by Ron Goulart
At first Valarie treated us all with equally polite indifference. I soon realized, however, that my commonplace attractions stood no chance against the charms of the handsome, vivacious Irishman, or the dark, romantic beauty of the little Pole; so I was early eliminated from the race and left to heal my broken heart as best I might.
But between Jim and Bogden the rivalry waxed hot and furious.
One day as I sat in my office—I was a struggling young lawyer then—longing for the clients that as yet were so few and far between, the telephone-bell rang, and I heard Jack Broughton’s voice hoarse with excitement.
“For God’s sake, Will, come up here at once!” he cried. “Something terrible has happened!”
“What?” I answered. “Come where?” I knew he had no telephone in his studio.
“Jim O’Mara’s place,” he replied. “I’m there now—I can’t tell you over the phone.” I heard the click as the receiver was hung up.
Jim occupied two rooms in a part office, part studio building on Fourteenth Street—a small bedroom and a huge half-library, half-studio, that he called his workshop.
Broughton met me at the door, and without a word pointed to the room. It had never been a very orderly spot, but now it looked as though the proverbial cyclone had struck it. Practically every bit of furniture was out of place; the glass doors of the bookcases were broken and the books strewn on the floor; chairs were upset; rugs piled in a heap on the couch; the desk was broken open—its shattered lock still clinging to the roll-top; and papers were scattered everywhere. On the laboratory side the wreckage was as bad—broken glass, upset bottles, and scattered instruments.
In the bedroom bureau drawers had been dragged out on the floor and their contents thrown beside them. The bed was in disorder; and a small steamer trunk that had been under it was open and empty.
“Burglars,” I said. “Someone has been here and gone through the place—in a hurry, too, I should say.”
“Not ordinary burglars at any rate,” Broughton replied. “Nothing of value is missing. Besides, look around—look there.” He pointed to a stain on the polished floor.
“Blood!” I cried. “And here’s more. Notice that test-tube. Some one with bloody hands has handled it!”
“Look in the wash-basin.”
I ran into the bedroom; the basin was half filled with water of an unmistakable reddish-brown tinge, and a towel beside it was streaked with red.
For a moment I could do nothing but stare, dumb with horror, at Jack.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said as soon as I could speak. “We must get the police at once.”
But to my surprise Jack demurred, suggesting that we go to Walenitsky’s first. At Bogden’s studio, which was only a few blocks away, we received no answer to our knocks; but the janitor knew us well and let us in.
Jack threw aside his overcoat and hat and sat down, in spite of my protests that we should waste no time waiting, but should notify the police at once.
“I want to talk to you first,” he insisted. “You do not know all I know. Sit down.”
After I did so, he went on.
“For some time past you have rather avoided Valarie and me,” he began directly.
I would have interrupted, but he went on swiftly:
“Don’t apologize, Will. Let us talk frankly. I know the reason. What you don’t know is how Jim and Bogden have been progressing in their quite obvious rivalry over Valarie.”
“No, I don’t,” I agreed briefly.
“They’ve been growing more and more bitter,” he went on earnestly; and the anxiety in his tone was unmistakable. “So bitter that lately I’ve feared an open breach. Walenitsky is more silent than ever, and, charming as he can be to us when he wants to be, to Jim his manner is little less than insulting. O’Mara’s attitude of good-natured, somewhat contemptuous raillery makes him worse. As to Valarie, I confess I don’t understand her at all—her attitude is quite non-committal.”
“There’s not much new in all that,” I interposed. “I expected it.”
“No,” replied Jack. “But this is more definite. I was out last evening. When I returned, about eleven, I found Valarie in tears. Jim and Bogden had both been there—quarreling, I think, though I couldn’t get much out of Valarie. This morning, I went around to see Jim. The door wasn’t locked. I went in and found the place the way you have just seen it.”
