________________________________________________
_ From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon the
whirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun.
In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed
of by his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's offices
had come that day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to
the Ad-Visor himself. Two were rather intricate financial lures
which Average Jones was able to dispose of by a mere "Don't." The
third was a Spiritualist announcement behind which lurked a shrewd
plot to entrap a senile millionaire into a marriage with the medium.
These having been settled, the expert was free to muse upon a
paragraph which had appeared in all the important New York morning
papers 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 a
glance into the thing."
Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossing
over to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the
sole survival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upward
trend of business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from the
elevator 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 a
reporter, 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 looked
dreamily at his own finger-nails.
"I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Your
dog was perhaps a green ribboner?"
"Er--oh--yes; I believe so."
"Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medal
after medal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears,
and the slender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but so
seldom seen nowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughby
curve, from his dam, who was a famous courser."
Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. "I didn't know they used that kind of dog
for coursing," he said vaguely.
Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the
crease along the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone,
when next he spoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his
intimates would have recognized in it, however, the characteristic
evidence 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 a
bed-spring isn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge
the death of one. And the minute you answered my question as to
whether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for a
green ribbon, and a splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the
brindle bull class (there's no such class, by the way), I knew you
were bluffing. Mr. Dorr, who--er--has been--er--threatening your
life?"
The chemist swung around in his chair.
"What do you know?" he demanded.
"Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonably
valuable brindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing for
dogs without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is
it 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 let
me 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 be
connected with judge Elverson. "I may have to ask you to leave the
office for a moment," he said to his caller.
"Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney Roger
Elverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, and
remind 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, "in
confidence, 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 infinitesimal
speck from his left cuff. "Ah," he commented, "the Canned Meat
Trust. What have you been doing to them?"
"Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certain
by-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I
found they were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then
selling the stuff."
"Would the meat so treated be poisonous?"
"Well--dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning
them that they must stop."
"Did they reply?"
"A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if
I thought my invention was worth more than I'd received, his
principals, would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly
after I heard that the Federal authorities were going after the
Trust, so I called on Mr. Elverson."
"Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller
of leaks than a sieve."
"That's probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of
cyanide fumes a fortnight later," remarked Dorr dryly. "I got to
the outer air alive, but not much more. A week later there was an
explosion in the laboratory. I didn't happen to be there at the
time. The odd feature of the explosion was that I hadn't any
explosive drugs in the place."
"Where is this laboratory?"
"Over in Flatbush, where I live--or did live. Within a month after
that, a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking
up 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 be
sure and not let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it."
Average Jones laughed. "Of course they did. Some day New York will
find out that 'the finest police force in the world' is the biggest
sham outside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by the
regular, 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 a
secret service man over to live with me. Then I got a commission
out in Denver. When I came back, about a month ago, judge Elverson
gave 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 second
button of his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, he
drawled, "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. I
had gone to the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Rags
was poisoned."
"Why do you say poisoned?"
"What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of the
dogs."
"Was there evidence of poison?"
"Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He was
dozing in a corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and saw
him snapping at his belly. He ran across the room, lay down and
began licking himself. Within fifteen minutes he began to whine.
Then he stiffened out in a sort of a spasm. It was like strychnine
poisoning. 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 positive
results."
"What about the other dog?"
"Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over
from 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 something
there 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 his
glance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new
fastening. "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 the
radiator, 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 may
believe I got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. I
called up the nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes the
convulsions came on. The veterinary was here when Rags died, which
was within fifteen minutes of the first spasm. He didn't believe it
was strychnine. Said the attacks were different. Whatever it was,
I couldn't find any trace of it in the stomach. The veterinary took
the body away and made a complete autopsy."
"Did he discover anything?"
"Yes. The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found a
circle of small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probably
swallowed something that was left in my office, though I don't see
how it could have got there."
"That won't do," returned Average Jones positively. "A dog doesn't
cry 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 his
knees beside that antiquated contrivance. "It seems to have been
the center of disturbance."
"If you're thinking of fumes," replied the chemist. "I tested for
that. It isn't possible."
"No; I suppose not. And yet, there's the curious feature that the
fatal influence seems to have emanated from the corner which is the
most remote from both windows and door. Are your windows left open
at 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 in
from the street." Average examined the walls with attention and
returned 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, in
satisfaction 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 to
his host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out
to an extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the
unused keyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled.
"Now, what's that for?" inquired the chemist, eying the improvised
closure with some contempt.
"Don't know, exactly, yet," replied the deviser, cheerfully. "But
when queer and fatal things happen in a room and there's only one
opening, it's just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter how
small it is. Better still, perhaps, if you'd shift your office."
