Each man shook his head as the flimsy pamphlet passed from hand to hand.
“Very well,” commented Mr. Henderson. “You notice that it’s not printed—that is, with type. It’s a zincotype impression from typewriting. And if you look closely you’ll also see that the small “a” has a broken tail, the capital “T” has a little twist in one arm of the top, the small “e” is flattened or battered and the “B” always shows a tiny smudge above it where the character on the same key struck the paper owing to the type bar being bent slightly. Now, kindly examine this terse note I showed you and see if you do not find the identical defects in the same letters.”
“By Jove, yes!” cried one, as they again studied the paper. “Henderson, you’re a winner. The machine that wrote one wrote the other. Not a shade of a doubt of it. But how about the rest of
these dirty sheets and how about the bandits and the liquor?”
“I’ve examined several thousand circulars and pamphlets,” replied Mr. Henderson, “and all that are typewritten are the same. Our friend is doing all the writing on one machine. I imagine he is hanging out somewhere and takes no chances by entrusting his work to outsiders. A man could do all the typing and could make zinc photo plates in a single small room. As for my hunch that the rum-runners are connected with the same gang, it’s based on this.”
As he spoke, he placed a small metal object on the table, a bit of lead about half an inch in diameter and resembling a small coin. The others picked it up and examined it curiously.
“Well, what’s this to do with the matter?” asked one.
“This note,” replied Mr. Henderson, “was left at my door and to prevent it from blowing away this bit of lead was placed upon it. You don’t see anything suspicious about it, but you may when I draw your attention to the fact that this is a metal seal from a particular brand and make of an extremely
high-priced French West Indian liquor. Until the day after I received this reminder of Mercedes and Garcia, there was not, to the best of our knowledge and belief, a single bottle of that Pére Kerrman liqueur in the United States—except possibly in the private stock of some millionaire or exclusive club. Two days later, the country was flooded with it.”
“You win!” cried Selwin. “Now about the bandits. Have you got them dead to rights, too?”