Minute Mysteries [Detectograms]
that belongs to his fiancée.’
‘Well, there’ll be no wedding bells for him,’ remarked Kelley, with a
start as he discovered that Day’s cane was a sword-stick with a long,
thin, shining blade.
‘Any blood, Inspector?’ asked Fordney.
‘None. Clean as a whistle.’
‘Well, Day, looks mighty bad for you,’ stated the Professor. ‘I don’t
know yet whether you killed him with that cane, or whether you killed
him at all, but I do know you were here a few minutes after he was
stabbed.’
How did the Professor know?
35
_Speakeasy Stick-Up_
‘I had counted the cash, and as I was working the combination to open
the wall safe I heard this guy in back of me say, “Get ’em up, Bo. This
is a stick-up.” I reached for the ceiling as he says, “Make a move and
I’ll drill you!” He didn’t sound like he was foolin’, so I kept quiet.
‘Well, he comes over, gives me a prod with his gun, pockets the dough,
and asks me where the best liquor is, saying he don’t want no bar
whiskey either. I told him and he poured himself a drink.
‘Then he got real sociable-like, but wouldn’t let me take my hands down.
He kept on talkin’ and makin’ wise-cracks, but finally got tired, I
guess.
‘With a warnin’ that, if I moved before I could count twenty, my wife
would be a widow, he beat it,’ concluded Sullivan.
‘How much did he take?’ inquired Professor Fordney, who had entered the
speakeasy after hearing the bartender’s call for help.
‘About five hundred dollars,’ Sullivan replied. ‘We had a good day.’
‘Haven’t you a gun here?’
‘Sure, but I didn’t have a chance. I ain’t exactly no boy scout, but
this mug was too big and tough-lookin’ for me to tackle.’
‘How did you get that cut on your hand?’ inquired the Professor. ‘And
that bruise on your finger?’
‘Opening a case of lemons,’ answered Sullivan.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘if your whiskey isn’t any better than your
attempt at a fake hold-up, I’ll have ginger ale.’
You’re right. The bruise had nothing to do with it, but:
How did Fordney know the stick-up was a fake?
36
_Behind Time_
Professor Fordney, on his way to investigate a case of blackmail, was
musing on the perversity of human nature when a jar threw him into the
aisle as the train came to a sudden stop. Jumping off, he rushed ahead
of the engine, where he found a small crowd gathered about the mutilated
body of a man hit by the train. He was identified by a card in his
pocket as John Nelson, an important figure in railroad labor circles.
‘How did it happen?’ inquired Fordney.
‘Well,’ replied Morton, the engineer, ‘I was running twelve minutes late
when I hit him. There are several miles of straight-away along here and
I was beating it along at sixty miles trying to make up time. Didn’t see
him until we were about ten yards away, right on top of him. I jammed on
the brakes, of course, but it was too late.’
‘Did you leave New York on time?’
‘Yes, sir. One-thirty exactly.’
‘Why were you running late?’
‘We were held in a block for about fifteen minutes outside of New
Haven.’
‘What was your fireman doing when you hit this man?’
‘Stoking the boiler.’
‘You say it was just a few seconds after four-ten when you hit him?’
demanded the Professor.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Morton.
‘Did you know this man by any chance?’
‘Yes, slightly—he was an officer in my union,’ replied the engineer,
with a worried look.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘I don’t know your object in telling such a story,
or how you hoped to get away with it—you won’t.’
What justified Fordney in recommending Morton’s arrest?
37
_A Broken Engagement_
‘Peculiar,’ murmured Fordney, as he examined the desk on which lay seven
letters ready for mailing, three gray, one lavender, two pink, and one
lemon-colored.
As he idly shaped the wax of the candle standing on the desk, he
continued to ponder this unusual choice of color in stationery.
One of the letters was addressed to Dot Dalton, who had been murdered
between eleven-forty and eleven-fifty. She was one of the guests at this
house party in the Adirondacks.
All the letters were closed with black sealing wax stamped with the
letter ‘F.’
At midnight, Fordney began his questioning.
‘What time did you retire?’ he asked Molly Fleming, in whose bedroom he
was seated.
‘About ten,’ she replied.
‘Was your door locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hear any disturbance?’
‘No; I was tired, fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t awaken
until you knocked on my door a few minutes ago and told me of the
tragedy.’
‘Why did you write to Dot?’
‘I didn’t see her last night and knew she intended leaving early this
morning. Jack Fahey broke our engagement yesterday and told me he was
going to marry Dot. My letter was to tell her just how despicable I
thought she was in luring him away from me. He didn’t love her. Of
course, I’m sorry she’s dead, but a lot of wives will feel safer.’
‘Why the various colors of stationery?’ inquired the Professor.
‘Oh, I always write in a color that seems to reflect the personality of
my correspondent.’
‘I see,’ said Fordney; ‘but unless you have a better alibi you’ll be
held under serious suspicion.’
Why was the Professor practically certain Molly was involved in this
horrible murder?
38
_The Holden Road Murder_
‘What a night!’ sighed Professor Fordney as he hung up the telephone
receiver. Half an hour later, still grumbling, he splashed his way
through the mud and rain to the door of 27 Holden Road. Removing his
rubbers in the spotless vestibule, he stepped into a large,
well-furnished living-room running the entire width of the house.
Introducing himself and explaining he would question everyone later, he
asked to be left alone.
