Arthur B. Reeve

“ In the trophy room now Dr. Griffith was busy superintending the preparations to remove the body of Sanford as the basket made its slow trips from the van to the cellar. Cadman showed great interest in the movers and their freight as the very genuine-looking bottles were unpacked and stowed in the wine cellar.
Kennedy had been watching an opportunity to do a little second-story work. It came now with every one excited over the hootch. As I stood lookout he began by picking the lock to the room of Cadman. Inside he tried the bolt on the door between that suite and the princess's. ”

“ A boy on a bicycle stopped at the door. “Telegram for Mr. Kennedy. Is he here?”
Craig took the envelope, opened it, and read the message.
Two men entered the store.
“Here's Waldo!”
“Hello, Willetts! Mr. Kennedy, this is Sheriff Willetts.” Waldo did not seem to know the other man.
“Want you to meet Mr. Boyle, of the Internal Revenue office—Waldo Penny,” nodded Willetts. “Boyle tells me I have the right to call any citizens we need. You see, there's been a tip to the revenooers that a rum runner's unloading down at the Old Landing.”
“But I'm busy, Sheriff, with Mr. Kennedy.” ”

“ Sanford, still in his chair before a table, dead.
Kennedy made a hasty examination. What I noted most was his blue, cyanosed, gaspy look. Before him was what had once been a highball. I looked about. The trophy room must have been a quiet room, the quietest in the Lodge, with the big writing table, a few books, a wide divan before a driftwood fire in the huge fireplace.
“How was he discovered?” asked Craig. “Who found him?”
“Well,” returned Carter, “you see, it was here that Asta Harley kept her little portable typewriter. ”

“ Carter is too big a man to lose his head without a mighty serious reason. Yes, I'm going. Waldo will take us over in the flivver.”
Kennedy and I had gone out to Peconic and Shinnecock for our yearly duck-hunting vacation and put up at Penny's quaint old farmhouse. Waldo had answered the telephone and told us that it was the banker, John Carter, calling from the Hunting Lodge on Hampton Beach, a private hunting club on a secluded spit of sand between ocean and bay, connected by a narrow neck to the shore. It was, according to local report, a favorite spot of rum runners in the off season. ”

“ Then I thought I had a chance to search Cadman's room. But he surprised me—knocked me out with chloroform, bribed your men, dragged me off here in the van, before I came to.”
“Letters?” Carter stammered.
Kennedy had pulled the telegram from his pocket. “My man Clews in the city whom I use for investigations wires me that he finds from the Soviet trade representative that the Caucasian clay concession had a purpose. One of the surest ways to attack capitalism is to involve capitalists in scandals.”
Asta smiled at Kennedy, too, now. ”

“ SINCE prohibition the drug store and the garage divide the gossip that once belonged to the saloon. Kennedy sought judiciously to draw out Conklin and we found that Griffith had indeed been there the night before. Even a direct question failed to elicit a clue to any can of chloroform, however. Our conversation drifted toward the attitude of the county toward the rum runners.
“They're tricky,” commented the pharmacist cautiously.
A customer dropped in. We learned that Sanford's body was now at Tuthill's being prepared for its journey to New York. ”

“ Faded, aged.”
“Is it possible that the letter was placed there after the fumes had cleared?” queried Craig. “It is not only possible; it must have been so!”
“Then who put it there? Asta?”
“About herself?” he returned. “Poison-pen writers have been known to do that. I incline to believe that whoever killed Sanford placed that letter there for a purpose.”
Seeing a motive, I thought of the victims of the letters. But all had been victims—Princess Stasie, Asta Harley, Armand Cadman, John Carter, and Dr. Griffith. “Any one in this Love, Incorporated, scheme might have done it,” I exclaimed. ”

“ Carter callin' from the rectory.” Conklin's eyes expanded as he began to build on it. “They ain't seen nothin' of her at the Lodge. Nobody ain't seen her leave. She ain't there. Where is she?”
Kennedy had shoved the telegram into his pocket and after a few seconds of hasty conversation was back with us.
“How did she get away?” I asked eagerly.
Kennedy thought a moment. “There was one way. Asta, also, must have been carried out in that wicker basket!”
“But where?”
“There is one place to go. That van was working down at the Lading. Don't argue, Waldo. Go with Boyle, now. We'll go with you!” ”

“ The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. ”