Death at the Excelsior and Other Stories Read online

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  DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR

  and Other Stories

  By P. G. Wodehouse

  CONTENTS

  DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR [1914]

  MISUNDERSTOOD [1910]

  THE BEST SAUCE [1911]

  JEEVES AND THE CHUMP CYRIL [1918]

  JEEVES IN THE SPRINGTIME [1921]

  CONCEALED ART [1915]

  THE TEST CASE [1915]

  DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR

  I

  The room was the typical bedroom of the typical boarding-house,furnished, insofar as it could be said to be furnished at all, with asevere simplicity. It contained two beds, a pine chest of drawers, astrip of faded carpet, and a wash basin. But there was that on thefloor which set this room apart from a thousand rooms of the same kind.Flat on his back, with his hands tightly clenched and one leg twistedoddly under him and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard in ahorrible grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyesthat saw nothing.

  Until a moment before, he had had the little room all to himself. Butnow two people were standing just inside the door, looking down at him.One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in hishands. The other was a tall, gaunt old woman in a rusty black dress,who gazed with pale eyes at the dead man. Her face was quiteexpressionless.

  The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior Boarding-House. Thepoliceman's name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to theriotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in thepresence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, andwhispered: "Look at his eyes, ma'am!"

  Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the policemaninto the room, and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan looked ather quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was everybody elsealong the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the quietdecisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts whopatronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that littlecommunity of sailormen.

  "That's just how I found him," said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speakloudly, but her voice made the policeman start.

  He wiped his forehead again. "It might have been apoplexy," hehazarded.

  Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, anda young man entered, carrying a black bag.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that--Good Lord!" The youngdoctor dropped to his knees beside the body and raised one of the arms.After a moment he lowered it gently to the floor, and shook his head ingrim resignation.

  "He's been dead for hours," he announced. "When did you find him?"

  "Twenty minutes back," replied the old woman. "I guess he died lastnight. He never would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleepon. Well, he's got his wish."

  "What did he die of, sir?" asked the policeman.

  "It's impossible to say without an examination," the doctor answered."It looks like a stroke, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. It might be acoronary attack, but I happen to know his blood pressure was normal,and his heart sound. He called in to see me only a week ago, and Iexamined him thoroughly. But sometimes you can be deceived. The inquestwill tell us." He eyed the body almost resentfully. "I can't understandit. The man had no right to drop dead like this. He was a tough oldsailor who ought to have been good for another twenty years. If youwant my honest opinion--though I can't possibly be certain until afterthe inquest--I should say he had been poisoned."

  "How would he be poisoned?" asked Mrs. Pickett quietly.

  "That's more than I can tell you. There's no glass about that he couldhave drunk it from. He might have got it in capsule form. But whyshould he have done it? He was always a pretty cheerful sort of oldman, wasn't he?"

  "Yes, sir," said the Constable. "He had the name of being a joker inthese parts. Kind of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried iton me."

  "He must have died quite early last night," said the doctor. He turnedto Mrs. Pickett. "What's become of Captain Muller? If he shares thisroom he ought to be able to tell us something about it."

  "Captain Muller spent the night with some friends at Portsmouth," saidMrs. Pickett. "He left right after supper, and hasn't returned."

  The doctor stared thoughtfully about the room, frowning.

  "I don't like it. I can't understand it. If this had happened in IndiaI should have said the man had died from some form of snakebite. I wasout there two years, and I've seen a hundred cases of it. The poordevils all looked just like this. But the thing's ridiculous. How coulda man be bitten by a snake in a Southampton waterfront boarding-house?Was the door locked when you found him, Mrs. Pickett?"

  Mrs. Pickett nodded. "I opened it with my own key. I had been callingto him and he didn't answer, so I guessed something was wrong."

  The Constable spoke: "You ain't touched anything, ma'am? They're alwaysvery particular about that. If the doctor's right, and there's beenanything up, that's the first thing they'll ask."

  "Everything's just as I found it."

  "What's that on the floor beside him?" the doctor asked.

  "Only his harmonica. He liked to play it of an evening in his room.I've had some complaints about it from some of the gentlemen, but Inever saw any harm, so long as he didn't play it too late."

  "Seems as if he was playing it when--it happened," Constable Grogansaid. "That don't look much like suicide, sir."

  "I didn't say it was suicide."

  Grogan whistled. "You don't think----"

  "I'm not thinking anything--until after the inquest. All I say is thatit's queer."

  Another aspect of the matter seemed to strike the policeman. "I guessthis ain't going to do the Excelsior any good, ma'am," he saidsympathetically.

