The Murder Megapack

by Talmage Powell

  “An’ as fer women—hell, they’ve been the motive fer more murders than anyone thing except war.”

  Downey picked up the notebook, which he had carefully dried, leaf by leaf, at his campfire on the way down, and scanned the dim pencil tracings. “This number, 3016,” he said, “might be the number of a boat—you know, at Tagish, the police are numberin’ all boats, an’ takin’ the names an’ addresses of the people in ’em. We haven’t got the record here of the latest numbers, but I believe we’ve got ’em up to around five thousan’. I was just about to look up the record when you came in. I’ve got a hunch that the woman, an’ one of the men came inside together, an’ went on up to that crick, an’ moved into that abandoned shack. Then the other man came along later—the important thing is, which one was the murderer?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Black John, “I s’pose that’s so, from the police angle. Takin’ a personal view of the case, though, it looks like the murder was an important event to the victim, too. What’s that sum that’s all added up on that page there?”

  “I believe it’s a list of their pieces. That entry was prob’ly made at Sheep Camp on their way in—to see if they had enough supplies on hand to conform to the order that everyone comin’ into the country must bring in a year’s supplies. Eleven hundred pounds is generally figured to conform, an’ this figures up to twenty-two hundred an’ forty-six—which would be supplies for two people.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” admitted Black John, “an’ that list of stuff further along would be what they bought in Dawson fer the trip out on the crick—them amounts that’s set down after the stuff is Dawson prices, all right.”

  “That’s it,” agreed Downey, stepping to a cabinet and lifting out a bulky packet of papers. “Now we’ll find out who had boat Number 3016.” For some moments he thumbed the papers, then he announced: “Here it is—John O’Hara, an’ wife, Nellie O’Hara, Sutton’s Bay, Michigan. An’ here’s the date we checked ’em in at Dawson—June 11th.”

  “How long has the murdered man been dead?” asked Black John.

  “The doctor looked him over last night, an’ he claims it’s hard to say, on account of him layin’ in the cold water—maybe a day or so before the Siwash found him—maybe three or four days.”

  “They could have stayed in that shack quite a while before this murder come off,” said Black John—“it’s August now.”

  “That’s right—an’ I believe they were there quite a while before the other man got there. The shaft had been worked, an’ as I told you, one of the seats an’ that added width to the bunk were made of green spruce. I saw the cuttin’s where they trimmed the poles, an’ the needles looked pretty fresh.”

  “I shore hope you have luck with this case,” Black John said. “Most of the damn crooks in the country hit fer Halfaday. We don’t want no woman of no kind showin’ up on the crick. An’ as fer the man—knockin’ anyone on the head when he ain’t lookin’ is a damn dirty trick, even if he was a fiddler. I’d help you out if I know’d how to go at it. On Halfaday we’ve got a snap, locatin’ malefactors, ’cause we know that no one but some damn name-canner would pull off a crime up there—an’ there ain’t so many of them. But here, what with the whole country lousy with chechakos, it looks like a hell of a chore. All you know, so far, is that a man named O’Hara from somewheres in Michigan an’ his wife got to Dawson, an’ he prob’ly either got murdered, er murdered someone else. An’ the dead man was prob’ly a fiddler.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Downey. “An’ accordin’ to the marks on these wood shavin’s, the murderer will have two nicks in the blade of his knife just three-eighths of an inch apart, if he hasn’t ground ’em out. I don’t believe he has—they were pretty deep.”

  “That ought to help convict him,” said Black John, “but it don’t go very fer towards ketchin’ him—you can’t go jerkin’ out everyone’s knife an’ lookin’ at the blade. How big a place is this here Sutton’s Bay, where they come from?”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Downey, reaching for an atlas.

  “Well, I figger that if there was anyone else here on the Yukon that come from there, an’ it wasn’t a very big place, he might know these folks.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Downey, thumbing his atlas. “Michigan—here it is—Sutton’s Bay—only three hundred an’ ninety-two inhabitants, the book says. The chances are, we can’t locate anyone else from a little town like that. I’ll run the boat list, through, an’ see. It might help if we knew somethin’ about these people, at that.”

