The Social Gangster

  CHAPTER XXIII

  THE VACUUM BOTTLE

  Fortunately, Dean Allison was at the Club, as we hoped, having justarrived by the train that left New York at the close of the banking day.Someone told us, however, that Wyndham had probably decided to remain intown over night.

  Allison was perhaps a little older than I had imagined, rather a graveyoung man who seemed to take his club responsibilities on the Councilvery seriously.

  "I'd like to talk to you about this Evans case," began Craig when we hadbeen introduced.

  "Glad to tell you all I know," he responded cordially. "It isn't much,I'm afraid. It's terrible--terrible. We don't know what to think. Mysister is all broken up by it, poor girl."

  He led the way over to a corner, in a sort of bow window, and we satdown on the hard leather cushions.

  "No, there isn't much I can say," he resumed. "You see, one of therecreations of the younger set at the Club is boxing--that's about allthere was to it--not the amateurish thing one usually sees, but realscientific boxing.

  "Fraser had adopted the so-called Fitzsimmons shift--you know, the rightfoot forward, while the left hand shoots out from somewhere near thehip, plunging at close range into the pit of the stomach."

  Allison rose to illustrate it. "Irving, on the other hand, had beenadvocating the Jeffries crouch as the only safeguard to meet it,--likethat."

  He threw himself into position and went on, "The bout had been arranged,accordingly, and it was _some_ bout, too. Most of us here are fond ofboxing to keep fit.

  "Well, at last Fraser got under his guard, I suppose you'd call it. Helanded. For an instant, Irving stood up straight, his hands helplesslyextended. Most of us thought he was fooling and Fraser jumped back,laughing at the way his contention had worked out. Then, slowly,struggling as if against the inevitable, Irving bent forward and toppledover on his face.

  "That's where we woke up. We rushed forward and picked him up,apparently unconscious, and carried him to the locker-room. There was agood deal of excitement. Someone telephoned for a doctor, but couldn'tseem to find one at home."

  "Did you see anything peculiar take place in the locker-room?" askedKennedy, following keenly.

  "Anything peculiar?"

  "Yes--anyone near him, perhaps--another blow--while he was unconscious."

  "No--and I think I would have seen anything that was out of the way. Iwas there almost all the time--until someone told me my sister wasupstairs and suggested that I was the best one to break the news toher."

  "I'd like to look over the gymnasium and locker-room," suggested Craig.

  Dean Allison led the way downstairs quickly. Craig did not spend morethan a minute in the gymnasium, but the locker-room he examinedcarefully.

  It was a long room. Each locker bore the name of its owner and hehastily ran his eye over them, getting their location.

  I don't know that even he had, yet, any idea that he would findanything, but it was just his habit to go over the ground of a tragedy,in hope of picking up some clew.

  He looked over the floor very carefully, now and then bending down as ifto discover spots. Once he paused a moment, then continued his measuredtread down the long row of lockers until he came to a door at the otherend of the room. We went out and Kennedy looked about closely.

  "Oh,--about Benson, the steward," he said, looking up quickly andstroking his chin as if an idea had occurred to him. "Is there anyonehere who might know something about him--his habits, associates,--thatsort of thing?"

  "Why--yes," considered Allison slowly, "the chef might know. Wait, I'llcall him."

  As Allison disappeared in the direction of what was evidently thekitchen, we stood outside by the door, waiting.

  Kennedy's eye traveled back and forth about us and finally fell on a rowof rubbish barrels a few feet away. He moved over to them.

  He had half turned away, retracing his steps back to me thoughtfully,when his eye must have been attracted by something gleaming. He turnedback and poked at it with his stick. Peeping from the rubbish was adented thermos bottle, the lining of which was cracked and broken.

  He was about to turn away again when his eye fell on something else. Itwas the top of the bottle, the little metal cap that screws over it, orrather it was what was left of the cap.

  "That's strange," he muttered to himself, picking it up.

  The cap, which might have been used as a cup, was broken in the mostpeculiar manner, in spite of the fact that it was metal. If it had beenof glass I should have said that someone had dropped it.