  Mrs. Pickett shrugged her shoulders.

  "I suppose I had better go and notify the coroner," said the doctor.

  He went out, and after a momentary pause the policeman followed him.Constable Grogan was not greatly troubled with nerves, but he felt adecided desire to be somewhere where he could not see the dead man'sstaring eyes.

  Mrs. Pickett remained where she was, looking down at the still form onthe floor. Her face was expressionless, but inwardly she was tormentedand alarmed. It was the first time such a thing as this had happened atthe Excelsior, and, as Constable Grogan had hinted, it was not likelyto increase the attractiveness of the house in the eyes of possibleboarders. It was not the threatened pecuniary loss which was troublingher. As far as money was concerned, she could have lived comfortably onher savings, for she was richer than most of her friends supposed. Itwas the blot on the escutcheon of the Excelsior--the stain on itsreputation--which was tormenting her.

  The Excelsior was her life. Starting many years before, beyond thememory of the oldest boarder, she had built up the model establishment,the fame of which had been carried to every corner of the world. Menspoke of it as a place where you were fed well, cleanly housed, andwhere petty robbery was unknown.

  Such was the chorus of praise that it is not likely that much harmcould come to the Excelsior from a single mysterious death but MotherPickett was not consoling herself with such reflections.

  She looked at the dead man with pale, grim eyes. Out in the hallway thedoctor's voice further increased her despair. He was talking to thepolice on the telephone, and she could distinctly hear his every word.

  II

  The offices of Mr. Paul Snyder's Detective Agency in New Oxford Streethad grown in the course of a dozen years from a single room to animpressive suite bright with polished wood, clicking typewriters, andother evidences of success. W
here once Mr. Snyder had sat and waitedfor clients and attended to them himself, he now sat in his privateoffice and directed eight assistants.

  He had just accepted a case--a case that might be nothing at all orsomething exceedingly big. It was on the latter possibility that he hadgambled. The fee offered was, judged by his present standards ofprosperity, small. But the bizarre facts, coupled with something in thepersonality of the client, had won him over. He briskly touched thebell and requested that Mr. Oakes should be sent in to him.

  Elliot Oakes was a young man who both amused and interested Mr. Snyder,for though he had only recently joined the staff, he made no secret ofhis intention of revolutionizing the methods of the agency. Mr. Snyderhimself, in common with most of his assistants, relied for results onhard work and plenty of common sense. He had never been a detective ofthe showy type. Results had justified his methods, but he was perfectlyaware that young Mr. Oakes looked on him as a dull old man who had beenmiraculously favored by luck.

  Mr. Snyder had selected Oakes for the case in hand principally becauseit was one where inexperience could do no harm, and where the brilliantguesswork which Oakes preferred to call his inductive reasoning mightachieve an unexpected success.

  Another motive actuated Mr. Snyder in his choice. He had a strongsuspicion that the conduct of this case was going to have thebeneficial result of lowering Oakes' self-esteem. If failure achievedthis end, Mr. Snyder felt that failure, though it would not help theAgency, would not be an unmixed ill.

  The door opened and Oakes entered tensely. He did everything tensely,partly from a natural nervous energy, and partly as a pose. He was alean young man, with dark eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and he lookedquite as much like a typical detective as Mr. Snyder looked like acomfortable and prosperous stock broker.

  "Sit down, Oakes," said Mr. Snyder. "I've got a job for you."

  Oakes sank into a chair like a crouching leopard, and placed the tipsof his fingers together. He nodded curtly. It was part of his pose tobe keen and silent.

  "I want you to go to this address"--Mr. Snyder handed him anenvelope--"and look around. The address on that envelope is of asailors' boarding-house down in Southampton. You know the sort ofplace--retired sea captains and so on live there. All most respectable.In all its history nothing more sensational has ever happened than acase of suspected cheating at halfpenny nap. Well, a man had diedthere."

  "Murdered?" Oakes asked.

  "I don't know. That's for you to find out. The coroner left it open.'Death by Misadventure' was the verdict, and I don't blame him. I don'tsee how it could have been murder. The door was locked on the inside,so nobody could have got in."

  "The window?"

  "The window was open, granted. But the room is on the second floor.Anyway, you may dismiss the window. I remember the old lady sayingthere was a bar across it, and that nobody could have squeezedthrough."

  Oakes' eyes glistened. He was interested. "What was the cause ofdeath?" he asked.

  Mr. Snyder coughed. "Snake bite," he said.

