Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

Dimmig admitted that at one time he had had a room on Market Street, but claimed that he could not remember where it was. Efforts made by the police could not bring any identification of this room.

Four witnesses testified that on Friday evening preceeding the death of Benhayon, Dimmig went to Dewing’s Bush Street bookstore to buy some books for Mrs. Zeissing and that he then had with him a bottle of whisky like that found in Benhayon’s room.

With all this in hand, Captain Lees, of the San Francisco police, made the charge of murder against Dimmig on November 12. On March 14, 1888, the jury, after being out sixteen hours, disagreed.

On the second trial in December of the same year Dimmig was acquitted after the jury had been out for twenty-three hours. The verdict aroused a storm of protest.

In the meantime the Supreme Court had at last sent down a decision allowing Bowers a new trial, but as Kytka and other handwriting experts had given it as their opinion that the Benhayon letters were genuine and not forgeries, it was thought that it would be impossible to convict the doctor, and he was allowed to go free; another matter over which San Francisco was heartily indignant.

Bowers at once married “the woman of San Jose” who had been waiting for him all that time and lived with her in the town where his name had been made so notorious, until his death in 1905.

Dimmig and his wife drifted out of sight. Mrs. Zeissing also drifted out of public notice. Mrs. Benhayon went away somewhere, and was forgotten.

To the student of criminal history this is one of the most puzzling of cases, with several well defined possible motives for murder and with more than one possible murderer.

The handwriting experts undoubtedly foozled matters a good deal. We no longer believe that identity can be positively proved by handwriting. There were, it would seem, all sort of forces at work. The police continually found their efforts blocked in trying to get witnesses, find details and so on.

Whether Benhayon really did the deed — surely a crazy man, then, if ever there was one — whether he was murdered so that his “confession” might free the doctor — what part Dimmig and his wife and Mrs. Zeissing took — we can only conjecture.

What we can be sure of is that Bowers was the center of one of the most complicated cases of crime that we have had in this country.

The Tomato-Can Vag by Henry Leverage

Lowliest of the lowly is he, a bony cur at his heels; but here was a master and mongrel — in a dangerous came.

I

From all appearances the man who parted the bushes and crawled up the slope of the Susquehanna and Southern Railroad was a tomato can vagrant, who slept most anywhere in the bedroom of stars.

Big Scar, sometimes known as Scar-Faced Guffman, glared north and south along the line of slippery rails, then he scowled upward at the drizzle that came down from the skies. He was wet to the skin; water dripped down the furrows of his unshaven features; mud oozed from the cracks of the shoes he wore. A white gash across his cheek turned blue as he shivered in the clammy cold.

Behind Big Scar Guffman crouched a mongrel dog with a stumpy tail and three black spots on his hide. The dog’s eyes were sharp and clear — somewhat unlike a mongrel’s. They seemed to match the steely glitter in Big Scar’s glances.

Master and mongrel were a pair — in a dangerous game.

A stone milepost, at the side of the track, indicated to Big Scar that he was thirty miles from where he wanted to be. The Susquehanna River flowed through the bottoms like a tideless sea; the land about was mostly swamp, good only for duck hunting; there was nothing more civilizing in sight than a lone box car perched on a siding one mile north of the hobo’s position.

“Come on, Spot,” Big Scar mumbled. “We’ll mooch up an’ see if we can get dry inside that rattler.”

A position one half mile from the box car brought Big Scar to a sudden stop. He hunched forward his broad shoulders; his broken hands went on his knees: he appraised the box car with a vagrant’s suspicion.

There was a tiny plume of smoke issuing from a chimney at the near end of the car. The scent of burning wood came down the wind to Big Scar. Mingled with it was the odor of cooking.

Both man and dog’s nostrils quivered. Big Scar stood erect and took a hitch in his belt. He braced a pair of shoulders that were as wide as the box car’s door. “Here’s where we eat,” he told the dog, “if we have to tap somebody on th’ bean to get it.”

Big Star was a specialist in cracking skulls; he had an arm equal to three average brakemen; the sectional jimmy he carried under his coat was heavy enough to rip a strong box apart or stun an elephant. It was a tempered tool somewhat out of keeping with his hobolike appearance.

“Come on!” he repeated to Spot. “I smell a Mulligan stewin’, an’ it’ll taste mighty good to us.”