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 a
severe simplicity. It contained two beds, a pine chest of drawers, a
strip of faded carpet, and a wash basin. But there was that on the
floor 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 twisted
oddly under him and with his teeth gleaming through his grey beard in a
horrible grin, Captain John Gunner stared up at the ceiling with eyes
that saw nothing.
Until a moment before, he had had the little room all to himself. But
now two people were standing just inside the door, looking down at him.
One was a large policeman, who twisted his helmet nervously in his
hands. 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 quite
expressionless.
The woman was Mrs. Pickett, owner of the Excelsior Boarding-House. The
policeman's name was Grogan. He was a genial giant, a terror to the
riotous element of the waterfront, but obviously ill at ease in the
presence of death. He drew in his breath, wiped his forehead, and
whispered: "Look at his eyes, ma'am!"
Mrs. Pickett had not spoken a word since she had brought the policeman
into the room, and she did not do so now. Constable Grogan looked at
her quickly. He was afraid of Mother Pickett, as was everybody else
along the waterfront. Her silence, her pale eyes, and the quiet
decisiveness of her personality cowed even the tough old salts who
patronized the Excelsior. She was a formidable influence in that little
community of sailormen.
"That's just how I found him," said Mrs. Pickett. She did not speak
loudly, but her voice made the policeman start.
He wiped his forehead again. "It might have been apoplexy," he
hazarded.
Mrs. Pickett said nothing. There was a sound of footsteps outside, and
a young man entered, carrying a black bag.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pickett. I was told that - Good Lord!" The young
doctor 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 in
grim 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 last
night. He never would be called in the morning. Said he liked to sleep
on. 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 a
coronary 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 I
examined him thoroughly. But sometimes you can be deceived. The inquest
will tell us." He eyed the body almost resentfully. "I can't understand
it. The man had no right to drop dead like this. He was a tough old
sailor who ought to have been good for another twenty years. If you
want my honest opinion - though I can't possibly be certain until after
the 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 could
have drunk it from. He might have got it in capsule form. But why
should he have done it? He was always a pretty cheerful sort of old
man, wasn't he?"
"Yes, sir," said the Constable. "He had the name of being a joker in
these parts. Kind of sarcastic, they tell me, though he never tried it
on me."
"He must have died quite early last night," said the doctor. He turned
to Mrs. Pickett. "What's become of Captain Muller? If he shares this
room he ought to be able to tell us something about it."
"Captain Muller spent the night with some friends at Portsmouth," said
Mrs. 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 India
I should have said the man had died from some form of snakebite. I was
out there two years, and I've seen a hundred cases of it. The poor
devils all looked just like this. But the thing's ridiculous. How could
a 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 calling
to him and he didn't answer, so I guessed something was wrong."
The Constable spoke: "You ain't touched anything, ma'am? They're always
very particular about that. If the doctor's right, and there's been
anything 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 I
never saw any harm, so long as he didn't play it too late."
"Seems as if he was playing it when - it happened," Constable Grogan
said. "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 that
it's queer."
Another aspect of the matter seemed to strike the policeman. "I guess
this ain't going to do the Excelsior any good, ma'am," he said
sympathetically.
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 a
decided desire to be somewhere where he could not see the dead man's
staring eyes.
Mrs. Pickett remained where she was, looking down at the still form on
the floor. Her face was expressionless, but inwardly she was tormented
and alarmed. It was the first time such a thing as this had happened at
the Excelsior, and, as Constable Grogan had hinted, it was not likely
to increase the attractiveness of the house in the eyes of possible
boarders. It was not the threatened pecuniary loss which was troubling
her. As far as money was concerned, she could have lived comfortably on
her savings, for she was richer than most of her friends supposed. It
was the blot on the escutcheon of the Excelsior - the stain on its
reputation - which was tormenting her.
The Excelsior was her life. Starting many years before, beyond the
memory of the oldest boarder, she had built up the model establishment,
the fame of which had been carried to every corner of the world. Men
spoke of it as a place where you were fed well, cleanly housed, and
where petty robbery was unknown.
Such was the chorus of praise that it is not likely that much harm
could come to the Excelsior from a single mysterious death but Mother
Pickett was not consoling herself with such reflections.
She looked at the dead man with pale, grim eyes. Out in the hallway the
doctor's voice further increased her despair. He was talking to the
police on the telephone, and she could distinctly hear his every word.
II
The offices of Mr. Paul Snyder's Detective Agency in New Oxford Street
had grown in the course of a dozen years from a single room to an
impressive suite bright with polished wood, clicking typewriters, and
other evidences of success. Where once Mr. Snyder had sat and waited
for clients and attended to them himself, he now sat in his private
office and directed eight assistants.
He had just accepted a case - a case that might be nothing at all or
something exceedingly big. It was on the latter possibility that he had
gambled. The fee offered was, judged by his present standards of
prosperity, small. But the bizarre facts, coupled with something in the
personality of the client, had won him over. He briskly touched the
bell 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 of
his intention of revolutionizing the methods of the agency. Mr. Snyder
himself, in common with most of his assistants, relied for results on
hard work and plenty of common sense. He had never been a detective of
the showy type. Results had justified his methods, but he was perfectly
aware that young Mr. Oakes looked on him as a dull old man who had been
miraculously favored by luck.
Mr. Snyder had selected Oakes for the case in hand principally because
it was one where inexperience could do no harm, and where the brilliant
guesswork which Oakes preferred to call his inductive reasoning might
achieve an unexpected success.
Another motive actuated Mr. Snyder in his choice. He had a strong
suspicion that the conduct of this case was going to have the
beneficial result of lowering Oakes' self-esteem. If failure achieved
this end, Mr. Snyder felt that failure, though it would not help the
Agency, 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 a
lean young man, with dark eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and he looked
quite as much like a typical detective as Mr. Snyder looked like a
comfortable 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 tips
of his fingers together. He nodded curtly. It was part of his pose to
be keen and silent.
"I want you to go to this address" - Mr. Snyder handed him an
envelope - "and look around. The address on that envelope is of a
sailors' boarding-house down in Southampton. You know the sort of
place - retired sea captains and so on live there. All most respectable.
In all its history nothing more sensational has ever happened than a
case of suspected cheating at halfpenny nap. Well, a man had died
there."
"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't
see 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 saying
there was a bar across it, and that nobody could have squeezed
through."
Oakes' eyes glistened. He was interested. "What was the cause of
death?" 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 fellow
had been killed by snake poison - cobra, to be exact, which is found
principally in India."
"Cobra!"
"Just so. In a Southampton boarding-house, in a room with a locked
door, this man was stung by a cobra. To add a little mystification to
the limpid simplicity of the affair, when the door was opened there was
no 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 it
couldn't have gotten up the chimney, because there was no chimney. So
there you have it."
He looked at Oakes with a certain quiet satisfaction. It had come to
his ears that Oakes had been heard to complain of the infantile nature
and 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 which
should be beyond the reasoning powers of a child of six. It seemed to
Mr. 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 is
convinced that it is murder. But, if we exclude ghosts, I don't see how
any 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, so
I promised her I would send one. It is not our policy to turn business
away."
He smiled wryly. "In pursuance of that policy I want you to go and put
up at Mrs. Pickett's boarding house and do your best to enhance the
reputation of our agency. I would suggest that you pose as a ship's
chandler or something of that sort. You will have to be something
maritime or they'll be suspicious of you. And if your visit produces no
other results, it will, at least, enable you to make the acquaintance
of a very remarkable woman. I commend Mrs. Pickett to your notice. By
the 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 of
criminals refuse to believe him a detective until the moment when the
handcuffs snapped on their wrists. "Crime investigation isn't an exact
science. Success or failure depends in a large measure on applied
common sense, and the possession of a great deal of special
information. Mrs. Pickett knows certain things which neither you nor I
know, and it's just possible that she may have some stray piece of
information which will provide the key to the entire mystery."
Oakes laughed again. "It is very kind of Mrs. Pickett," he said, "but I
prefer 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 from
time to time."
"Good. The more detailed the better," said Mr. Snyder genially. "I hope
your 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 young
fool," 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, chuckles
escaped him. Finishing the last sheet he threw his head back and
laughed heartily. The manuscript had not been intended by its author
for a humorous effort. What Mr. Snyder had been reading was the first
of 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 tongue, 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 the
substance of it, and above all, he was tickled by the bitter tone of
frustration which characterized it. Oakes was baffled, and his knowledge
of Oakes told him that the sensation of being baffled was gall and
wormwood to that high-spirited young man. Whatever might be the result
of 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 his
life, the self-confidence which characterized all his actions seemed to
be failing him. The change had taken place almost overnight. The fact
that the case had the appearance of presenting the unusual had merely
stimulated him at first. But then doubts had crept in and the problem
had begun to appear insoluble.