  Oakes' careful calm deserted him. He uttered a cry of astonishment."Why, that's incredible!"

  "It's the literal truth. The medical examination proved that the fellowhad been killed by snake poison--cobra, to be exact, which is foundprincipally in India."

  "Cobra!"

  "Just so. In a Southampton boarding-house, in a room with a lockeddoor, this man was stung by a cobra. To add a little mystification tothe limpid simplicity of the affair, when the door was opened there wasno sign of any cobra. It couldn't have got out through the door,because the door was locked. It couldn't have got out of the window,because the window was too high up, and snakes can't jump. And itcouldn't have gotten up the chimney, because there was no chimney. Sothere you have it."

  He looked at Oakes with a certain quiet satisfaction. It had come tohis ears that Oakes had been heard to complain of the infantile natureand unworthiness of the last two cases to which he had been assigned.He had even said that he hoped some day to be given a problem whichshould be beyond the reasoning powers of a child of six. It seemed toMr. Snyder that Oakes was about to get his wish.

  "I should like further details," said Oakes, a little breathlessly.

  "You had better apply to Mrs. Pickett, who owns the boarding-house,"Mr. Snyder said. "It was she who put the case in my hands. She isconvinced that it is murder. But, if we exclude ghosts, I don't see howany third party could have taken a hand in the thing at all. However,she wanted a man from this agency, and was prepared to pay for him, soI promised her I would send one. It is not our policy to turn businessaway."

  He smiled wryly. "In pursuance of that policy I want you to go and putup at Mrs. Pickett's boarding house and do your best to enhance thereputation of our agency. I would suggest that you pose as a ship'schandler or something of that sort. You will have to be somethingmaritime or they'll be suspicious of you. And if your visit produces noother results, it will, at least, enable you to make the acquaintanceof a very remarkable woman. I commend Mrs. Pickett to your notice. Bythe way, she says she will help you in your investigations."

  Oakes laughed shortly. The idea amused him.

  "It's a mistake to scoff at amateur assistance, my boy," said Mr.Snyder in the benevolently paternal manner which had made a score ofcriminals refuse to believe him a detective until the moment when thehandcuffs snapped on their wrists. "Crime investigation isn't an exactscience. Success or failure depends in a large measure on appliedcommon sense, and the possession of a great deal of specialinformation. Mrs. Pickett knows certain things which neither you nor Iknow, and it's just possible that she may have some stray piece ofinformation which will provide the key to the entire mystery."

  Oakes laughed again. "It is very kind of Mrs. Pickett," he said, "but Iprefer to trust to my own methods." Oakes rose, his face purposeful."I'd better be starting at once," he said. "I'll send you reports fromtime to time."

  "Good. The more detailed the better," said Mr. Snyder genially. "I hopeyour visit to the Excelsior will be pleasant. And cultivate Mrs.Pickett. She's worth while."

  The door closed, and Mr. Snyder lighted a fresh cigar. "Dashed youngfool," he murmured, as he turned his mind to other matters.

  III

  A day later Mr. Snyder sat in his office reading a typewritten report.It appeared to be of a humorous nature, for, as he read, chucklesescaped him. Finishing the last sheet he threw his head back andlaughed heartily. The manuscript had not been intended by its authorfor a humorous effort. What Mr. Snyder had been reading was the firstof Elliott Oakes' reports from the Excelsior. It read as follows:

  I am sorry to be unable to report any real progress. I have formed several theories which I will put forward later, but at present I cannot say that I am hopeful.

  Directly I arrived here I sought out Mrs. Pickett, explained who I was, and requested her to furnish me with any further information which might be of service to me. She is a strange, silent woman, who impressed me as having very little intelligence. Your suggestion that I should avail myself of her assistance seems more curious than ever, now that I have seen her.

  The whole affair seems to me at the moment of writing quite inexplicable. Assuming that this Captain Gunner was murdered, there appears to have been no motive for the crime whatsoever. I have made careful inquiries about him, and find that he was a man of fifty-five; had spent nearly forty years of his life at sea, the last dozen in command of his own ship; was of a somewhat overbearing disposition, though with a fund of rough humour; had travelled all over the world, and had been an inmate of the Excelsior for about ten months. He had a small annuity, and no other money at all, which disposes of money as the motive for the crime.

  In my character of James Burton, a retired ship's chandler, I have mixed with the other boarders, and have heard all they have to say about the affair. I gather that the deceased was by no means popular. He appears to have had a bitter tongu
e, and I have not met one man who seems to regret his death. On the other hand, I have heard nothing which would suggest that he had any active and violent enemies. He was simply the unpopular boarder--there is always one in every boarding-house--but nothing more.

