From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon thewhirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun.
In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposedof by his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's officeshad come that day but three cases difficult enough to be referred tothe Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lureswhich Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere "Don't." Thethird was a Spiritualist announcement behind which lurked a shrewdplot to entrap a senile millionaire into a marriage with the medium.These having been settled, the expert was free to muse upon aparagraph which had appeared in all the important New York morningpapers of the day before.
REWARD-$1,000 reward for information as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog "Rags" killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel Building, Union Square, March 29.
"That's too much money for a dog," decided Average Jones."Particularly one that hasn't any bench record. I'll just have aglance into the thing."
Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossingover to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is thesole survival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upwardtrend of business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from theelevator at the seventh floor, he paused underneath this sign:
MALCOLM DORR ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST Hours 10 to 4
Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes,sitting at a desk.
"Mr. Dorr?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the fat young man nervously, "but if you are areporter, I must--"
"I am not," interrupted the other. "I am an expert on advertising,and I want that one thousand dollars reward."
The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead.
"You mean you have--have found out something?"
"Not yet. But I intend to."
Dorr stared at him in silence.
"You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?"
"Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly," said the other mechanically.
Average Jones shot a sudden glance of surprise at him, then lookeddreamily at his own finger-nails.
"I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Yourdog was perhaps a green ribboner?"
"Er--oh--yes; I believe so."
"Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medalafter medal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears,and the slender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but soseldom seen nowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughbycurve, from his dam, who was a famous courser."
Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. "I didn't know they used that kind of dogfor coursing," he said vaguely.
Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at thecrease along the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone,when next he spoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of hisintimates would have recognized in it, however, the characteristicevidence that his mind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion.
"Mr. Dorr," he drawled, "who--er--owned your--er--dog?"
"Why, I--I did," said the startled chemist.
"Who gave him to you?"
"A friend."
"Quite so. Was it that--er--friend who--er--offered the reward?"
"What makes you think that?"
"This, to be frank. A man who doesn't know a bulldog from abed-spring isn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avengethe death of one. And the minute you answered my question as towhether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for agreen ribbon, and a splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in thebrindle bull class (there's no such class, by the way), I knew youwere bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who--er--has been--er--threatening yourlife?"
The chemist swung around in his chair.
"What do you know?" he demanded.
"Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonablyvaluable brindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing fordogs without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Isit in your case?"
"Yes, it is," replied the other, after some hesitation.
"And now the protection is gone. Don't you think you'd better letme in on this?"
"Let me speak to my--my legal adviser first."
He called up a down-town number on the telephone and asked to beconnected with Judge Elverson. "I may have to ask you to leave theoffice for a moment," he said to his caller.
"Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney RogerElverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, andremind him of the missing letter opium advertisement."
Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway,whither he had gone.
"Elverson says to tell you the whole thing," said the chemist, "inconfidence, of course."
"Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?"
"The Paragon Pressed Meat Company."
Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimalspeck from his left cuff. "Ah," he commented, "the Canned MeatTrust. What have you been doing to them?"
"Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certainby-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago Ifound they were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and thenselling the stuff."
"Would the meat so treated be poisonous?"
"Well--dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warningthem that they must stop."
"Did they reply?"
"A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that ifI thought my invention was worth more than I'd received, hisprincipals, would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortlyafter I heard that the Federal authorities were going after theTrust, so I called on Mr. Elverson."
"Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fullerof leaks than a sieve."
"That's probably why I found my private laboratory reeking ofcyanide fumes a fortnight later," remarked Dorr dryly. "I got tothe outer air alive, but not much more. A week later there was anexplosion in the laboratory. I didn't happen to be there at thetime. The odd feature of the explosion was that I hadn't anyexplosive drugs in the place."
"Where is this laboratory?"
"Over in Flatbush, where I live--or did live. Within a month afterthat, a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneakingup behind me as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too,but missed me. I reported it to the police, and they told me to besure and not let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it."