True, he had only just taken it up, but something told him that, for
all the progress he was likely to make, he might just as well have been
working on it steadily for a month. He was completely baffled. And
every moment which he spent in the Excelsior Boarding-House made it
clearer to him that that infernal old woman with the pale eyes thought
him an incompetent fool. It was that, more than anything, which made
him acutely conscious of his lack of success. His nerves were being
sorely troubled by the quiet scorn of Mrs. Pickett's gaze. He began to
think that perhaps he had been a shade too self-confident and abrupt in
the short interview which he had had with her on his arrival.
As might have been expected, his first act, after his brief interview
with Mrs. Pickett, was to examine the room where the tragedy had taken
place. The body was gone, but otherwise nothing had been moved.
Oakes belonged to the magnifying-glass school of detection. The first
thing he did on entering the room was to make a careful examination of
the floor, the walls, the furniture, and the windowsill. He would have
hotly denied the assertion that he did this because it looked well, but
he would have been hard put to it to advance any other reason.
If he discovered anything, his discoveries were entirely negative, and
served only to deepen the mystery of the case. As Mr. Snyder had said,
there was no chimney, and nobody could have entered through the locked
door.
There remained the window. It was small, and apprehensiveness, perhaps,
of the possibility of burglars, had caused the proprietress to make it
doubly secure with an iron bar. No human being could have squeezed his
way through it.
It was late that night that he wrote and dispatched to headquarters the
report which had amused Mr. Snyder.
V
Two days later Mr. Snyder sat at his desk, staring with wide, unbelieving
eyes 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 me
directly he arrives," he said.
He was pained to find that his chief emotion was one of bitter
annoyance. The swift solution of such an apparently insoluble problem
would reflect the highest credit on the Agency, and there were
picturesque circumstances connected with the case which would make it
popular with the newspapers and lead to its being given a great deal of
publicity.
Yet, in spite of all this, Mr. Snyder was annoyed. He realized now how
large a part the desire to reduce Oakes' self-esteem had played with
him. He further realized, looking at the thing honestly, that he had
been firmly convinced that the young man would not come within a mile
of a reasonable solution of the mystery. He had desired only that his
failure would prove a valuable educational experience for him. For he
believed that failure at this particular point in his career would make
Oakes a more valuable asset to the Agency. But now here Oakes was,
within a ridiculously short space of time, returning to the fold, not
humble and defeated, but triumphant. Mr. Snyder looked forward with
apprehension to the young man's probable demeanor under the
intoxicating influence of victory.
His apprehensions were well grounded. He had barely finished the third
of the series of cigars, which, like milestones, marked the progress of
his afternoon, when the door opened and young Oakes entered. Mr. Snyder
could not repress a faint moan at the sight of him. One glance was
enough 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 had
resigned himself to be patronized, and keep his anger in check.
"Yes," he replied, "I must say it did surprise me. I didn't gather from
your report that you had even found a clue. Was it the Indian theory
that turned the trick?"
Oakes laughed tolerantly. "Oh, I never really believed that
preposterous theory for one moment. I just put it in to round out my
report. 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. He
let the ash of his cigar fall delicately to the floor - another action
which 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 struck me as rather intelligent."
"Not on your life. She gave me no assistance whatever. I then examined
the room where the death had taken place. It was exactly as you described
it. There was no chimney, the door had been locked on the inside, and
the one window was very high up. At first sight, it looked extremely
unpromising. Then I had a chat with some of the other boarders. They had
nothing of any importance to contribute. Most of them simply gibbered.
I then gave up trying to get help from the outside, and resolved to rely
on my own intelligence."
He smiled triumphantly. "It is a theory of mine, Mr. Snyder, which I
have found valuable that, in nine cases out of ten, remarkable things
don'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 simplest
explanation is nearly always the right one. Consider this case. It seemed
impossible that there should have been any reasonable explanation of the
man's death. Most men would have worn themselves out guessing at wild
theories. 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 ever
happens, and I won out."