  I have seen a good deal of the man who shared his room--another sea captain, named Muller. He is a big, silent person, and it is not easy to get him to talk. As regards the death of Captain Gunner he can tell me nothing. It seems that on the night of the tragedy he was away at Portsmouth with some friends. All I have got from him is some information as to Captain Gunner's habits, which leads nowhere. The dead man seldom drank, except at night when he would take some whisky. His head was not strong, and a little of the spirit was enough to make him semi-intoxicated, when he would be hilarious and often insulting. I gather that Muller found him a difficult roommate, but he is one of those placid persons who can put up with anything. He and Gunner were in the habit of playing draughts together every night in their room, and Gunner had a harmonica which he played frequently. Apparently, he was playing it very soon before he died, which is significant, as seeming to dispose of the idea of suicide.

  As I say, I have one or two theories, but they are in a very nebulous state. The most plausible is that on one of his visits to India--I have ascertained that he made several voyages there--Captain Gunner may in some way have fallen foul of the natives. The fact that he certainly died of the poison of an Indian snake supports this theory. I am making inquiries as to the movements of several Indian sailors who were here in their ships at the time of the tragedy.

  I have another theory. Does Mrs. Pickett know more about this affair than she appears to? I may be wrong in my estimate of her mental qualities. Her apparent stupidity may be cunning. But here again, the absence of motive brings me up against a dead wall. I must confess that at present I do not see my way clearly. However, I will write again shortly.

  Mr. Snyder derived the utmost enjoyment from the report. He liked thesubstance of it, and above all, he was tickled by the bitter tone offrustration which characterized it. Oakes was baffled, and his knowledgeof Oakes told him that the sensation of being baffled was gall andwormwood to that high-spirited young man. Whatever might be the resultof this investigation, it would teach him the virtue of patience.

  He wrote his assistant a short note:

  Dear Oakes,

  Your report received. You certainly seem to have got the hard case which, I hear, you were pining for. Don't build too much on plausible motives in a case of this sort. Fauntleroy, the London murderer, killed a woman for no other reason than that she had thick ankles. Many years ago, I myself was on a case where a man murdered an intimate friend because of a dispute about a bet. My experience is that five murderers out of ten act on the whim of the moment, without anything which, properly speaking, you could call a motive at all.

  Yours very cordially, Paul Snyder

  P. S. I don't think much of your Pickett theory. However, you're in charge. I wish you luck.

  IV

  Young Mr. Oakes was not enjoying himself. For the first time in hislife, the self-confidence which characterized all his actions seemed tobe failing him. The change had taken place almost overnight. The factthat the case had the appearance of presenting the unusual had merelystimulated him at first. But then doubts had crept in and the problemhad begun to appear insoluble.

  True, he had only just taken it up, but something told him that, forall the progress he was likely to make, he might just as well have beenworking on it steadily for a month. He was completely baffled. Andevery moment which he spent in the Excelsior Boarding-House made itclearer to him that that infernal old woman with the pale eyes thoughthim an incompetent fool. It was that, more than anything, which madehim acutely conscious of his lack of success. His nerves were beingsorely troubled by the quiet scorn of Mrs. Pickett's gaze. He began tothink that perhaps he had been a shade too self-confident and abrupt inthe short interview which he had had with her on his arrival.

  As might have been expected, his first act, after his brief interviewwith Mrs. Pickett, was to examine the room where the tragedy had takenplace. The body was gone, but otherwise nothing had been moved.

  Oakes belonged to the magnifying-glass school of detection. The firstthing he did on entering the room was to make a careful examination ofthe floor, the walls, the furniture, and the windowsill. He would havehotly denied the assertion that he did this because it looked well, buthe would have been hard put to it to advance any other reason.

  If he discovered anything, his discoveries were entirely negative, andserved only to deepen the mystery of the case. As Mr. Snyder had said,there was no chimney, and nobody could have entered through the lockeddoor.

  There remained the window. It was small, and apprehensiveness, perhaps,of the possibility of burglars, had caused the proprietress to make itdoubly secure with an iron bar. No human being could have squeezed hisway through it.

  It was late that night that he wrote and dispatched to headquarters thereport which had amused Mr. Snyder.

  V

  Two days later Mr. Snyder sat at his desk, staring with wide, unbelievingeyes at a telegram he had just received. It read as follows:

  HAVE SOLVED GUNNER MYSTERY. RETURNING.... OAKES.

