Speaker 1: The catspaw by Ward Sterling one. The Peck mansion was
as carefully guarded as a prison. At the front and
rear doors, armed operatives from the best detective bureau in
the city. All tried men were posted day and night.
Others patrolled the grounds. There was not one chance in
ten million for any one to creep through the network
of protection we had thrown about the aged millionaire in
his family. Yet the first murder occurred within twenty four
hours of the time set by lawn dixby Lanigan. The
second man did not report for duty in the morning
as usual. Jenkins, the butler, entering the room when he
did not respond, found him cold in death. The tragedy
had taken place some time during the night. The body
was cold and rigid when we rushed into the chamber
in response to the butler's frantic calls for help. Bloated
to nearly double his natural size, blackened, the limbs twisted
as from convulsions, the face drawn out of shape. The
unfortunate man presented a terrifying spectacle. Doctor Maxwell Pack's regular physician,
who was locked up in the house with the remainder
of us, gave as his opinion after a hurried examination,
that death was the result of poisoning. Yet Lanigan had
eaten nothing, to the best of our knowledge and belief,
that the rest of us had not also eaten That
had been part of our agreement that we would all
partake of the same food in order to protect peck
from poison. Nor had anything in the provision line been
brought to the house prepared to stand a siege. Everything,
even the fresh meats, had been purchased in advance and
stored away in the refrigerating plants downstairs. Doctor Fry, the coroner,
summoned by telephone as soon as the tragedy was discovered,
agreed with his colleague that Lannigan had been poisoned. It
was his belief, however, that the poison had been administered
by injection into a vein. Both physicians made a careful
examination of the body just above the knee. They found
two minute punctures in the skin. Here, too, the swelling
seemed more aggravated than elsewhere, while the spot had turned
a darker hue. The body had every symptom of death
from snake bite. Yet we knew that there was not
a snake in the house, nor could there have been
one in the room. Lannigan had, according to my instructions,
slept with his windows and door locked. They were in
this condition when the body was found, for it had
been necessary for the butler to let himself into the
room with is past key. The other servants had locked
themselves in in the same way. An alert detective had
been posted all night in each corridor. In spite of
the precautions, in order to make certain, we removed every
piece of furniture from the dead man's room. There was
no possibility of a reptile having been hidden there, nor
could a man have in any possible way entered the house.
To make matters more complicated, we knew that Lannigan had
not left the house that day nor the day before,
for this was part of the arrangement we had made.
Ponder as I would, I could think of no possible
solution to the puzzle. It was as mysterious as Poe's
mystery of the room. Orgue Peck the storm Center, the
man for whom all these precautions were taken, and for
whom poor Lambagan had died, was the calmest of us.
All five minutes after the appearance of the coroner. The
millionaire was summoned to the phone. In accordance with my
determination not to allow him out of my sight day
or night. I accompanied him to the library a harsh,
metallic voice, a voice so loud that it could be
heard all over the big room. He informed him that
the death of a member of his household had been
a warning, a warning, scent to prove to him that
in spite of all of his precautions, his enemies were
able to strike when and where they pleased. His own
death would follow in good time. Shaking slightly, yet gained
to the core, he motioned to me and handed me
the instrument. The voice died out in a mirthless, diabolical chuckle.
Then the receiver at the other end the wire was
hung up with a click. Jiggling the hook up and down,
I succeeded in getting central within a few seconds. An
instant later, I was connected with my friend Armstrong, manager
of the traffic department, to whom I hurriedly explained the
situation and requested that the call be traced. Armstrong moved speedily,
for in spite of the fact that hundreds of calls
go through the Capitol Hill Exchange, every hour. So thorough
is their system that inside of five minutes he had
me back on the wire. The call had originated in
one of the pay stations at the Pennsylvania Depot, ten
miles away. Two Perhaps, in my efforts to hold the
reader's attention, I have not explained matters as thoroughly as
I should. Then, too, like all detectives, I am a
poor narrator of my own experience. What seems to the
average person to be an exciting adventure is to us
only part of a day's work, an episode to be
forgotten as speedily as possible after it has been disclosed
to a judge and jury. Yet the Morgan Peck case
is so unique in criminal annals as to be worthy
of being put in a class by itself. The reader
will recall the sensation in financial circles caused by the
appearance of Alonzo Bixby, the South African Magnet. For two
short years he was one of the kingpins of the exchange.
