Death at the Excelsior by pg Woodhouse one. The room was the typical bedroom
of the typical boarding house, furnished in so far 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 gray 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 Missus 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.
Missus 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 Picket, 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 ex celsier. She
was a formidable influence in that little community of Sailorman. That's just how I
found him, said Missus 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. Missus Pickett said nothing. There was a sound
of footsteps outside, and a young man entered carrying a black bag. Good
morning, Missus 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. Oh 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 Missus 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 Missus 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 Missus 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 snake bite.
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, Missus Pickett? Missus 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.
Missus 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. Missus 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 border, she had built up the Mudel 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 was 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. Two. The offices of mister 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, sweet bright with polished wood,
clicking typewriters and other evidences of success. Where once mister 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 cross prosperity small, but the bizarre facts, coupled with something in
the personality of the client, had worn him over. He briskly touched the
bell and requested that mister Oakes be sent in to him. Eliot Oakes was
a young man who both amused and interested mister Snyder, for though he had
only recently joined the staff, he made no secret of his intention of revolutionizing
the methods of the agency. Mister 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 mister Oakes looked on him as
a dull old man who had been miraculously favored by luck. Mister Snyder had
selected Oakes for the case in hand, principally because it was one where inexperience
could do no harm, and where the brilliant guess work, which Oakes preferred
to call his inductive reasoning, might achieve an unexpected success. Another motive actuated
mister 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's self esteem if
failure achieved this end. Mister 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 mister Snyder looked like a comfortable and prosperous stockbroker. Sit down,
Oakes said, mister 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. Mister Snyder handed him
an envelope, and look around. The address on that envelope is of a
sailor's boarding house down in Southampton. You know, the sort of place.
Retired sea captains and so forth lived 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's eyes glistened.
He was interested. What was the cause of death, he asked.
Mister Snyder coughed snake bite, he said. Oakes's 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 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
Oaks 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 mister Snyder that Oakes was about to
get his wish. I should like further details, said Oakes, a little
breathlessly. You had better apply to Missus Pickett, who owns the boarding house.
Mister Snyder said. It was she who put the case in my hands.
She is convinced that it is murder. But if we exclude go hosts,
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 Riley. In
pursuance of that policy, I want you to go and put up at missus
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 Missus 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 amateurs assistance, my boy, said mister Snyder, in the
benevolently paternal manner which had made a score of criminals refused 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 on a large measure on applied common
sense and the possession of a great deal of special information. Missus 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 missus Pickett, he
said, But I prefer to trust 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 detail, the better,
said mister Snyder, genially. I hope your visit to the Excelsior will
be pleasant and cultivate Missus Pickett. She's worth while. The door closed and
mister Snyder lighted a fresh cigar. Dash it, young fool, he murmured
as he turned his mind to other matters. Three a day later, mister
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 mister Snyder had
been reading was the first of Elliot Oakes's 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 missus Wicket, 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 found 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 humor, had traveled all over the world, and had
been an inmate of the Excelsior for about ten months. He had a small
innuity 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 gathered 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 whiskey. 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. Key and Gunner were
in the habit of playing drafts 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 half ascertained that he had 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 missus 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. Mister 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 Oaks 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 investoration, it would teach him the virtue of patience. He
wrote his assistance a short note, Dear Oaks, 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 and 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 picket theory. However, you're in charge. I wish
you luck. Four Young mister 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 clear
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 Missus 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 Missus 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 window sill. 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 missus 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
in dispatch to headquarters the report which had amused mister Snyder. Five two days
later, mister Snyder sat at his desk, staring with wide, unbelieving eyes
at a telegram he had just received. It read as follows, I have
solved Gunner mystery. Returning Oakes, mister Snyder narrowed his eyes and rang the
bell. Send mister 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 make
it popular with the newspapers and lead to its being given a great deal of
publicity. Yet in spite of all this, mister Snyder was annoyed. He
realized now how large a part the desire to reduce Oaks's 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
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. Mister 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 a series
of cigars, which, like milestones, marked the progress of his afternoon.
When the door opened and young Oakes entered, mister Snyder could not repress a
faint moan at the sight of him. One glance was enough to tell him
that his worst fears were realized. I got your telegram, said mister Snyder.
Oakes nodded. It surprised you, eh, he asked. Mister 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 believe 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. Mister 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 missus 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. 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, mister 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, mister 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 warned them 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
worn out. Mister 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, mister Snyder, I simply
declined to believe in a murder unless there is 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. Mister
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, mister Snyder spoke, you haven't been
spending the last few days in the wrong house, by any chance, have
you? You'll 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. Mister Snyder stared at him.
How do you know, I do know, beyond any possibility of doubt.
Did you see the snake? Oake shook his head. Then, how in
HEA's name I have enough evidence to make a jury convict mister 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 back yard 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 callar 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 was 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 mister 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 mister 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 mister 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 Missus Pickett
was pleased. If she was, she didn't show it. I'm pretty well
convinced that 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
six. For some time after Oakes had gone, mister Snyder sat smoking and
thinking in embittered meditation. Suddenly there was brought the card of missus Pickett,
who would be grateful if he could spare her a few moments. Mister Snyder
was glad to see missus 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 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, missus Pickett, said mister 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 mister Oakes, whom you met as James Burton, said the detective.
He has told me all about it. He told me all about it,
said Missus Pickett dryly. Mister Snyder looked at her inquiringly. Her manner
seemed more suggestive than her words. A conceited, headstrong, young fool,
said Missus Pickett. It was no new picture of his assistant that she had
drawn. Mister Snyder had often drawn it himself, but at the present juncture
it surprised him. Oakes, in his hour of triumph, surely did not
deserve that this sweeping condemnation. Did not mister oaks solution of the mystery satisfy
you, Missus Pickett. No, it struck me as logical and convincing.