  Mr. Snyder narrowed his eyes and rang the bell. "Send Mr. Oakes to medirectly he arrives," he said.

  He was pained to find that his chief emotion was one of bitterannoyance. The swift solution of such an apparently insoluble problemwould reflect the highest credit on the Agency, and there werepicturesque circumstances connected with the case which would make itpopular with the newspapers and lead to its being given a great deal ofpublicity.

  Yet, in spite of all this, Mr. Snyder was annoyed. He realized now howlarge a part the desire to reduce Oakes' self-esteem had played withhim. He further realized, looking at the thing honestly, that he hadbeen firmly convinced that the young man would not come within a mileof a reasonable solution of the mystery. He had desired only that hisfailure would prove a valuable educational experience for him. For hebelieved that failure at this particular point in his career would makeOakes a more valuable asset to the Agency. But now here Oakes was,within a ridiculously short space of time, returning to the fold, nothumble and defeated, but triumphant. Mr. Snyder looked forward withapprehension to the young man's probable demeanor under theintoxicating influence of victory.

  His apprehensions were well grounded. He had barely finished the thirdof the series of cigars, which, like milestones, marked the progress ofhis afternoon, when the door opened and young Oakes entered. Mr. Snydercould not repress a faint moan at the sight of him. One glance wasenough to tell him that his worst fears were realised.

  "I got your telegram," said Mr. Snyder.

  Oakes nodded. "It surprised you, eh?" he asked.

  Mr. Snyder resented the patronizing tone of the question, but he hadresigned himself to be patronized, and keep his anger in check.

  "Yes," he replied, "I must say it did surprise me. I didn't gather fromyour report that you had even found a clue. Was it the Indian theorythat turned the trick?"

  Oakes laughed tolerantly. "Oh, I never really believed thatpreposterous theory for one moment. I just put it in to round out myreport. I hadn't begun to think about the case then--not really think."

  Mr. Snyder, nearly exploding with wrath, extended his cigar-case."Light up, and tell me all about it," he said, controlling his anger.

  "Well, I won't say I haven't earned this," said Oakes, puffing away. Helet the ash of his cigar fall delicately to the floor--another actionwhich seemed significant to his employer. As a rule, his assistants,unless particularly pleased with themselves, used the ashtray.

  "My first act on arriving," Oakes said, "was to have a talk with Mrs.Pickett. A very dull old woman."

  "Curious. She s
truck me as rather intelligent."

  "Not on your life. She gave me no assistance whatever. I then examinedthe room where the death had taken place. It was exactly as you describedit. There was no chimney, the door had been locked on the inside, andthe one window was very high up. At first sight, it looked extremelyunpromising. Then I had a chat with some of the other boarders. They hadnothing of any importance to contribute. Most of them simply gibbered.I then gave up trying to get help from the outside, and resolved to relyon my own intelligence."

  He smiled triumphantly. "It is a theory of mine, Mr. Snyder, which Ihave found valuable that, in nine cases out of ten, remarkable thingsdon't happen."

  "I don't quite follow you there," Mr. Snyder interrupted.

  "I will put it another way, if you like. What I mean is that the simplestexplanation is nearly always the right one. Consider this case. It seemedimpossible that there should have been any reasonable explanation of theman's death. Most men would have worn themselves out guessing at wildtheories. If I had started to do that, I should have been guessing now.As it is--here I am. I trusted to my belief that nothing remarkable everhappens, and I won out."

  Mr. Snyder sighed softly. Oakes was entitled to a certain amount ofgloating, but there could be no doubt that his way of telling a storywas downright infuriating.

  "I believe in the logical sequence of events. I refuse to accepteffects unless they are preceded by causes. In other words, with alldue respect to your possibly contrary opinions, Mr. Snyder, I simplydecline to believe in a murder unless there was a motive for it. Thefirst thing I set myself to ascertain was--what was the motive for themurder of Captain Gunner? And, after thinking it over and making everypossible inquiry, I decided that there was no motive. Therefore, therewas no murder."

  Mr. Snyder's mouth opened, and he obviously was about to protest. Buthe appeared to think better of it and Oakes proceeded: "I then testedthe suicide theory. What motive was there for suicide? There was nomotive. Therefore, there was no suicide."

  This time Mr. Snyder spoke. "You haven't been spending the last fewdays in the wrong house by any chance, have you? You will be telling menext that there wasn't any dead man."

  Oakes smiled. "Not at all. Captain John Gunner was dead, all right. Asthe medical evidence proved, he died of the bite of a cobra. It was asmall cobra which came from Java."