Then came the battle between Bixby and Peck. It was
short but memorable. Peck, backed by his years of experience,
crushed his enemy beneath his heel. As a farmer's scotches
a harmless worm. Bixby cornered, his fangs bared, showed his
makeup by turning crook. Timothy Owens, Peck's right hand manned,
was killed over the body of his friend Morgan Peck
swore vengeance. One of Bixby's retainers, arrested by the police,
admitted the murder, charging Bixby with having instigated the crime.
All of Peck's gigantic fortunes were placed at the disposal
of the prosecution. The trial lasted for weeks. An army
of lawyers battled for every point. In the end, the
jury sent Bixby to the penitentiary for life. The day
that sentence was pronounced is one that will long be
remembered in newspaper and legal circles. Bixby, surrounded by his lawyers,
his beautiful young wife at his side, listened impassively to
the judge's voice. It was not until the officer seized
him to part him forever from the woman he loved
that lie gave way to his emotions. Leaping to his feet,
his rough hewn face quivered with diabolical rage. He shook
his huge fist at Morgan Peck, damn you in prison
or out. I'll get you, he shouted. I'll make you
suffer as you're making me an. I for an eye,
a tooth for a tooth, gravening like a madman, that
dragged him away. Remember, Bixby was still a wealthy man,
and money will buy almost anything, even liberty. There were
those among us who predicted that Bixby would not remain
long behind prison walls. We were correct in our surmise.
In just eleven months and three days he was at liberty.
With him disappeared half a dozen guards. How much he
paid them for his liberty, no one will probably ever know,
for none of them were ever captured. Some of us
hold to the theory that after helping Bixby make his escape,
they were killed at his orders, but that is another story.
Three weeks after Bixby made his break from prison, an
effort was made to blow up Peck's office with a bomb. Fortunately,
the financier was absent when the package was received. The
secretary who opened it lost his life. A week later,
some one fired a shot at Peck in the dark.
Only the fact that the old man moved slightly in
that instant prevented the assassin's bullet from finding its mark,
as it was only a slight flesh wound rewarded the attempt.
Then Peck's colleagues took a hand. He was the center
around which one of the biggest financial deals ever pulled
off was being engineered, a deal that involved governments. His
death would have meant a world panic. In spite of
his sneers at their fears, for Peck was a battler
who fought for the sheer love of the sport. They
finally induced him to obey their commands. He was locked
in his own house, surrounded by guards. As I have stated,
the best detective bureau in the city was engaged to
look after his safety. Half a hundred operatives were put
to work combing the country for his enemies. Ay, and
I trust that the reader will pardon the seeming egotism
displayed as the best men available among all the detectives
in the city was placed in charge of the guards
surrounding Morgan Peck. Two hours after we had taken our precautions,
a special delivery letter mailed from the downtown station was received.
It read as follows, Peck, I swore I get you
and I meant it. By cooping yourself up like a
sick chicken. You have opened the way for my vengeance.
Inside of forty eight hours, I will strike. God help
you from now on. Bixby three morgan Peck was said
by his enemies to be a man without feeling nerves
or love. A widower, his only daughter dying in childhood,
having few near relatives, he had schooled himself against emotion.
Yet that afternoon, after the body of poor Lanigan had
been removed from the house, we sat together in the
big library discussing the affair. Two things took place which
threw a different light on the old man's character. Gladys Peck,
his niece, an orphan, and his nearest relative, a girl
whom he had raised from childhood, passed through the room.
The old face lighted up, and as she passed out
of hearing, he turned savagely to me. I don't give
a damn about myself, he growled. I'm old enough to
cash in. Time's coming sooner or later anyway. But God
helped Bixby if he harms that girl, and God help
you if you let him. That was all. Yet in
his face was an odd light that betrayed the gruffness
of his voice. I wondered if his enemies knew of
his love for this orphaned girl. I shuddered as I
thought of what might happen if they chanced to learn
and struck him through her. The other incident I mentioned
was when the cat, an ordinary common variety of feline,
entered the room and with back arched, rubbed purringly against
the millionaire's leg. Funny little devil, he grumbled. Picked him
up five years ago when he was a kitten. Somebody
turned him out to die, freeze to death. Damn such people.
