CHAPTER III.
DOCTOR MURDOCK'S PROBLEM.
Sprague's stag dinner was virtually over when a servant brought in a copy of the Evening Tempest. The dessert had been removed, the coffee and liqueurs had been served, and the guests had lighted their cigars. The host passed the newspaper to Doctor Murdock, who proceeded to glance leisurely through its columns.
"Ah! this will do," he exclaimed, at last. "Here is something which will, I think, answer our purpose—
"MYSTERIOUS SHOTS IN WALL STREET.
WHO FIRED THEM?
STORY OF A STRAY SATCHEL.
THE POLICE PUZZLED.
"While on his beat, at a quarter past five o'clock this afternoon, Policeman John Flynn, hearing the report of a pistol from the direction of the Knickerbocker bank——"
"The Knickerbocker bank!" interrupted the young broker. "Mr. Dunlap, that interests you. Do your directors indulge in pistol practice at the board meetings?"
"What is that about the Knickerbocker bank?" asked the man to whom this speech was addressed. Having been engaged with his neighbor in an earnest discussion on financial questions, he had not been listening to the general conversation.
Murdock adjusted his eyeglasses, and quietly resumed:
"Policeman John Flynn, hearing the report of a pistol from the direction of the Knickerbocker bank, in Wall Street, started at the top of his speed toward that building. When he was within about twenty yards of the bank another shot rang out, and at the same instant a man darted down the steps and ran toward Broadway."
Richard Dunlap, president of the Knickerbocker bank, was listening attentively enough now. Behind the calm mask of the financier there was the evident anxiety of the bank president. For the stability of a bank, like the honor of a woman, is at the mercy of every passing rumor.
"He carried in his hand a small satchel, which he dropped as soon as he saw that he was pursued. After an exciting chase, Flynn overtook his man, whom he recognized as Michael Quinlan, alias Shorty Duff, a well-known sneak thief. On the way back to the bank the policeman questioned his prisoner about the pistol shots. Quinlan vehemently denied having fired them; but admitted that he had stolen the satchel. His story is that, as he was passing the bank, the outer door was ajar. Seeing the satchel in the vestibule, he entered, crouching low in order to avoid being seen through the inner door, the upper portion of which is of plate glass. Scarcely had he laid his hand upon the satchel when he was startled by the report of a pistol. For a moment he was dazed and undecided how to act. Then, as no one seemed to take any notice of his presence, he was quietly slipping off, when a second shot was fired. Panic-stricken, he took to his heels, only to be captured by Flynn.
"On reaching the bank Flynn found the outer door closed but not fastened. The heavy iron gate between it and the inner door was securely locked, however, so that it was impossible to enter. The Knickerbocker bank has a second entrance on Exchange Place. But this, too, is protected by a massive iron gate, which also was found locked. Flynn rapped for assistance, and the call having been answered by Policemen Kirkpatrick and O'Donnell, he left the former to watch the Exchange Place door, and the latter to guard the entrance on Wall Street, while he took his prisoner to the police station.
"Messengers were at once despatched to the house of Mr. Richard Dunlap, the president of the bank, and to that of Mr. George S. Rutherford, the cashier. The former was not at home, and the family being out of town, there was no one who knew where he was spending the evening."
Every eye turned toward Richard Dunlap as this paragraph was read. His features remained impassive, under the full control of the veteran financier; but to an observant eye like Sturgis's, the man's real anxiety was betrayed by the unconscious action of his right hand, which lay upon the table and played nervously with a fork.
"Yes," said the banker, carelessly, feeling the curious gaze of the other guests upon him, and answering their unspoken questions, "yes, that is true; I did not tell my housekeeper that I was invited to dine by our friend Sprague this evening. There was, of course, no reason why I should. Well, Doctor Murdock, did they find Rutherford?"
Murdock had looked up while the banker was speaking. He now leisurely found his place and continued the reading of the article in the Tempest:
"The cashier fortunately was at home, and he hurried down town at once with his set of the bank keys. Two detectives from the Central Office accompanied him, and the three men carefully searched the premises. They found nothing out of the way there, except that three gas jets were lighted and turned on full blaze. At first the detectives were inclined to think that bank robbers had gained an entrance to the building; and that one of them, having caught sight of Shorty Duff as he reached in to steal the satchel from the vestibule, had fired upon him. This would explain the pistol shots heard by Flynn. A careful examination of the bank, however, failed to reveal any trace of a bullet.
"The valise, when opened, proved to contain only a change of linen for a man and a few toilet articles of but slight intrinsic value. The satchel itself is an ordinary cheap leather handbag, stamped in imitation of alligator skin.
"The police are now looking for its owner in the hope that he will be able to throw some light on the mystery of the pistol shots."