Mr. Snyder sighed softly. Oakes was entitled to a certain amount of
gloating, but there could be no doubt that his way of telling a story
was downright infuriating.
"I believe in the logical sequence of events. I refuse to accept
effects unless they are preceded by causes. In other words, with all
due respect to your possibly contrary opinions, Mr. Snyder, I simply
decline to believe in a murder unless there was a motive for it. The
first thing I set myself to ascertain was - what was the motive for the
murder of Captain Gunner? And, after thinking it over and making every
possible inquiry, I decided that there was no motive. Therefore, there
was no murder."
Mr. Snyder's mouth opened, and he obviously was about to protest. But
he appeared to think better of it and Oakes proceeded: "I then tested
the suicide theory. What motive was there for suicide? There was no
motive. Therefore, there was no suicide."
This time Mr. Snyder spoke. "You haven't been spending the last few
days in the wrong house by any chance, have you? You will be telling me
next that there wasn't any dead man."
Oakes smiled. "Not at all. Captain John Gunner was dead, all right. As
the medical evidence proved, he died of the bite of a cobra. It was a
small 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 without
leaving the box."
"Then suppose you tell me this. How did your cobra from Java get out of
the room?"
"By the window," replied Oakes, impassively.
"How can you possibly explain that? You say yourself that the window
was high up."
"Nevertheless, it got out by the window. The logical sequence of events
is proof enough that it was in the room. It killed Captain Gunner
there, and left traces of its presence outside. Therefore, as the
window was the only exit, it must have escaped by that route. It may
have climbed or it may have jumped, but somehow it got out of that
window."
"What do you mean - it left traces of its presence outside?"
"It killed a dog in the backyard behind the house," Oakes said. "The
window of Captain Gunner's room projects out over it. It is full of
boxes and litter and there are a few stunted shrubs scattered about. In
fact, there is enough cover to hide any small object like the body of a
dog. That's why it was not discovered at first. The maid at the
Excelsior came on it the morning after I sent you my report while she
was emptying a box of ashes in the yard. It was just an ordinary stray
dog without collar or license. The analyst examined the body, and found
that 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 breakfast
there, but the snake had gone. It must have escaped through the door of
the yard, which was standing ajar. That was a couple of days ago, and
there has been no further tragedy. In all likelihood it is dead. The
nights are pretty cold now, and it would probably have died of
exposure."
"But, I just don't understand how a cobra got to Southampton," said the
amazed 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 from
what he said. It seems that an old shipmate of Captain Gunner's was
living in Java. They corresponded, and occasionally this man would send
the captain a present as a mark of his esteem. The last present he sent
was a crate of bananas. Unfortunately, the snake must have got in
unnoticed. 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 the
goods, I don't see how I could have made out a stronger one. Don't you
agree?"
It went against the grain for Mr. Snyder to acknowledge defeat, but he
was a fair-minded man, and he was forced to admit that Oakes did
certainly seem to have solved the impossible.
"I congratulate you, my boy," he said as heartily as he could. "To be
completely 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't
enough sense to be pleased at anything. However, she has invited me to
dinner with her tonight. I imagine she'll be as boring as usual, but
she made such a point of it, I had to accept."
VI
For some time after Oakes had gone, Mr. Snyder sat smoking and
thinking, in embittered meditation. Suddenly there was brought the card
of Mrs. Pickett, who would be grateful if he could spare her a few
moments. Mr. Snyder was glad to see Mrs. Pickett. He was a student of
character, and she had interested him at their first meeting. There was
something about her which had seemed to him unique, and he welcomed
this second chance of studying her at close range.
She came in and sat down stiffly, balancing herself on the extreme edge
of the chair in which a short while before young Oakes had lounged so
luxuriously.
"How are you, Mrs. Pickett?" said Mr. Snyder genially. "I'm very glad
that you could find time to pay me a visit. Well, so it wasn't murder
after 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 suggestive
than her words.
"A conceited, headstrong young fool," said Mrs. Pickett.
It was no new picture of his assistant that she had drawn. Mr. Snyder
had often drawn it himself, but at the present juncture it surprised
him. Oakes, in his hour of triumph, surely did not deserve this
sweeping 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 case
on it. There couldn't have been a snake in that room because it
couldn'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 always
heard _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 something
happened which could not possibly have happened just because it fits in
with something which 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 an
explanation. But there is a common sense explanation, and if he had not
been 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 him
defiantly.