The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of the
window, and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby lines
of 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't
say you aren't right. Since you're going to stick to the ship, keep
your 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 special
order to dig through the files of the local and neighboring city
newspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If our
unknown has devised a new method of canicide, it's quite possible he
may have worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can't
be wise, be careful."
Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular
pastime in and around New York, judging from the succession of news
items which poured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several
days were exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived,
among other data, an article from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator
which caused the Ad-Visor to sit up with a jerk. It detailed the
poisoning of several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hours
later he was in the bustling Connecticut city. There he took
carriage for the house of Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable Great
Dane dog had been the last victim.
Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all
grown to a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of
irascible 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 deal
with it.
"Jones!" he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the
monosyllable fairly exploded in the other's face.
"Well, well, well," said the elder man, his aspect suddenly
mollified. "Don't bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what
do 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. Dog
was out walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot
on 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 the
poison got him, for he was muzzled to the snout, sir!"
"Muzzled? Then--er--why do, you--er--suggest poison?" drawled the
young 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 host
extended, and read:
WARNING-Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestly
cautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles or
outbuildings until further notice. Danger!"
"When was this published?"
"Wasn't published. Delineator refused it. Thought it was a case
of insanity."
"Who offered it?"
"Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner
with 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, the
business manager said. Wouldn't sign his name to the thing.
Wouldn't say anything about it. Begged the manager to let him have
the weather reports in advance, every day. The manager put the
advertisement in type, decided not to it, and returned the money."
"'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long was
the 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, I
believe. 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 in
them."
"How's that?" inquired Average Jones.
The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "It
got enclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The
handwriting on the envelope is his own. Look inside."
A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in
New York on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was
a small slip of paper. The date was stamped on with all rubber
stamp. There was no writing of any kind. Near the center of the
sheet 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 should
judge that it was sent by some who was particularly anxious not to
have any specimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.
"Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious
young 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 his
visitor, his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet
slowly, walked over window, returned, picked up the strange proof
with its message of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the
window, 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 Jones
curtly.
"Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling,"
cackled the other. "You' re a singular young man. Have it your own
way."
After a five minutes' silence the visitor turned from the window and
spoke. "There has been a deadly danger loose about here for which
Professor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself.
Why?"
"Because I was on his trail," declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Afraid
to face me."
"Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this
thing, whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley
to 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 a
paragraph telling of the death of an Italian child living in
Galvin's Alley. Cause, convulsions.
"By Jove!" said be, somewhat awed. "You can reason, young man."
"I've got to, reason a lot further, if I'm to get anywhere in this
affair," said Average Jones with conviction. "Do you care, to come
to Galvin's Alley with me?"
Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by
white crepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English.
They said that four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a
woodpile the afternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home,
staggering. The doctor could do nothing. The little one passed
from spasm into spasm, and died in an hour.
"Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?" asked
Average Jones.
The dead child's father looked surprised. That, he said, was what
the strange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer,
bent little gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was
kind, and wept with them and gave them money to bury the "bambino."
"Moseley, by the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. "But
what 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 on
one wing. In the front room they found the recluse's body decently
disposed, with an undertaker's assistant in charge. From the
greenhouse came a subdued hissing.
"What's that?" asked Jones.
"Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the body
insisting on its being done. 'For safety,' it said, so I ordered it
looked to."
"You're in charge, then?"
"It's my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Come
and 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 scientific
experiments; a package of letters from the Denny Research
Laboratories of St. Louis, mentioning enclosure of checks; and three
self-addressed envelopes bearing New York postmarks, of dates
respectively, March 12, March 14 and March 20. Each contained a
date-stamped sheet of paper, similar to that which Mr. Curtis
Fleming had shown to Average Jones. The one of earliest date bore
two red dots; the second, three red dots, and the third, two. All
the envelopes were endorsed in Professor Moseley's handwriting; the
first with the one word "Filled." The second writing was "Held for
warmer weather." The last was inscribed "One in poor condition."
Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of the
laboratory address. By this time the hissing of the fumigating
apparatus had ceased. The two men went to the conservatory and
gazed in upon a ruin of limp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by
the powerful gases. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment,
the investigator stooped and lifted from the floor a marvel of
ermine body and pale green wings. The moth, spreading nearly a
foot, was quite dead.
"Here's the mate, sir," said the fumigating expert, handing him
another specimen, a trifle smaller. "The place was crowded with all
kinds of pretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now."
Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them and
laid 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 the
telegraph office, where he wrote out a dispatch.
