"A snake!" cried the chief. "But such a tiny one! Do you mean to say
that its bite is sufficiently poisonous to kill a man?"
"Not only one, but two," Preston declared, "as you've seen for yourself.
See that black mark, like an inverted V, upon the head? That's
characteristic of the cobra family, and this specimen--common to the
veldts of South Africa where he is known as the 'sheep stinger'--is
first cousin to the big king cobras. Montgomery's former partner
evidently brought him over from Africa with this idea in mind. But when
he was packing him in the box--the airhole in the end of it gave me the
first inkling, by the way--he got careless and the snake bit him. Only
medical attention saved his life until this afternoon, else he'd have
passed along before Montgomery. I think that closes the case, Chief, and
in spite of the fact that the mails were used for a distinctly illegal
purpose, I believe your department ought to handle the matter--not
mine."
"But the trap--the milk? How'd you happen to hit on that?"
"When you told me what the special-delivery man said about the contents
of the package 'wabbling' I figured that the box must have contained a
snake," explained the Postal operative. "An animal would have made some
noise, while a snake, if well fed, will lie silent for hours at a time.
The constant motion, however, would have made it irritable--so that it
struck the moment Montgomery removed the lid of the box. That explains
the wound in his hand. He knew his danger and deliberately fired, hoping
to cauterize the wound and drive out the poison. It was too quick for
him, though, or possibly the shock stunned him so that he fell.
"Then, in spite of the fact that your men claimed to have searched the
room thoroughly, that noise in the corner warned me that whatever killed
Montgomery was still here. Going on the theory that the majority of
snakes are fond of milk, I rigged up the trap. And there you are!"
* * * * *
"Yes," concluded Quinn, "the majority of the cases handled by government
detectives have to do with counterfeiting or smuggling or other crimes
against the federal law--offenses which ought to be exciting but which
are generally dull and prosaic. Every now and then, though, they stumble
across a real honest-to-goodness thrill, a story that's worth the
telling.
"I've got to be away for the next couple of months or so, but drop
around when I get back and I'll see if I can't recall some more of the
problems that have been solved by one of the greatest, though least
known, detective agencies on the face of the earth."
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Contents page changes made to agree with chapter headings:
"Lost--$100,000!"--quotes and exclamation point added. "The Double
Code"--quotes added. "Thirty Thousand," and again on P. 253--hyphen
removed (more frequent without).
After Contents page, "On Secret Service" displays twice--once alone on
a page, and again above the Chapter I heading. One of the redundancies
has been deleted.
Missing or incorrect punctuation repaired.
Spelling errors fixed.
Hyphenation variants changed to most frequently used version.
P. 54 "Simpson lives" original reads "Simpson lived."
P. 58 Thought break added for consistency.
P. 89 "Douglass" changed to more frequently used "Douglas."
P. 177 Code table: Original shows first number under q as "19."
Corrected to "17."
P. 198 "well dressed" changed to "well-dressed."
P. 221 two occurrences of "blonde" changed to more frequently used
"blond."
Abbreviations "sub." and "ad." in original retained.
"Charleston" and "Charlestown," "down town" and "downtown" (used
equally), "everyone" and "every one [of]," "resume" (for summary) and
"resume" (for assume anew), "loath" (for unwilling) and "loathe" (for
abhor), "mix-up" and "mixup" (used equally), "anyone" and "any one" (a
single, particular one) were used in this text and retained.
Also retained "flivvered" (P. 104).
End of Project Gutenberg's On Secret Service, by William Nelson Taft