  Ten minutes later he looked up and shook his head. “Quite a few other folks from Michigan—but no others from Sutton’s Bay,” he announced. “There’s one other way that might turn somethin’ up. I’ll list the names of a half dozen boats that checked in at Dawson, whose numbers are near 3016—say from 3010, to 3020—they’d have passed through Tagish right along with the O’Haras, an’ maybe come along down the river with ’em—some of ’em might remember ’em.”

  “Looks smart,” admitted Black John, as Downey began copying names from the record. Presently the corporal summoned a constable.

  “Here, Peters, divide this list with Constable Brock, an’ slip out an’ see if you can locate any of these folks. Some of ’em may still be in Dawson, an’ if they are, bring all you can find of ’em back here, I want to question ’em. John an’ me are goin’ to dinner, now. Hustle out an’ see what you can do.”

  Chapter III

  During the afternoon the constables brought in five of the men listed, three of whom, one man from boat 3018, and two from boat 3015, remembered the O’Haras. They described him as being a rather tall, slender man with red hair and a red beard, apparently a man in his fifties. The woman was much younger—in her twenties, probably, dark hair and eyes, good figure, very pretty, and inclined to be flirtatious with the younger men. They viewed the body and all three unhesitatingly identified it as that of O’Hara. Back in the office, Downey questioned them further, eliciting the information that these three men, who gave their names as Al Duffy, Bill Streeter, and H. Swanson, and several others, not located, had kept their boats pretty well together on the downriver trip, and had camped together nearly every night.

  They described O’Hara as a rather easy-going sort of person, who delighted to play the fiddle evenings by the campfire, while his wife, who seemed to care nothing for the music, circulated about among the men, laughing and cracking jokes, and maybe holding hands, or even making no protest at a stolen kiss, or two. None would admit that he knew of any downright indiscretion; she might—an’ then agin, she mightn’t—was as far as they would go. Nor could any of them state that the young woman had seemed especially interested in any one man. They thought, though, that she didn’t seem to pay much attention to her husband. None of the three had seen the O’Haras after their arrival in Dawson. Downey dismissed the men, after warning them to keep the police notified of their whereabouts in case they were wanted for further questioning.

  After they had gone, he turned to Black John. “Well,” he said, “we know that the murdered man was O’Hara—an’ we know what the woman looks like. We’ve got a probable motive—she was tired of her easy-goin’, middle-aged husband, an’ wanted a younger man. The younger man came along, either by accident or design, was taken in by the O’Haras, an’ they got rid of O’Hara, the man prob’ly doin’ the actual killin’.”

  “Looks that way,” Black John admitted. “Course, him bein’ a fiddler, that might be regarded as mitigatin’ an’ extenuatin’ circumstances, so you prob’ly won’t git no first degree murder verdick—even if you ketch ’em.”

  “Let’s go down to the recorder’s an’ see if they filed on that abandoned claim they was workin’.”

  “What good’ll that do?”

  Downey shrugged. “Can’t tell—maybe no good. But we might turn up somethin’—might get a look at her handwritin’, or the recorder might recollect somethin’ about ’em—you never can t
ell. I don’t like to overlook any bets in a case of this kind.”

  As the recorder greeted the two in his office, Downey asked, “Got a record of any location filed by James K. O’Hara an’ wife? They would have filed after June the eleventh.”

  The man ran through his index, “Nope—no O’Haras. But—hold on—I believe there’s a transfer just a few days ago. Yeah, here it is. George Sims—he’s the one that’s known as Lumpy Sims—to James K. O’Hara, and Nellie O’Hara, his wife, a claim on Hunker Creek, consideration eleven thousand dollars, and royalty of fifteen percent if the location pays more than thirty thousand in any one year. I recollect them—she was pretty as a picture—sat over there in a chair, while we were fixing up the records. And believe me, she’s got good looking legs!”

  “Another pair of mitigatin’ circumstances,” Black John grinned. “I’m doubtin’, Downey, that you won’t convict her of no more than a misdemeanor, by the time she gits through impressin’ the jury.”

  “What did the man look like?” Downey asked.