Stuck him in my overcoat pocket and brought him home.
Never cared for cats, Angoras, Persians and the blue blooded
aristocracy of catdom. But this little cuss made a hit
with me. Scrap. See that spot of red hair on
his head that shows it. He'd fight Old nick, intelligent too,
makes the servants all stand around, got a habit of
biting him on the ankles. They all like him, though, funny,
isn't it. Got a lot of human traits in him.
Reminds me a little bit of myself, he added, with
a smile, reaching down and rubbing the cat's head affectionately.
And this was the man whose enemies claimed him to
be without a heart. The same afternoon, the coffin came.
An undertaker's wagon stopped at the front door, and two
solemn faced men brought the casket up the stairs in
accordance with his orders. The detective on duty refused to
admit them, but called me cross questioned they knew nothing.
The coffin had been ordered from Morgan'stern Casket Company, and
they were here to deliver it. Address was plainly marked.
Detaining them. After ordering the unsightly reminder of death that
was constantly in our midst replaced in the wagon, I
hurried Holdridge, one of the brightest operatives, under my direction,
over to the offices of the casket company. He returned
inside thirty minutes. The casket had been ordered by mail.
A bank draft for four hundred dollars drawn by the
First National Trust and Savings Bank, one of Peck's own institutions,
had accompanied the letter. The letter merely stated that a
death would shortly occur at Peck's home and asked that
the coffin be delivered immediately. A telephone call to the
bank proved fruitless. The draft clerk remembered drawing the draft,
which was paid for in cash, But owing to the
large number of similar papers which passed through his hands
daily had no recollection as to who this customer had been.
In fact, only the number on the draft recalled the
incidents to mind at all. I released the two men
from the factory. In my own mind, I was convinced
that the affair had been pulled off by Bixby merely
in an effort to break down pex morale. But they
failed to reckon with the old man's fighting spirit. Four
The remainder of the afternoon and night passed uneventfully, everyone
warned by what had happened the night before. Doubling his vigilance,
I spent the following morning in going over the reports
of the fifty odd operatives scattered about the city in
quest of Bixby. Despite the fact that the former haunts
of the Big South African had been combed by our men.
Not only could no trace be found of the financier himself,
but several of his close friends, men who at the
trial were proven to have done his bidding without question,
had also disappeared. As for Missus Bixby, it appeared that
she had left the quiet hotel, where she had remained
since the trial. Nearly a month before her husband had
made his escape, and the trail was too old to follow.
She had dropped out of sight as completely as though
the earth had opened up and swallowed her. For two hours,
I sat at the big library table and went over
the case from every angle. There were a number of
things that puzzled me more than I was willing to admit.
In the first place, who and what had killed Michael Lennigan.
I had proved, to my satisfaction and to that of Peck,
that the second man had not been absent from the
house an instant from the time that he, like the
rest of us, went into seclusion. Trained detectives, each an
ex policeman, men with years of service behind them, were
ready to swear that no one had entered the mansion.
These men had taken turns in watching the place and
the grounds in shifts of two hours on and two
hours off during the entire time since we had been
in a state of siege. On the other hand, I
realized that Bixby had money, and that money will buy
almost anything. Yet I was not ready to condemn these
men on mere conjecture. Then, too there was a matter
of the special delivery letter, who was in such close
touch with the money master that they were able to
find out to the minute when he had driven into
seclusion outside of our own party, only his closest friends
knew of our plans. And had it been a mere
coincidence that the telephone call from the pay station at
the Pennsylvania Deep had come in just after the arrival
of the coroner. Was there some one in the house
who was signaling the happenings inside to our enemies on
the outside. Was one of our own number the murderer?
Would he when the time came strike down Peck as
he had struck down Lenigan. I reached for the list
of those who made up our party and checked it over,
in the hope that through it I might arrive at
the truth. In addition to Peck, his niece, and myself,
there was doctor Maxwell, an old friend, a man immensely
wealthy in his own name, and who had been the
millionaire's private physician for thirty years. All of the servants
had been in the old man's employ from periods ranging
from over a quarter of a century of service on
the part of Miss Langry. The housekeeper to ten years
on the part of Lanigan, the murdered second man. Pack
had hired them all and vouched for them. The detectives,
as I stated, were all men with years of service
behind them. No, on the face of it, it seemed
like an impossibility. Yet there was the murder of Lanigan
to prove the falsity of my reasoning. It was shortly
after noon that Pack and I, smoking in the library,
were brought to our feet by a shriek of help
from the servants quarters at the rear of the house.
