Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 104, No. 4, August 22, 1936

It couldn’t have taken thirty seconds for even the slowest man to finish. Yet in that time, Kirk Rainsford drank his last drink anywhere.

I took my glass down from my lips and I glanced at Rainsford and started to say something when I saw how waxy white he suddenly was. “Holy—” I started to say, then I slopped and grabbed Jimmy Harris and snapped: “Get a shot of that quick!”

“Shot of what?” Jimmy said, dazed.

“Rainsford!”

“But why—”

“Get the shot, get the shot,” I said, biting off the words. “You damned fool — can’t you see? He’s dead!”

II

Everything blew up. The boys went wild. The flash bulbs began to flare and the cameras went to work and a couple of guys from the Planet started for the door, but the purser yelled, “Come out of that, you two! Nobody leaves this room!” And when they turned around, they saw he meant it. He had a .32 caliber Colt pistol in his hand.

As for me, I was in no hurry to get home to the Old Man. There was a yarn here, but not just the fact that Kirk Rainsford had kicked in. I went for his glass and I got it first and had a nice long whiff.

Cyanide of potassium...

Right on top of that Brown, of the Herald, found the white envelope on Rains ford’s dressing table and snatched it up.

“Wahoo!” he said, looking frantic “Here’s a letter — for us!”

I snapped: “Let’s see it!”

He handed it to me like a hot potato

Printed in ink on the face of the envelope were the words: FOR THE PRESS.

I ripped it open and pulled out the letter inside, unfolded it and read it.

“Aloud,” some one demanded.

“Okay,” I said. “Here it is: ‘Gentlemen of the Press: I have discharged my last obligation and have retired permanently from further detective work. Must a man have a motive for killing himself, other than the fact that he is generally fed up with things? What better stage would I need than this one, surrounded by reporters from all New York’s papers. What an event — mat I should die by my own hand in your very midst. That is all there is, sirs. I trust I have not dimmed the story of the ruby too much and I bid you all farewell. Kirkland Rainsford.’ ”

The message had been printed in ink, but the signature was written out in his familiar flourishing hand.

“Let me see that,” the purser said. I gave it to him.

While he read it, the reporters kept protesting. “For Pete’s sake, mister, we’ve got a story here! This is hot, man, Rainsford commits suicide — are you gonna keep us here all day?”

“Well,” the purser said reluctantly, “this seems rather clear. But just the same, you will each report to my cabin in turn so that I may go over your credentials.”

We were herded down to “A” square amidships where the purser’s office was and we stood in line. “Take your time,” I told Jimmy Harris, so we took the end.

When we finally reached our turn, we both went in and handed over our press cards.

“New York Chronicle?” the purser said. “You certainly had enough men covering this boat.”

“How come?” I said. “Just the two of us. I’m reporting. He’s taking pictures.”

“I know that,” the purser said. “But how about the other chap?”

“What other chap?”

“Sampson. Solomon Sampson. His card said he was a Chronicle—”

“Boy!” I cried.

The purser stared. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Solly Sampson is home sick in bed!” I said. “That’s why I’m here! This isn’t my regular beat! This is Solly’s — and if some one else had his card—”

The purser got me. “Come on. They’re all still aboard.”

We left the office and ran through the square to the port side of the ship. We were moving slowly up the bay now past the Statue of Liberty toward the Hudson River. We went to the railing where the other officer was standing. “Where did they go?” the purser asked. “They couldn’t get off the ship. Where did those other reporters go?”

“They scattered, sir,” the officer said. “They’ve probably gone up to the radio shack with the news to put it on the air.”

“Let’s go!”

The four of us went up to the hurricane deck beneath the bridge to the radio shack. It was jammed. All the boys were in there, all crying to the frenzied operators to take the copy they were hastily scribbling.

“Hold it!” the purser snapped. “No messages, Sparks! All you men line up!”

The room became densely quiet with unnatural abruptness.

“How many of you came aboard originally?” he asked them.

“Twelve, friend,” I said. “When Rainsford handed out the Balinese daggers, he counted us for twelve.”

“There are only eleven now, including yourself.”

It was true. But nobody could remember who the twelfth man had been. You know how it is.

“Which one of you poured those drinks?” I asked.

Everybody looked at everybody else and no one answered.

“Sparks,” the purser said, “get me New York police headquarters on the ship-to-shore telephone and make it snappy.”

He made his call and told the sad tale and then went down to his office and I followed him and asked him if he were sure Mrs. Oliver Lane’s ruby was still safe and sound.

He took a look and it was.

Which made the case even screwier.