Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (The Lost Classics Book 14) Read online

  “I wish it were as clear to me as I made it to the jury.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the deputy, looking at him curiously. “Those tracks at the back door, where the two cowhands came out—”

  “Well, what about their tracks?”

  “Why, they tiptoed away—both those boys went off on their tiptoes.” The deputy pondered a moment.

  “Ain’t that nachel, for ’em to go sneakin’ away from their murder?”

  “A man wouldn’t try to tiptoe and keep quiet immediately after he had fired a pistol twice,” said the psychologist.

  “Well, now, that’s a fact, too,” admitted Sawyer, puzzled.

  These observations were interrupted by a stir outside the door. Voices shouted out: “Hey, Lang, got one of ’em, did ye?”

  “Where’d you ketch him, Lang?”

  “Slewfoot, what ye let the sheriff git ye for?”

  A negro’s voice blubbered out. The crowd outside the door parted and a wool shirted man entered, leading a handcuffed negro.

  When Sawyer, the deputy, recognized the negro he shouted back to the jury to hold their decision as more evidence had been brought in. Old Aunt Rose looked at her son and wailed out—

  “Lawd, Slewfoot, go an’ git caught jess when Mas’ Poggioli ’bout to sot you free!”

  Slewfoot blinked at his old mother and said nothing. The jurymen who were standing now went back to their seats. The sheriff brought his prisoner before them and the foreman motioned the black man to sit on a nail keg.

  “Sheriff,” asked the foreman, “did Slewfoot have a gun on him when you caught him?”

  “Oh, yes—” the officer nodded, “here it is.” And he drew from his pocket an ancient single action Colt revolver.

  The spokesman took the weapon, turned it in his hand.

  “Smith,” he said, “better finish up your work chiselin’ out that bullet. You’ve got yours, have you, Dr. Livermore?”

  The surgeon indicated a pellet of lead lying on a piece of wrapping paper on the counter.

  “Now, Slewfoot,” said the foreman, “we want you to tell us exactly how old man Sanderson was shot an’ who did it. No use in your tryin’ to lie about it. If you did it, say so; if you didn’t do it, tell us who did.”

  The black man became very frightened. He wet his lips with his tongue and stammered:

  “W-wuw-well, Mistuh Tim, Ah di’n’ do hit. Ah sho di’n’ do hit!”

  “Then who did?”

  “Ah—Ah don’ know.”

  “Wasn’t you in the store here when he was shot?”

  “Yessuh, Ah guess Ah was.”

  “An’ you say you don’t know who shot him?”

  “N-n-no, suh, Ah don’ know who shot him. Ah—Ah di’n’ see nobody shoot him.”

  “Hand me that bullet, Smith, soon as you get it out,” directed the spokesman, “an’ let me have that one on the counter now.”

  The chiseler presently brought his bit of lead and handed it in. The foreman compared the two bullets with the revolver.

  “Well, gentlemen, there you are,” he said to the other jurors. “Two old style .38 balls shot out of this .38 Colt.” He swung the cylinder of the revolver to one side and added, “Here are a couple of exploded shells in his gun. The damn fool didn’t even have brains enough to reload.”

  “Well, that ends the investigation,” said one of the jurors.

  “I think so,” agreed the foreman.

  At the sudden and simple turn of the evidence the old negro woman began weeping and praying the Lord to save Slewfoot.

  The psychologist called out above the stir— “Wait, gentlemen—wait just a moment before returning a final verdict.” One of the jurors was impatient.

  “Thunder! What more do you want? Here’s the bullets that done the work exactly fittin’ the nigger’s gun.”

  “Still, I’m here representing the prisoner, in a way. At least let me have opportunity to look over the evidence.”

  “Are you still thinkin’ about the shot from behind the counter?” asked the foreman.

  “I am; I am also thinking about Slewfoot’s tracks just outside the back door. He didn’t leap out as a man running away from a murder. His heels did not hit at all. He tiptoed away from the door. He was evidently under some sort of restraint.”