  Kennedy frowned and dropped the pieces into his pocket, turning to waitfor Allison to return with the chef.

  "I can't seem to find him," reported Allison a moment later. "But he'llbe here soon. He'll have to be--or lose his job. How would after dinnerdo? I'll have him and all the other employes, then."

  "Good!" agreed Kennedy. "That will give me time to go into the townfirst and get back."

  "I'd be glad to have you dine with me," invited Allison.

  "Thank you," smiled Kennedy. "I'm afraid I won't have time for diningtonight. I'll be back after dinner, though."

  Mrs. Ferris's car had returned and Craig's next step was to go on intothe town of Briar Lake.

  On the way he decided first to stop at the Evans house, which took usonly a little bit out of our way. There he made a minute examination ofthe body of the young man.

  Irving Evans had been a handsome fellow and the tragedy of his deathhad been a sad blow to his family. However, I shall not dwell on that,as it is no part of my story.

  Kennedy was eager to see the red spot in the pit of the stomach of thedead man of which everyone had spoken.

  He looked at it closely, as I did also, although I could make nothing ofit. Evans had complained of a burning, stinging sensation, during hismoments of consciousness and the mark had had a flushed, angry look. Itseemed as though a sort of crust had formed over it, which now was ashenwhite.

  Craig did not spend as long as I had anticipated at the Evans house,but, although he said nothing, I could tell by the expression of hisface that he was satisfied with the conclusions which he drew from theexamination. Yet I could not see that the combination of circumstanceslooked much better for Fraser Ferris.

  We went on now to the town and there we had no trouble in meeting theauthorities and getting them to talk. In fact, they seemed quite eagerto justify themselves.

  As we passed down the main street, Mrs. Ferris's chauffeur mentioned thefact that a local physician, Dr. Welch, was also the Coroner of thecounty. Kennedy asked him to stop at the doctor's office, and weentered.

  "A most unfortunate occurrence," prefaced the doctor as we seatedourselves.

  "You assume, then, that it was the blow that killed Evans?" askedKennedy pointedly.

  The doctor looked at him a moment. "Of course--why not?" he demandedargumentatively, as though we had come all the way from the city for thesole purpose of impugning his medical integrity. "I suppose you know theclassical case of the young man who was coming out of the theater, whensome of the party began indulging in rather boisterous horse play? Onebent another quietly over his arm and tapped him a sharp blow with thedisengaged hand on the stretched abdomen. The blow fell right over thesolar plexus and, to the surprise of everyone, the young man died."

  The Coroner had risen and was pacing the room slowly. "I could citeinnumerable cases. Everyone understands that a blow may be fatal becauseof shock to the solar plexus. In such a case no post-mortem trace mightbe found and the blow could even be a light one.

  "For instance, in a fight a blow might be struck and the recipient falldead. If the medical examiner should find nothing on holding the autopsywhich would have caused sudden death, he can testify that a shock to thesolar plexus will cause death and that the post-mortem examination willgive no evidence to support or disprove the statement. The absoluteabsence, however, of any reason or of injury to the other organs willadd weight to his testimony, evidence of the blow being present."
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  "And you think this was such a case?" asked Kennedy, with just a traceof a challenge in his tone.

  "Certainly," replied the Coroner. "Certainly. We know that a blow wasstruck--in all probability hard enough to affect the solar plexus."

  It was evident, in his mind at least, that young Ferris was guilty andKennedy rose to go, refraining from antagonizing him by furtherquestions.

  We next visited the county court house, which was not far from thedoctor's office. There, the sheriff, a young man, met us and seemedwilling to talk over the evidence which so far had been unearthed in thecase.

  In his office was a trunk, a cheap brown affair, in which the body ofthe unfortunate steward, Benson, had been found.

  "Quite likely the trunk had been carried to the spot in a car and thrownoff," the sheriff explained. "A couple of boys happened to find it. Theytold of their find and one of the constables opened the trunk, thencalled us up here. In the trunk was the body of a man, crouched, thehead forced back between the knees."

