The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter

by Jean Petithuguenin

  “Yes, I confess…I killed John Eryson!”

  And he fell down, unconscious.

  The terrified guests pressed toward the terrace door. Charley Lux, in his turn, appeared and handcuffed the scoundrel. Then the police were quickly telephoned, while the guests left the so tragically interrupted soirée.

  Old Edgins had revealed to his friends the identity of the woman who had unmasked the guilty man.

  An hour later, Rinehart was in a cell of the Harrisburg prison. He had lost all his strength. The next morning he made a complete confession. He had hated John Eryson for a long time. He held his indisputable superiority against him. His fortune had been considerably compromised by the life of debauchery he led in secret. There remained only one hope of getting himself afloat again; that was of obtaining the well remunerated functions of the directorship of the conservatory.

  Since John Eryson had defeated him in both talent and reward, he went to Philadelphia, and hid in the violinist’s bedroom while Eryson was having supper with Mrs. Howard. He then murdered the poor man, who back in his bedroom, was sitting in front of his window playing his violin. Before fleeing, Rinehart had grabbed the three compositions which were to betray him.

  The scoundrel did not go to trial. He created his own justice. One morning they found him hanging in his cell.

  10. RUBY, THE BLACK MILLER

  The Pond of the Suicides

  “Again? This is unheard of! There’s a veritable epidemic of suicides in Wilmington.”

  Mr. Haring, the police inspector in the industrial city of Wilmington, in Delaware, walked excitedly up and down in his office. The policeman who had come to give him his report was waiting at the threshold of the door. The inspector stopped in front of his desk and rummaged through some papers. He picked up a list covered with notes. Looked at it a moment in silence, and then observed:

  “That’s the 11th suicide that’s taken place in that pond in six weeks. And you say that this time it’s a well-dressed young woman?”

  “Yes, Mr. Haring. A letter was found on her which stated that she died by her own hand. She also stated her address; she was a certain Miss Ella Spring, a native of New Castle, where her parents lived. I telegraphed there immediately.”

  Haring put his list back on his desk.

  “I find that story extremely suspicious. The pond seems to exercise a deadly fascination. And that has come on suddenly. During the seven years I’ve occupied my post at Wilmington, no one ever had the idea of drowning in that pool and now it’s become the rendezvous of all the people who are disgusted with existence.”

  “The general public has expressed doubts. Certain people claim that it’s not a matter of suicide,” the policeman said respectfully.

  Haring looked at him in astonishment.

  “Is that true? I myself have had that thought several times. However it is, all this is very bizarre. It’s absolutely necessary to go ahead with an inquest. I want to get to the end of the situation. Unless….wait, I have an idea.”

  The administrator sat down at his desk and wrote several lines on a sheet of paper that he handed to the policeman.

  “Here, take this. Send this telegram immediately. I believe I’ve found the best way to get to the bottom of this.”

  The policeman glanced at the telegram and read the address: “Miss Ethel King, 77 Garden Street, Philadelphia.”

  He smiled. His superior’s idea had his approval.

  “Hurry. By taking the first train, Miss King can be here in two hours.”

  The policeman left, while the inspector, very thoughtful, began walking up and down in the room again. Haring finally went back to work. Some hours passed, then there was a knock at the door and a policeman announced Miss Ethel King of Philadelphia.

  The inspector, very happy, rose to his feet.

  “Have that lady come in!”

  The famous detective entered, greeted Haring and exchanged a cordial handshake with him. She was already acquainted with the inspector, since in the past she had taken charge of a sensational case in Wilmington that she had brilliantly solved.

  “I’m very happy that you have answered my call so quickly, Miss King,” the inspector said, while asking the visitor to be seated. I’ll get immediately to the question I telegraphed you about, asking you to come.”

  “I’m eager to hear you, Mr. Haring.”

  The inspector settled himself in an armchair and began.

  “When you leave Wilmington, toward the south, you go across a wood extending about a quarter of a league. In the middle of that wood, about 100 steps from the road there’s a little pond that’s called the Green Pool because of the color of its water. The bank is somewhat encumbered with bushes. Legend claims that the pond is very deep. Until now I have never visited the pond, since to get to it you have to cut out a path across the brambles, and that’s not very pleasant. During the seven years that I’ve been in Wilmington, nothing extraordinary has taken place in that part of the woods, but during the last six weeks the Green Pool has acquired a sinister reputation.”

  “Ah! You’re doubtless alluding to the number of suicides that have taken place there lately.”

  “Yes! You’ve already heard about it?”

  “I’ve been informed by the newspaper,” Ethel King replied.

  “Well, that situation is becoming completely strange, because today the 11th cadaver has been fished out of the pond.”

  “Who was it this time?”

  “A young girl from New Castle. Her name was Ella Spring. They found on her, as they did on the other suicides, a letter in which she stated that she had died by her own hand.”

  Ethel King shook her head.

  “Have you put together the similar letters from the other cadavers?”

  “Right!”

  “And the dead hadn’t been robbed of the valuable objects they were carrying on them?”

  “No, they all had their wallet, their rings, or their watch. At different times the relatives have claimed that the victims should have had a great deal more than was recovered, but they haven’t been able to prove their allegations.”