  “Who—O’Hara? Why—let’s see—oh, yeah—he was a kind of a tall red headed fellow with a red beard—”

  “What!” exclaimed the officer.

  “Yes, I remember him distinctly. It was only two or three days ago they were here. Why—isn’t O’Hara supposed to be red headed?”

  “Yeah,” Downey answered. “That’s the hell of it—he is!”

  “Looks like Nellie sort of runs to red heads, don’t it?” grinned Black John, when they were once more out on the street. “What’s yer next move?”

  “We’ll hunt up Sims, if he’s in Dawson, an’ see what he’s got to say. If we can’t find him we’ll pull out for Hunker.”

  Lumpy Sims was located, drunk, and lavishly spending the proceeds of his sale—but not too drunk to corroborate the recorder’s description of the pair. He further stated that the two had left for the claim on Hunker immediately after closing the deal.

  “Come on,” said Downey to Black John, “we’ll go over to the office an’ dope out the best way to work this. I’d like to get a look at this red headed man’s belt knife. It might be that there’s some mistake here somewheres”

  “Figger O’Hara might be the murderer instead of the murderee, eh?”

  “Well—the live man’s red headed, an’ those fellows might be mistaken in their identification of the corpse. They hadn’t known O’Hara very long.”

  “We better take the fiddle up to Hunker with us.”

  “What good would that do?” asked Downey.

  “Well, mebbe no good, but a fiddle ain’t no hell of a heft to pack. Two red headed an’ red whiskered men is a coincidence—but two red headed an’ red whiskered men that could fiddle would be damn near a miracle. We’ll give this here remainin’ red head a chanct to show us what he kin do. An’ believe me—it’s the first time I’d ever count it a p’int in a man’s favor that he could fiddle!”

  Chapter IV

  Reaching Hunker Creek the two arrived at the shack described by Sims at noon on the following day to find the red headed man seated on a rough bench near the door splicing a length of rope. Downey guessed him to be about thirty years old, and noted that, whereas the beard of the dead man had been rather bushy and unkempt, this man’s beard was neatly trimmed to a point, giving his face a peculiar angular appearance—like the face of a fox. The man looked up and nodded as the two paused before him.

  “What’s your name?” asked the officer abruptly.

  “O’Hara—James K. O’Hara,” answered the man, and lowering his eyes, shoved the spike between the strands.

  “How long have you been in the country?”

  “Come in this spring.”

  “Come downriver—through Tagish?”

  “Sure.”

  “What was the number of your boat?”

  “Why, it was—” he paused abruptly, hesitated for a few moments as though trying to remember, then mumbled, “Ask the woman. I fergit.”

  “What woman?”

  “My wife. She’s inside.”

  A woman paused in her preparation of the noonday meal and stepped through the open doorway. Despite her rough garb both men saw at a glance that she was young and very attractive—noted also, that while the man’s eyes failed to meet theirs, her gaze was bold and unfaltering. “Mrs. O’Hara?” asked Downey.

  “Yes. What is it you want?”

  Corporal Downey smiled. “My visit here may seem trivial to you—but lots of times, police matters are like that. A man farther up the crick lost a belt knife. He has entered a complaint that it was stolen—”

  “Does he say we stole it?” demanded the woman.

  “No, no. He don’t accuse anyone—just described the knife and said it was stolen from his shack a day or so ago. I see your husband is wearing a belt knife. If there’s no objection, I’d like to look at it.”

  After an instant’s hesitation she turned to the man. “Show him your knife,” she ordered. Then turned contemptuously to the officer. “What kind of folks do you think we are—to be stealing belt knives?”

  “I ain’t accusin’ you of stealin’ this,” Downey replied, as he took the knife from the man’s hand. “Just checkin’ up on knives as a matter of routine.” He examined the implement, instantly noting the two nicks in the blade—the telltale nicks he was seeking. “This is the same kind of a knife as I’m huntin’ for,” he said.

  “Well it might be the same kind—but it ain’t the same knife,” replied the man. “I bought that knife at the A.C. store in Dawson early this spring.”

  “How early?”

  “It wasn’t very early,” cut in the woman hurriedly. “It was along in June, sometime.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the man, “that’s what I mean—along in June.”