Mister Snyder said, you may call it all the fancy names you please,
mister Snyder, but mister Oak's solution was not the right one. Have you
an alternative to offer? Missus 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 mister Oaks 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. Missus Pickett looked at
him as if he had disappointed her. I had always heard you spoken of
as a man with common sense, mister 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 there is another explanation of the dead
dog, mister Snyder asked, not another. What mister 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 mister Snyder, I have.
Missus Pickett leaned forward as she spoke and stared at him defiantly. Mister
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 to tell active agency like yours, mister 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 mister Snyder's sense of humor
came to his rescue. We do our best, Missus Pickett, he said,
but you mustn't forget that we are only human and cannot guarantee results.
Missus Pickett did not pursue the subject. Instead, she proceeded to astonish mister
Snyder by asking him to swear out a warrant for the arrest of a man
known to them, both on a charge of murder. Mister Snyder's breath was
not often taken away in his own office. As a rule, he received
his client's communications calmly, strange as they often were. But at her words
he gasped. The thought crossed his mind that Missus 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. Missus 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 Missus 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 suspicions. It might ruin me. At the least,
it would make me a laughing stock. Mister 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 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, mister 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. Mister Snyder, I ask
you to swear out that warrant. The detective gave in very well, he
said, missus 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 mister Snyder. Seven. When
mister 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. Mister Snyder looked curiously at the newcomer. Captain Muller
had a peculiar fascination for him. It was not mister Snyder's habit to trust
over much to appearances, but he could not help admitting that there was something
about this man's aspect which brought Missus Pickett's charges out of the realm of the
fantastic into that of the possible. There was something odd and 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 Missus Pickett came in. She made no apology for her
lateness to mister Snyder. One of the most remarkable points about the dinner was
the peculiar metamorphosis of Missus 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 ear
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 guest's plates was a neat paper
parcel. Oakes picked his up and stared at it in wonderment. Why this
is more than a party souvenir, Missus 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, mister Oakes, Missus 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. Missus Pickett smiled again. I think you all
will you, mister Snyder, she paused, and you, Captain Muller.
To mister 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 equi essence.
Then he filled his glass again. Mister Snyder's parcel revealed a watch charm
fashioned in the shape of a tiny candid eye camera that said, Missus Pickett
is a compliment to your profession. She leaned toward the Captain. Mister Snyder
is a detective. Captain Muller, he looked up. It seemed to mister
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 so said Captain Muller. He spoke quite evenly,
with just the amount of 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 watched Captain Muller slowly tearing the paper that sent a
thrill of excitement through mister Snyder. Something seemed to warn him of the approach
of a psychological moment. He bent forward eagerly. There was a strangled gasp,
a thump, and onto the table from the Captain's hands there fell a
little harmonica. There was no mistaking the 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 not repress. The glasses on the table rocked
as he clutched at the cloth. Missus Pickett spoke, why Captain Muller has
it upset you? I thought that, as his best friend, the man
who shared his room, you would value a memento of Captain Gunner. How
fond you must have been of him for the sight of his harmonica to be
such a shock. The Captain did not speak. He was staring, fascinated
at the thing on the table. Missus Pickett turned to mister Snyder. Her
eyes eyes as they met his, held him entranced. Mister Snyder, as
a detective, you will be interested in a curious and very tragic affair which
happened in this house. A few days ago. One of my boarders,
Captain Gunner, was found dead in his room. It was the room which
he shared with Captain Muller. I am very proud of the reputation of my
house, mister Snyder, and it was a blow to me that this should
have happened. I applied to an agency for a detective, and they sent
me a stupid boy with nothing to recommend him except his belief in himself.
He said that Captain Gunner had died by accident, killed by a snake which
had come out of a crate of bananas. I knew better. I knew
that Captain Gunner had been murdered. Are you listening, Captain Muller. This
will interest you, as you were such a friend of his. The Captain
did not answer. He was staring straight before him as if he saw something
invisible in eyes forever closed in death. Yesterday we found the body of a
dog. It had been killed, as Captain Gunner had been, by the
poison of a snake. The boy from the agency said that this was conclusive.
He said that the snake had escaped from the room after killing Captain Gunner
and had in turn killed the dog. I knew that to be impossible,
for if there had been a snake in that room, it could not have
made its escape. Her eyes flashed and became remorselessly accusing it was not a
snake that killed Captain Gunner, it was a cat. Captain Gunner had a
friend who hated him. One day, in opening a crate of bananas,
this friend found a snake. He killed it and extracted the poison. He
knew Captain Gunner's habits. He knew that he played a harmonica. This man
also had a cat. He knew that cats hated the sound of a harmonica.
He had often seen this particular cat fly at Captain Gunner and scratch him
when he played. He took the cat and covered its claws with the poison,
and then he left it in the room with Captain Gunner. He knew
what would happen. Oakes and mister Snyder were on their feet. Captain Muller
had not moved. He sat there, his fingers gripping the cloth. Missus
Pickett rose and went 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 crash of crockery and a ringing of glass.
The table heaved, rocked and overturned. As Muller staggered to his feet,
he threw up his hands as if to ward something off. A choking cry
came from his lips. Goot, gott. Missus Pickett's voice rang through the
room, cold and biting. Captain Muller, you murdered Captain Gunner. The
captain shuddered, Then mechanically he replied, gout. Yes, I killed him.
You heard, mister Snyder, said, Missus Pickett. He has confessed
before witnesses take him away. Muller allowed himself to be moved toward the door.
His arm in mister Snyder's grip felt limp. Missus Pickett stopped and took
something from the debris on the floor. She rose holding the harmonica. You
are forgetting your souvenir, Captain Muller, she said. The end of Death
at the Excelsior by P. G. Woodhouse