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Ep. 24 - Fice Inches of Death · True Tales of The Secret Service

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Chapter twenty four five Inches of Death, quinn I said one evening when the
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veteran of the United States Secret Service appeared to be in one of his story
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spinning moods. You've told me of cases that have to do with smuggling and
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spies, robberies, and finger prints and frauds, but you've never mentioned the
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one crime that is most common in the annals of police courts and detective bureaus.
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Murder, inquired quinn, his eyes shifting to the far wall of his
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library, den precisely. Haven't government detectives ever been instrumental in solving a murder
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mystery? Yes, they've been mixed up in quite a few of them.
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There was the little matter of the Hallowell case, where the crime and the
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criminal were connected by a shoe lace, and the incident of the red circle.
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But murder as such does not properly belong in the province of the government
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detective. Only when it is accompanied by some breach of the federal laws does
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it come under the jurisdiction of the men from Washington, like the Montgomery murdered
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mystery, for example. Oh, yes, the one that's connected with the
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postmark that's framed on your wall over there, I exclaimed, I'd forgotten about
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that how Preston handled it, didn't He the same man responsible for running down
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the trail of the white mice, That's the one, said Quinn, And
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I was glad to see him settle luxuriously back in his old arm chair,
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for that meant that he was preparing to recall the details of an adventure connected
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with a member of one of the government detective services. If it hadn't been
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for the fact that Preston was in California at the time working on a case
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of a company that was using the mails for illegal purposes, it is extremely
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doubtful if the mystery would ever have been solved. Quinn continued, certainly not
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in time to prevent the escape of the criminal. But Hall's investigations took him
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well up into the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, and one morning he awoke
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to find the whole town in which he was stopping ablaze with a discussion of
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the Montgomery mystery, as they called it. It appeared from the details which
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Preston picked up in the lobby of his hotel, that Marshal Montgomery had settled
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down in that section of the country some three years before, but that he
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had surrounded himself with an air of aloofness and detachment, which had made him
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none too popular. Men who had called to see him on matters of business
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had left smarting under the sting of an ill concealed snub. While it was
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as much as a book agent's life was worth to try to gain entrance to
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the house, it wasn't that he was stingy or close fisted, explained one
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of the men who had known Montgomery. He bought more liberty bonds than anyone
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else in town, but he bought them through his bank, mailed the order
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in just as he did with his contributions to the Red Cross and other charitable
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organizations. Wouldn't see one of the people who went out to his place.
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In fact, they couldn't get past the six or eight bulldogs that guard the
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house. And yet, said Preston, I understand that in spite of his
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precautions, he was killed last night. Nobody knows just when he was killed,
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replied the native. Or how that's the big question. When his servant,
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a Filipino, whom he brought with him, went away take him up.
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This morning he found Montgomery's door locked. That in itself was nothing unusual,
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for every door and window in the place was securely barred before nine o'clock
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in the evening. But when Tino, the servant, had wrapped several times
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without receiving any reply, he figured something must be wrong, so he got
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a step ladder, propped it up against the side of the house and looked
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in through the window. What he saw caused him to send in a hurry
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call for the police. Well, snapped Preston, What did he see?
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Montgomery stretched out on the floor near the door, stone dead, with a
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pool of blood that had formed from a wound in his hand. In his
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hand, Preston echoed, had he bled to death? Apparently not, But
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that's where the queer angle to the case comes in. The door was locked
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from the inside, not only locked, but bolted, so there was no
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possibility of anyone having entered the room. The windows were tightly guarded by a
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patented burglarproof device, which permitted them to be open about three inches from the
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bottom, but prevented their being raised from the outside. Was there a chimney
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or any other possible entrance to the room? None at all. Three windows
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and a door. Montgomery's body was sprawled out on the rug near the doorway,
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a revolver in his right hand, a bullet hole through the palm of
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his left. The first supposition, of course, was that he had accidentally
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shot himself and had bled to death, but there wasn't enough blood for that,
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just a few drops on the table and a small pool near the body.