Drawing my revolver and shoving the millionaire who would have
taken the lead behind me, I rushed in the direction
that the sound came from. Fred Diets, who acted as
chauffeur and valet for Pack, was lying on his back
in the middle of the kitchen in convulsions. Beside him
stood Missus Mulkahey, the cook, from whose voluminous lungs the
shouts for help were emanating. Coincidentally, with my arrival came
the others, with the ex exception of the two men
stationed at the doors. They, like the veterans, they were
remained at their posts in response to my orders. Jenkins
summoned doctor Maxwell, who was asleep in his room. Inside
of a minute, the physician, his emergency kid in his hand,
made his appearance. He shook his head as he bent
over the stricken man and felt his pulse. For a second,
there was silence. Then the physician straightened up and shrugged
his shoulders. He's dying, he said quietly, while missus Mulkahee
let out a wail of despair. I turned to the physician.
Do you think same as Lanagan? He answered, See for
yourself how the poor fellow started to bloat. After half
a century of medical experience, it's the first case I
ever failed to diagnose, or at least make a fairly
good guest. He stopped. Suddenly, a shudder over the body
of the man on the floor. Then his jaw dropped.
Fred Deets was dead. Five. I turned to missus mulcahey,
tell me just what happened? I commanded, Sure, and that's
the worst of it, she sobbed. There is nothing happened
at all. He was sitting there, happy as you please,
talking to Teta. When Teta, who's Teta? I demanded? The
cat peck answered grimly. Deats was one of Teta's warmest friends.
The little animal is decidedly empathic in his likes and dislikes,
but poor Fred was one of his favorites. I nodded
then to missus mulcahey, go ahead with your story well shore.
As I was saying, he was sitting there talking to Teta,
when all of a sudden and I heard him give
a little gasp. My back was turned to him at
the time. I looked around quickly, just in time to
see him slide from the chair with the foam coming
out of his mouth. I yelled for help, and you've
seen the rest. Missus mulcahy had been with Peck for
eighteen years. My record showed that she was not the murderer,
was a certainty. Yet Deats had been killed under her
very eyes. I questioned her for nearly half an hour,
in the hope that she might recall having seen some
other member of the household in or near the kitchen
at or about the time Deats was stricken down. But
she was emphatic she and she alone had been with
the dead chauffeur. There was nothing to do but send
for the coroner again. Meanwhile, the body had been removed
to an upstairs room where doctor Maxwell made an examination.
He called as I passed through the hall. As I
entered the room, he pointed to the naked body of
the murdered chauffeur, close to the knee of the right leg.
The skin was blacker than elsewhere, and in the center
of the dark spot was a tiny puncture similar to
the ones we had found on Lannigan's leg. A detective
occasionally gets hunches. If he is a good one, he
plays them to the limit. I, as I have stated before,
believe and I trust that the reader will not accuse
me of egotism, that I am among the top notchers,
despite the poor opinion he has received of me through
my rambling account of the murders at the Peck mansion.
Just now I got a hunch. I decided to play
it Hardly, taking time to thank my friend the physician
for his courtesy, I hurried downstairs to the library, where
a pack was busy reading. The big cat, curled up
in a ball on the chair opposite the millionaire, looked
up in astonishment at my catapultic entrance. Mister Peck, I
burst forth, I want to borrow Teta. The millionaire elevated
his brows. You what he demanded. I want to borrow
Teta the cat here. I've an idea that he'd make
a first class detective. I'll promise you that I'll not
injure him in the least, but I am firm in
the conviction that he can lead us to the murderers
of Lannigan and Deets, the men who are trying to
get you, and possibly at Miss Grady through you. As
I spoke, the big cat arched his back and got
on to his feet with a yawn, exercising his digits
by drawing and withdrawing his claws in the padding of
the chair half a dozen times. The action decided the
old man. He looked up at me with a suspicion
of a twinkle in his eyes. The little cuss is
a scrapper, as I told you, he chuckled. Look at
the way he girds up his loyal for action at
the mere mention of taking part in a scrap. Take
him and welcome, but don't let him get hurt. With
a curt knot of thanks, I picked up the cat
and carried him upstairs to my own room. For the
next half hour, the little animal and myself were busily
engaged among the retorts and tubes which doctor Maxwell had
brought from his laboratory for experimental purposes during his enforced attention,
and which I borrowed for my own use. When I
had completed my task, I turned to the furred beauty
with a smile of satisfaction. Teta, I whispered, this whole
affair is a secret between the two of us. I
thought that I was on the right track, and now
I know it. You're the boy who will bring home
the bacon. It's up to you to get the men
who killed your pals, Lannigan and Deets. Will you do it?