  “If it was a matter of crimes, their author went about it with extreme cleverness. He didn’t take everything from the victims in order not to arouse suspicions. But don’t you find it surprising that the suicides always had on them a letter to explain their intentions?”

  “Oh, yes I do. It was shown each time that the letters were certainly in the desperate person’s handwriting. The relatives testified to that, in most of the cases. Handwriting experts established the authenticity of the documents.”

  “That complicates the matter,” Ethel King observed. “If the unfortunate persons had been murdered, it would have been necessary to force them to write those letters before throwing them into the water.”

  “That’s almost inadmissible!” exclaimed the inspector.

  “Why? That wouldn’t have been the first time that similar atrocities have been committed. Have all the dead been identified?”

  “All, except two. Eight were well-known people from Wilmington. Two were buried in an unmarked grave. The 11th, that they pulled out today, is Miss Ella Spring of New Castle.”

  “Do you have some of those letters here?” Ethel King asked.

  “I have all of them, except the one from today.”

  Haring opened a drawer from which he took out a packet of letters. Those letters, hardly as big as a hand, were in a pitiful state, torn and yellowed. It could be seen that they had spent some time in the water.

  The detective carefully examined each of the letters.

  “The names aren’t always indicated,” she said. “In only a few cases did the unfortunate people, before dying, put their signature under the lines of goodbye that they addressed to their relatives and their friends.”

  There was a moment of silence. Ethel King was continuing her examination. She suddenly lifted her head, looked at the inspector and said in a serious and firm voice:


  “Yes, Mr. Haring , there’s no more doubt. Not a single one of the victims of the Green Pool died voluntarily. They were all murdered.”

  The inspector was startled.

  “How can you affirm that in such a categorical manner?” he asked.

  “I do affirm it.”

  “But how did you arrive at that conclusion? How will you prove what you’re putting forward?”

  “Look at these letters,” she calmly continued. “They are all written on heavy, yellowish paper such as is found at a cheap price for businesses. Do you think, therefore, that each of the victims chose by chance this same paper on which to write down their last thoughts? Such an hypothesis is unacceptable. If the resemblance was found on only two or three of the letters, you still might let it pass; but on all of them, no. The criminals committed a gigantic stupidity in always using the same paper.”

  Haring tapped his forehead.

  “God in Heaven! That’s true, Miss King. Why didn’t I notice that! You’re perfectly right. Oh! This is disheartening. Some scoundrel has just committed a series of atrocious crimes and nothing has been done to find him.”

  “No,” Ethel King answered, “but I’ll do everything that’s in my power to see that Ella Spring is the last victim of the Green Pool.”

  The young woman rose and went into the adjoining room where she found a telephone. She got in touch with her villa in Philadelphia and asked her cousin Charley Lux to come to Wilmington immediately. She put down the receiver and went into Haring’s office just as a policeman was saying:

  “Mr. Edward Spring of New Castle is here and asks to speak to Mr. Haring. He’s the father of the young girl who was taken out of the Green Pool this morning.”

  “Have him come in!”

  The policeman left and Ethel King observed:

  “Mr. Spring is probably going to tell you that the hypothesis of suicide can’t be substantiated.”

  She wasn’t mistaken. Edward Spring, an old gentleman with a dignified bearing, on whose face suffering had left its ravages, came in, said hello, and exclaimed:

  “Mr. Haring, I must tell you that my daughter, whose corpse was recovered this morning in the Green Pool, certainly did not commit suicide. No! a thousand times, no! It was an abominable crime.”

  “That’s our opinion, Mr. Spring,” the inspector replied gravely. “I present Miss Ethel King to you, the famous Philadelphia detective, who arrived a half-hour ago. We were just discussing that affair, as well as the similar misfortunes that preceded it. We have concluded that neither your daughter nor the ten other so-called suicides voluntarily killed themselves.”

  Edward King had turned pale.

  “My God!” he exclaimed. “How can anyone commit such crimes! Are there really men capable of such abominations?”

  “Get hold of yourself, Mr. Spring,” Ethel King said gently. “A great misfortune has struck you, but I won’t stop until I have discovered, and delivered to justice, the author of these murders. Have you seen your daughter?”

  “Yes, I’ve been to the morgue.”

  “Did you see if anything was stolen from Miss Spring?”

  “She still had her wallet with a small sum of money as well as a small gold bracelet, but the big diamond ornamenting that bracelet had disappeared. However, it’s possible that the stone had come loose by itself and that my daughter had lost it without noticing it.”

  “How valuable was that diamond?”

  “Oh! It was a remarkable gem. The bracelet was left to my daughter by a colossally rich aunt. The diamond must have cost more than $3000. It was very big and very clear.”

  “The murderer took it; you can be sure of that,” Ethel King said. “What you have just told me proves how clever the scoundrel is. They left the wallet and the gold bracelet, but they took the diamond. No one would at first think the unfortunate girl was murdered by a thief.”

  “That’s true,” Inspector Haring agreed. “Did you also see the letter that your daughter had in her pocket, Mr. Spring?”