“Great Heavens!” I cried. “You don’t think Bogden—”
“Wait,” Jack interrupted. “The janitor of Jim’s house told me this morning that Jim and the ‘foreign gentleman,’ as he calls Bogden, went up to Jim’s rooms together about eleven last evening—evidently just after they left Valarie. Shortly afterward—when he went up to turn down the hall gas-jet—he heard them talking in loud tones—quarreling evidently. This morning—early—about seven thirty, the janitor says—Jim called him up to his rooms to carry down a trunk. Jim took the trunk in a taxi and drove away. When it was the Bogden left—if he did leave, at least alive—the Janitor doesn’t know. He doesn’t know—yet—what Jim’s rooms look like now. I questioned him very casually.”
“Then you think—” I began hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “It looks bad, but I—I can’t believe it of Jim. He might have killed him accidentally in a fight. But he wouldn’t run away. He wouldn’t have—done that!”
For an hour we talked the matter over, but with no satisfactory results. Finally we decided that the only thing left was to call in the police.
We were about to start for the door when it was suddenly thrown open, and a policeman, followed by two men in plain clothes and the janitor of Jim’s building, burst into the room.
“That’s them,” shrieked the janitor as soon as he saw us. “Them’s the bloody murderers, sir.”
I don’t know how it happened, but the next thing I realized was that a pair of steel handcuffs had suddenly grown on my wrists; Jack was similarly decorated, but he was the first to recover himself.
“What does this mean?” he demanded excitedly. “What are we arrested for? I—”
“Shut up!” commanded one of the plain-clothes men shortly. “The charge in the warrant says ‘burglary,’ an’ that’ll do for you. Come on now, or I’ll fan you.”
“What have you done with Mr. O’Mara, you bloody murderers?” yelled the janitor.
“O’Mara!” gasped Jack in amazement, for naturally we had been thinking we were implicated in the murder of Bogden. “You told me O’Mara went away in a taxi at half past seven.”
“An’ he came back,” snapped the janitor. “As yer well know that killed him, an’ tore his rooms all up.”
“This is absurd,” I cut in. “Of course he didn’t come back.”
“He surely did,” maintained the excited janitor.
“How do you know he did?” I demanded. “Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t see him. But how else did his trunk get back in just the place I took it from at the foot of the bed. An’ who smashed up his rooms that was all right at seven thirty? Answer me that, you—”
“Aw, can the hot air,” growled the plain-clothes man who had spoken before. “Come on you.”
And shackled to our captors, we were led away.
* * * *
I don’t know just which of the numerous humiliations the next few hours brought hurt Jack the most; but not the least, to me, were the personal references of the yellow press. I had never before realized that my “eyes were set near together under a slanting, narrow forehead and were those of a typical moral degenerate”; and the fact that Jack had a “typical criminal nose,” and “ears that proclaimed unmistakable homicidal tendencies,” was but slight balm.
However, the time passed somehow, between being mugged and having the detectives paraded before our cells who looked at us as though we were some new animals at the zoo, and receiving a few degrees at headquarters and elsewhere.
Toward six o’clock the lawyer for
whom I had sent made his appearance, and we were taken upstairs to see him. He was, fortunately, evidently a friend of the chief, for we were soon afterward, for the second time that afternoon, taken into the latter’s room.
The chief this time was far more pleasant to us than when he had questioned us before—and my respect for our lawyer leaped skyward.
“Conceding all that you say to be true, gentlemen,” said the chief when I shad repeated our story, “it looks to me as though your friend O’Mara had made away with Walenitsky for some—”
But at that moment a detective entered with word that a man who insisted he could give important evidence on our case was outside.
As the door reopened a moment later Jack and I leaped to our feet.
“Walenitsky!” we cried simultaneously.
“A lively corpse!” remarked the chief as Bogden threw himself hysterically upon us.
“I’ve come to confess!” he cried excitedly. “I did it—not kill him—no—but I tried to rob him. He had a letter—a paper—I wanted. I went to see him last night, and I met him on the corner by his house. I demanded the paper, and he laughed. I went up to his room with him, and we quarreled—fought. We broke things, and I cut my hand on the doors of the bookcase—see?” He held up a bandaged hand. “Then he bound it up for me and told me to go home and—and soak my head.”
