Produced by Robert Cody
Death Points A Finger
by Will Levinrew
Published by the Mystery League, New York and London.
1933
Other books by Will Levinrew (William Levine) are Poison Plague(1929), Murder on the Palisades (1930), Murder from the Grave(1930), and For Sale--Murder (1932)
Chapter I
The tempo was increasing to its highest pitch for the day. Thathighly complicated organism, a daily newspaper, which isapparently conceived in the wildest disorder, was about to "go tobed." Twenty typewriters were hammering out their finishingtouches and concluding paragraphs to new stories. New leads werebeing written to old stories.
News machines, telegraph machines, two tickers were adding theirquota to the infernal din. Male and female voices were punctuatingthe grimy air with yells of "copy boy". The men at the horseshoeshaped copy desk were echoing the cry. Boys rushed up to some ofthe typewriters, and, almost before the type bars ceased theirclicking on the last words of a sentence, snatched out the sheetof copy paper from the machine.
The floor, tables, desks, chairs presented an appearance thatwould have made the owner of a respectable junk shop blush.Discarded copy paper and newspapers, cigarette stubs, burntmatches, strewed the floors. Coats and hats dumped anywhere,littered the desks and battered chairs.
As an obligato to the din, there came from deep in the bowels ofthe building the rumbling of the huge presses that were throwingout the papers of an earlier edition; a rumble that was felt aswell as heard.
Suddenly, as if by magic, the din ceased; "dead line" had beenreached. One lone typewriter came to a chattering halt. Men andwomen rose from their machines, where they had been sitting tense.Cigarettes were lit; the workers relaxed. There began a subduedchatter. Chaff and banter were exchanged, freely, good humoredly.
Only the visible evidence of a former disorder remained. The roomwas still untidy and grimy. Papers in unbelievable profusionheaped the floors and desks. The rumble in the basement ceased. Ina few moments it began again. It was running off the finaledition.
James Hale, star reporter on the New York Eagle, who had a fewminutes ago been the personification of dynamic activity, was nowtrying to get a rise out of Marie LaBelle, editor of the HeartBalm column.
Marie was sitting slumped in the chair in front of the typewriter,trying to ignore his jibes. At the side of Marie's desk were theliterary effusions from love sick males and females that were thedaily grist of "her" department.
Marie glowered at Jimmy, perspiring profusely over Jimmy'switticisms. On the night before, there had been a crap game inwhich Pop Fosdick, head of the Eagle morgue, had participated. Pophad been a cub when Greeley, Bennett and Dana had been names toconjure with in the newspaper field. Pop still lived in his youth.He had an encyclopedic memory for names, places and dates, whichmade him so valuable in the morgue.
When a reporter was too lazy to look up some needed informationhimself, he would ask Pop. Pop would glower, growl, swear--and tohear him was a treat--and get the necessary data. On the nightbefore, in the crap game, Pop had cleaned up the entire gang andbroken up the game.
Marie LaBelle was cursing fluently the luck that on that occasionhad seemed to run all in one direction--with Pop Fosdick. Mariehitched up the left half of his suspenders and began his oldplaint:
"Think of that old geezer, old enough to--"
"Oh, I don't know," broke in one of the listeners. "It doesn'ttake much to see sevens--, and elevens. Even Pop--"
"I don't mean that," lied Marie. "I wasn't thinking of his lucklast night. I was thinking of the remarkable manner in which a manof his age conducts that morgue. It isn't just memory either. Heseems to have an uncanny intelligence about--"
"A man of his age," scoffed Jimmy. "He isn't the only one. I knowone man who is, I believe, older than Pop--"
"We all know who that is, of course," jeered Roy Heath, therewrite man, with his soft southern drawl. "Jimmy is now going toeffuse about Professor Herman Brierly. Now, down South, in God'sown country there are really remarkable old men. I grant thatProfessor Brierly is quite a chap for a Yankee; one would think hewas a Southerner, but must we listen to--"
Pat Collins, a newcomer to the staff of the Eagle, interrupted.
"Shut up, Roy. I've heard a lot about this Brierly, but I knowvery little about him. Does Jimmy know him personally?"
"Know him?" drawled Heath. "Pat, to hear Jimmy talk, you'd thinkhe created Brierly. Go on Jimmy, you got an audience."