Average Jones laughed. "Of course they did. Some day New York willfind out that 'the finest police force in the world' is the biggestsham outside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by theregular, advertised criminals, they're as helpless as babies.Didn't you take any other precautions?"
"Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He sent asecret service man over to live with me. Then I got a commissionout in Denver. When I came back, about a month ago, Judge Elversongave me the two dogs."
"Two?"
"Yes. Rags and Tatters."
"Where's Tatters?"
"Dead. By the same road as Rags."
"Killed at your place in Flatbush?"
"No. Right here in this room."
Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the secondbutton of his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, hedrawled, "Er--both of--er--them?"
"Yes. Ten days apart."
"Where were you?"
"On the spot. That is, I was here when Tatters got his death. Ihad gone to the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Ragswas poisoned."
"Why do you say poisoned?"
"What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of thedogs."
"Was there evidence of poison?"
"Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He wasdozing in a corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and sawhim snapping at his belly. He ran across the room, lay down andbegan licking himself. Within fifteen minutes he began to whine.Then he stiffened out in a sort of a spasm. It was like strychninepoisoning. Before could get a veterinary here he was dead."
"Did you make any examination?"
"I analyzed the contents of his stomach, but did not obtain positiveresults."
"What about the other dog?"
"Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come overfrom Flatbush and Razs was nosing around in the corner--"
"Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?"
"Yes, near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in somethingthere when I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes."
"Lock the door after you?"
"It has a special spring lock which I had put on it."
Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then hisglance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the newfastening. "Yon didn't use that larger lock?"
"No. I haven't for months. The key is lost, I think."
Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from theradiator, and shook his head.
"It's not in range," he said. "Go on."
"As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. You maybelieve I got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. Icalled up the nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes theconvulsions came on. The veterinary was here when Rags died, whichwas within fifteen minutes of the first spasm. He didn't believe itwas strychnine. Said the attacks were different. Whatever it was,I couldn't find any trace of it in the stomach. The veterinary tookthe body away and made a complete autopsy."
"Did he discover anything?"
"Yes. The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found acircle of small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probablyswallowed something that was left in my office, though I don't seehow it could have got there."
"That won't do," returned Average Jones positively. "A dog doesn'tcry out when he swallows poison, unless it's some corrosive."
"It was no corrosive. I examined the mouth."
"What about the radiator?" asked Average Jones, getting down on hisknees beside that antiquated contrivance. "It seems to have beenthe center of disturbance."
"If you're thinking of fumes," replied the chemist. "I tested forthat. It isn't possible."
"No; I suppose not. And yet, there's the curious feature that thefatal influence seems to have emanated from the corner which is themost remote from both windows and door. Are your windows left openat night?"
"The windows, sometimes. The transom is kept double-bolted."
"Do they face any other windows near by?"
"You can see for yourself that they don't."
"There's no fire-escape and it's too far up for anything to come infrom the street." Average examined the walls with attention andreturned to the big keyhole, through which he peeped.
"Do you ever chew gum?" he asked suddenly.
The Chemist stared at him. "It isn't a habit of mine to," he said.
"But you wouldn't have any objection to my sending for some, insatisfaction of a sudden irresistible craving?"
"Any particular brand? I'll phone the comer drug store."
"Any sort will suit, thank you."
When the gum arrived, Average Jones, after politely offering some tohis host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled outto an extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across theunused keyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled.
"Now, what's that for?" inquired the chemist, eying the improvisedclosure with some contempt.
"Don't know, exactly, yet," replied the deviser, cheerfully. "Butwhen queer and fatal things happen in a room and there's only oneopening, it's just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter howsmall it is. Better still, perhaps, if you'd shift your office."
The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of thewindow, and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby linesof his face had abruptly hardened over the firm contour below.
"No. I'm hanged if I will," he said simply.
An amiable grin overspread Average Jones' face.
"You've got more nerve than prudence," he observed. "But I don'tsay you aren't right. Since you're going to stick to the ship, keepyour eye on that gum. If it lets go its hold, wire me."