"Mr. A. V. R. Jones?" said the operator. "There's a message here
for 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 the
following, which he ordered "rushed":
MALCOLM DORR, STENGEL BUILDING, NEW YORY CITY:
"Leave office immediately. Do not return until it has been
fumigated thoroughly. Imperative.
A. V. R. JONES."
"And now," said Average Jones to Mr. Fleming, "I'm going back to New
York. If any collectors come chasing to you for luna moths, don't
deal with them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card."
"Your orders shall be obeyed," said the older man, his beady eyes
twinkling. "But why, in the name of all that's unheard of, should
collectors come bothering me about luna moths?"
"Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the
next number of the National Science Weekly, and in coming issues of
the New York Evening Register."
He banded 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 Average
Jones bade him good-by. "Would we better run that warning of poor
Moseley's, after all?"
For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snow
enveloped 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 interesting
day. Let me know what comes of it."
On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. One
was to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other to
the Department of Agriculture at Washington. On the following
morning be went to Dorr's office. That young chemist was in a
recalcitrant frame of mind.
"I've done about ten dollars' worth of fumigating and a hundred
dollars' worth of damage," he Paid: "and now, I'd like to have a
Missouri sign. In other words, I want to be shown. What did some
skunk 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 radiator
and looked over, under and through it minutely. "Nothing there," he
observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows,
book-shelf and desk, added:
"I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest
side is the best."
"What is it? Some new game in projective germs?" demanded the
chemist.
"Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs," returned
Average Jones. "Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I'll
have some mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a
plumber solder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of
dynamite can get through it."
Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of
luna 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 Average
Jones' advertisement. All of these he put aside, except such as
bore a New York postmark. And each day he compared the new names
signed to the New York letters with the directory of occupants of
the Stengel Building. Less than a week after the luna moth
advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into Malcolm Dorr's
office 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 the
rest of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater
Apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in
this building. Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he
is one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat
Company. Do you see?"
"I begin," replied young Mr. Dorr.
"It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor
above, to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting
work late at night when the elevator had stopped running and--let us
say--peep through the keyhole."
Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean
lines 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 I
want 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 crisis
of the nerves. It's strange how nervous your scientific murderer
is. 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 a
peaceful but murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his
senses; 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's
the answer? The answer is 'Buy to-night's papers.'"
New York, that afternoon, saw something new in advertising. That it
really was advertising was shown by the "Adv." sign, large and
plain, in both the papers which carried it. The favored journals
were the only two which indulged in "fudge" editions; that is,
editions with glaring red-typed inserts of "special" news. On the
front page of each, stretching narrowly across three columns, was a
device showing a tiny mapped outline in black marked Bridgeport,
Conn., and a large skeleton draft of Manhattan Island showing the
principal streets. From the Connecticut city downward ran a line of
dots in red. The dots entered New York from the north, passed down
Fourth Avenue to the south side of Union Square, turned west and
terminated. 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 made
a "run" upon these papers. Greater it grew when the "afternoon
edition" appeared, and with their keen business instinct, the
urchins saw that they could run the price upward, which they
promptly did, in some cases even to a nickel. This edition carried
the same "fudge" advertisement, but now the red dots crossed over to
Fifth 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, and
commented 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-line
maps," with the fame of which the city was raging, with an item of
shipping 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 that
President Colwell, of the Canned Meat Trust, having been ordered by
his physician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves,
after closing his house on West Fifty-first Street, had sailed in
his own yacht. The same issue carried a few lines about the "freak
ads." which had so sensationally blazed and so suddenly waned from
the "yellows." The opinion was offered that they represented the
exploitation of some new brand of whisky which would announce itself
later. But that announcement never came, and President Colwell
sailed to far seas, and Mr. Curtis; Fleming came to New York, keen
for explanations, for he, too, had seen the "fudge" and marveled.
Hence, Average Jones had him, together with young Mr. Dorr, at a
private room luncheon at the Cosmic Club, where he offered an
explanation and elucidation.
"The whole affair," he said, "was a problem in the connecting up of
loose ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in the
office of a man with powerful and subtle enemies, that office being
practically sealed against intrusion except for a very large
keyhole. Some deadly thing is introduced through that keyhole; so
much is practically proven by the breaking out of the chewing gum
with which I coated it. Probably the scheme was carried out in the
evening when the building was nearly deserted. The killing
influence reaches a corner far out of the direct line of the
keyhole. Being near the radiator, that comer represents the
attraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was some
sentient creature."
Dorr shuddered. "Some kind of venomous snake," he surmised.