Jimmy bristled. Roy had touched a sensitive spot, but he saw thatthis was just the superficial cynicism of the newspaperman. He sawthe respectful interest that even these hardened reporters couldnot disguise. They shared his genuine admiration for theremarkable old scientist.
"Come on, Jimmy," urged Pat. "Tell me."
"You yellow journalists, with your minds running on luridheadlines, can hardly appreciate a man of his kind. ProfessorHerman Brierly is one of the four foremost scientists in the worldtoday. He shuns publicity, really shuns it, and it is only becauseof his participation in several remarkable criminal cases that hehas become generally known.
"He's nearly eighty years old. He doesn't wear glasses and Ibelieve he still has all his teeth. He is little more than fivefeel tall, but built like a miniature Apollo; bushy white hair;deeply sunken blue eyes that seem to dissect one with sharpknives, and bushy black eyebrows.
"He has a passion for pure thought and has the finest analyticalfaculty of any man I know. He can truly be said to 'specialize' ina great many subjects. To him the distance from cause to effect orfrom effect to cause is a short and a simple one. He has not asuperior in physics, chemistry, anatomy, physiology and thesciences generally. He is as familiar with the microscope as theordinary man is with a pencil.
"It was some years ago that I got him interested in criminology.To his mind each crime is merely a scientific problem which hegoes about solving as if it were any other scientific problem. Itis only recently that he has begun to take an active interest inthe human phases of criminology.
"He hates newspapers, newspapermen and loose thinking. He connectsthe last, loose thinking, with newspapers and reporters. I got inwith him because his chief assistant and adopted son, JohnMatthews, was a classmate of mine in the university. John, if helives long enough, will be as great a scientist as his chief.John, or Jack as I call him, is over six feet tall and would havemade any professional heavyweight step some if he had taken to thering as a profession.
"To see and hear the two of them is a treat. It reminds one of abattleship being convoyed by a clean cut little motor launch. Andto hear them! The old man is constantly deploring--"
At this moment there cut through the abnormal quiet of the smokycity room the deep growl of its autocrat, "Iron Man" Hite. Jimmystopped. Hite was calling his name. No one who was not deaf everlet Hite call him twice.
"Hey, Hale," roared the voice.
Jimmy reached the dais of the man who was said to be the best andthe cruellest city editor in the newspaper game.
"Jimmy, your vacation begins next week, doesn't it?"
Jimmy nodded and looked at his superior expectantly. Hitecontinued:
"Your little tin god, Professor Herman Brierly, is spending thesummer up in Canada, isn't he?"
Jimmy nodded again.
"Howdje like to spend your vacation up there with Brierly at thepaper's expense?"
Jimmy made no effort to hide the suspicion in his eyes. He hadheard of Greeks bearing gifts, particularly when the Greek tookthe shape of his city editor.
"What do you mean, my vacation at the paper's expense? I get mypay during my two weeks' vacation, don't I?"
"Yes, but the paper is willing to pay all
the expenses of yourvacation besides. What do you think of that?"
The suspicion in Jimmy's eyes grew deeper. He knew his cityeditor. There was--Hite cut in on his reflections.
"A swell chance for you to spend part or all of your vacation withProfessor Brierly and your friend, Matthews. District AttorneyMcCall is up there too. Brierly is in McCall's shack." He wasbecoming enthusiastic. "Just think of a vacation at the paper'sexpense in--"
"I was planning to spend my vacation elsewhere," said Jimmycoldly. "Besides, Professor Brierly doesn't want any visitors. Heneeds a rest. Jack consented to go up there with the Professoronly on condition that McCall doesn't talk shop. I've got myvacation all planned."
"But Jimmy, up there where Brierly is you can get the best ale inthe world--and beer--say, just thinking of it makes my mouth water.If you must drink you ought to go up there for a spell instead ofdrinking this needled beer and the lousy hootch you get in thespeakeasies. And that lake up there, Lake Memphremagog, is one ofthe most beautiful in the world. Just the thing for a newspaperman.Why Jimmy--"
"All right, I'll bite. What do you want me to do up in Canada--onmy vacation."
"Who the hell said I want you to do anything on your vacation?That's the chief trouble with this newspaper game; it makes peopleso damn suspicious."