"All right," agreed young Mr. Dorr. "Whatever your little game is,I'll play it. Give me your address in case you leave town."
"As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on specialorder to dig through the files of the local and neighboring citynewspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If ourunknown has devised a new method of canicide, it's quite possible hemay have worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can'tbe wise, be careful."
Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popularpastime in and around New York, judging from the succession of newsitems which poured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Severaldays were exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived,among other data, an article from the Bridgeport Morning Delineatorwhich caused the Ad-Visor to sit up with a jerk. It detailed thepoisoning of several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hourslater he was in the bustling Connecticut city. There he tookcarriage for the house of Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable GreatDane dog had been the last victim.
Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman allgrown to a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points ofirascible gleam, and a most pointed manner of speech.
"Who are you?" he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in.
Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to dealwith it.
"Jones!" he retorted with such astounding emphasis that themonosyllable fairly exploded in the other's face.
"Well, well, well," said the elder man, his aspect suddenlymollified. "Don't bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and whatdo you want of me?"
"Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to now about your dog."
"Reporter?"
"No"
"Glad of it. They're no good. Had my reporters on this case.Found nothing."
"Your reporters?"
"I own the Bridgeport Delineator."
"What about the dog?"
"Good boy!" approved the old martinet. "Sticks to his point. Dogwas out walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant loton next square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber.Dog nosed around. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm.Died in fifteen minutes. And hang me, sir," cried the old man,bringing his fist down on Average Jones' knee, "if I see how thepoison got him, for he was muzzled to the snout, sir!"
"Muzzled? Then--er--why do, you--er--suggest poison?" drawled theyoung man.
"Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week."
"All in this locality?"
"Yes, all on Golden Hill."
"Any suspicions?"
"Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this."
Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his hostextended, and read:
WARNING-Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestlycautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles oroutbuildings until further notice. Danger!"
"When was this published?"
"Wasn't published. Delineator refused it. Thought it was a caseof insanity."
"Who offered it?"
"Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next cornerwith old-fashioned conservatory."
"How long ago?"
"About a week."
"All the dogs you speak of died since then?"
"Yes."
"Did he give any explanation of the advertisement?"
"No. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the office, thebusiness manager said. Wouldn't sign his name to the thing.Wouldn't say anything about it. Begged the manager to let him havethe weather reports in advance, every day. The manager put theadvertisement in type, decided not to it, and returned the money."
"'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long wasthe ad to run?"
"Until the first hard frost."
"Has there--er--been a--er--frost since?" drawled Average Jones.
"No."
"Who is this Moseley?"
"Don't know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, Ibelieve. Very exclusive," added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin."Never sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though.Insane, too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing inthem."
"How's that?" inquired Average Jones.
The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "Itgot enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. Thehandwriting on the envelope is his own. Look inside."
A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed inNew York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It wasa small slip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubberstamp. There was no writing of any kind. Near the center of thesheet were three dots. They seemed to have been made with red ink.
"You're sure the address is in Professor Moseley's writing?"
"I'd swear to it."
"It doesn't follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I shouldjudge that it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not tohave any specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.
"Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysteriousyoung friend?"
"Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours."
"Well, I've got my man. He confessed."
"Confessed?" echoed Average Jones.
"Practically. I've kept the point of the story to the last.Professor Moseley committed suicide this morning."
If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on hisvisitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feetslowly, walked over to the window, returned, picked up the strange proofwith its message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to thewindow, and stared out into the day.
"Cut his throat about nine o'clock this morning," pursued the other."Dead when they found him."
"Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?" said Average Jonescurtly.
"Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling,"cackled the other. "You' re a singular young man. Have it your ownway."
After a five minutes' silence the visitor turned from the window andspoke. "There has been a deadly danger loose about here for whichProfessor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself.Why?"
"Because I was on his trail," declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Afraidto face me."
"Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by thisthing, whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseleyto suicide."
"Prove it."
"Give me a morning paper."
His host handed him the current issue of the Delineator.
Average Jones studied the local page.