  “An’ you’ve had it in your possession ever since? It’s never been out of your possession?”

  “No. I’ve had it ever since.”

  Black John, who had remained behind Downey, stepped forward with a smile, “You wouldn’t be, by any chance, the O’Haras that come downriver along in June in boat Number 3016, would you?” The woman shot him a shrewd glance as the man continued his splicing without looking up. “Why, yes,” she answered, “we came in in June—and 3016 was the number of our boat. But why would the police want to know about that? We checked in to them at Dawson.”

  Black John’s smile widened. “I ain’t in nowise connected with the police, ma’am. The corporal, here, was comin’ down the crick, an’ I jest come along with him, bein’ as he claimed he had to stop an’ ask all the folks, on account of findin’ this knife the man lost. Fact is, some of us boys up the crick is figgerin’ on pullin’ off a dance tonight. The Northern Tradin’ Company’s floor’s all laid in their new store, about two mile up, an’ we’ve got to pull this dance before they begin movin’ in their stuff, er there won’t be no room. So one of the boys went up the crick, an’ I come down it to sort of invite the folks to come to the dance. I hope you an’ yer man can come, an’ I don’t mind sayin’ that if all the women was as good lookin’ as you, the dance would be a howlin’ success.”

  Suspicion faded from the woman’s eyes and she returned the big man’s smile. “Why, sure we’ll be there. I like to dance. But—what’s that got to do with the number of our boat?”

  “Oh, yeah—the boat. Why some of the boys, Bill Streeter, an’ Al Duffy, an’ a fella named Swanson, was tellin’ about a fella named O’Hara that come downriver in boat Number 3016. They come inside the same time—camped along with the O’Haras most every night. They spoke of you, too, ma’am, an’ they didn’t lie none about yer looks, neither. But it was O’Hara’s fiddlin’ that they was talkin’ about mostly. You see, we’re kind of up agin it fer music fer the dance, an’ they was wishin’ O’Hara was here to play fer us. They told about him gittin’ out his fiddle every night comin’ downriver, an’ playin’ fer ’em—an’ they claim he shore could make that fiddle talk.” He paused and turned to t
he man. “You’ll help us out, won’t you? We’ll shore appreciate it. An’ we’ll make it worth yer while, too. We generally take up a collection to pay fer the music—an’ the boys is lib’ral with their dust.”

  Out of the tail of his eye, Corporal Downey saw the woman’s face grow a shade paler under the tan at mention of the names. She spoke hurriedly, before the man could answer.

  “Are they here, on Hunker Crick—Swanson, and Duffy, and Streeter?”

  “Oh, sure,” Black John lied. “All got claims above here—doin’ pretty good, too. Funny you ain’t run acrost ’em.”

  “We—we’ve only been here a couple days,” the woman said. “We bought this claim and came up from Dawson.”

  Noting the woman’s perturbation, Black John hurried on. “Well, of course, you can’t expect a crick like Hunker to be as lively as Dawson, but we have our fun, when we kin. Been down to Dawson ever sence you come inside, I s’pose?”

  “Yes—we—we don’t know much about prospecting. We were looking around for a chance to buy a claim.”

  “Well, you come to a good crick. You bet Hunker’s bound to pay out in the long run. But about this here fiddlin’ tonight—kin we count on O’Hara?”

  “No—he can’t play. He lost his violin—it was while we were unloading our stuff from the boat at Dawson. It was my fault—I picked it up to hand it to him, and my foot slipped, and in catching my balance, I threw up my arm and let go of the violin, and it sailed way out into the river and disappeared before we could do anything about it. My husband was very angry. But I couldn’t help it.”

  “Got mad, eh? I s’pose he set quite a store by that fiddle?”

  “Wouldn’t of took nothin’ fer it,” volunteered the man, who had listened in silence. “I ain’t got no luck.”

  “Mebbe,” opined Black John, “yer luck is runnin’ stronger’n what you think it is—one way er another.” Removing the package from beneath his arm, he tore the paper wrapping from it, opened the case, and exposed the violin. “Here’s yore fiddle,” he said. “Corporal Downey, here—he happened to find it a few days ago.”