"Not a bad guess. But a snake, however small, would have been
instantly noticed by the dogs. Now, let's look at the Bridgeport
end. Here, again, we have a deadly influence loosed; this time by
accident. A scientific experimentalist is the innocent cause of the
disaster. Here, too, the peril is somewhat dependent upon warmth,
since we know, from Professor Moseley's agonized eagerness for a
frost, that cold weather would have put an end to it. The cold
weather fails to come. Dogs are killed. Finally a child falls
victim, and on that child is found a circular mark, similar to the
mark on Mr. Dorr's dog's lip. You see the striking points of
analogy?"
"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 in
loosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You're forgetting a
connecting link; the secretive red-dot communications from New York
City addressed by Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer who
ordered 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. "A
moth a foot wide couldn't crawl through a keyhole."
"No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is as harmless as it is
lovely. In this case the moths weren't active agents. They were
important only as clues--and bait. Their enormous size showed
Professor Moseley's line of work; the selective breeding of certain
forms of life to two or three times the normal proportions. Very
well; I had to ascertain some creature which, if magnified several
times, would be deadly, and which would still be capable of entering
a large keyhole. Having determined that--"
"You found what it was?" cried Dorr.
"One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touch
with Professor Moseley's mysterious New York correspondent. I
figured that he must be interested in Professor Moseley's particular
branch of research or he never could have devised his murderous
scheme. 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 moths
were useful. If I had advertised, instead of them, the
lathrodectus, 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 your
specifications is a small spider Lathrodectus mactans, sometimes
popularly 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 this
insect. Fortunately its fangs are so weak that they can penetrate
only very tender skin, otherwise death from its bite would be more
common, as the venom, drop for drop, is perhaps the most virulent
known to science.
This Bureau knows nothing of any experiments in breeding the
Lathrodectus for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or three
times the normal size would be dangerous to life is undoubtedly
correct, and selected breeding to that end should be conducted only
under adequate scientific safeguards. A Lathrodectus mactans with
fangs large enough to penetrate the skin of the hand, and a double
or triple supply of venom, would be, perhaps, more deadly than a
cobra.
The symptoms of poisoning by this species are spasms, similar to
those of trismus, and agonizing general pains. There are no local
symptoms, except, in some cases, a circle of small pustules about
the bitten spot.
Commercially, the Lathrodectus has value, in that the poison is used
in certain affections of the heart. For details, I would refer you
to the Denny Laboratories of St. Louis, Mo., which are purchasers of
the venom.
The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive a
severe 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 spiders
which he had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the
hope that sooner or later one of them would get me," said Dorr.
"A very reasonable expectation, too. Vide, the dogs," returned
Average Jones.
"And now," said Mr. Curtis Fleming, "will some one kindly explain to
me 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 one
of our ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessed
information which would have indicted all the officials. Therefore
it was desirable--even essential--that he should be removed from the
pathway of progress."
"Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!" snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming.
"Trusts may be unprincipled, but they don't commit individual
crimes."
"Don't they?" returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his own
boot-tip. "Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer's little corset
steel which he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob the
government for the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individual
oil refineries which mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at a
time when they became annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or of
the Traction Trust's two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in San
Francisco? I'm just mentioning a few cases from memory. Why, when
a criminal trust faces only loss it will commit forgery, theft or
arson. When it faces jail, it will commit murder just as
determinedly. Self-defense, you know. As for the case of Mr.
Dorr--" and he proceeded to detail the various attempts on the young
chemist's life.
"But why so roundabout a method?" asked Dorr skeptically.
"Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you through
agents. That didn't work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its
own confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He
devised 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 Jones
modestly. "They're about half of it. In fact, detective work, for
all that is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to
recognize and connect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape
of the Red Dots from Professor Moseley's breeding cages; the
coincidence of the death of the dogs on Golden Hill, followed by the
death of the child; the coincidence of poor Moseley's having left
the red dot letters on the desk instead of destroying them; the
coincidence of Dorr's dogs being bitten, when it might easily have
been himself had he gone to turn on the radiator and disturbed the
savage little spider--"'
"And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in the
advertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to
scare off further attempts than anything else," put in Dorr. "What
became of the spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?"
"Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The
others may well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off
and the windows open. The cleaning woman wouldn't have been likely
to notice them when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later,
if Ross had continued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of
them would have bitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would
have gone on its way rejoicing."
"Well, you've certainly saved my life," declared Dorr, "and it's a
case of sheer force of reasoning."
Average Jones shook his head. "You might give some of the credit to
Providence," he said. "Just one little event would have meant the
saving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death
of yourself, instead of the other way around."
"And that event?" asked Mr. Curtis Fleming.
"Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport," replied Average Jones. _
Read next: CHAPTER III - OPEN TRAIL
Read previous: CHAPTER I - THE B-FLAT TROMBONE
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