"Where's Galvin's Alley?" he asked presently.
"Two short blocks from here."
"In the Golden Hill section?"
"Yes."
"Read that."
Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to aparagraph telling of the death of an Italian child living inGalvin's Alley. Cause, convulsions.
"By Jove!" said he, somewhat awed. "You can reason, young man."
"I've got to, reason a lot further, if I'm to get anywhere in thisaffair," said Average Jones with conviction. "Do you care, to cometo Galvin's Alley with me?"
Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked bywhite crepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English.They said that four-year-old Pietro had been playing around awoodpile the afternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home,staggering. The doctor could do nothing. The little one passedfrom spasm into spasm, and died in an hour.
"Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?" askedAverage Jones.
The dead child's father looked surprised. That, he said, was whatthe strange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer,bent little gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who waskind, and wept with them and gave them money to bury the "bambino."
"Moseley, by the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Butwhat was the death-agent?"
Average Jones shook his head. "Too early to do more than guess.Will you take me to Professor Moseley's place?"
The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory onone wing. In the front room they found the recluse's body decentlydisposed, with an undertaker's assistant in charge. From thegreenhouse came a subdued hissing.
"What's that?" asked Jones.
"Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the bodyinsisting on its being done. 'For safety,' it said, so I ordered itlooked to."
"You're in charge, then?"
"It's my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Comeand look at his papers. You won't find much."
In the old-fashioned desk was a heap of undecipherable matter,interspersed with dates, apparently bearing upon scientificexperiments; a package of letters from the Denny ResearchLaboratories of St. Louis, mentioning enclosure of checks; and threeself-addressed envelopes bearing New York postmarks, of datesrespectively, March 12, March 14 and March 20. Each contained adate-stamped sheet of paper, similar to that which Mr. CurtisFleming had shown to Average Jones. The one of earliest date boretwo red dots; the second, three red dots, and the third, two. Allthe envelopes were endorsed in Professor Moseley's handwriting; thefirst with the one word "Filled." The second writing was "Held forwarmer weather." The last was inscribed "One in poor condition."
Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of thelaboratory address. By this time the hissing of the fumigatingapparatus had ceased. The two men went to the conservatory andgazed in upon a ruin of limp leaves and flaccid petals, killed bythe powerful gases. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment,the investigator stooped and lifted from the floor a marvel ofermine body and pale green wings. The moth, spreading nearly afoot, was quite dead.
"Here's the mate, sir," said the fumigating expert, handing himanother specimen, a trifle smaller. "The place was crowded with allkinds of pretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now."
Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them andlaid them carefully away in a drawer.
"The rest must wait," he said. "I have to send a telegram."
With the interested Mr. Curtis Fleming in attendance, he went to thetelegraph office, where he wrote out a dispatch.
"Mr. A. V. R. Jones?" said the operator. "There's a message herefor you."
Average Jones took the leaflet and read:
"Found gum on floor this morning when I arrived.MALCOLM DORR."
Then he recalled his own blank, tore it up, and substituted thefollowing, which he ordered "rushed":
MALCOLM DORR, STENGEL BUILDING, NEW YORY CITY:
"Leave office immediately. Do not return until it has beenfumigated thoroughly. Imperative.
A. V. R. JONES."
"And now," said Average Jones to Mr. Fleming, "I'm going back to NewYork. If any collectors come chasing to you for luna moths, don'tdeal with them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card."
"Your orders shall be obeyed," said the older man, his beady eyestwinkling. "But why, in the name of all that's unheard of, shouldcollectors come bothering me about luna moths?"
"Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in thenext number of the National Science Weekly, and in coming issues ofthe New York Evening Register."
He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement:
"For Sale--Two largest known specimens of Tropaea luna, unmounted; respectively 10 and 11 inches spread. Also various other specimens from collection of late Gerald Moseley, of Conn. Write for particulars. Jones, Room 222 Astor Court Temple, New York."
"What about further danger here?" inquired Mr. Fleming, as AverageJones bade him good-by. "Would we better run that warning of poorMoseley's, after all?"