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They're going to hold an autopsy later in the day. And it was
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at that moment that the post office operative became conscious that some one was calling
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his name, and turning, he beckoned to the bell boy who was paging
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him, mister Preston, gentlemen over there'd like to speak to you. Then
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the boy added in a whisper, chief of Police. Excusing himself, Preston
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crossed the lobby to where a large and official looking man was standing, well
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out of hearing distance of the guests who passed. Is this, mister Preston
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of the Postal Inspection Service, inquired the head of the local police force,
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adding, after the government operative had nodded, I am the chief of Police
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here. Glad to meet you. Chief was Preston's response. I haven't had
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the pleasure of making your acquaintance though of course I know you by such.
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He neglected to add how recently this knowledge had been acquired? What can I
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do for you? Have you heard about the murder of Montgomery Marshall only the
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few details that I picked up in the lobby just now. But a case
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of that kind is entirely out of my line. You know, ordinarily it
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would be agreed the other. But here's something that I think puts a different
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complexion on things. And he extended a bloodstained scrap of paper for Preston to
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examine that was found under the dead man's hand. The chief continued, as
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you will note it originally formed part of the wrapping of a special delivery parcel
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which reached Montgomery about eight o'clock last night, just before the house was locked
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up. In fact, Tino, the Filipino servant, signed for it and
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took it in, placing it upon the table in the room in which his
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master was found this morning. The scrap of paper you are holding is just
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enough to show the postmark Sacramento. But it's quite evident that the package had
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something to do with the murder, which is the reason that you want me
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to look into it. Eh, that's the idea I knew that you were
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in town, and the very fact that this box came through the mails makes
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it necessary for the post Office Department to take cognizance of what otherwise would be
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a job for the police force alone. Am I right perfectly, replied Preston,
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provided you have reason to believe that there was some connection between the special
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delivery package and the crime itself. What was in the box? Not a
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thing? Not a thing, repeated the Chief, Perfectly empty, at least
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when we found it. The lid was lying on the table, the rest
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of the box on the floor. The major portion of the wrapping paper had
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been caught under a heavy paper weight, and it appears that Montgomery, in
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falling, caught at the table to save himself and probably ripped away the scrap
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of paper I have just given you. But I thought his body was found
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near the door. It was, but that isn't far from the table,
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which is jammed against the wall in front of one of the windows. Come
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on up to the house with me and we'll go over the whole thing.
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Glad of the excuse to look into a crime which appeared to be inexplicable,
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Preston accompanied the Chief to the frame dwelling on the outskirts of town, where
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Montgomery Marshall Hermit, had spent the last three years of his life. The
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house was set well back from the road, but with a single gateway in
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a six foot wall of solid masonry, around the top of which ran several
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strands of barbed wire. Montgomery erected the wall himself, explained, the chief
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had it put up before he ever moved into the house, and then,
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in addition, kept a bunch of the fiercest dogs I ever knew, all
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of which goes to prove that he feared an attack, Preston muttered, in
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spite of his precautions. However, they got him. The question now is
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who are they and how do they operate? The room in which the body
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had been found only added to the air of mystery which surrounded the entire problem.
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In spite of what he had been told, Preston had secretly expected to
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find some kind of an opening which a man could have entered, but there
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was none. The windows, as the postal operative took care to test for
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himself, were tightly locked, though open a few inches from the bottom.
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The bolt on the door very evidently had been shattered by the entrance of the
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police, and the dark brown stain on the rug near the door showed plainly
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where the body had been found. When we broke in, explained the chief.