  "I'd like to see Benson's body," remarked Kennedy.

  "Very well, I'll go with you," returned the sheriff. "It's at theundertaker's--our only local morgue."

  As we walked slowly up the street, the sheriff went on, just to showthat country as well as city detectives knew a thing or two. "There arejust two things in which this differs from the ordinary barrel or trunkmurder you read about."

  "What are they?" encouraged Craig.

  "Well, we know the victim. There wasn't any difficulty about identifyinghim. We know it wasn't really a Black Hand crime, although everythingseems to have been done to make it look like one, and the body was leftin the most lonely part of the country.

  "And then the trunk. We have traced it easily to the Club House. It wasBenson's own trunk--had been up in his own room, which was locked."

  "His own trunk?" repeated Craig, suddenly becoming interested. "Howcould anyone take it out, without being seen? Didn't anyone hearanything?"

  "No. Apparently not. None of the other servants seem to have heard athing. I don't know how it could have been got out, especially as hisdoor was locked and we found the keys on him. But--well, it was. That'sall."

  We had reached the undertaker's.

  The body of Benson was horribly mangled about the head and chest,particularly the mouth. It seemed as if a great hole had been torn inhim, and he must have died instantly. Kennedy examined the grewsomeremains most carefully.

  What had done it, I wondered? Could the man have been drugged, perhaps,and then shot?

  "Maybe it was a dum-dum bullet," I suggested, "one of those thatmushrooms out and produces such frightful wounds."

  "But assuming it entered the front, there is no exit in the back," thesheriff put in quickly, "and no bullet has been found."

  "Well, if he wasn't shot," I persisted, "it must have been a blow, andit seems impossible that a blow could have produced such an effect."

  The sheriff said nothing, evidently preferring to gain with silence areputation for superior wisdom. Kennedy had nothing better than silenceto offer, either, though he continued for a long time examining thewounds on the body.

  Our last visit in town was to Fraser Ferris himself, to whom the sheriffagreed to conduct us. Ferris was confined in the grim, dark, stone,vine-clad county jail.

  We had scarcely entered the forbidding door of the place when we heard astep behind us. We turned to see Mrs. Ferris again. She seemed very muchexcited, and together we four, with a keeper, mounted the steps.

  As she caught sight of her son, behind the bars, she seemed to gasp,then nerve herself up to face the ordeal of seeing a Ferris in such aplace.

  "Fraser," she cried, running forward.

  He was tall, sunburned, and looked like a good sportsman, a clean-cutfellow. It was hard to think of him as a murderer, especially after theaffecting meeting of the mother and son.

  "Do you know what I've just heard?" she asked at length, then scarcelypausing for a word of encouragement from him, she went on. "Why, theysay that Benson was in town early that evening, drinking heavily andthat that might account--"

  "There--there you are," he cried earnestly. "I don't know what happened.But why should I do anything to him? Perhaps someone waylaid him. That'splausible."

  "Of course," warned Kennedy a few minutes later, "you know that anythingyou say may be used against you. But--"

  "I _will_ talk," interrupted the young man passionately, "although mylawyer tells me not to. Why, it's all so silly. As for Irving Evans, Ican't see how I could have hit him hard enough, while, as for poorBenson,--well, that's even sillier yet. How should I know anything ofthat? Besides, they were all at the Club late that night, all except me,talking over the--the accident. Why don't they suspect Wyndham? He wasthere. Why don't they suspect--some of the others?"

  Mrs. Ferris was trying to keep a brave face and her son was more eagerto encourage her than to do anything else.

  "Keep up a good heart, Mother," he called, as we finally left, after histhanking Kennedy most heartily. "They haven't indicted me yet, and thegrand jury won't meet for a couple of weeks. Lots of things may turn upbefore then."

  It was evident that, next to the disgrace of the arrest, his motherfeared even more the shame of an indictment and trial, even though itmight end in an acquittal. Yet so far we had found no one, as far as Iknew, who had been able to give us a fact that contradicted thedeductions of the authorities in the case.