For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snowenveloped the streets.
"I see," said the old man. "The frost. Well Mr. Mysterious Jones,I don't know what you're up to, but you've given me an interestingday. Let me know what comes of it."
On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. Onewas to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other tothe Department of Agriculture at Washington. On the followingmorning be went to Dorr's office. That young chemist was in arecalcitrant frame of mind.
"I've done about ten dollars' worth of fumigating and a hundreddollars' worth of damage," he said, "and now, I'd like to have aMissouri sign. In other words, I want to be shown. What did someskunk want to kill my dogs for?"
"He didn't."
"But they're dead, aren't they?"
"Accident."
"What kind of an accident?"
"The kind in which the innocent bystander gets the worst of it.You're the one it was meant for."
"Me?"
"Certainly. You'd probably have got it if the dog hadn't."
The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiatorand looked over, under and through it minutely. "Nothing there," heobserved; and, after extending his examination to the windows,book-shelf and desk, added:
"I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safestside is the best."
"What is it? Some new game in projective germs?" demanded thechemist.
"Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs," returnedAverage Jones. "Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I'llhave some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have aplumber solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short ofdynamite can get through it."
Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer ofluna moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings.Letters came in by, every mail, responding variously with fervor,suspicion, yearning eagerness, and bitter skepticism to AverageJones' advertisement. All of these he put aside, except such asbore a New York postmark. And each day he compared the new namessigned to the New York letters with the directory of occupants ofthe Stengel Building. Less than a week after the luna mothadvertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into Malcolm Dorr'soffice with a twinkle in his eye.
"Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?" he asked the chemist.
"Never heard of him."
"Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in therest of the Moseley collection. He writes from the DelamaterApartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office inthis building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, heis one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed MeatCompany. Do you see?"
"I begin," replied young Mr. Dorr.
"It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floorabove, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quittingwork late at night when the elevator had stopped running and--let ussay--peep through the keyhole."
Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, cleanlines of his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh.
"I don't know what you're going to do to Mr. Ross," he said, "but Iwant to see him first."
"I'm not going to do anything to him," returned Average Jones,"because, in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away,having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisisof the nerves. It's strange how nervous your scientific murdereris. Anyway, Ross is only an agent. I'm going to aim higher."
"As how?"
"Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare apeaceful but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of hissenses; second, I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas;and third, I expect to raise the street selling price of the evening"yellow" journals, temporarily, about one thousand per cent. What'sthe answer? The answer is 'Buy to-night's papers.'"
New York, that afternoon, saw something new in advertising. That itreally was advertising was shown by the "Adv." sign, large andplain, in both the papers which carried it. The favored journalswere the only two which indulged in "fudge" editions; that is,editions with glaring red-typed inserts of "special" news. On thefront page of each, stretching narrowly across three columns, was adevice showing a tiny mapped outline in black marked Bridgeport,Conn., and a large skeleton draft of Manhattan Island showing theprincipal streets. From the Connecticut city downward ran a line ofdots in red. The dots entered New York from the north, passed downFourth Avenue to the south side of Union Square, turned west andterminated. Beneath this map was the legend, also in red:
WATCH THE LINE ADVANCE IN LATER EDITIONS
It was the first time in the records of journalism that the "fudge"device had been used in advertising.
Great was the rejoicing of the "newsies" when public curiosity madea "run" upon these papers. Greater it grew when the "afternoonedition" appeared, and with their keen business instinct, theurchins saw that they could run the price upward, which theypromptly did, in some cases even to a nickel. This edition carriedthe same "fudge" advertisement, but now the red dots crossed over toFifth Avenue and turned northward as far as Twenty-third Street.The inscription was:
UPWARD AND ONWARD
SEE NEXT EXTRA
For the "Night Extra" people paid five, ten, even fifteen cents.Rumor ran wild. Other papers, even, look the matter up as news, andcommented upon the meaning of the extraordinary advertisement. This time,the red-dotted line went as far up Fifth Ave title as Fiftieth Street.And the legend was ominous:
WHEN I TURN, I STRIKE
That was all that evening. The dotted line did not turn.