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Montgomery was stretched out there facing the door. The doctor said that he
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had been dead about twelve hours, but that it was impossible for the wound
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in his hand to have caused his death. How about a poisoned bullet fired
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through the opening in the window? Not a chance. The only wound on
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the body was the one through the palm of his hand. The bullet had
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struck on the outside of the fleshy heart near the wrist, and had plowed
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its way through the bone, coming out near the base of the index finger
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at the back. And it was a bullet from his own revolver. We
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found it embedded in the top of the table there, and the Chief pointed
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to a deep scar in the mahogany, and to the marks made by the
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knives of the police when they had dug the bullet out. But how do
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you know it wasn't a bullet of the same caliber fired from outside the window,
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persisted Preston for answer. The chief produced Montgomery's revolver, with five cartridges
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still in the chambers. If you'll note he said, each of these cartridges
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is scored or seamed. That's an old trick. Makes the lead expand when
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it hits and tears an ugly hole, just like the dumb dumb. The
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bullet we dug out of the table was not only a forty five as these
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are, but it had been altered in precisely the same manner. So unless
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you are inclined to the coincidence that the murderer used a poisoned bullet of the
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same size and make and character as those in Montgomery's gun, you've got to
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discard that theory does look like pulling the long arm of coincidence out of its
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socket. Preston agreed, So I guess we'll have to forget it. Where's
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the box you were talking about? The lid is on the table, just
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as we found it, the lower portion of the boxes on the floor where
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the dead man apparently knocked it when he fell. Except for the removal of
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the body, nothing in the room has been touched. Stooping, Preston picked
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up the box and then proceeded to study it in connection with the lid and
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the torn piece of wrapping paper upon the table. It was after he had
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examined the creases in the paper, fitting them carefully around the box itself,
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that he inquired, do you notice anything funny about the package? Chief,
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only that there's a hole at one end of it, just about big enough
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to put a lead pencil through. Yes, and that same hole appears in
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the wrapping paper, announced Preston. Couple that with the fact that the box
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was empty when you found it, and I think we will have what,
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demanded the chief. As Preston paused, the solution to the whole affair was
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the reply, or at least as much of it as refers to the manner
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in which Montgomery met his death. By the way, what do you know
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about the dead man? Very little. He came here some three years ago,
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bought this place, paying cash for it, had the wall built,
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and then settled down. Never appeared to do any work, but was never
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short of money. Has a balance of well over fifty thousand dollars in the
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bank right now. Beyond the fact that he kept entirely to himself and refused
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to allow anyone but Tino, his servant, to enter the gate, he
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really had few eccentricities. Some folks say that he was a miser, but
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there are a dozen families here that wouldn't have had any Christmas dinner last year
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if it hadn't been for him. While his contribution to the Red Cross equaled
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that of anyone in town, apart from his wanting to be alone, then
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he was pretty close to being human. That's it, exactly, And most
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of us have some peculiarity. If we didn't have, we'd be even more
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unusual. What about Tino, the servant, queried Preston. I don't think
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there's any lead there, the chief replied. I hammered away at him for
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an hour this morning. He doesn't speak English any too well, but I
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gathered that Montgomery picked him up in the Philippines just before he came over here.
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The boy was frightened half out of his senses when I told him that
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his master had been killed. You've got to remember, though, that if
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Tino had wanted to do it, he had a thousand opportunities in the open.
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Besides, what we've got to find out first is how Montgomery met his
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death. Does the Filipino know anything about his master's past, asked Preston,
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ignoring the chief's last remark, He says not. Montgomery was on a way
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back to the States from Africa or someplace, stopped off in the Islands,
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spent a couple of months there, hired Tino, and sailed for San Francisco,
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Africa, mused the postal operative. Then taking another track, he inquired
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whether the chief had found out if Montgomery was in the habit of getting much
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mail, especially from foreign points. Saunders, the postmaster, said he didn't
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average a letter a month, and those he did get looked like advertisements.
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They remembered this special delivery package last night because it was the first time that
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the man who brought it out had ever come to the house. He rang
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the bell at the gate, he says, turned the box over to Tino
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and went along. Any comment about the package only that it was very light
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and contained something that wobbled around. I asked him because I figured at the
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time that the revolver might have been in it. But the Filipino has identified
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that as Montgomery's own gun, says he's had it as long as he'd known
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him. Then all we know about this mysterious box, summarized Preston, is
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that it was mailed from Sacramento, that it wasn't heavy, that it had
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a hole about a quarter inch wide at one end, and that it contained
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something that what was the word the special delivery man used, wobbled. That's
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the word I remember, because I asked him if he didn't mean rattled,
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and he said, no, wobbled, sort of dull like at any rate.
