Dick Kent on Special Duty 3

Dick Kent on Special Duty 3

“Surely MacGregor had something to do with it,” argued Sandy.

 

Corporal Rand rose and walked slowly across the floor to a little table,

where he helped himself to a glass of water. He turned and regarded the

boys thoughtfully.

 

“Here is a supposition that may throw a little light on what actually

occurred. ‘Rat’ MacGregor, as we have reason to believe, was the first

person to have designs upon Dewberry. He planned the robbery. He drugged

his victim. Evidently murder did not enter into his calculations. When

all was still in the room, MacGregor crept over to Dewberry’s bunk to

commit the robbery.

 

“In some way his plans went wrong. Perhaps the drug had not proved

sufficiently potent. While taking the money and poke, let us say,

Dewberry woke up. Perhaps Dewberry made some slight exclamation or

sound, which terrified MacGregor and which also might have aroused some

other sleeper in that room. In desperation, we will assume, MacGregor

murdered Dewberry, but is surprised in the act by this other person who

had awakened. Just for the sake of my theory, we will say that that

person was Frischette, that in some way he got the ‘drop’ on MacGregor,

compelling him to hand over the money and poke and then forcing him to

leave the place immediately.”

 

“Yes, that is plausible,” agreed Dick. “But why Frischette? There were

other persons in the room beside him. Why do you think that Frischette

may be the guilty one?”

 

“Because Frischette is planning to leave the country. He claims that he

had made a lot of money up here, and is now giving his business to the

boy, Fontaine, for a small consideration. That in itself is suspicious.

Frischette’s determination to go ‘outside’ surprised me because I

remember that, less than a year ago, he confided to me his intention to

build three new road-houses here in the North.”

 

“When is he planning to leave?” asked Sandy.

 

Corporal Rand smiled reminiscently.

 

“He expected to go this week, but he has changed his mind since my last

talk with him. As a personal favor to me, he has consented to postpone

his journey until this little mystery has been cleared up.”

 

“But do you think that Frischette is aware that you suspect him of the

theft?”

 

“No, I believe not. I merely told him that he would be of invaluable

assistance to me in solving this case, and that the mounted police would

be deeply indebted to him if he would consent to remain here for a few

weeks longer.”

 

Dick and Sandy both laughed.

 

“I’ll bet he’s worried stiff,” grinned the latter, “that is, if he’s

really the thief. By the way, corporal, how much money did this Dewberry

have in his possession at the time of the murder?”

 

“There’s no way of determining the exact amount,” Rand answered.

“Probably several hundred dollars in cash.”

 

“I wouldn’t think that that would be sufficient bait to tempt

MacGregor.”

 

“There was the poke. Don’t forget that.”

 

“But you said it was a small one. Perhaps there wasn’t more than a few

hundred dollars in nuggets and gold dust.”

 

“I’m not sure that it was gold.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“Well, it was a very small poke. That much I know. It was almost too

small for a prospector’s pouch. As you have suggested, if it contained

nuggets, there would scarcely be a fortune there—hardly enough to tempt

MacGregor. MacGregor would never have taken the chance he did for the

small amount involved. He was naturally a coward, a sneaking human rat,

and only a big stake could have induced him to gather sufficient courage

to make the effort. After reasoning it all out, I have come to the

conclusion that MacGregor must have known what that poke contained:

Something infinitely more valuable than gold.”

 

“More valuable!” exclaimed Dick.

 

“Yes. Why not? Precious stones—or a secret of some sort worth thousands

of dollars.”

 

Sandy sat up, clutching the sides of his chair.

 

“I’ll say this is getting interesting. You’re arousing my curiosity,

corporal. I love a mystery.”

 

“Well, you have one here,” smiled Rand. “The morning after the murder I

came to the conclusion that it would not be a very difficult case.

However, it seems that I was wrong. Apparently, ‘Rat’ MacGregor is not

the only person involved. Before we sift this thing to the bottom, we

may discover that many persons are implicated. It is one of the most

mysterious, unusual cases with which I have ever had to deal.”

 

“How do you purpose to work it all out?”