Keen as newspaper conjecture is, it failed to connect the "red-linemaps," with the fame of which the city was raging, with an item ofshipping news printed in the evening papers of the following day:
CLEARED--For South American Ports, steam yacht Electra, New York. Owner John M. Colwell.
And not until the following morning did the papers announce thatPresident Colwell, of the Canned Meat Trust, having been ordered byhis physician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves,after closing his house on West Fifty-first Street, had sailed inhis own yacht. The same issue carried a few lines about the "freakads." which had so sensationally blazed and so suddenly waned fromthe "yellows." The opinion was offered that they represented theexploitation of some new brand of whisky which would announce itselflater. But that announcement never came, and President Colwellsailed to far seas, and Mr. Curtis Fleming came to New York, keenfor explanations, for he, too, had seen the "fudge" and marveled.Hence, Average Jones had him, together with young Mr. Dorr, at aprivate room luncheon at the Cosmic Club, where he offered anexplanation and elucidation.
"The whole affair," he said, "was a problem in the connecting up ofloose ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in theoffice of a man with powerful and subtle enemies, that office beingpractically sealed against intrusion except for a very largekeyhole. Some deadly thing is introduced through that keyhole; somuch is practically proven by the breaking out of the chewing gumwith which I coated it. Probably the scheme was carried out in theevening when the building was nearly deserted. The killinginfluence reaches a corner far out of the direct line of thekeyhole. Being near the radiator, that corner represents theattraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was somesentient creature."
Dorr shuddered. "Some kind of venomous snake," he surmised.
"Not a bad guess. But a snake, however small, would have beeninstantly noticed by the dogs. Now, let's look at the Bridgeportend. Here, again, we have a deadly influence loosed; this time byaccident. A scientific experimentalist is the innocent cause of thedisaster. Here, too, the peril is somewhat dependent upon warmth,since we know, from Professor Moseley's agonized eagerness for afrost, that cold weather would have put an end to it. The coldweather fails to come. Dogs are killed. Finally a child fallsvictim, and on that child is found a circular mark, similar to themark on Mr. Dorr's dog's lip. You see the striking points ofanalogy?"
"Do you mean us to believe poor old Moseley a cold-blooded murderer?"demanded Mr. Curtis Fleming.
"Far from it. At worst an unhappy victim of his own carelessness inloosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You're forgetting aconnecting link; the secretive red-dot communications from New YorkCity addressed by Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer whoordered simply by a code of ink dots. He was the man I had to find.The giant luna moths helped to do it."
"I don't see where they come in at all," declared Dorr bluntly. "Amoth a foot wide couldn't crawl through a keyhole."
"No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is as harmless as it islovely. In this case the moths weren't active agents. They wereimportant only as clues--and bait. Their enormous size showedProfessor Moseley's line of work; the selective breeding of certainforms of life to two or three times the normal proportions. Verywell; I had to ascertain some creature which, if magnified severaltimes, would be deadly, and which would still be capable of enteringa large keyhole. Having determined that--"
"You found what it was?" cried Dorr.
"One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touchwith Professor Moseley's mysterious New York correspondent. Ifigured that he must be interested in Professor Moseley's particularbranch of research or he never could have devised his murderousscheme. So I constructed the luna moth advertisement to draw him,and when I got a reply from Mr. Ross, who is a fellow-tenant of Mr.Dorr's, the chain was complete. Now, you see where the luna mothswere useful. If I had advertised, instead of them, thelathrodectus, he might have suspected and refrained from answering."
"What's the lathrodectus?" demanded both the hearers at once.
For answer Average Jones took a letter from his pocket and read:
BUREAU OF ENTOMOLOGY,
U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE,
WASHINGTON, D. C., April 7
MR. A. V. R. JONES,
Astor Court Temple, New York City.