  Mr. Snyder stared at him. "How do you know?"

  "I do know, beyond any possibility of doubt."

  "Did you see the snake?"

  Oakes shook his head.

  "Then, how in heaven's name----"

  "I have enough evidence to make a jury convict Mr. Snake withoutleaving the box."

  "Then suppose you tell me this. How did your cobra from Java get out ofthe room?"

  "By the window," replied Oakes, impassively.

  "How can you possibly explain that? You say yourself that the windowwas high up."

  "Nevertheless, it got out by the window. The logical sequence of eventsis proof enough that it was in the room. It killed Captain Gunnerthere, and left traces of its presence outside. Therefore, as thewindow was the only exit, it must have escaped by that route. It mayhave climbed or it may have jumped, but somehow it got out of thatwindow."

  "What do you mean--it left traces of its presence outside?"

  "It killed a dog in the backyard behind the house," Oakes said. "Thewindow of Captain Gunner's room projects out over it. It is full ofboxes and litter and there are a few stunted shrubs scattered about. Infact, there is enough cover to hide any small object like the body of adog. That's why it was not discovered at first. The maid at theExcelsior came on it the morning after I sent you my report while shewas emptying a box of ashes in the yard. It was just an ordinary straydog without collar or license. The analyst examined the body, and foundthat the dog had died of the bite of a cobra."

  "But you didn't find the snake?"

  "No. We cleaned out that yard till you could have eaten your breakfastthere, but the snake had gone. It must have escaped through the door ofthe yard, which was standing ajar. That was a couple of days ago, andthere has been no further tragedy. In all likelihood it is dead. Thenights are pretty cold now, and it would probably have died ofexposure."

  "But, I just don't understand how a cobra got to Southampton," said theamazed Mr. Snyder.

  "Can't you guess it? I told you it came from Java."

  "How did you know it did?"

  "Captain Muller told me. Not directly, but I pieced it together fromwhat he said. It seems that an old shipmate of Captain Gunner's wasliving in Java. They corresponded, and occasionally this man would sendthe captain a present as a mark of his esteem. The last present he sentwas a crate of bananas. Unfortunately, the snake must have got inunnoticed. That's why I told you the cobra was a small one. Well,that's my case against Mr. Snake, and short of catching him with thegoods, I don't see how I could have made out a stronger one. Don't youagree?"

  It went against the grain for Mr. Snyder to acknowledge defeat, but hewas a fair-minded man, and he was forced to admit that Oakes didcertainly seem to have solved the impossible.

  "I congratulate you, my boy," he said as heartily as he could. "To becompletely frank, when you started out, I didn't think you could do it.By the way, I suppose Mrs. Pickett was pleased?"

  "If she was, she didn't show it. I'm pretty well convinced she hasn'tenough sense to be pleased at anything. However, she has invited me todinner with her tonight. I imagine she'll be as boring as usual, butshe made such a point of it, I had to accept."

  VI

  For some time after Oakes had gone, Mr. Snyder sat smoking andthinking, in embittered meditation. Suddenly there was brought the cardof Mrs. Pickett, who would be grateful if he could spare her a fewmoments. Mr. Snyder was glad to see Mrs. Pickett. He was a student ofcharacter, and she had interested him at their first meeting. There wassomething about her which had seemed to him unique, and he welcomedthis second chance of studying her at close range.

  She came in and sat down stiffly, balancing herself on the extreme edgeof the chair in which a short while before young Oakes had lounged soluxuriously.

  "How are you, Mrs. Pickett?" said Mr. Snyder genially. "I'm very gladthat you could find time to pay me a visit. Well, so it wasn't murderafter all."

  "Sir?"

  "I've just been talking to Mr. Oakes, whom you met as James Burton,"said the detective. "He has told me all about it."

  "He told _me_ all about it," said Mrs. Pickett dryly.

  Mr. Snyder looked at her inquiringly. Her manner seemed more suggestivethan her words.

  "A conceited, headstrong young fool," said Mrs. Pickett.

  It was no new picture of his assistant that she had drawn. Mr. Snyderhad often drawn it himself, but at the present juncture it surprisedhim. Oakes, in his hour of triumph, surely did not deserve thissweeping condemnation.

  "Did not Mr. Oakes' solution of the mystery satisfy you, Mrs. Pickett?"

  "No!"

  "It struck me as logical and convincing," Mr. Snyder said.

  "You may call it all the fancy names you please, Mr. Snyder. But Mr.Oakes' solution was not the right one."

  "Have you an alternative to offer?"