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That clears up one angle of the case. The box was not empty
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when it was delivered. Granting that the Filipino was telling the truth, it
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was not empty when he placed it on the table in this room. That
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means that it was not empty when Marshal Montgomery, after locking and bolting his
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door, took off the wrapping paper and lifted the lid. You've searched the
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room thoroughly, of course, every inch of it. We didn't leave a
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But the Chief suddenly halted his sentence unfinished. To the ears of both men,
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there had come a sound, faint but distinct, the sound of the
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rattling of paper somewhere in the room. Involuntarily, Presston whirled and scrutinized the
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corner from which the sound appeared to have come. The Chief's hand had slipped
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to his hip pocket, but after a moment of silence. He withdrew it,
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and a slightly shamefaced looks spread over his face. Sounded like a ghost,
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didn't it, he asked. Ghosts don't rattle papers, snapped Preston,
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at least self respecting ones don't, and the other kind haven't any right to
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run around loose. So suppose we try to trap this one. Trap it,
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how like you'd trap a mouse, only with a different kind of bait.
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Is there any milk in the house? Possibly, I don't know.
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Go down to the refrigerator and find out, will you. I'll stay here
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until your return and bring a saucer with you. A few moments later,
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when the chief returned, bearing a bottle of milk into saucer, he found
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Preston still standing beside the table, his eyes fixed upon a corner of the
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room from which the sound of rattling paper had come. Now all we need
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is a box, said the postal operative. I saw one out in the
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hall that will suit our purposes. Excellently. Securing the box, he cut
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three long and narrow strips from the sides, notched them, and fitted them
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together with a rough replica of the figure four. With the lower point of
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the upright stick resting on the floor beside the saucer of milk and the wooden
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box poised precariously at the junction of the upright and the slanting stick. Figure
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four trap, eh, queried the chief. What do you expect to catch
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a mixture of a ghost and the figure of justice? Was Preston's enigmatic reply.
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Come on, we'll lock the door and return later to see if the
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trap has sprung. Meanwhile, I'll send some wires to Sacramento, San Francisco
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and other points throughout the state. The telegram of which he gave a copy
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to the local chief of police in order to save the expense of sending it,
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Read wire immediately if you know anything of recent arrival from Africa, probably
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American or English who landed within the past three days, wanted in connection with
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Montgomery murder. The message to San Francisco ended with the phrase watch outgoing boats
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closely, and that to Sacramento was in your city yesterday. Hardly an hour
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later, the phone rang and a voice from police headquarters in Sacramento asked to
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speak to Postal Inspector Preston. Just got your wire, said a voice,
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and I think we've got your man picked him up on the street last night,
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unconscious. Hospital people say he's suffering from poisoning of some kind and don't
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expect him to live. Keeps raving about diamonds, and someone he calls marsh
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papers on him show he came into San Francisco two days ago. On the
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MANU won't tell his name, but has mentioned Cape Town several times. Right,
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cried Preston, Watch him carefully until I get there. I'll make the
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first train out. That afternoon, Preston, accompanied by two chiefs of police,
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made his way into a little room off the public ward in the hospital
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in Sacramento. In bed, his face drawn and haggard until the skin seemed
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like parchment stretched tightly over his cheekbone. Lay a man at the point of
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death, a man who was only kept alive, according to the physicians,
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by some almost superhuman effort of the will. It's certain that he's been poisoned,
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said the doctor in charge of the case, but he won't tell us
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how. Just lies there and glares and demands a copy of the latest newspaper.