  “Restraint!” ejaculated a voice, and gave an incredulous laugh. “Exactly; restraint—some sort of restraint.”

  The psychologist took up the two cones of lead and began examining them. “I think this is a plumb waste of time,” complained a juryman.

  To this Mr. Poggioli made no reply, but continued examining the two missiles that had been recovered. Finally he came to a pause, frowning in concentration over the pieces of lead. His expression caught the attention of the whole group. “Now what in the hell d’ye reckon he sees in them two bullets?” asked a juror querulously.

  The psychologist glanced up and answered for himself—

  “One of the most intriguing mysteries it has ever been my good fortune to encounter,” he replied gravely.

  The foreman arose from his chair.

  “What is it, Mr. Poggioli?” he asked curiously.

  “These bullets. The one that struck the wall and the one that hit Mr. Sanderson—which one do you gentlemen think was fired first?”

  “Why, the one that hit the wall, of course—he missed him.”

  “On the contrary, it was fired last. The bullet from the body has reddish rust in its old fashioned lead grooves, but the one out of the wall is fouled with the black residue of smoke powder.”

  The coroner’s jury looked at him in silence. Finally one of them said— “Well, what do you make of that?”

  “I make this of it: The man who killed Mr. Sanderson first shot him down, and then for some reason or other stood over his dead body and fired a bullet into the wall.”

  “Why, he may have shot at him twict and jest missed the second shot,” suggested the foreman.

  “Impossible; Sanderson was shot in the back of the head. Death was instantaneous. He dropped like a beef. This old pistol is a single action gun. The murderer had to recock his weapon, then he pointed it again and deliberately fired a bullet into the wall with his victim lying at his feet.”

  “What in the thunder did he do that for?” demanded the foreman. Poggioli drew a long breath.

  “Gentlemen, there could have been but one reason. The murderer wanted the bullet to be cut out and identified. He was afraid the ball in Sanderson’s body would not be found, so he fired another into the wall. He had thought out his whole plan of action before he fired a shot.”

  “What would Slewfoot want to have his own gun identified for?” demanded a juror.

  “Slewfoot didn’t do the shooting. Such a plot was far over his head. The murderer gave Slewfoot this revolver after he had killed old man Jake. He had plotted to give it to Slewfoot; that was why he was so anxious to have the gun in Slewfoot’s possession identified. He thought it would save his own neck.”

  At this the foreman of the jury got hastily to his feet.

  “Here! Here!” he cried. “This way of savin’ a nigger, first by stickin’ a match in a bullet hole, an’ then by punchin’ a pin in the grooves of two bullets—they ain’t no sense to that!”

  “No!”

  “No, they ain’t!” cried two or three voices.

  Poggioli was about to protest this logical outrage when the spokesman of the jury nodded at him:

  “Wait a minute, boys,” he called. “Let me an’ Mr. Poggioli have a word about this.”

  The session again had fallen into disorder. The foreman led the way to the back door. Poggioli followed him, wondering what would come next. When they were outside the door on the sand, the excited man asked in an undertone—

  “Looky here, mister, do you know which one of us shot old man Jake?”

  “Why, certainly,” said the scientist.

  “Well, which one of us—No, no—don’t tell me! I don�
��t want to be goin’ aroun’ knowin’—Yes, damn it, do tell me! I’d jest like to know the man that could think quick enough to bang another bullet into the wall.”

  “He didn’t think that quickly,” returned the psychologist. “He had been studying out that plan for over six months—ever since he clipped that article on ballistics out of some Sunday paper.”

  The foreman stood staring blankly at his companion. “I’ll be derned,” he whispered. “Old man Munro!”

  “Certainly. He had been holding a grudge against Sanderson ever since old Jake ran him out of the cattle business twenty years ago. He read this article on ballistics and made up a plan to murder Sanderson and place the blame on a negro. “His chance came. He shot his enemy and then told the negro he would shoot him if he ever told it. Then he paid the negro his pistol and all the cash in his cash drawer to leave the country. That is why he couldn’t change a dollar bill for that woman awhile ago. It also explains why these tracks here show two men tiptoeing away from the store and not running. They stole away with old man Munro whispering instructions.”