  Mrs. Pickett tightened her lips.

  "If you have, I should like to hear it."

  "You will--at the proper time."

  "What makes you so certain that Mr. Oakes is wrong?"

  "He starts out with an impossible explanation, and rests his whole caseon it. There couldn't have been a snake in that room because itcouldn't have gotten out. The window was too high."

  "But surely the evidence of the dead dog?"

  Mrs. Pickett looked at him as if he had disappointed her. "I had alwaysheard _you_ spoken of as a man with common sense, Mr. Snyder."

  "I have always tried to use common sense."

  "Then why are you trying now to make yourself believe that somethinghappened which could not possibly have happened just because it fits inwith something w
hich isn't easy to explain?"

  "You mean that there is another explanation of the dead dog?" Mr.Snyder asked.

  "Not _another_. What Mr. Oakes takes for granted is not anexplanation. But there is a common sense explanation, and if he had notbeen so headstrong and conceited he might have found it."

  "You speak as if you had found it," chided Mr. Snyder.

  "I have." Mrs. Pickett leaned forward as she spoke, and stared at himdefiantly.

  Mr. Snyder started. "_You_ have?"

  "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  "You will know before tomorrow. In the meantime try and think it outfor yourself. A successful and prosperous detective agency like yours,Mr. Snyder, ought to do something in return for a fee."

  There was something in her manner so reminiscent of the school teacherreprimanding a recalcitrant pupil that Mr. Snyder's sense of humor cameto his rescue. "We do our best, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "But youmustn't forget that we are only human and cannot guarantee results."

  Mrs. Pickett did not pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded toastonish Mr. Snyder by asking him to swear out a warrant for the arrestof a man known to them both on a charge of murder.

  Mr. Snyder's breath was not often taken away in his own office. As arule, he received his clients' communications calmly, strange as theyoften were. But at her words he gasped. The thought crossed his mindthat Mrs. Pickett might well be mentally unbalanced. The details of thecase were fresh in his memory, and he distinctly recollected that theperson she mentioned had been away from the boarding house on the nightof Captain Gunner's death, and could, he imagined, produce witnesses toprove it.

  Mrs. Pickett was regarding him with an unfaltering stare. To alloutward appearances, she was the opposite of unbalanced.

  "But you can't swear out a warrant without evidence," he told her.

  "I have evidence," she replied firmly.

  "Precisely what kind of evidence?" he demanded.

  "If I told you now you would think that I was out of my mind."

  "But, Mrs. Pickett, do you realize what you are asking me to do? Icannot make this agency responsible for the arbitrary arrest of a manon the strength of a single individual's suspicions. It might ruin me.At the least it would make me a laughing stock."

  "Mr. Snyder, you may use your own judgment whether or not to make thearrest on that warrant. You will listen to what I have to say, and youwill see for yourself how the crime was committed. If after that youfeel that you cannot make the arrest I will accept your decision. Iknow who killed Captain Gunner," she said. "I knew it from thebeginning. It was like a vision. But I had no proof. Now things havecome to light and everything is clear."

  Against his judgment, Mr. Snyder was impressed. This woman had themagnetism which makes for persuasiveness.

  "It--it sounds incredible." Even as he spoke, he remembered that it hadlong been a professional maxim of his that nothing was incredible, andhe weakened still further.

  "Mr. Snyder, I ask you to swear out that warrant."

  The detective gave in. "Very well," he said.

  Mrs. Pickett rose. "If you will come and dine at my house to-night Ithink I can prove to you that it will be needed. Will you come?"

  "I'll come," promised Mr. Snyder.

  VII

  When Mr. Snyder arrived at the Excelsior and shortly after he was showninto the little private sitting room where he found Oakes, the thirdguest of the evening unexpectedly arrived.

  Mr. Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had apeculiar fascination for him. It was not Mr. Snyder's habit to trustovermuch to appearances. But he could not help admitting that there wassomething about this man's aspect which brought Mrs. Pickett's chargesout of the realm of the fantastic into that of the possible. There wassomething odd--an unnatural aspect of gloom--about the man. He borehimself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, his facehaggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself withallowing his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Pickett came in. She made no apology for herlateness.

  To Mr. Snyder one of the most remarkable points about the dinner wasthe peculiar metamorphosis of Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silentwoman he had known to the gracious and considerate hostess.

  Oakes appeared also to be overcome with surprise, so much so that hewas unable to keep his astonishment to himself. He had come prepared toendure a dull evening absorbed in grim silence, and he found himselfinstead opposite a bottle of champagne of a brand and year whichcommanded his utmost respect. What was even more incredible, hishostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady whose only aimseemed to be to make him feel at home.