He paused for a moment to let this insult sink in. “But I had to have that—paper—so I watched the house and he went out early in the morning. Then I slipped in and went through everything. That’s all. These gentlemen did not have anything to do with it.”
“What was that—letter?” asked the chief.
“It was a paper,” Bogden answered sullenly. “I cannot tell you what it was. He had threatened to use it in a dishonorable way.”
“Look here, Walenitsky,” persisted the chief. “I am inclined to believe your story. But even so you are in a grave position. You have confessed to burglary—and if O’Mara does not turn up you may have to answer for murder. Much may depend, for you, on that letter.”
But Bogden only shook his head.
“Another one with evidence on this case, chief,” announced a detective. “It’s a lady,” Bogden, Jack, and I sprang again to our feet. There was but one lady in the case.
“Show her in,” said the chief. “And if the rest of the city comes with evidence, show them in, too. We may as well have this out at once.”
Valarie entered; looking more beautiful in her trouble than ever, and flung herself in her brother’s arms.
“I’ve come to tell you it wasn’t they,” she cried, turning to the chief. “It was—it must have been—” For the first time she saw Walenitsky.
“You’re here!” she added. “Oh, Bogden, why did you do it?”
“Miss Broughton,” said the chief before Bogden could reply, “Mr. Walenitsky has confessed that he searched O’Mara’s rooms looking for a certain letter. Its contents may be of great importance to him.”
“I came to tell—” began Valarie; but Bogden interrupted excitedly.
“No, no! It is not necessary!”
“Why not?” asked Valarie in surprise. “I came here to tell that I had sent you for the letter. I had to clear my—my brother, even at your expense. I’m glad you confessed—I believed you would if you knew that they—he was in trouble through what you did.”
She went on with dignity, addressing herself to the chief:
“Mr. O’Mara had done me the honor to ask me by letter to marry him. I answered, also by letter, refusing him. But I went further. I told him I—I loved some one else. And I told him who it was, and that—that he had never proposed.” She paused, her face scarlet; but in a moment went bravely on:
“Jim came last night to say good-by—he accepted my refusal without question—he was going away for a while, he said. He told me, more as a joke, I think, that he considered it his duty to let the—the other man know. I should have known he wouldn’t. But after he had gone I was afraid perhaps he might. So when Bogden came—”
“Wait a moment,” interjected her brother. “Weren’t Bogden and Jim with you together last evening?”
“No,” she answered. “Jim only stayed a short time. So when Bogden came—”
“I was wrong on that,” Jack again interjected to me.
“I asked Bogden to go to Jim,” Valarie went on, heedless of this second interruption. “I told him to ask Jim to please return the letter or destroy it, as I was afraid he might send it to someone I wouldn’t have see It for the world. Bogden didn’t know what was in the letter.”
“No, no, I didn’t!” cried Walenitsky, burying has face in his hands. “Oh, I am a fool—quite a fool! I, too, proposed to you and you refused me. 1 was sure you had refused Jim, too. And I thought that in revenge he had—ah! I am a fool, and you can never forgive me.”
“It seems to me,” said the chief, “that Mr. O’Mara has yet to be accounted for.”
“Mr. O’Mara,” announced the detective. “You told me to bring them all in, sir,” he added as Jim entered, bag in hand.
“I’ve come all the way from Philadelphia to surrender myself, sir,” began O’Mara gravely to the chief, ignoring our vociferous greetings.
“For what?” asked that official in some surprise.
“For being murdered under false pretences, sir. I’m the corpus delicti in this case.”
The chief laughed. “Did you bring your trunk?” he asked. “It was the main piece of evidence against these gentlemen.”