In the far corner of the room he found a man lying on the floor, his
throat cut. As he bent over, his attention was attracted to a dime lying
about five feet from the head of the dead man. He picked it up, regarded
it curiously, and, with a thoughtful look, put it in his pocket.
The Professor began his questioning with the butler.
‘You found the dead man?’
‘Yes, sir, I was returning from posting a letter about thirty minutes
ago and, just as I was coming up the path of the front door, I heard a
scream, dashed in, and found Mr. White here gasping his last breath.’
‘Lose a dime?’ inquired Fordney mildly.
‘Why, I don’t think so, sir,’ replied the butler nervously.
‘I heard the scream from upstairs,’ volunteered Cannon, owner of the
house, ‘and ran in here right behind Wilkins.’
‘Did either of you leave this room before I arrived?’
‘No,’ replied Cannon; ‘we stayed here until you came.’
‘Did you, Mr. Cannon, lose a dime? No? Well,’ remarked Fordney, ‘it
looks like collusion to me and I can tell you Inspector Kelley won’t
swallow this story.’
What was wrong with the story?
39
_Fishermen’s Luck_
‘Having these stones in my possession, Professor Fordney, isn’t proof
that I had any part in the Morris robbery.’
‘I know all about your story, Holmes. Found the jewels yesterday at
three o’clock in the lake, tied up in a chamois bag, didn’t you? But
what were you doing out in an open boat in the cloudburst that lasted
all yesterday afternoon?’
‘It was because of that cloudburst that I sallied forth,’ explained
Holmes confidently. ‘Perfect fishing weather, so I jumped into my boat
and went across the lake for some minnows. I had rowed back to within a
few yards of shore when I just happened to notice the bag lying on the
bottom of the lake, so I landed, tipped my boat over to keep the rain
out, and waded in. Curious, you know. The water at that point was over
my waist and cold, but when I opened the bag—my courage and curiosity
were rewarded.’
‘On which side of the dock did you find it?’ asked Fordney.
Holmes pointed to a spot on the sandy bottom at the left.
‘Think I’ll talk with the minnow man,’ declared the Professor as he got
into Holmes’s boat. He rowed furiously for about fifty yards, suddenly
dropped the oars and, after glancing from the crystal-clear water to the
bottom of the boat, emitted a victorious chuckle.
‘Stupid of me not to have thought of that before,’ he mused. ‘Wonder if
Holmes is a better fisherman than he is a liar?’
Clever fellow, Holmes. Did his story fool you?
40
_The Unlucky Elephant_
‘Dead! Bullet-hole in right temple,’ said Sergeant Reynolds, as he knelt
by a man lying face down, a revolver clutched in his right hand.
‘All right,’ replied Inspector Kelley. ‘Let’s have a look round. Dressed
for the street, eh?’ While speaking, Kelley picked up from the floor
several fragments of glass and a right-hand glove, turned inside-out.
‘Look at this glove, Reynolds. What do you make of it? And I wonder if
that soiled handkerchief on the table belongs to him?’
‘Gee, Chief,’ said Reynolds, as he turned the body over and unbuttoned
the topcoat, ‘this is young Holman, the millionaire.’
The body was immaculately clothed in the finest custom tailoring.
‘Broke his watch, too. Stopped at eight-ten,’ continued the Sergeant, as
he removed the timepiece from the vest pocket. ‘Let’s see if those
pieces you’ve got are part of the crystal. Yep! And look at this jade
elephant at the end of the chain.
‘Bumped himself off, all right, Inspector, but I don’t get that glove
business, or that dirty handkerchief either.’
‘We’d better look round and find that other glove,’ said Kelley.
A thorough search failed to disclose it, and while the Inspector was
confident it was suicide, he decided to get Professor Fordney’s opinion,
because of the prominence of young Holman.
After explaining the situation to the Professor over the telephone, he
was puzzled at his reply:
‘I’ll be right around, Inspector. From what you’ve told me, it looks
like murder.’
What justified the Professor’s belief that it was probably murder?
41
_The Professor Listens_
‘Why the rush to get back to New York?’ inquired Fordney, a few minutes
after Delavin stepped from the plane. ‘Thought you intended spending the
summer in Cuba.’
‘Well, if you must know, my bank failed, and I came back to straighten
out my affairs.’
‘That’s too bad, Delavin. How did you hear about it?’
He handed Fordney a clipping from the _Jacksonville Herald_:
New York, July 5. (AP)—Foundation Bank & Trust Co., one of New York’s
oldest banking establishments, closed its doors today...
‘Sure you didn’t come back to help your pal Ryan?’ asked the Professor.
‘He’s been in jail for two days. Ever since the Fourth-of-July bombing.
Had a letter on him signed by you asking him to get in touch with a C.
J. Wallace.
‘We traced Wallace and discovered he is with an ammunition company. When
the District Attorney heard you were on your way here, he asked me to
meet you. He thinks you know something about the bombing.’
‘In jail, huh? I didn’t know there had been a bombing. Wallace is a
cousin of mine.’
‘Where did you catch your plane?’
‘Why—er—Jacksonville, Florida. You see, I was staying at a rather remote
place and no planes serve that part of Cuba. Really had no thought of
leaving until I read of the bank failure.’
‘Well, you had better think of a more convincing alibi, before the
District Attorney questions you.’