  The foreman stood shaking his head.

  “I jest be danged,” he said slowly. “You said a fellow couldn’t cover up his tracks without makin’ a lot more—” He thrust his head inside the door and called out, “Oh, Sheriff, has that nigger Slewfoot got any money on him?”

  The officer called back:

  “Yes, he’s got a pocketful of small change. I thought it was cartridges when I first searched him, but it turned out to be nickles an’ dimes.”

  “Well, then,” called the foreman, “we’ll have to turn Slewfoot loose, because you know he wouldn’t have shot old man Jake for some money when he already had a pocketful.” He looked at Poggioli and winked. “You see, I’m a pretty good reasoner myse’f, when I git started.”

  “What are you going to do about old man Munro?” inquired the psychologist. “Why-y—er—nothin’, I reckon. A jury of cattlemen like us ain’t goin’ to give old man Munro any trouble for killin’ a skunk like old man Jake Sanderson. We’ll return a verdict that he died at the hands of unknown parties for well known reasons. You see, out here on the Floridy prairies the law has its limits,

  an’ old man Jake was one of them.”

  He gave the wink of a rustic who feels he has said something clever before a city man.

  THE CABLEGRAM

  In the course of his evasions over the telephone, Mr. Henry Poggioli, investigator in criminal psychology, said apologetically— “Mr. Slidenberry, my work here in Miami is purely theoretic, and if I devote any time to practical crimes . . .”

  “But this is theoretic,” pressed the voice in the receiver earnestly. “The Stanhope is due in today and we want you to go aboard with us and—”

  “If the trouble is aboard a ship it must be smuggling,” surmised the scientist. “I am really no expert as a baggage searcher.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that at all. It’s an A. J. P. A. cablegram.”

  “Let’s see—that’s the American Jewelers’ Protective Association?”

  “Right you are, Doctor, and the trouble is we can’t quite decode it.”

  There was something whimsical in the Miami customs force receiving a cablegram which they could not decode. Mr. Poggioli smiled over the telephone as he suggested—

  “If you have it by you would you like to read it to me over the wire?”

  “M-m—we’d a lot rather you’d come down to the docks, but if you think you can decode the thing right off . . .”

  Came a pause, and after about a half minute interval the voice began again: “Here it is:

  “BARBERRY. EXTREME CARE. STANHOPE. 36-B—FEATHERS—CONSULAR REPORTS 1915

  PP. 1125–6. REWARD CLAIMED.

  —J. DUGMORE LAMPTON, CARE AMERICAN CONSULATE, BELIZE, B. C. A.”

  “What is it you don’t understand?” inquired the psychologist. “Feathers—do you know what feathers means?”

  “I don’t know what any of it means.”

  “The rest is simple. Barberry means a diamond smuggler. Stanhope is the name of a ship that will dock here in half an hour. The 36-B is his cabin number. The rest is just plain English. If we capture him J. Dugmore Lampton wants the reward offered by the American Jewelers’ Protective Association.”

  “What about the consular reports?”

  “Don’t know yet. I set a clerk to looking up the reports for 1915. We keep them in the attic of the customs house in goods boxes. This is the first time anybody ever had any reason to refer to them.”

  “You don’t suppose consular reports could be another code word?”

  “No; we suspected that at first. We searched through all the codes, but ‘consular reports’ seems to have no meaning beyond just—you know, the actual reports themselves.”

  “That’s an extraordinary detail of your telegram,” Poggioli admitted after a pause. “It creates a kind of puzzle as to the sender of the message.”

  “How’s that?”

  “That he should not only quote the consular reports, but he is so familiar with them he actually refers to a particular page.”

  “The man is probably in the consular service himself,” returned the customs officer. “That doesn’t alter anything. Every consul knows that the consular reports are never read, are never filed away properly and are seldom even preserved. Really, Mr. Slidenberry, your cablegram is not only puzzling, it is enigmatic.”