“The trunk’s in Philadelphia,” exclaimed Jim in disgust. “Sure I just heard the story from this man here—” He indicated the detective who had shown him in. “The fool janitor couldn’t imagine I might have two trunks. I suppose Bogden pulled the other one out from under the bed.”
“But,” I cried, “the janitor said your room wasn’t disturbed at seven thirty this morning.”
“The bedroom wasn’t,” Jim replied. “We had the scrap in the workshop. I let the janitor into the bedroom from the hall. That’s the only room he saw this morning.”
“Counselor,” said the chief, rising and turning to our attorney, “I will take the responsibility of paroling the prisoners in your custody. You can arraign them tomorrow morning and I will see that the complaining witness and the officers who made the arrest are on hand to secure their discharge. As to Mr. Walenitsky, there is no charge against him, unless Mr. O’Mara wishes to make one.”
A suggestion Jim declined.
“In that case,” continued the chief, “I think the matter is closed. Except,” he added dryly to Valarie, “we have not discovered the—other man.”
“By Jove, that’s so!” cried Jack with brotherly brutality. “Why, Valarie, you only know three men at all well. You’ve refused Jim and Bogden—there’s only—”
“Shut up, you fool!” cautioned Jim; but it was too late.
For a moment my head reeled, and I felt all their eyes upon me. Then I forgot them altogether.
“Valarie!” I said faintly. “Valarie!”
I wanted to say many other things; but that seemed to tell her everything that was in my heart, for she hid her face on my shoulder before them all.
“Seas of misunderstanding,” I heard Jim say. “Oceans of it. But we’ve done shoutin’ over it now—we’ve crossed over for good.”
HOCUS POCUS HOMICIDE, by Gene D. Robinson
Old Man Flannagan rubbed a hand over his bald head and pushed aside some papers. “Yes, Miss Andrews,” he prompted. “What can I do for you?”
The girl who faced Flanny across the desk might have come directly from winning a beauty contest. That was Flanny’s line of thought. She said rather nervously:
“I came to engage your best detective to come to Korris immediately to investigate the strange disappearance of my uncle, Aubrey Sparks.”
Flanny frowned as if he couldn’t be bothered with such trifling happenings. “Korris is the county seat of Ponger County I believe,” he mus
ed. “A typical East Tennessee mountain town, if I remember correctly. Suppose you—”
“I’m anxious to get back home before dark,” she interrupted, studying her watch. “I’m afraid to drive over those mountain roads after nightfall. Why”—smiling persuasively—“can’t your detective go back with me? I can give him the details on the way.”
Flanny looked across the office at Ned Cain, who sat at ease, paper open at the sports page. “Guess this is down your alley, Ned,” he said. “Did you hear the lady?”
Cain had not only heard, he had looked approvingly at the girl. He tossed the paper aside and gave the girl a friendly smile.
“You said strange disappearance, Miss Andrews,” he repeated as he opened a clothes locker and pulled out a small bag, then as the girl started to reply, “No, don’t bother. You can explain as we speed along. I keep my bag packed. Everything in it from a pair of dice to a crystal ball.”
The girl paused at the door. “About your fee. I shall—”
“You’ll hear from me,” Flanny said brusquely. “No time to lose. Ned is my best investigator.” He reached for his old cob pipe.
* * * *
No words were spoken as Jane Andrews pushed her polished coupe through the traffic, reached the city limits, and turned left on the highway. Then she began talking.
“My uncle is mayor and president of the bank and quite wealthy. He disappeared three nights back when Wondrous locked him in a trunk and made him disappear in a cloud of smoke.”
Cain gave her a quick glance. Her face was quite sober. He said, “Don’t tell me he was in a chariot. If it’s not too much to ask, who is Wondrous?”
“I forgot you don’t know Wondrous,” she said, smiling. “That isn’t his real name. His real name is John Ald. For years he toured the country as a magician. When he decided to retire, he picked Korris, bought the old Stacey place, and moved in. The bank held a mortgage on it, and somehow Wondrous grew to dislike Uncle Aubrey. He became Unc’s enemy.”