There are some people who claim that cats have no intelligence.
I stand ready to swear that Teta Morgan Peck's cat
understood every word I said, for he rubbed against my
leg with a loud purr of satisfaction, and immediately took
up his station close to the door, as if clamoring
for action. We went downstairs together. I stopped at both
the front and rear doors and gave my instructions to
the operatives on watch. I want to be informed the
minute the cat meows to get out, I instructed them
pass this word on to the men who will relieve you.
Remember no excuses go before he is let out. I
am to be called. Fifteen minutes later, Olmsted, on duty
at the rear door, called me. The cat's howling at
my station, he said. I followed the animal to the
door and per personally let him out. Six across the lawn.
I followed the cat with my eyes until he disappeared
around the corner of a nearby garage. Oh Leary and Kin,
the two men on duty on the grounds, had had
their orders. As Teta disappeared down the alley, I saw
O'Leary dodger round a nearby bush and follow him. A
second later he reappeared and approached the house, your friend.
The cat went into a barn that's been transformed into
a garage at fourteen twenty four North tenth, just five
houses below here, he reported, with a grin. And if
you'll pardon the joke, Chief, I have shadowed darn near
everything that walks, but this is the first time I
ever trailed a cat. Stepping up to the telephone, I
called up my friend Hitchins, chief of detectives, who was
cooperating with us in every way possible. Satisfied with the
results of my conversation, I sat down to spend the
remainder of the afternoon among Peck's books. Suddenly, the phone
at my elbow jangled, turning, I picked up the receiver
and answered the call. The same metallic voice that had
talked to Peck the day of Lennigan's murder answered my gruff, Hello, Pack,
He asked, I'll call him. I responded, never mind. The
other answered. Then, as I hesitated for words, the voice
went on, tell your boss he can prepare for another killing.
It may be him, it may be another, but his
time is coming soon. The voice died away in the
same harsh laughter that I had heard before. I hung
up the receiver with a bang and jiggled the hook
to attract the attention of Central. An instant later, I
was connected with my friend Armstrong, to whom I again
explained matters while Peck looked on, his furrowed face wrinkled
in doubt. This time Armstrong was speedier than before. Scarcely
had I hung up the receiver that he called me back.
The phone call was from a booth in a drug
store in the busiest corner of the city to trace
the person who had called would be impossible. Packard on
duty at the rear door called me at fifteen minutes
past five o'clock. The cat just came in, he yelled.
The afternoon's hunting had evidently been the best, for the
cat was purring contentedly as he passed down the hallway
on his way to the library. But I was taking
no chances of a scratch from his sharp claws, for
I protected my hands with heavy gloves as I tenderly
picked him up and carried him upstairs to my room.
Ten minutes later, I was at the telephone with my
friend Hitchins at the other end. Half an hour afterward,
there came a sudden blast of a police whistle from
a dozen different directions from which they had been stationed.
Hurried policemen and detectives, all centering on the big brick
house at fourteen twenty four North tenth. There was no
response to our knocks. A burly policeman hurled his bulk
against the door. It refused to give way. He swung
an axe over his head. Came a sound of splintering wood.
