Dick Kent on Special Duty 11

Dick Kent on Special Duty 11

“Why?” asked the policeman, turning upon Burnnel.

 

The big man drew a deep breath before he answered.

 

“It’s like this, corporal,” he finally declared. “Yuh see I had a notion

that I had seen that man before. He looked like somebody I knowed what

lives over this way. I wa’n’t sure, o’ course, but I had a suspicion. It

sort o’ bothered me. I says to Emery: ‘We’ll go back an’ find out.’”

 

The pucker came back between the corporal’s brooding eyes. He looked

upon Burnnel with suspicion. Dick wondered if Rand believed, as he was

somewhat inclined to believe himself, that the partners were the man’s

murderers.

 

“What did you intend to do when you arrived here?” Rand asked.

 

“We was plannin’ to send word tuh the police. We thought they ought tuh

be notified. But afore God, corporal, we didn’t have no idea that yuh

was here. Mighty lucky, I call it. Saved us a hull lot o’ time an’

trouble.”

 

“Yes, it was lucky,” the corporal averred grimly. “Rather fortunate for

me too. You may consider yourselves under arrest, at least until I have

investigated this case. You and your partner will lead me to the scene

of the tragedy.”

 

“A’ right,” agreed Emery, his face more repellent than ever, “me an’

Burnnel’ll go with yuh. It won’t take long. If we had some horses now—”

 

“I’ll supply the horses,” Rand informed him.

 

“That’s fine!” Emery’s smile expanded into a leer. “We can go an’ get

back afore night. Ain’t that right, Burnnel?”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Burnnel, “an’ when do we start, corporal?”

 

“Right away.”

 

“That’s a’ right with us,” said the big man, “only—”

 

“Yes,” insisted Rand, “Only—”

 

“Yuh see, me an’ Emery ain’t had nothin’ tuh eat fer a long time. Soon

as we get suthin’—jes’ a bite, corporal—we’ll be ready tuh start. Ain’t

that fair enough?”

 

Rand nodded. His brow had contracted slightly, deepening the pucker

between his eyes.

 

“There’s one thing you’ve forgotten to tell me,” he informed them.

“Burnnel, you said a moment ago that the man out there reminded you of

someone. Who?”

 

“Yes, yes,” said the big man eagerly, “I was a comin’ tuh that. It’ll

explain, corporal, why we drifts back this way ’stead o’ goin’ on to

Deer Lick Springs. Yuh see, the man out there looked,” he paused,

wetting his lips, “looked like this here fellow what runs this

stoppin’-place—this here Frenchie Frischette.”

 

The three boys bounded from their seats. Corporal Rand himself started

visibly. With one exception every one in the room showed his

astonishment. That exception was Creel. The old recluse sat perfectly

unmoved, as though he had expected, had been prepared for the strange

denouement.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X

CONFLICTING THEORIES

 

 

Soon after the departure of Corporal Rand, Burnnel and Emery, the boys

sat in the big, cheerful room of Frischette’s road-house and discussed

the latest episode in the chain of mysterious events.

 

“I never expected to encounter anything like this,” Sandy was saying.

“Honestly, Dick, it gives me the shivers just to think about it. If I

were called upon to express an opinion, I’d say that the farther we get

into this case, the more muddled and difficult everything appears to be.

For one thing, whoever would have guessed that this sudden tragedy would

have overtaken Frischette. What is the reason for it? Do you really

believe the story about the suicide?”

 

“It sounds plausible, the way they tell it, but to be perfectly frank, I

think it’s a deliberate lie. Why should Frischette take his own life? It

would be rather difficult to supply a motive.”

 

“That’s what I think. But if he didn’t take his life, how—I mean, what

happened?”

 

“Simple enough. Burnnel and Emery met Frischette on the trail,

discovered that he had the poke and murdered him. Then, having committed

the crime, they became afraid. In order to save their own necks, they

devised a scheme so that it will appear that the Frenchman had taken his

own life. They probably arranged the body to bear out the story, placing

a revolver in Frischette’s hand. They emptied the poke, hid its

contents, and then came back here, intending, as they both openly

admitted, to get in touch with the police.”