  “Yes, here it is.”

  The gentleman took the paper out of his wallet and handed it to Ethel King.

  “Is that really your daughter’s handwriting?” the young girl asked.

  “Yes, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “You see Mr. Haring, it’s still the same paper. The murderer probably has a supply of it. I’ll go to the Green Pool today.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. I want first of all to visit the place with my assistant. We may find some clues on the bank of the pond. Wait patiently for the result of my investigation, Mr. Haring. Don’t undertake anything until you hear from me about this case and be absolutely discreet. The criminal must not suspect our intentions. I will ask you also, Mr. Spring, to keep this secret. It’s only on that one condition that we have a chance of success.”

  The two gentlemen promised not to say anything to anyone, and Ethel King went directly to the train station and wait there for Charley Lux.

  At the Edge of the Pond

  Charley Lux arrived in Wilmington by the first train. While going with him across the city, his cousin brought him up to date about the case. The further along that Ethel King got in her story, the more indignation showed on the young man’s face.

  The detectives left the city by the southern route and after a 30 minute walk came to the Green Pool woods. They left the road and made their way across the bushes and small trees. They soon came to the edge of the pond. The water, turned green by the algae and the water lilies, was stagnant under the thick shade of the trees. The banks were overcrowded with thick bushes cut in places by narrow paths which allowed descent to the edge of the water.

  “The murderer could only have dragged his victims to the pond by one of these openings,” Ethel King noted. “First we’re going to examine the paths.”

  The detectives began to examine meticulously all the places where the undergrowth had an opening and left the soil open to examination. They found numerous footprints left from the people who had taken up the drowned persons. Ethel King stopped a very long time to the south of the pond at a point where the soil had no undergrowth for a greater extent than elsewhere. She knelt down and even used a magnifying glass.

  “I presume that the murderer came through here with his victims,” she finally said. “If I can judge by the traces he left, the scoundrel dragged his prisoners here, pushed them into the water, and kept their head under the surface until they had stopped struggling. It’s also possible that he had bound his victims and didn’t untie them until after they had been killed.

  “The murderer was barefooted and to judge by the size of the prints he must be much above middle height. Let’s carry our investigations further! You go investigate the eastern part of the woods; I’ll take the western side. If you make an interesting discovery, let me know by using your whistle; I’ll do the same. If neither of us finds anything, we’ll meet again on the road, to the north of the woods, a little before sunset.”

  “All right, Ethel.”

  “But be very careful. It’s not impossible that the murderer is lurking in the vicinity. If he sees us searching the woods, he would suspect something and look for a way to get rid of us.”

  “If he got that idea, so much the better,” Charley answered. “Even if there were several of them, they’d find out who they’re dealing with.”

  The detectives separated. They didn’t suspect then that Ethel King’s prediction was soon to be realized. Ethel King made her way into the undergrowth to the west, while Charley took the opposite direction. The young detective advanced step by step, examining the ground and the roots of the trees. He wasn’t long in discovering a white handkerchief embroidered with the initials E. S.

  “Ah! It was Miss Spring who lost that!” he murmured. “It has to be concluded that the criminal passed by here with his victim. I may find something else by continuing in the same direction as far as the edge of the woods.”

  Charley Lux had
n’t yet thought of calling his cousin. He was eager to distinguish himself by still more important discoveries. He was cheered by the thought of being able to tell Ethel King, when he rejoined her, that he had obtained decisive results. Therefore he again started to follow the path, still examining the ground. Shortly before sunset, he came to the edge of the woods and picked up traces of footprints similar to those Ethel King had noticed at the edge of the pond. The footprints had been left by a very large bare foot. They were clearly stamped in the soft earth, but they were lost several steps from the trees.

  Charley Lux found himself at the foot of a gently sloping hill, the side covered by meadows. At the top of the hill there was a windmill with its wings turning. The young man could distinctly hear the sound of the millstones. He decided to climb to the top to view the surroundings before rejoining Ethel King. He had no trouble climbing to the top of the hill. He stopped in front of the windmill and viewed the surrounding countryside. He saw mainly wheat fields, most of which were already harvested and covered with stubble. In the distance, the detective noticed a farm with several buildings; it would require at least an hour of walking to get there.

  Charley was still busy observing the countryside with his binoculars when a husky laugh made him turn his head. He saw a black man looking at him through a small window of the mill. When Charley looked up, the man greeted him with a nod and said, while laughing:

  “Ah! Massa…beautiful country! Superb panorama and doesn’t cost a cent!”

  Charley laughed and answered:

  “That’s true. Would you like to have a dollar for all those who come to admire the view from here?”

  The man smiled broadly, and nodded affirmatively and showed his white teeth.

  “Massa right. Tom Ruby, poor black man have lot of trouble to earn few cents. Business not good; farmers around here don’t want their wheat ground at Tom Ruby’s mill. Tom Ruby a black man, and the farmers no want a black miller.”

  The detective’s assistant had no trouble believing the man speaking to him. He knew that most Americans professed the most profound contempt for black people. There was nothing astonishing in the fact that the country people of the area preferred to travel several miles to carry their wheat to white millers, rather than give it to a black person.