 

“I’m almost wholly at a loss to know. I haven’t a great deal to go on.

It occurred to me that you boys might be able to pick up information

that I couldn’t get myself. You may be able to find a clew. In the

meantime, I’m going over to Crooked Stick River—the place where Dewberry

came from just before the murder—and question some of the people there.

Perhaps Dewberry had a friend or two in whom he confided. Certain it is

that the contents of that poke has been seen by someone. Otherwise, to

use a well known __EXPRESSION__, MacGregor never would have been ‘tipped

off.’”

 

“Don’t you suppose that Dewberry might have told MacGregor about his

secret?” asked Dick.

 

“Scarcely likely. MacGregor was hardly the type of person in whom one

would confide. He was a notorious character here in the North. He had a

very unsavory reputation. At various times he had been implicated in

certain questionable undertakings, and once had served a term in jail.”

 

“You think, then, that MacGregor had been following Dewberry?”

 

“Yes, awaiting his opportunity. He’d learned of the secret. But I’m

positive that Dewberry gave him no information at all.”

 

Thus far Toma, naturally reticent, had taken no part in the

conversation. He sat rigid in his chair, eyes wide with interest,

nothing escaping him. Suddenly he drawled forth:

 

“When you want us go over this fellow Frischette’s place?” he asked.

 

“Tomorrow, if you will,” answered the corporal. “Arrange to stay there

for three or four days. Then come back here to meet me.”

 

“I know this young fellow, Fontaine, you talk about,” Toma informed

them. “One time we pretty good friends. We go to school one time at

Mission. If he know anything, me pretty sure him tell Toma.”

 

“Good!” exclaimed Corporal Rand. “I’m glad to hear that, Toma. Your

friendship with Fontaine may be the means of solving this mystery. If

Frischette is implicated, Fontaine must be aware of it.”

 

The policeman rose to his feet again.

 

“Well, I guess you understand what’s to be done. If you’ll excuse me,

I’ll hurry away now. I want to see Inspector Cameron for a few minutes

before I go on to the Crooked Stick.”

 

He turned and shook hands with each of the boys in turn.

 

“Well, good luck to you. I hope you’ll like your new role of police

detectives. When you return, you’ll probably find me here awaiting you.”

 

On the evening of the following day, the three boys, dressed for the

part, arrived at Frischette’s road-house. It had been a warm afternoon

and the boys were weary as they rode up to the well known stopping place

and slowly dismounted. Sandy paused to wipe the perspiration from his

face.

 

“We’re here—” he announced, “mosquitos and all.” He looked curiously

about him. “So this is the famous stopping-place. I’ve often heard of

it. It’s one of the largest road-houses north of the Peace River. They

say that Frischette is an interesting character. He’s lived in the North

a good many years.”

 

Sandy’s observations were cut short by the appearance of two young

half-breeds, who sauntered over in their direction. Toma gave vent to an

exclamation, dropped the reins over his pony’s head and advanced quickly

to meet them.

 

“One of them must be Fontaine,” guessed Sandy.

 

“But he knows them both,” observed Dick.

 

Immediately Toma and his two friends approached and introductions took

place.

 

“This him fellow,” Toma was explicit, “my friend, Pierre Fontaine. This

other fellow, also my friend, Martin Le Sueur. He come long way this

morning to be with Pierre. Mebbe after while they be partners an’ buy

Frischette’s business.”

 

Both Le Sueur and Fontaine spoke very little English, so the

conversation that ensued, a lively one, was carried on in Cree. While it

was taking place, the boys put up their ponies and walked back in the

direction of the hostelry. No sooner had they entered, than Frischette,

with his usual hospitality, came forward to bid them welcome. As he did

so, Dick gave him the benefit of a close scrutiny.

 

He was a little man, dark, vivacious—typically French. Yet his lively

features showed the unmistakable Indian strain of his mixed origin. He

conducted the boys to the dining room, talking as he went.

 

“Very hungry you must be, monsieurs. Sit down for a moment. We have

plenty to eat here. I myself will serve you. Baked whitefish from ze

water only an hour. Brown bread which I bake with my own hands. Then