A second later we were inside the hallway. A revolver
spit at us from down the corridor. Another flashed from
the head of the stairs. We answered them, shot for shot,
bullet for bullet. For five minutes the battle waged. Then
our superior numbers told we dashed through the smoke filled rooms,
gathering in our prisoners. Four men were caught in the net,
and one woman. She was missus Lawn Bixby. Her husband,
suffering from a severe wound in the shoulder, was one
of the four. The remainder was merely his tools. Seven Battersby,
one of Bixby's aides, confronted with the murders of Lanigan
and Dets, turned state's evidence and confessed stick. One of
the others backed him up in his statements. Bixby, as
I had figured from the first, was the instigator of
the whole diabolical affair. How he made his escape from prison, however,
is something that he refused to divulge even when he
and his confederates were taken to the gallows to answer
for their crimes. How did they kill Lanagan and Deets
by means of teta unwittingly? The little animal was the
indirect cause of both murders. Battersby, according to his own confession,
had been posted by Bixby, who had, while still in prison,
had him engage the place at fourteen twenty four in
North tenth Street under an alias in order that he
might watch the pack home in his guise as a servant.
He had gotten acquainted with Deats. While the latter was
working with one of the cars. He had noticed Teta
come out of the barn at fourteen twenty four, which
having been empty for a number of years, was filled
with rats. As the cat passed Deats, the latter had
bent over and scratched it, making a chance remark about
Peck's affection for the animal. He had also remarked with
a chuckle at the fondness the pet had for drawing
and withdrawing his claws in whatever he chanced to be,
lying on a habit which all cats indulge in at times. Battersby,
alert to give every detail to his employer, had remarked
this fact to Bixby in his report. The latter saw
an opportunity to turn the incident to his own advantage.
Learning that Peck's cat frequented the barn, he had catered
to the animal in every possible way until the animal
passed a great deal of its time in and about
the Bixby place. Failing in his attempts to kill Pack,
the instant that he had chased the millionaire to cover Bixby,
seized upon the cat to carry out his own diabolical ends.
Covering the animal's claws with a concentrated extract of venom
made from the poison of the cobra, he had turned
it loose, leaving it to fate as to where death
would strike. Peck was likely to be the first. He
was the cat's master, and the animal would be more
likely to be with him than anyone else. That it
was Lanigan who was the first was simply one of
those peculiar freaks of chance. The cat, purring contentedly on
Lenigan's lap, had stuck his claws slightly into the servant's knee.
Lenigan had worn thick trousers, and as a result, a
great deal of the poison rubbed off as the claws
went through. He was therefore not strickened until during the night,
when the venom had gone entirely through his system. On
the other hand, deats wearing a pair of thin trousers,
and there might have been more of the poison on
the cat's claws, or it may have been Fresher was
strickened almost immediately after the sharp points had penetrated his flesh. Bixby,
a native of South Africa, was an adept on poisons,
which led to the fact that he finally selected this
subtle method of committing his crimes. Located so close to
the pack house, he was able to see from his
window a great deal of what was going on around
the mansion. As a result, when the the coroner called,
he knew that death through the cat had struck, but
he did not know who. He had a Confederate station downtown,
somewhere close to the Pennsylvania station. It was but the
work of seconds to call the ladder up and instruct
him to call Peck to the phone. When the latter
answered in person, the Confederate knew that death had struck
someone else, and so informed Bixby. The second phone call
was sent in a spirit of mere braggadocio. After Tetu's
clause had been smeared for a third time with the poison,
the coffin was sent for the same reason, to break
down Peck's morale. How do I know these things? Conjecture
and conjecture. Only At first I imagined, as did doctor
Maxwell and the coroner, that the two punctures in Lennigan's
leg were caused by the fangs of a snake. The
fact that the symptoms where all those of snake bite
led to this deduction. It was not until Deets had
died and missus Mulkaye had told me that Teta had
been on his lap at the time that the idea
suddenly came to me. Coupled with this fact was that
of finding a puncture on Deete's legs similar to that
on the leg of Lannigan. I had noticed the cat's
habit of pressing his claws into everything on which he sat.
Pack had told me that the cat was a favorite
of the two men who had died. I put two
and two together and made four of them. When I
borrowed the cat, I took him to my room and
with my hands gloved, scraped his claws and submitted the
scraping to chemical tests. The result showed snake venom. The
remainder was easy. I had only to disinfect the cat's
claws and then turn him loose. When my men reported
where he went, I summoned Chitchens and asked him to
station his men near the house. When the cat returned,
I seized him before he had had an opportunity of
killing any one else, and again scraped his claws. The
chemical tests showed snake venom in great quantities. The raid
on the house at fourteen twenty four followed. I have
often wondered if Teta knows the part he played in
the death of his two friends and the detection of
the murderers. Who knows the end of the cat's paw