DEAR Sir,
Replying to your letter of inquiry, the only insect answering yourspecifications is a small spider Lathrodectus mactans, sometimespopularly called the Red Dot, from a bright red mark upon the back.Rare cases are known where death has been caused by the bite of thisinsect. Fortunately its fangs are so weak that they can penetrateonly very tender skin, otherwise death from its bite would be morecommon, as the venom, drop for drop, is perhaps the most virulentknown to science.
This Bureau knows nothing of any experiments in breeding theLathrodectus for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or threetimes the normal size would be dangerous to life is undoubtedlycorrect, and selected breeding to that end should be conducted onlyunder adequate scientific safeguards. A Lathrodectus mactans withfangs large enough to penetrate the skin of the hand, and a doubleor triple supply of venom, would be, perhaps, more deadly than acobra.
The symptoms of poisoning by this species are spasms, similar tothose of trismus, and agonizing general pains. There are no localsymptoms, except, in some cases, a circle of small pustules aboutthe bitten spot.
Commercially, the Lathrodectus has value, in that the poison is usedin certain affections of the heart. For details, I would refer youto the Denny Laboratories of St. Louis, Mo., which are purchasers ofthe venom.
The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive asevere frost. It frequents woodpiles and outhouses. Yours truly,
L. O. HOWARD,Chief of Bureau.
"Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spiderswhich he had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in thehope that sooner or later one of them would get me," said Dorr.
"A very reasonable expectation, too. Vide, the dogs," returnedAverage Jones.
"And now," said Mr. Curtis Fleming, "will some one kindly explain tome what this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?"
"Nothing," replied Average Jones.
"Nothing? Was he coursing with spiders merely for sport?"
"Oh, no. You see Mr. Dorr was interfering with the machinery of oneof our ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessedinformation which would have indicted all the officials. Thereforeit was desirable--even essential--that he should be removed from thepathway of progress."
"Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!" snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming."Trusts may be unprincipled, but they don't commit individualcrimes."
"Don't they?" returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his ownboot-tip. "Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer's little corsetsteel which he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob thegovernment for the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individualoil refineries which mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at atime when they became annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or ofthe Traction Trust's two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in SanFrancisco? I'm just mentioning a few cases from memory. Why, whena criminal trust faces only loss it will commit forgery, theft orarson. When it faces jail, it will commit murder just asdeterminedly. Self-defense, you know. As for the case of Mr.Dorr--" and he proceeded to detail the various attempts on the youngchemist's life.
"But why so roundabout a method?" asked Dorr skeptically.
"Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you throughagents. That didn't work. It was up to the Trust to put one of itsown confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. Hedevised a means that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run,sure."
"And would have been but for your skill, young Jones," declared Mr.Curtis Fleming, with emphasis.
"Don't forget the fortunate coincidences," replied Average Jonesmodestly. "They're about half of it. In fact, detective work, forall that is said on the other side, is mostly the ability torecognize and connect coincidences. The coincidence of the escapeof the Red Dots from Professor Moseley's breeding cages; thecoincidence of the death of the dogs on Golden Hill, followed by thedeath of the child; the coincidence of poor Moseley's having leftthe red dot letters on the desk instead of destroying them; thecoincidence of Dorr's dogs being bitten, when it might easily havebeen himself had he gone to turn on the radiator and disturbed thesavage little spider--"'
"And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in theadvertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more toscare off further attempts than anything else," put in Dorr. "Whatbecame of the spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?"
"Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. Theothers may well have died of cold. At night when the heat was offand the windows open. The cleaning woman wouldn't have been likelyto notice them when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later,if Ross had continued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one ofthem would have bitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust wouldhave gone on its way rejoicing."
"Well, you've certainly saved my life," declared Dorr, "and it's acase of sheer force of reasoning."
Average Jones shook his head. "You might give some of the credit toProvidence," he said. "Just one little event would have meant thesaving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the deathof yourself, instead of the other way around."
"And that event?" asked Mr. Curtis Fleming.
"Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport," replied Average Jones.