Mr. Snyder started. "_You_ have?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"You will know before tomorrow. In the meantime try and think it out
for 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 teacher
reprimanding a recalcitrant pupil that Mr. Snyder's sense of humor came
to his rescue. "We do our best, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "But you
mustn't forget that we are only human and cannot guarantee results."
Mrs. Pickett did not pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded to
astonish Mr. Snyder by asking him to swear out a warrant for the arrest
of 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 a
rule, he received his clients' communications calmly, strange as they
often were. But at her words he gasped. The thought crossed his mind
that Mrs. Pickett might well be mentally unbalanced. The details of the
case were fresh in his memory, and he distinctly recollected that the
person she mentioned had been away from the boarding house on the night
of Captain Gunner's death, and could, he imagined, produce witnesses to
prove it.
Mrs. Pickett was regarding him with an unfaltering stare. To all
outward 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? I
cannot make this agency responsible for the arbitrary arrest of a man
on 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 the
arrest on that warrant. You will listen to what I have to say, and you
will see for yourself how the crime was committed. If after that you
feel that you cannot make the arrest I will accept your decision. I
know who killed Captain Gunner," she said. "I knew it from the
beginning. It was like a vision. But I had no proof. Now things have
come to light and everything is clear."
Against his judgment, Mr. Snyder was impressed. This woman had the
magnetism which makes for persuasiveness.
"It - it sounds incredible." Even as he spoke, he remembered that it had
long been a professional maxim of his that nothing was incredible, and
he 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 I
think 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 shown
into the little private sitting room where he found Oakes, the third
guest of the evening unexpectedly arrived.
Mr. Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller had a
peculiar fascination for him. It was not Mr. Snyder's habit to trust
overmuch to appearances. But he could not help admitting that there was
something about this man's aspect which brought Mrs. Pickett's charges
out of the realm of the fantastic into that of the possible. There was
something odd - an unnatural aspect of gloom - about the man. He bore
himself like one carrying a heavy burden. His eyes were dull, his face
haggard. The next moment the detective was reproaching himself with
allowing his imagination to run away with his calmer judgment.
The door opened, and Mrs. Pickett came in. She made no apology for her
lateness.
To Mr. Snyder one of the most remarkable points about the dinner was
the peculiar metamorphosis of Mrs. Pickett from the brooding silent
woman he had known to the gracious and considerate hostess.
Oakes appeared also to be overcome with surprise, so much so that he
was unable to keep his astonishment to himself. He had come prepared to
endure a dull evening absorbed in grim silence, and he found himself
instead opposite a bottle of champagne of a brand and year which
commanded his utmost respect. What was even more incredible, his
hostess had transformed herself into a pleasant old lady whose only aim
seemed to be to make him feel at home.
Beside each of the guests' plates was a neat paper parcel. Oakes picked
his up, and stared at it in wonderment. "Why, this is more than a party
souvenir, Mrs. Pickett," he said. "It's the kind of mechanical marvel
I've always wanted to have on my desk."
"I'm glad you like it, Mr. Oakes," Mrs. Pickett said, smiling. "You
must not think of me simply as a tired old woman whom age has
completely defeated. I am an ambitious hostess. When I give these
little parties, I like to make them a success. I want each of you to
remember this dinner."
"I'm sure I will."
Mrs. Pickett smiled again. "I think you all will. You, Mr. Snyder." She
paused. "And you, Captain Muller."
To Mr. Snyder there was so much meaning in her voice as she said this
that he was amazed that it conveyed no warning to Muller. Captain
Muller, however, was already drinking heavily. He looked up when
addressed and uttered a sound which might have been taken for an
expression of polite acquiescence. Then he filled his glass again.
Mr. Snyder's parcel revealed a watch-charm fashioned in the shape of a
tiny, candid-eye camera. "That," said Mrs. Pickett, "is a compliment to
your profession." She leaned toward the captain. "Mr. Snyder is a
detective, Captain Muller."
He looked up. It seemed to Mr. Snyder that a look of fear lit up his
heavy eyes for an instant. It came and went, if indeed it came at all,
so swiftly that he could not be certain.