Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Couldn’ find no track o’ the flivver. Right simple, y’ see, t’ run one into any o’ them ol’ loggin’ trails. Then that rain comin’ — well, no chance t’ go ’n’ discover the car, y’ might say. But w’ere was Essie hidin’? W’ere would she hide?”

He looked almost comical, now, as he asked the question with a whimsical grin-looked, indeed, as if he were giving a burlesque of a college professor quizzing his class.

“Well,” he explained, “I got me a sort o’ ment’l card index, ’way ’n the back o’ m’ brain, ’n’ I went ’n’ mulled over it. Dummed ’f I were able t’ drag anything out, at fu’st — ’n’ then spang-bang it hit me hard.

“See Crocker ’n’ his gal, two week ago Sund’y, out ridin’ ’n his car. Passed ’em ’n the road, t’ be truthful. Allus got m’ eye out f’r that minute regard f’r detail stuff o’ grammy’s, don’t f’rget, ’n’ I remember he’d said they was goin’ ’n a all-day picnic.

“Seems I also remember, w’en I got to fu’ther fussin’ with m’ ment’l card index, that suthin’ had struck me funny that day — struck me funny, it did, t’ see the mess o’ food they had with ’em. Beans, f’r ’nstance — w’y, they must ’a’ had eight-ten cans. Yep, even though Essie allus had liked ’em, I remember I won’ered w’y they was luggin’ sech a lot!”

He smiled a bit slyly, this time, as he paused — smiled so slyly, so expertly, that he had his audience where he wanted them. They were tense and silent, waiting.

“Plannin’ the kidnapin’, then, he were, ’n’ stockin’ the place up with food. W’ere was the place, hows’ever? Wa’n’t s’ hard t’ figger out — ’r t’ make a good stab at, leastways. Ought t’ ’a’ hit on it the fu’st day, ’f I’d been right keen.

“He’d be li’ble t’ go t’ the spot where he thought they was the least chance o’ other people goin’ t’ — ’n’ ’f that ol’ hut up ’n Mountain Trout Pond wa’n’t the best bet may I never cast me another fly! Eh, folks?”

He chuckled heartily at that — and then his face became grave as if he had suddenly recollected something.

“Got t’ tell some o’ you more recent summer people that Mountain Trout Pond, up t’ five-six year ago, come t’ be about the best trout water of its kind in the whul’ State o’ Maine. Too good, it were — so good that she was fished out. Yessir, so fished out that I’ll bet a man ain’t been up there with a rod f’r the last five year.

“Private place t’ hide, all right, all right — ’n’ w’en I got Jeff ’n’ Walt t’ go up there, yest’d’y, m’ hunch that Crocker h’d chose it went ’n’ proved good deducin’, like the dee-tectives ’ud put it!”

Whitcher Bemis yawned — yawned and stretched. He spoke casually now, waving a hand:

“Had t’ prove he’d went ’n’ done this thing, o’ course, f’r them letters he’d writ’ hisself was no real ev’dence ag’in’ him. Thought me, then, t’ w’y not use his own weapon — kidnapin’?

“Anyways, I had Walt ’n’ Jeff take Essie down t’ Walt’s place, ’n’ then I manufactured me that Black Hand business ’n’ — well, ’n’ y’ all know the rest! Me? I’m right tired, I be, w’ot with traipsin’ all over the country t’-day returnin’ that ten thousan’ — ’night, folks!”

No Motive Apparent by J. Jefferson Farjeon

“You’re quite right,” said Crook, smiling. “There’s no rule in the matter of murdering — otherwise our job would be easier”.

I

“Is the room exactly as it was when the maid entered it this morning?” asked Detective Crook.

“Nothing has been moved,” replied the local inspector. “Hardly anything’s been touched.”

“By your orders, I suppose?”

“Yes, by my orders.”

Crook nodded, and glanced round the study — at the overturned chairs, at the waste-paper basket lying on its side, at the heavy picture of a hunting scene that had come down from the wall and lay flat upon the floor, and at the splintered glass on the carpet.

“Does it look like suicide?” muttered the inspector. “Unless the suicide of a raving lunatic!”

“I don’t suppose there was any insanity in Mr. Sherman’s family?” queried Crook casually, as he walked across to the French windows.

“Not that I know of,” answered the inspector. “Keen, hard-headed folk, I should say. Lunatics don’t make successful business men.”

“Then — not to mince matters — you suspect foul play?”

“I do, sir.”

Crook pushed open the French windows, and stepped out on to the narrow balcony. A dozen stone steps led down into the garden, arching over the kitchen area; and it was in the kitchen area, battered lifeless by the stone, that Isaac Sherman had been found that morning. Crook had already seen the body. It had not been a pleasant sight.

“Easy enough to throw yourself out, if you had a mind to,” observed the detective. “It’s a nasty drop.”

“Mr. Sherman had no troubles that I know of,” returned the inspector, after a moment.

“That you know of, probably not. But why should you know Mr. Sherman’s troubles? Nearly every one has troubles — even a successful business man.”