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Every now and then he drifts off into delirium. But just when we
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think he's on the point of death, he recovers. Motioning to the others
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to keep in the background, Preston made his way to the bedside of the
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dying man. Then, bending forward, he said, very clearly and distinctly,
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Marshal Montgomery is dead. Into the eyes of the other man. There
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sprang a look of concentrated hatred that was almost tangible, a glare that turned
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a moment later into supreme relief. Thank God, he muttered. Now I'm
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ready to die. Tell me, said Preston, quietly, Tell me what
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made you do it? He did, gasped the man in the bed,
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He and his damned brutality. When I knew him, his name was marsh
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We dug for diamonds together in South Africa, found them too, enough to
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make us both rich for life, but our water was running low, barely
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enough for one of us. He the skunk, hit me over the head
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and left me to die, taking the water and the stones with him.
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He paused a moment, his breath rattling in his throat, and then continued,
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it took me five years to find him. But you say he's dead,
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you're not lying. Preston shook his head slowly, and the man in
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the bed settled back and closed his eyes. Content asked him, insisted the
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chief of police how he killed Montgomery. In a whisper that was barely audible,
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came the words sheep stinger got me first. Then his jaws clicked,
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and there was an unmistakable gurgle, which meant that the end had come.
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Didn't he say sheep stinger, asked the chief of police, after the doctor
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had stated that the patient had slipped away from the hands of the law.
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That's what it sounded like to me, replied Preston. But suppose we go
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back to Montgomery's room and see what our ghost trap has caught. I told
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you I expected to land a figure of justice, and if ever a man
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deserved to be killed, it appears to have been this same Montgomery marshal or
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marsh as this man knew him. The instant they entered the room, it
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was apparent that the trap had sprung, the heavy box falling forward and completely
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covering the saucer of milk and whatever had disturbed the carefully balanced sticks. Warning
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the chief to be careful, Preston secured a poker from an adjoining room,
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covered the box with his automatic, and then carefully lifted the box using the
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poker as a lever. A second later he brought the head of the poker
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down on something that writhed and twisted, and then lay still, blending in
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with the pattern of the carpet, in such a manner as to be almost
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invisible. A snake, cried the heath. But such a tiny one.
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Do you mean to say that its bite is sufficiently poisonous to kill a man?
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Not only one, but two? Preston declared, as you've seen for
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yourself. See that black mark like an inverted V upon the head. That's
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characteristic of the cobra family. And this specimen, common to the Velts of
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South Africa, where he is known as the sheep Stinger, is first cousin
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to the big King Cobras. Montgomery's former partner evidently brought him over from Africa
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with this idea in mind. But when he was packing him in the box,
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the air hole in the end of it gave me the first inkling.
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By the way, he got careless, and the snake bit him. Only
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medical attention saved his life until this afternoon, else he'd have passed along before
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Montgomery. I think that closes the case. Chief, And in spite of
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the fact that the mails were used for a distinctly illegal purpose. I believe
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your department ought to handle the matter, not mine, but the trap the
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milk. How'd you happen to hit on that when you told me what the
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special delivery man said about the contents of the package wobbling. I figured that
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the box must have contained a snake, explained the postal operative. An animal
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would have made some noise, while a snake, if well fed, would
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lie silent for hours at a time. The constant motion, however, would
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have made it irritable, so that it struck. The moment Montgomery removed the
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lid of the box, that explains the wound in his hand. He knew
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his danger and deliberately fired, hoping to cauterize the wound and drive out the
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poison. It was too quick for him, though, or possibly the shock
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stunned him so that he fell. Then, in spite of the fact that
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your men claim to have searched the room thoroughly, that noise in the corner
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warned me that whatever killed Montgomery was still here. Going on the theory that
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the majority of snakes are fond of milk, I rigged up the trap,
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and there you are yes, concluded Quinn. The majority of the cases handled
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by government detectives have to do with counterfeiting or smuggling, or other crimes against
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the federal law, offenses which ought to be exciting but which are generally dull
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and prosaic. Every now and then, though they stumble across a real,
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honest to God, this thrill, a story that's worth the telling. I've
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got to be away for the next couple of months or so, but drop
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around when I get back, and i'll see if I can't recall some more
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of the problems that have been solved by one of the greatest, though least
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known, detective agencies on the face of the earth. The end