Speaker 1: 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