When Doctor Murdock had finished reading, everybody, except Dunlap and Sturgis, looked disappointed. The former settled back in his chair, the muscles of his face relaxed, and the anxious bank president once more became the genial and polished man of the world. The reporter sat gazing thoughtfully at his wineglass.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," said Murdock, "what do you think of my little problem?"
"I have already been assigned to work up this case for the Tempest," answered the reporter quietly.
"Indeed? Perhaps you are the author of this very article? No? Then are you willing to make the solution of this little mystery the subject of our wager and the test of your theories?"
"Hold on, Doctor," exclaimed Sprague; "you are doing Sturgis an injustice. Why pick out, as a test of his ability, a problem which, to all intents and purposes, has already been solved by the police? Give him some truly knotty question and he will be in his element; and then, at least, some interest will attach to your wager."
"Ah! you think the problem has already been solved?"
"To be sure. The article you have read us started out as if it were going to prove interesting; but, instead of that, it ends in an anti-climax. What is the crime here? The confessed theft, by a petty sneak thief, of a satchel worth, with its contents, perhaps eight or ten dollars. And where is the mystery? The ownership of a few pieces of unmarked linen of so little value that the owner does not care to take the trouble to claim them."
"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Sprague. While the crime in this case may be a petty theft, it contains, to my mind, interesting features, which you appear to lose sight of in your disdainful summary. The problem, it seems to me, involves a suitable explanation of two rather mysterious pistol shots, to say nothing of such minor details as lighted gas jets behind securely locked gates. As Mr. Sturgis has informed us, in his earnest and lucid way, every effect has a cause. I should like to know the cause that lighted the gas in the Knickerbocker bank."
"I shall probably find out that cause the day after to-morrow," said Mr. Dunlap smiling, "and I shall give the fellow a talking to for his carelessness in forgetting to turn out the gas when he locked up."
"Mr. Dunlap's suggestion," continued Murdock, "is plausible in itself, and we might even assume that the same careless employé, after locking up the bank, forgot to close the outer door on the Wall Street side. But even then, we have not disposed of the ownership of the satchel nor of the two pistol shots. The police theory that these shots were fired by bank robbers seems, I admit, very far-fetched. Professional cracksmen would hardly be likely to fire, unless cornered; and then they would fire to kill, or at least to disable. If their bullets failed to hit the mark, they would at any rate leave some trace."
"I beg to suggest," remarked Dunlap, "that the shots heard by the policeman and his prisoner were not fired from the inside of the bank."
"That appears quite likely," admitted Murdock; "but they must at any rate have been fired in close proximity to the bank, since the witnesses agree that they appeared to come from inside. In that case, whence were they fired? By whom? And why? On the whole, my little puzzle does not seem to me so ill chosen. What is your own opinion, Mr. Sturgis?"
"I quite agree with you that the problem is probably not so simple as it seemed at first blush to Sprague."
"Very well. Then doubtless you are willing to undertake the task of supplying whatever data may be required to complete the chain of evidence against Quinlan?"
"By no means," replied Sturgis decidedly.
"Indeed? Ah! well, of course, if Mr. Sturgis wishes to withdraw his bet——"
"I do not wish to withdraw my bet," said Sturgis; "I will agree to solve your problem within thirty days or to forfeit my stakes; but I cannot undertake to prove the truth or falsity of any a priori theory. I have no personal knowledge of the matter as yet, and therefore no theory."
"Quite so," observed Murdock ironically. "I had forgotten your scientific methods. Of course, it may turn out that it was the policeman who stole the satchel from Shorty Duff."
"Perhaps," answered Sturgis, imperturbably.
Murdock smiled.
"Well, gentlemen," said he, "I accept Mr. Sturgis's conditions. If you are willing," he continued, turning to the reporter, "our host will hold the stakes and decide the wager."
"I, for one, agree with Sprague," said Doctor Thurston. "I am disappointed in the problem. I have seen Sturgis unravel some extremely puzzling tangles in my day; and such a case would not be hard to find. Why, no longer ago than this evening, on our way here, we stumbled upon a most peculiar case——eh?——oh!——er——please pass the cognac, Sprague. I wish I had some like it in my cellar; it is worth its weight in gold."
Doctor Thurston had met Sturgis's steady gaze and had understood that, for some reason or other, the reporter did not wish him to relate their adventure of the afternoon.
Only one person appeared to notice the abrupt termination of his story. This was Murdock, who had looked up at the speaker with mild curiosity, and who had also intercepted the reporter's warning glance at his friend. He observed Doctor Thurston narrowly for a full minute, appeared to enjoy his clumsy effort to cover his retreat, and then quietly sipped his coffee.