  “Really, Doctor,” interposed the inspector, “we wish you’d come down here yourself and see—”

  “I think I will; yes, I’ll come. But while I’m on the way down, please cable Belize and get a report on J. Dugmore Lampton. I would like to know something more about a man who refers in a cablegram to a particular page in the American consular reports.”

  Fifteen minutes later a group of three uniformed men met Mr. Poggioli’s taxi at pier 26. Captain Slidenberry gripped the arrival’s hand.

  “She’s just swinging in now, Dr. Poggioli,” he said gratefully. “Come on inside. The passengers will be down immediately.”

  “Now, as I said,” cautioned the psychologist, “I am utterly inexperienced in searching baggage.”

  Slidenberry held up a hand. “The boys will take care of that.”

  “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, I want you to look over the passenger who occupies cabin 36-B and tell me if he is the type of man who would hide his diamonds in his baggage, or drop them in the pocket of some fellow passenger to be retrieved later—or would he wrap his gems in meat and feed them to his pet dog?”

  Poggioli smiled and shook his head.

  “There may be some physiological index to classify the different types of smugglers; they say it’s true of murderers. I haven’t gone into the matter yet.”

  “How would you like to make your headquarters here and measure all the smugglers we arrest?”

  “I’ll think that over. By the way, you cabled for the information about J. Dugmore Lampton?”

  “Certainly, but I don’t see how that information can aid us here.”

  “Well, don’t you think it queer to quote a consular report?”

  “Mm—ye-es—queer enough, but what is the connection between a diamond smuggler at this end of the line and a man quoting the reports at the other?”

  “I have no idea. That’s what we want to see. When anything seems queer, Mr. Slidenberry, that is merely a psychologic signal that it has connections with something we do not understand. In any crime queerness may very well be a clue.”

  The psychologist’s theory was interrupted by cabin boys streaming down the gangplank of the Stanhope bringing luggage and arranging it in alphabetic piles. Captain Slidenberry went aboard to the window of the ship’s purser and asked who occupied room 36-B. The purser ran his finger down the passenger list.

  “Dr. Xenophon Quintero Sanchez—what’s the matter with Dr. Sanchez?”

  “That’s what we are trying to find out, Purser.”
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br />   The purser touched his cap.

  “His bags will be in the S pen, sir.”

  Slidenberry was searching among the S’s for the initials X.Q.S. when a cabin boy came up and touched his cap.

  “Excuse me, sir, but the passenger in 36-B asks if you will please come to his cabin?”

  The inspector became suspicious at once.

  “What’s the point in that? Why doesn’t he bring down his keys?”

  “His bags are not down yet,” explained the boy. “He sent me to ask if you would please examine them in his cabin.”

  Slidenberry lifted an eyebrow at Poggioli, and the two men started aboard the Stanhope. When they reached stateroom 36-B Slidenberry tapped on the door, and a man’s voice called—

  “Enter, señor, and pardon my occupation.”

  The shutter swung open and Poggioli saw a heavy man of dark complexion and dissipated features sitting on his bunk apparently cutting up his wardrobe with a pair of scissors. Two or three garments already were in pieces, and he was taking out the lining of a coat. The two visitors stood looking at the queer sight.

  “Are you a tailor, Mr. Sanchez?” inquired Slidenberry. The heavy man on the bunk made a deprecatory gesture.

  “A kind of analytic tailor, señores. I am preparing to make my declaration in customs.”

  “Just how?” inquired the inspector dryly. “Are you trying to reduce the value of your wardrobe?”

  Sanchez shrugged.

  “I am trying to find out what my portmanteau contains, señores.”

  “Don’t you know already?” asked Slidenberry in a brittle voice.

  “I do not,” stated Sanchez sharply. “I know what I put in my baggage, but what others have slipped into it I have no way of knowing except by some such method as this.” He jabbed his shears into a garment.

  As Mr. Poggioli viewed this irrational scene there seemed a touch of something familiar in the old Latin’s somber face. He stood trying to recall where he had met the man while Slidenberry went on with his astonished questioning.

  “Do you mean someone has slipped something in your bags?”