  Beside each of the guests' plates was a neat paper parcel. Oakes pickedhis up, and stared at it in wonderment. "Why, this is more than a partysouvenir, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "It's the kind of mechanical marvelI've always wanted to have on my desk."

  "I'm glad you like it, Mr. Oakes," Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. "Youmust not think of me simply as a tired old woman whom age hascompletely defeated. I am an ambitious hostess. When I give theselittle parties, I like to make them a success. I want each of you toremember this dinner."

  "I'm sure I will."

  Mrs. Pickett smiled again. "I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder." Shepaused. "And you, Captain Muller."

  To Mr. Snyder there was so much meaning in her voice as she said thisthat he was amazed that it conveyed no warning to Muller. CaptainMuller, however, was already drinking heavily. He looked up whenaddressed and uttered a sound which might have been taken for anexpression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass again.

  Mr. Snyder's parcel revealed a watch-charm fashioned in the shape of atiny, candid-eye camera. "That," said Mrs. Pickett, "is a compliment toyour profession." She leaned toward the captain. "Mr. Snyder is adetective, Captain Muller."

  He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up hisheavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all,so swiftly that he could not be certain.

  "So?" said Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly, with just the amountof interest which such an announcement would naturally produce.

  "Now for yours, Captain," said Oakes. "I guess it's something special.It's twice the size of mine, anyway."

  It may have been something in the old woman's expression as she watchedCaptain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a thrill ofexcitement through Mr. Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of theapproach of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly.

  There was a strangled gasp, a thump, and onto the table from thecaptain's hands there fell a little harmonica. There was no mistakingthe look on Muller's face now. His cheeks were like wax, and his eyes,so dull till then, blazed with a panic and horror which he could notrepress. The glasses on the table rocked as he clutched at the cloth.

  Mrs. Pickett spoke. "Why, Captain Muller, has it upset you? I thoughtthat, as his best friend, the man who shared his room, you would valuea memento of Captain Gunner. How fond you must have been of him for thesight of his harmonica to be such a shock."

  The captain did not speak. He was staring fascinated at the thing onthe table. Mrs. Pickett turned to Mr. Snyder. Her eyes, as they methis, held him entranced.

  "Mr. Snyder, as a detective, you will be interested in a curious andvery tragic affair which happened in this house a few days ago. One ofmy boarders, Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was theroom which he shared with Captain Muller. I am very proud of thereputation of my house, Mr. Snyder, and it was a blow to me that thisshould have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and theysent me a stupid boy, with nothing to recommend him except his beliefin himself. He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed bya snake which had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knewthat Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, CaptainMuller? This will interest you, as you were such a friend of his."

  The ca
ptain did not answer. He was staring straight before him, as ifhe saw something invisible in eyes forever closed in death.

  "Yesterday we found the body of a dog. It had been killed, as CaptainGunner had been, by the poison of a snake. The boy from the agency saidthat this was conclusive. He said that the snake had escaped from theroom after killing Captain Gunner and had in turn killed the dog. Iknew that to be impossible, for, if there had been a snake in that roomit could not have made its escape."

  Her eyes flashed, and became remorselessly accusing. "It was not asnake that killed Captain Gunner. It was a cat. Captain Gunner had afriend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas, thisfriend found a snake. He killed it, and extracted the poison. He knewCaptain Gunner's habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This manalso had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica. Hehad often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratchhim when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with thepoison. And then he left it in the room with Captain Gunner. He knewwhat would happen."

  Oakes and Mr. Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller had not moved.He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Mrs. Pickett rose andwent to a closet. She unlocked the door. "Kitty!" she called. "Kitty!Kitty!"

  A black cat ran swiftly out into the room. With a clatter and a crashof crockery and a ringing of glass the table heaved, rocked andoverturned as Muller staggered to his feet. He threw up his hands as ifto ward something off. A choking cry came from his lips. "Gott! Gott!"

  Mrs. Pickett's voice rang through the room, cold and biting: "CaptainMuller, you murdered Captain Gunner!"

  The captain shuddered. Then mechanically he replied: "Gott! Yes, Ikilled him."

  "You heard, Mr. Snyder," said Mrs. Pickett. "He has confessed beforewitnesses. Take him away."

  Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door. His arm in Mr.Snyder's grip felt limp. Mrs. Pickett stopped and took something fromthe debris on the floor. She rose, holding the harmonica.

  "You are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller," she said.