Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“Judge Lethrop,” he said, “have you thought any more about the mysterious note you received the day of the murder?”

“I have thought of it constantly,” was the low rejoinder.

“What do you make of it by now?”

“Absolutely nothing. It is a profound mystery to me.”

“You do not recall Mr. Carlos Fernandez?”

“Not at all.”

“But you concede the fact that he must have existed at one time in your life?”

“Obviously,” shrugged Judge Lethrop. “Else the message would be pointless.”

“It would,” agreed MacCray. “Let me help you rediscover the gentleman in question. Do you mind?”

“If you only can, sir.”

“Very well, I can try. You remember that Francis Keene died with a verbal message on his lips to one Elihu, the words he spoke to your son. Well, I have not yet informed you that these words were meant for the ears of John — Elihu — Duke. Does this information convey anything to you?”

The judge started. “You mean the philanthropist?” Then he slowly shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“All right,” said MacCray, not at all discouraged. “Let us analyze the words themselves. I have here a copy of the speech as Harry remembered it. Read it. The dashes stand for missing words.”

The judge accepted the sheet of plain white paper upon which the detective chief had typed the following:

I’m dying, Elihu. Forgive me for — I — have known — than — trust — after — years with you — real friend — your — known to — implacable — hate of hell — bend closer — forgive me, Elihu, and beware — my — car — lost — for — not — ease — bum — paying — dear.

“You will note that the last nine words are closer together than the rest of the broken speech,” said MacCray. “That is Harry’s recollection of the way it was spoken, as though fewer syllables were missing. The lad is very positive about the exact way the dying man spoke.”

“I can make nothing of it,” said the judge after a brief study.

“Neither could I — until Captain Holman interviewed Joseph Crawley the other morning for me. And that really disinterested gentleman, without knowing it, revealed the clew which has enabled me to decipher the message.

“It is not a code of any kind, merely broken speech. It is, of course, impossible to fill in exactly the gaps where two or more words are missing, but I can give the latter part of the speech exactly as it was meant. There are no words missing in that; the spacing and pronunciation are merely at fault.

“Listen as I point it out and read it aloud. And carry your memory back thirty years for me while you listen.”

MacCray slowly spoke the last eight words with an entirely different syllable grouping. He said:

“Carlost Fornotease, Bumpay, Ingdear.”

He quickly drew a second paper from his pocket, thrusting it under the judge’s thumb and over the first sheet.

“Translated,” he explained, “it looked like this.”

Carlos Fernandez, Bombay, India.

The old jurist stared at the words.

“Roughly,” went on MacCray hypnotically, “the entire speech went something like this: ‘I’m dying, Elihu. Forgive me for what I have done. I should have known better than to trust that devil after all the years with you, who are my real friend. You are known to your most implacable enemy who hates you with the hate of hell. Bend closer! Forgive me, Elihu, and beware your enemy — Carlos Fernandez, Bombay, India.”

“Great God!” ejaculated Judge Lethrop in tones of horror. “I... I begin to have a dim recollection — let me think what that affair was. There was so many escapades— I was in a drunken stupor at the time— The details are very hazy— I can’t conceive of such bitter and deadly animosity— Thirty years! Merciful God!”

“Suppose you explain,” murmured MacCray, his nostrils expanding eagerly with the warmth of the scent.

To Be Concluded

The Crimson Death by Edmund Snell

It was ginger-haired, pock-marked Joe Mortimer who loosed the deadly scourge that struck in the darkness.

I

Never, I believe, in all my experience with one of the most desperate criminals in history, have I encountered anything quite so horrible as the Crimson Death. Nor have I now any doubt that the victim of this latest example of Oriental ingenuity was intended to be myself.

It was one of those glorious spring mornings when one feels that it is good to be alive. Breakfast was finished and cleared away, and I was reading my paper by the long leaded-paned window when the boyish face and Chinese eyes of Peter Pennington came round the door.

“Top of the morning, Gray!” he laughed, and settled himself down on the arm of a chair by the fireplace.