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

“Of course it was. But not too smart for a Tydings, who was in the background, planning everything,” said Kearton. “The cleverness doesn’t end there. Day after day, Hamblin remains there at his work, painting on his new ground of tempera his new copy of the Granduca — this copy — the one that I’m cleaning away at this moment! It took nerve to do that, too. Because at any time it might be discovered that the picture inside the frame was a copy. Perhaps no suspicion would attach to the poor, honest fellow who was working there so patiently, but in case of inquiry, it might have been very bad. There was the nature of the old board itself to attract attention. At any rate, day by day Hamblin was renewing the fastenings which held the copy in the original frame. When all was firm, he had finished his new copy, took it down, had it duly inspected and passed, and away he went... Ah, ha! Do you see? There’s the Madonna’s face, clear enough — and ah, faith — I’m tired — I’m going to sleep!”

His hands dropped to his knees.

Through the wet of Kearton’s work, O’Rourke stared with great eyes at the dim face which was growing out from under the cleansing and taking more perfect form. It was dim, but it sent a vague thrill up the spinal column of the Irishman.

Kearton stood up, stretched, groaned.

“I’ve got to sleep. I’m dead!” he said.

“Wait till you finish the job!” pleaded Campbell.

“It’s as good as finished. Any tramp could do the work that’s left. Sleep — I’ve never had enough sleep in my life.”

He staggered across the room, reached out his arms to the bed, and fell prone on it with another groan.

Campbell went over to him and pulled at his arm.

“Get up and finish that job, Kearton!” he commanded.

The arm fell limp from the hand of Campbell.

An obscure muttering was the only-answer.

“Hey,” said O’Rourke, shaking the sleeper. “What’s your business with Chatham? Why was Tydings afraid of you? Who are you?”

Alcohol never thickened a tongue more than the blurred utterance with which Kearton responded. Campbell shook his head.

“It’s no good,” he said. “You could shoot off cannons beside him, now, and he wouldn’t more’n blink an eye... He’s done his bit for us pretty good. Leave him be. There’s plenty for us to do till he wakes up... Gosh, I could use some sleep myself, and I guess I’ve got to take it.”

“I don’t give a damn what you do,” said O’Rourke, leaning over the table. “But sleep is something you won’t get.”

“Why won’t I?” demanded Campbell. “We’ve got Clifford under guard, all right. He won’t move. He don’t even know that he’s the bait in the trap and that we hope we’ll catch some big game with him.”

“You won’t sleep,” said O’Rourke. “Yeah, but maybe you will. You’re that kind of an officer. Duty don’t mean nothing to you.”

Campbell walked over to him and looked him in the eye. O’Rourke, with a swing of the head, resumed his staring at the little bottle of poisonous tonic which stood on the cluttered table.

“Come on,” said Campbell. “Even you don’t talk like so much of a damn fool as this, unless you got an idea.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said O’Rourke. “Now you see if you can get the same thing.”

He stood up, turned his back, lighted a cigarette, then walked to the window. His words drifted back over his shoulder. “You’re the senior sergeant, ain’t you? Then you oughta have the senior brains, too, shouldn’t you? Go ahead and use ’em, will you?”

Campbell looked down at the table, and particularly at the small phial of the tonic. He shook his head, bit his lip, picked up the bottle and stared down at it in vain. There was meaning for him in the tokens that seemed to have meant so much to O’Rourke.

“There’s nothing to it,” said Campbell. “Cheap Irish bluff, is all there is!”

“Oh, yeah?” said O’Rourke.

“Yeah!” said Campbell.

“Just bluff, eh?”

“I said it before. The same thing you been using to climb up in the force. Bluff — no brains — just bluff. I say it again.”

The voice of O’Rourke was exquisitely soothing.

“Why, I think you’re right, Campbell,” he said. “The way I’ve climbed up in the force is just this way — just by using the same old pair of eyes. A thick-headed dummy of a Scotch mist wouldn’t be apt to understand — but look at the bottle, you fool!”

Campbell heeded not the insult. He stared at the bottle. And suddenly the voice of O’Rourke blasted his ears.

“The stuff has sunk an eighth of an inch since we brought it in here! It ain’t been stolen at all. It’s evaporated. It’s evaporation that’s changed its strength. There ain’t any murder of Tydings at all. The thing that murdered him is simply the damn junk evaporating thicker and stronger in the bottle — and there’s nothing but talk around here and no Tydings case at all — and a dummy has been made out of Senior Sergeant Angus Campbell!”

Chapter XXIV Campbell Dreams