Lanagan, Amateur Detective

by Edward H. Hurlbut

The influences that were eager to land Peters in the penitentiary were unquestionably the same that murdered the child; so Lanagan argued under the spell of his new theory. They had not slain the mother, directly; but they may have shrewdly calculated the effect upon her, in her precarious condition, of the death of the child: knowledge of which could scarcely be kept from her.

“Let us suppose, then,” mused Lanagan, “let us suppose that someone wanted the child out of the way and now wants the husband out of the way. It would be possible to hang him for that crime. In the present state of the public mind, and with Bannerman holding him to answer for murder, life is the least he will get. What happens? The child of ‘Gracie Dubois’ is dead. The husband is, or soon will be, civilly dead. She is dead: but that does not appear to have a moving cause. Why the child’s death and the father’s imprisonment? Undoubtedly so that someone may profit. But who? Who, concealed back of the shadows of the night lights, kept grim watch on ‘Gracie Dubois’? Who was concerned with the fate of that poor wretched girl anxious only for redemption, for a decent life? What ‘dead hand’ is it that has slain her issue and blighted her poor hopes for happiness and her passionate ambition for motherhood?”

And Bannerman, with his high silk hat and his frock coat and his impeccable respectability, came before him insistently; Bannerman, with his dry Martini and his quart of wine and his vis-a-vis dinner with “William” Fogarty.

Many thoughts that apparently flash into the mind spontaneously are but the products of a chain of thought carried consistently over a period of time.

It was so with Lanagan and his sudden theory of the “dead hand”; of a case that in some manner reverted back to a will or to an inheritance. He was rather surprised that the thought had not occurred sooner; but he had been busied with other thoughts and theories, and it was not until the way had been cleared that, in its logical time, that theory had suddenly struck him with conviction. And obviously it was the only theory that had not as yet been exploited by him; that some place back in the earlier life of that poor waif of the night life there might lie the solution of the crime—financial reasons for desiring to be rid of her progeny and her natural legatee, her husband.

The question intruded: why was not the husband murdered as well? There might be many reasons, but one would answer: his imprisonment would suffice even if he were not executed; and if he managed to avoid any penalty, there would be time enough to see him.

And leading back to that “dead hand” theory of his, Lanagan could see but two links: Bannerman and Fogarty.

From the neighbourhood of the St. Germain he got me on the wire.

“Cover Fogarty’s,” he said. “Pick up some of the bunch and drop in casually. Keep your eye on him if he’s there, and who he talks to. Spend money and get soberly drunk, if necessary to allay any suspicion that he is being watched. Get Sampson on the ’phone by ten o’clock. There may be a message for you.”

I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was all about, but Lanagan’s voice was as snappy as a drill master. I went to the reporter’s room at police headquarters and led a bunch to Fogarty’s to rattle the dice for a round or two. It was pay night and money was free. If Fogarty, after he came in, had any suspicions of me—he knew that Lanagan and I always worked together—they were soon allayed. The dice rolled blithely for an hour or two with one of the boys dropping out occasionally to “cover” the police beat for the others while the play went on.