"Oh, yeah. Tomorrow, Friday, I draw three weeks' pay and my twoweeks' vacation begins. You want me to go up to Canada and spendmy vacation with Professor Brierly, where the air of LakeMen--whatever the name is, is salubrious and where they have delicious,wholesome beer and ale. I go up there, get healthy and strong,recuperate from this hectic newspaper life and return. When Ireturn, I submit a bill for the fare, and other expenses and thebeer and ale. And you pay this expense account. And it ends there,does it? During this two weeks you don't want me to see anybody ordo anything or dig up any story for the paper, do you. Is that theprogram?"
"Sure, that's the program exactly. But you won'tobject, will you, Jimmy, if I ask you to drop in on someone in acamp near Brierly's. Just drop in once, that's all, and file alittle story. It's right near Lentone, Vermont Is that too much toask?"
"I knew it! There _is_ a joker somewhere. Just drop in onceand file a little story. You've got a correspondent up there, fora little story. If it's a big story, the A.P. will get it or thepaper can send a man up there. What the hell do you want to spoilmy vacation for?"
"But this isn't a story, Jimmy. It's got _point_ about it that makesit a swell feature story, mebbe a fine human interest yarn, see.And it won't interfere with you at all."
"But--"
Hite's strong teeth clenched his corn cob pipe, his jaw jutted outlike a crag; his eyebrows bristled.
"Say, what the hell is all this yappin' about. You pampered petsgive me a large pain. I'm askin' you to do somethin'. Either youdo it or you don't. Somebody told you you're a star reporter andyou believe it. You're developin' a temperament, like a primadonna. I'm payin' you a compliment by giving you a swell featurestory; I'm sendin' you where you'd probably like to go anyway; I'mpayin' your expenses for your vacation. I'm payin' for all thebeer and ale you can guzzle and you balk. What the--"
Jimmy mentally ducked under the gathering storm. Hite was the onlyhuman being of whom he was afraid. A vacation up in Canada at thepaper's expense wasn't so bad after all. As for the story, hecould probably clean it up in a couple of hours, whatever it was.What could possibly happen up there that would take too much ofhis time? He interjected soothingly.
"Oh, all right, all right, I suppose I'll _have_ to go. What's itall about?"
"No, you don't _have_ to go. This is your vacation.This paper," virtuously, "doesn't impose on its men. I wouldn'tdream of--"
"All right, chief, all right, I'll go. I don't have to go. But I'mjust aching, just yearning to go. What is it?"
Hite glowered at him for a moment. His joke wasn't working outquite as planned. Still it would be swell to have Jimmy up there.There ought to be a great feature story in it anyway, particularlyon July Fourth, and perhaps a swell follow-up the next day.
His ugly, rugged features returned to normal. He put away hispipe. He said, holding up the clipping:
"There's gonna be a reunion of fourteen men in the camp of IsaacHigginbotham, in Quebec, a few miles north of Lentone, Vermont.The fourteen are all that remain of a group of two hundred andthirty-seven, all of them veterans of the Civil War. Most of thetwo hundred and thirty-seven were Confederates, but there were afew Union men among them.
"They have a reunion every July 4th. They're mostly northernConfederates. There have been hints for the past twenty years orso that there's something in the group that's strange. It's nevergot out, because newspapermen never really got after it andcovered their reunions. The reasons that first got them togetherare obscure, but one thing that holds them together is a Tontineinsurance policy. It--"
"Tontine?" broke in Jimmy.
"Yeah, Tontine. Don't you know what Tontine insurance is?" heasked with mild surprise. "In Tontine insurance a group of personsget together, pay a lump sum or periodically, with the understandingthat the sole survivor takes the whole pot. Understand?"
Jimmy nodded. He repressed a grin. His eyes had caught on Hite'sdesk a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Volume XXIII,TAB-UPS. He would look at that volume himself later and learn allabout Tontine insurance.
Hite continued:
"Well, Jimmy, among these fourteen survivors are some of theforemost men in the country, men who have served their country invarious capacities, a few of them just ordinary poor men. Can'tyou see what a swell feature story this can be for the Fourth.Patriots all of them: Northern and Southern Confederates, Unionmen from the North and the South. Why Jimmy--"
Jimmy nodded. His eyes took on the gleam they always held whenthere was a good story in sight. Canada, with Professor Brierlyavailable, with Jack Matthews, with good beer and ale and thepossibility of a good story, with all expenses paid, might be agood idea after all.