 

“Well, that is a lot more plausible than the suicide story. Do you think

that Corporal Rand was taken in by it?”

 

“No; not in the least. They won’t be able to fool him for a minute. When

they return here tonight, I’ll be willing to wager every cent I have

that Burnnel and Emery are still under arrest.”

 

“I won’t take your bet,” said Sandy. “That’s my belief too.”

 

Imagine their surprise, therefore, less than four hours later, to

witness the return of Corporal Rand and to perceive that he was

unaccompanied. Burnnel and Emery were not with him. The horses which had

borne the two prospectors to the scene of the tragedy, trotted behind

the policeman’s horse at the end of a lead-rope, saddled but unmounted.

 

It seemed incredible to the boys that Rand, usually so careful and

cautious in matters of this kind, should permit the two miscreants to

slip out of his hands. It was not like him. What could be the reason for

it? They could hardly wait for the policeman to dismount.

 

“I found everything,” said Rand a few minutes later, “just as Burnnel

and Emery told us. It is unquestionably a case of suicide. Everything

pointed to it. The revolver gripped in Frischette’s hand, the position

of the body and the wound in his forehead. But what caused him to commit

such a rash act, is a problem which we may never solve.”

 

While the corporal was speaking, Dick could scarcely contain himself. On

two or three different occasions he started to interrupt the policeman.

At the very first opportunity he broke forth:

 

“Corporal Rand,” he began earnestly, “you have made your investigations

and, no doubt, are in a better position than we are to form an opinion.

But has it occurred to you that there is something unusually mysterious

about the whole affair. Sandy and I were talking it over just before you

came in. And no matter from what angle we look at it, we can draw but

one conclusion.”

 

“And what is that?” Rand was smiling.

 

“That Burnnel and Emery killed Frischette, afterward making it appear

that the road-house keeper took his own life.”

 

Corporal Rand moved over to where Dick stood and patted that young man

on the back good-naturedly.

 

“Splendid! You’ve both shown that you know how to use your heads. And

now, I’ll make an admission: That was exactly my own estimate of the

case up to a few hours ago. To use a well known __EXPRESSION__, the thing

looked like a ‘frame-up,’ very carefully planned by Monsieurs Burnnel

and Emery. I could have sworn that they were guilty. I was absolutely

sure—as sure as I am that I’m standing here—that Frischette had not

committed suicide at all, but had been murdered. There was pretty strong

circumstantial evidence to bear out this belief. The two men had gone to

Creel to obtain the poke, and had secured it, only to lose it again

through your intervention.”

 

The corporal paused, clearing his throat.

 

“Then Frischette got it from you. Now, I ask you, what would be more

likely than that the two prospectors and Frischette should meet each

other, that Emery and Burnnel should learn that the Frenchman had come

into possession of the poke and eventually murder him in order to get

it. As I have said, that was the reasonable and logical deduction, and

you can imagine my astonishment to discover, almost beyond the shadow of

a doubt, that such a deduction was entirely wrong. Motive or no motive,

the Frenchman took his own life. I have proof of that.”

 

“What is your proof?” asked Sandy.

 

“Well, I made a search of the body and found something that both Burnnel

and Emery had overlooked, a note in the inner pocket of Frischette’s

coat. I know his handwriting and I am positive that the note is not a

forgery.”

 

“What did it say?” Dick asked breathlessly.

 

By way of answering, Corporal Rand produced a wallet and extracted from

it a small, soiled slip of paper, handing it over to the boys to read.

For a moment they found difficulty in deciphering the sprawling, almost

illegible script. But presently Dick read aloud:

 

“To whom it may concern:

 

“I, Louis Frischette, am about to kel myself because I am veery much

desappoint. I write thes so no other man be acuse an’ put in jail for

what I do.

Signed:

“Louis Frischette.”

 

Dick’s hand shook as he handed the paper back to the policeman.

 

“I’m not convinced yet,” he declared.

 

“But here’s the evidence—the proof right here.” Rand patted the slip of

paper.

 

“It might be explained,” Dick pointed out.

 

“What!” The corporal looked startled.

 

“How do you know that Emery and Burnnel did not force Frischette to write that note before they murdered him?”