Dick Kent on Special Duty 23

Dick Kent on Special Duty 23

CHAPTER XXI

THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY

 

 

Two days later, on its way north to the Mackenzie River barracks, the

party stopped for the night at Meade’s Ferry. After supper Toma, Sandy

and Frederick Meade went over to the river for an evening’s fishing. The

two policemen and Dick remained behind. Sitting in the large

trading-room, they conversed quietly.

 

“There’s only one thing that I regret,” said Corporal Rand, “and that is

that we have been unable to recover Dewberry’s treasure.”

 

“What is this treasure?” Wyatt asked, then turned his head as someone

came to the doorway. “You—Mr. Meade. Step right in. You don’t need to

hesitate. This isn’t a private conference.” As soon as the free-trader

had taken a seat beside him, Wyatt repeated his question:

 

“What is this treasure?”

 

“We don’t know,” replied Rand. “However, it is an established fact that

on the night he was murdered Dewberry had a roll of bills in his pocket

and a small poke, suspended from a cord tied around his neck.”

 

Rand paused, reached in his pocket and brought to light a diminutive

moosehide pouch or leather sack, which he passed over to his fellow

policeman.

 

“There it is. That’s the poke. You see how small it is. Nevertheless, at

one time it contained something of great value. MacGregor risked his

life to get it. Frischette or Creel—as I now have reason to

believe—surprised MacGregor in the very act of committing his crime, and

took it forcibly from him. Since that night the poke has had an

interesting history. Creel kept it in his cabin, but one night he was

visited by Emery and Burnnel, who secured possession of it. A few

minutes later Dick, Toma and Sandy took it away from them. But in the

end Frischette got it and escaped. The next day his body was found by

Burnnel and Emery, who reported the news to me.”

 

“They murdered him.”

 

“No, it was suicide. I’m almost sure of that. You see, I found a note in

the inner pocket of Frischette’s coat. This note was in Frischette’s

hand-writing and mentions that he is about to take his own life.”

 

“Burnnel and Emery might have forced him to write that note. It might be

a case of murder after all.”

 

“I’ve considered that too, Wyatt, but—well, to be frank, I have a

theory. My theory is that although this is the poke originally carried

by Dewberry, its contents were tampered with and a substitution made by

Creel at his cabin before Burnnel and Emery came. To make my theory more

clear to you, I’d like to say that I believe that this poke had been

filled with something of no value whatsoever. A clever deception on

Creel’s part. Not only did it fool Emery and Burnnel, but it fooled

Frischette himself. When Frischette opened the poke, you can imagine his

rage and disappointment. The treasure was not there. He was a coward at

heart and dared not return. Hopeless and despondent, he shot himself.”

 

Corporal Rand paused to light his pipe.

 

“My theory is strengthened by Creel’s subsequent actions,” the corporal

continued. “While I was out on the trail investigating the cause of

Frischette’s death, he took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. The

assumption was that he had started out for Edmonton, or some other

point, with Dewberry’s treasure. Burnnel, Emery and ‘Rat’ MacGregor’s

wife evidently came to the same conclusion for, after locking me up at

Frischette’s road-house,” the corporal flushed at the memory, “they set

out to follow Creel. If they didn’t suspect him of having the treasure,

why did they follow him? How are you going to answer that question?”

 

“Your theory must be correct,” said Wyatt.

 

“It must be,” Meade agreed.

 

“It isn’t my theory particularly. Young Sandy MacClaren came to the same

conclusion. You have the facts. I needn’t go further into detail. You

know what happened over there by the river.”

 

“They cached the treasure somewhere,” declared Wyatt.

 

Corporal Rand nodded.

 

“It seems to be the only solution.”

 

Conversation wandered to other things, and Dick soon lost interest. He

yawned, rose from his chair and went outside. It was a lovely evening,

cool and exhilarating. There came to his ears the drowsy sound of the

forest. Birds peeped, preparing to nestle down for the night. The pine

trees droned their incessant chant. Here and there, rabbits scampered

into the open, their curious little muzzles twitching inquisitively.

 

Dick yawned again and stretched his arms above his head. It was about

time the boys were coming back. He wondered if their fishing expedition

had been successful. Bored with the inactivity, he decided to stroll

down toward the river to meet them.

 

He was twenty yards from the cabin when a voice called him back—the

voice of Corporal Rand. Quickly he retraced his steps.

 

“Sorry to trouble you, Dick,” Corporal Rand met him at the door, “but

Wyatt and I would like to see that bundle of stuff you secured that

night from Burnnel and Emery. Where is it?”

 

“In my bunk,” Dick answered, “rolled up in my coat. I’ll get it for

you.”

 

A moment later he secured the bundle, carried it to the table and opened

it. Wyatt, Rand and Meade gathered in a little circle around him. He

took up the objects, one by one, very much after the manner of a person

taking inventory.

 

“This is Creel’s roll of money. This is mine. These bills and coins

belong to the outlaws. This is my jack-knife and here is Sandy’s

compass. This is my watch and this is Emery’s revolver.”

 

There remained a pocket-comb and mirror, a pipe—its bowl somewhat

battered—two hunting knives and the ring with the two keys. As Dick

picked up the last named object, Meade gave vent to a startled cry and

jumped forward.

 

“Let’s see it! Let’s see it! Give it to me!”

 

Dick handed it over.

 

“Keys,” said Rand. “Who owns them?”

 

“I think they belong to one of the outlaws,” answered Dick.

 

“Outlaws!” shrieked Meade, his face distorted. “I should say not!

They’re Dewberry’s keys. I’d know them anywhere.”

 

A hush came over the room. An old-fashioned clock ticked loudly.

Presently Meade’s feet shuffled away from the table and he went over and

sat down. His head dropped in his hands. For several minutes he sat

there in deep abstraction. He was thinking deeply. Then, with unexpected

suddenness, he bounded to his feet.

 

“I’ve solved your mystery!” he shouted.

 

The three other occupants of the room surrounded him in a body.

 

“Tell us,” cried Rand.

 

The free-trader waved them to their chairs.

 

“Sit down,” he commanded, “and I’ll tell you all about it. But I must

begin at the beginning, so that it will all be clear to you.”

 

“Yes, yes,” breathed Rand.

 

“Dewberry was my friend. I was his guest one time at Peace River

Crossing. You know where his place is?” He turned to Wyatt.

 

“A little cottage on a hill. Overlooks the Hart River,” answered the

policeman.

 

“Have you ever been inside of it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Were you acquainted with Dewberry?”

 

“I knew him slightly,” said Wyatt. “But I’ve seen him often enough. An

unusual character.”

 

“Exactly. He _was_ queer—queer in many ways. He loved books—scores of

them in his book-cases. A violinist and pianist too! But the most

peculiar thing of all about him was his aversion to human companionship.

He had no real friends. He was shy and reserved. Kept to himself. For

months at a time, he would be away somewhere in the foothills

prospecting. Then he’d return again to Peace River Crossing and become

absorbed in his books; or else he’d go out to Edmonton.”

 

Meade paused to light his pipe. He puffed reflectively. It was several moments before he resumed: