=■>■!! »''»'''L'''l.'L'l'»» 'J'l'l'»L»J 'i'L"JUTl'L'!''J'JU»' L1 'J'J'J'JU' L"J'»'»l'L'U'l»'J'Jl-'S!
BEQUEST OF
| Orma Fitch Butleh. Ph.D..
PROFESSOR OF LATIN
•07
fnw'1fl








I


BLOOD ON
LAKE LOUISA
By Baynard H. Kendrick
THIS is a murder-mystery story of an
unusual kind. It is laid in a setting of the
Florida that neither the tourist nor the re-
sorter know—the Florida of marshland and
woods and eerie back-country lakes.
The book rises far beyond the common
run of mystery stories in that it is brilliantly
written and that its people are real flesh-
and-blood characters whom the reader comes
to know well. And in achieving a fine qual-
ity of drama, horror and suspense, the au-
thor resorts to no mechanical aids, long-
armed coincidences or other artificial trick-
ery.
BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA won third
place in a contest conducted by a national
magazine in which more than 7,000 manu-
scripts were submitted. It is the best story
of its kind which we have ever published
and is recommended without reservation.





BLOOD
ON LAKE LOUISA
BY
BAYNARD H. KENDRICK
NEW YORK
GREENBEBG , PUBLISHER


Copyright, 1934, by
GREENBERG, PUBLISHER, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.


TO DOC WARREN
As fine a friend as he is
a Physician.





BLOOD
ON LAKE LOUISA





1
Ever since I started to write about the events that threw
the whole of our little community into an uproar, certain
self-styled wits have persisted in referring to me as "Dr.
Watson," and passing such brilliant remarks as "Quick,
Watson, the needle!" and "Where is Sherlock Holmes to-
day?" They make me sick and tired, for I have not been
able to see anything funny in an adventure which in-
cluded a series of murders, and which nearly claimed me
as one of its victims.
I have practiced medicine in Orange Crest, the County
Seat of Manasaw County, for twenty years. Like most
small town doctors, I probably know more about the joys
and troubles of its inhabitants than anyone else in the
town. There is not much to know at that. We live a pretty
peaceful life in Orange Crest. Our greatest excitements
are shipping oranges, hoping the tourist season will be
good, and keeping track of who is going to have a new
baby. (My wife has suggested here that perhaps I am
speaking for myself. Well, after all, doctors must live,
and we are all interested in our own business.) We have
a moving picture theatre, where all the latest pictures are
shown, often before they appear in the city. Our other
principal amusements are hunting and fishing.
l


2 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
There are nearly a hundred beautiful lakes in the vicin-
ity of Orange Crest. Some of them are not very large,
but all have a good supply of big mouth bass, which at-
tract not only local fishermen, but many people from out
of the state. The woods and groves bordering these lakes
make an ideal ranging place for quail, and many squirrel
are to be found in the surrounding hammocks. These
hammocks are dense clumps of hardwood growth, and
at times offer a haven to inhabitants other than squirrels.
They might be termed headquarters for quite a large in-
dustry which goes on day and night—moonshining. A
moonshine still must have seclusion, and it must have
water. The hammocks near our many lakes offer both in
abundance.
The fifteenth of February is a date I am not likely
to forget. It was the closing day of the hunting season in
Florida, and everybody who owned a gun and dog had
gone out to take advantage of their last chance for quail
until the long summer rolled by. I decided to make a
trip to Lake Louisa and try my luck with the bass. I am
not much of a hunter, but I do love to fish. The moon was
close to full that night. Lake Louisa, with its crystal
clear water and sandy bottom, offers even better sport by
moonlight than in the daytime.
I was delayed on a case until two in the afternoon. I
must have spent another half an hour overhauling my
tackle, for I knew the necessity of having everything in
order. Trying to change a weak line in a rowboat, by
moonlight, is not conducive to a pleasant evening's fishing.
Mae, the true wife of a doctor and a fisherman, had fixed
me up a delicious supper of sandwiches and hot coffee,


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 3
which she packed in the back of the car while I was
changing into my fishing clothes.
At the last minute I decided to take my shotgun with
me. Occasionally ducks were seen on Louisa late in the
evening, and there was a slim chance of my bagging one
or two. With that thought in mind, I discarded a few
quail shells which I found in my hunting coat, opened a
new box of duck shells and slipped ten into my pocket.
It was slightly after three when I left the house and
headed the car south on the seventeen mile run to the
lake. The first ten miles were easy going over a rather
narrow and bumpy shell road. There I had to turn west
into the flatwoods and cover seven miles of tortuous sand
and mud trail, which in wet weather was almost impass-
able on account of the mud, and in dry weather almost
impassable on account of the white sand. I fought my car
through two miles of the latter, and with my radiator
boiling in futile rage, stopped in front of a negro shack
to pick up a boy, Buddy Nixon, who always rowed my
boat for me.
He had heard my car panting through the woods and
was waiting at the gate for me. He greeted me with a
broad grin and a "Yessah, Doctor Ryan. I knowed most
fo' suah youall'd want to fish wid dat big moon tonight."
He climbed in front beside me, and I battled my way over
the remaining five miles, twisted and jolted until my
patience was entirely exhausted. Finally the foliage grew
thicker and thicker, the road changed from sand to black
mud, caked hard and dry, and straight before me shining
through the trees were the silver waters of the lake.
We stopped in a natural clearing. Three sides of it


4 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
were formed by the thick semi-tropical foliage, the fourth
by bushes, reeds, and trees, bordering the lake. With
the motor shut off it was intensely quiet. The slight noise
Buddy made unloading the things from the car, and into
the boat, seemed strangely out of place. In spite of the
brightly shining sun, which checker-boarded the ground
through the overhead branches, I had a sudden feeling
that there was something foreboding about that beautiful
spot.
I have tried since to coldly analyze the disquietude
which seized me for a moment that afternoon. There must
be certain times when modern man reverts to the primi-
tive state of his early ancestors. Surely the human race
could never have survived the attacks of ferocious beasts
unless they had some warning of impending danger. As a
medical man I have laughed this theory to scorn, yet I
have stopped in my tracks before stepping over a dead
log in the woods, and walked carefully around it to shoot
a five foot rattler which was coiled on the other side. I
did not hear him, see him, or smell him. Something told
me he was there. I had another experience equally un-
explainable, at least it was to me. For ten years I had
driven over a certain road to the farm of a patient of
mine who lived far out in the woods. He sent for me one
cold night in mid-winter, and I took another road—two
miles out of my way. I learned the next day that three
cars had been held up, and the occupants robbed, on the
road I regularly traveled.
"She's all ready, Doctor sah," Buddy called. As I
started for the boat a shadow blotted out the spots of
sun on the ground. I glanced up through the tree tops.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 5
Buzzards were slowly circling overhead. Silently, without
a movement of the wings, they wheeled in a relentless
procession. I shuddered a little, but my slight perturba-
tion soon passed away with the labor of helping Buddy
push the boat through the tough reeds into the clear
water.
Lake Louisa is shaped like a horseshoe. Each of the
prongs is over a mile in length, and each varies from a
quarter to a half a mile in width. These prongs run al-
most directly north and south, and join together at the
southern end. At this juncture the lake is very shallow and
grassy, and dotted with water hyacinths. Local fishermen
call this shallow part of the lake the "Cow Pasture" on
account of the number of cattle which are generally found
feeding there, standing deep in the water. Now and again
one of these aquatic cows will bog down in the soft mud,
and unless help is soon forthcoming the buzzards will
have a feast.
The place where I keep my boat, and where we entered
the lake, is at the north end of the east fork. I told Buddy
to paddle down the inside shore where I thought the fish-
ing would be better. There was a very slight breeze from
the west, but along the bank the water was dead calm. He
sat on the stern seat just keeping the boat moving by us-
ing one oar as a paddle. I was in no hurry. I had planned
to reach the Cow Pasture just about the time the moon
was right, and to fish the east bank, which was deep and
sandy, on my way out.
The fish were not striking. I fell to daydreaming, cast-
ing my plug out and retrieving it automatically, so that if
a big bass had struck I certainly would have lost it in my


6 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
surprise. There is an old farm house built on a knoll over-
looking the Cow Pasture, and we had just come out of a
small cove which enabled me to see the remnants of what
had once been a nourishing orange grove surrounding it.
Both grove and house had been deserted and uncared for
for many years. The big freeze had killed all the trees,
and their owner, Arnold Simmons, had followed shortly
afterward. That was before I started to practice in Orange
Crest. The house was inaccessible, cut off as it was on
both sides by the lake, and Simmons used to keep his
horse and wagon across the lake, a short row away, and
drive to town on his rare trips over a road long since
grown up and lost. He had built a small boat landing
near the house, and another on the far shore by his stable.
The stable had completely disappeared, but both landings
had mysteriously weathered the years, and were still in
fair condition.
I was startled out of my reverie by a quick fusillade of
shots on the shore. I must have jumped noticeably for I
heard Buddy chuckle.
"Woods plum' full o' hunters today. Been ridin' by the
house since 'fore daylight. Some of 'em I ain't never
knowed hunted at all. Mister Marvin Lee come by 'bout
two hours 'fore youall. I ain't never knowed him to hunt."
"How do you know it was Mister Lee?" I had known
Marvin since he was a boy, and his interest in hunting
was something new to me. Baseball, books, and chess had
occupied his earlier years, but grown to manhood, the
law, and Celia Mitchell, had claimed his undivided atten-
tion.
"Done stopped an' says he's lookin' fo' Mister David


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
1
Mitchell, Miss Celia's pappy, an' has he passed there. I
tells him suah has, but he's suah goin' to have a time
findin' him in them woods. He don' say nothin', jes'
drives on."
The matter might have occupied me further, but at
that instant I had a smashing strike, and everything
passed out of my mind but the business of landing a five
pound bass. Buddy's casual remark was brought back to
me later very forcibly, and made my life miserable for
days.
There was some desultory firing from the shore as the
hunters picked up the singles from the covey they had
flushed. Then a motor started, backfired viciously a
couple of times, and gradually died out in the distance.
Buddy paddled steadily on. The fish had quit striking,
a trait of the wily bass which I have always deplored, so
I lit a cigarette and relaxed.
The sun hung precariously over the tops of the trees,
and then, with a suddenness which it attains only in
Florida, it dived out of sight, leaving everything almost
black by contrast. The wind blew up fresh for a few
minutes, eerily waving the long streamers of Spanish moss
which festooned the trees, then I heard it whispering its
way off through the woods. A slight mist rose over the
lake. It was nearly dark.
We crept silently around a bend of land. I could see
the outlines of the Simmons dock just ahead. Buddy
drew in his breath with a sharp whistle.
"Quick, Doctor, you see 'em!"
I grabbed my shotgun from the bottom of the boat,
but they were quicker than I. There was a sharp note of


8 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
alarm, a beating of wings, and churning the water into
foam in their getaway a flock of Mallards zoomed off at
sixty miles an hour. Only three of the lot, cut off from
the rest of the flock, were silhouetted against the shore-
line. Twice I fired, but it was so dark I could not be sure.
I thought I saw something splash in the water.
"You done got 'im, Doctor I" Buddy's eyes were keener
than mine. He was racing the boat to the shore. "You
done got 'im. He's right close in!"
We were in the reeds, and I thought I saw the duck
right in front. I grabbed for it, but it was only a bunch of
grass.
"Mo' to the left, Doctor. Mo' to the left!"
Then I thought of my pocket flashlight. The powerful
beam flashed on the surface of the lake. The water was
red. I had brought it down, for that was certainly blood.
I played the light slowly around—searching—searching.
Then I heard Buddy scream, and my knees nearly gave
way beneath me. I was gazing into the dead white face of
David Mitchell.


2
Doctors are supposed to be very matter-of-fact people,
not addicted to nerves in any degree. The dissecting room
and the amphitheater of a hospital offer a short career,
and not a merry one, to the man who trembles at the sight
of a corpse or a little blood, and I had served my time
in both. Nevertheless I am only human. For the first few
minutes after the discovery of David Mitchell's body,
lying half in and half out of the water on the bank of
Lake Louisa, I frankly admit I was scared to death. The
sight of Buddy, crouched down in the stern of the boat,
sobbing in terror, brought me to myself. I realized that
if anything was to be done I had to do it alone. There I
was, standing like an idiot with my knees knocking to-
gether, and making no attempt whatever to find out if
there was a possible chance that the man was still alive.
I stepped from the boat into the shallow water, and
with some effort, for Mitchell was a heavy man, I dragged
him up on the bank. With the aid of my flashlight I ex-
amined him for signs of life. There were none.
He held his water bottle clutched in his right hand.
On the front of his khaki hunting shirt a crimson stain
was visible. Feverishly tearing open the front of the shirt
my worst fears were confirmed. David Mitchell had died
from shotgun wounds directly over the heart, and wounds
9


10 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
inflicted so recently that the exact time was impossible to
determine.
Like a horrible moving-picture the whole tragedy un-
folded itself before me. Mitchell, tired from his day's
hunting, stopping at the edge of the lake on his way
back to his car to fill his water bottle—the soft splash of
a paddled boat as it rounded the last bend of land near
the Simmons place—his glancing up in curiosity to greet
a possible friend, then, before he has a chance to call out,
the flapping wings and the blazing shotgun. Over and
over again it ran through my mind—the flapping wings
and the blazing shotgun—the flapping wings and the
blazing shotgun—the flapping wings and the blazing
shotgun—until I felt I should scream from its beating
cadence on my brain. No mystery, there, in the death of
David Mitchell, just another fool who had fired into the
darkness without looking where he was shooting, just
another careless hunter, just another murderer. The moon
rose. Still I stood there looking down into the face of my
former friend. Finally I realized the futility of standing
there and doing nothing, and climbing back into the boat
I ordered Buddy to row as fast as he could back to the
clearing where I had left my car. There were certain things
that had to be done. I would only make my part in the
tragedy worse, if it were possible, by playing the part of
a baby.
The trip back to the clearing was made in silence, with
the exception of Buddy's soft whimpering as he rowed.
Time had ceased to exist for me. I had reached a stage of
numbness, and was affected with an empty ache in the
pit of my stomach, which I suppose afflicts us all in the


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 11
face of any great catastrophe. How was I going to tell
Mae? How was I ever going to look anyone in the face
again? A strange madness seized me in which I decided
I would get in the car and ride away through the night,
never to return to Orange Crest again. Ride away where?
With the police of the nation searching for the man who
had shot David Mitchell, there was small chance of my
escaping detection for twenty-four hours.
I remember very little more of the events of that
ghastly night. It was an automaton who drove the auto-
mobile back to Orange Crest over the familiar road. I
know when I arrived in town that Buddy was not with me.
I have no recollection of stopping at his house to let him
out, although I do remember having impressed on him
the necessity of his not talking if he wished to escape
trouble. The Sheriff's Office would want to question him
soon enough. The least he said before that the better it
would be for him.
There were few lights in the houses as I drove slowly
down the main street on my way to the County Jail, part
of which was the home of Pete Crossley, the Sheriff. I
was thankful for this, as I was in mortal dread of having
someone I knew hail me to ask about my day of fishing.
I was also thankful that it was Peter Crossley with whom
I had to deal. We were close friends. My efforts had been
no little factor in keeping that blond giant in office as
Sheriff of Manasaw County for the past sixteen years. He
was an officer of the law, first, last, and all the time. Still
I knew my story would be received with sympathy and
understanding. I needed both badly on that particular
night.


12 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
Crossley's house was dark when I stopped in front, but
there was a dim light burning in the jail which adjoined
it. I knew a Deputy was on duty there all night. I paced
nervously back and forth a couple of times in front of
the big double doors before I summoned enough courage
to ring the bell which I had rung so many times before on
friendly calls. I had often kidded Pete about the size of
that doorbell, which was of fire alarm proportions. I could
see him grinning now and saying, "A big bell for a big
man, Doc! When they want me they want someone really
important." I pushed the button and shivered nervously
as the gong crashed out in the silent house.
After an interminable wait a light shone over the
transom, and the door was opened by a sleepy-looking
Ed Brown, Chief Deputy Sheriff.
"Where's Pete?" I demanded without explanation. "I've
got to see him right away."
"Asleep, Doc. Anything I can do for you?"
"Wake him up. It's important."
"Who is it, Ed?" Pete's voice asked from upstairs.
"Doc Ryan. Wants to see you."
"Be right down, Doc. Have a chair in the sitting-
room."
Ed Brown showed me into the comfortable room where
I had spent so many pleasant hours, and with a casual
"Good night," went back to his duties in the jail. It was
chilly. I threw another pine knot on the fire which had
almost died out. It blazed up instantly. The room seemed
strange to me. Even the crayon portrait of Pete which
stared at me from the wall seemed to have a malevolent
look in its eyes.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 13
"Taking a walk, Doc?"
I jumped and turned, to see the huge frame of the
Sheriff standing in the doorway. He was clad only in
pants, shirt, and felt slippers, which accounted for my
not hearing him descend the stairs. Then I realized that
I must have been walking furiously back and forth in
front of the fireplace. It seemed to be getting into a habit
of mine—pacing back and forth like I was in a cell. Yes—
that was it! In a cell—that's where it would all endl I
suddenly collapsed into a big chair and blurted out with-
out preamble: "Pete, I shot at a duck on Lake Louisa
late this afternoon and killed David Mitchell who was
filling his water bottle by the edge of the lake! I'm a
murderer! Do you understand! A murderer!" Then
everything grew black. I felt myself slipping away.
"Easy now, Doc! Easy now!" It was Pete's voice com-
ing to me from a distance. "No talk now. Just drink this
down." Something was held to my lips. I swallowed
automatically. The fiery liquor ran through my veins and
I felt better immediately. "Good stuff, Doc. Raided from
one of the best bootleggers in the County. Now forget all
that stuff about being a murderer, and let's hear the rest
about this accident. You been acting more like a fool
than a doctor. We got to get out there and bring that
body in. Come along. You can tell me about it on the
way out."
He summoned Ed Brown, and told him to leave an As-
sistant Deputy in charge of the jail, and to load an out-
board motor in the big car. His very matter-of-factness
served to reassure me more than anything he could have
said. I made no protest when he asked me to leave my


14 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
own car and use his as we could make the trip in shorter
time. We were soon speeding back over the road I had
just traveled, Pete and I seated in the back seat of the
sedan, and Ed at the wheel driving like a fiend. We made
one stop at the home of Amos Pryor, our local mortician.
Pete told me that he had asked Amos to pick up Doctor
StUart, who lived a short distance out of town, and to
join us at the clearing where I kept my boat. He had also
asked Amos to have his ambulance follow us out and wait
at the same place. En route again, Pete asked me to go
over my story. He listened without interruption while I
told him everything from the time I left the house until
my arrival at his home. His cigar glowed brightly now and
again in the darkness of the car.
"You've been hunting and fishing a long time in this
state, haven't you, Doc?"
"Nearly all my life. More fishing than hunting though."
"Been out with Mitchell?"
"Several times."
"Pretty cautious man, wasn't he?"
"Very."
"Friendly?"
"With some people, but not a great many at that. He
was a banker as you know, and wasn't very intimate
with anyone."
"You don't think he would have hailed a boat which
was being paddled silently near a feeding place for ducks?"
"I think he would have waited to see who it was."
"How could you see the ducks you shot at if it was too
dark to see Mitchell standing on the shore?"
"They were silhouetted against the skyline where it


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 15
was visible through the trees. I shot fast—without think-
ing—"
"You're a pretty good wing shot, aren't you?"
"Fair."
"Yet you say you thought you got one of the ducks."
"Buddy said he saw one of them go down. Something
undoubtedly splashed in the water. After I found Mitchell
I thought—"
The end of the cigar glowed brightly, and Pete's big
hand closed over mine in a quick grip of friendliness.
"Doc, that's a steep bank by the Simmons place. I still
can't get it clear in my mind how you could shoot at three
ducks flying high enough to be visible against the skyline
and hit a man standing so low by the water that you
couldn't see him. Think it over, Doc. There may be a
chance—"
"I hope to God you're right!" I said fervently.
It is not my intention to go into all the morbid details
which are inevitably necessary in any affair such as the
shooting of David Mitchell. In fact they are none too
clear to me. The moon had gone down, and the first
streaks of dawn were in the sky, accompanied by a thick
morning fog, so prevalent in early spring, when our sad
little party arrived back in town, Pryor's ambulance fol-
lowing in its wake, and I faced the miserable task of
breaking the news to Mae.
When I had finally put my car in the garage, and
started into the house, I knew that I could never do it.
Pete had said there might be a chance. I would cling to
that hope in desperation and see what came of it. I knew
she would be awake and want to speak to me. She had


16 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
never failed in the many years of our life together. I also
knew she would discover immediately that something was
radically wrong. I would have to go on up to my own
room without seeing her, and that would be a confession
that all was not as it should be in itself. She called me as
soon as I entered the house.
"Will, dear, did you get any fish?"
"Just one, honey, but it's a nice one. I'm putting it on
ice. I'm awfully tired. Why don't you go on to sleep? I'll
see you in the morning."
"Well you can kiss me good night anyhow."
Then came, what I term to this day, the most happy
interruption of my life. The bell of the night telephone
in my room began ringing insistently. I could tell Mae
it was an urgent call—that I had to leave immediately—
anything to gain time to compose myself. I flew upstairs
to my room and grabbed the receiver from the hook.
"Doc," inquired the grave voice of Peter Crossley,
"how many times did you shoot at those ducks?"
"Twice." I answered rather shortly, thinking he might
have at least let the matter rest until morning.
"That's right. We found both shells still in your gun.
We took it from your car when it was parked in front
of the jail."
"Well, what of it, Pete? For Heaven's sake, let me
alone until tomorrow."
"Nothing, Doc. I just phoned to tell you to go to bed
and sleep tight. Mitchell was killed with a load of buck
shot. You were shooting number fives. Good night!"
I am not ashamed to admit that I ran into Mae's room,
buried my face on her shoulder and cried like a baby.


3
The information unearthed in the investigation of the
death of David Mitchell seemed to prove only that the
banker had been a very secretive man. Even Celia, his
daughter, who was called as a witness at the inquest,
knew little of his affairs.
His entire fortune, some three hundred thousand dol-
lars in bank stocks and first class property, with the ex-
ception of a few minor bequests, had been left to his
motherless daughter. Marvin Lee, Celia's fiance, who was
attorney for the bank, had been named as executor of
the will.
Buddy's statement to me that Marvin had been in the
woods looking for Mitchell on the afternoon of the shoot-
ing came back with renewed force when it was learned
that the attorney had left Orange Crest on the midnight
train that same night. He had left no word as to his
destination or when he expected to return.
While I felt from the bottom of my heart that Marvin
could have no possible connection with the tragedy, yet
I knew that the Sheriff was entitled to all the data I could
give him, and I had told Crossley all the facts in my
possession before the inquest. He had received other in-
formation, too. Some of it he did not tell me until later.
He did reveal, however, that the agent at the depot had
17


18 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
sold Marvin a one way ticket to Jacksonville. This meant
nothing at all, as the train lay over there for forty-five
minutes, which would have given the attorney ample time
to buy another to any place he was going. It was difficult
to get Pullman reservations in our small town, and many
of our inhabitants, when pressed for time, did just as
Marvin had done.
I heard from another source that the Sheriff's office
had been in touch with the authorities in Atlanta, who
in turn had spoken to two firms there with whom Lee had
often corresponded. Neither of the firms could give any
assistance in locating him.
Orange Crest was naturally buzzing with rumors, most
of them with no foundation whatever. It was whispered
that the bank was in difficulties, and that Mitchell, its
president, had committed suicide. This started a small run
which was quickly suppressed when the State Examiner
reported everything in first class shape. Another persistent
rumor was that Mitchell had stumbled on to a still and
been shot by moonshiners. The local paper maintained a
conservative attitude. The editor pointed out the fact that
the authorities had found the body of Bess, Mitchell's
bird dog, riddled with buck shot near the scene of the
crime; and that it was most unlikely that a suicide would
kill his dog before shooting himself. Beyond that he re-
fused to conjecture, admitting that he knew nothing and
was awaiting word from the competent officials who were
handling the case.
Saturday night, three nights after I found the banker's
body, I was seated again in Pete Crossley's sitting room.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 19
He was sucking gloomily on an empty pipe and appeared
almost as worried as I had been on my last visit.
"We didn't get much out of the inquest," he remarked.
"What do you make of it?" I did not answer, so he started
ticking off the facts on his fingers with the pipe stem.
"First: Mitchell had been upset about something for
several days. About what? Celia knew him better than
anyone and she doesn't know. What was worrying him?"
"Money?"
"He left three hundred thousand."
"The bank maybe—"
"The auditors reported it O. K."
"Celia's marriage to Lee. Maybe he didn't approve."
"From what we know of him he would have said so
without mincing words. Let's go on to the second fact
which caused the Coroner's Jury to bring in a verdict of
death at the hands of an unknown—our finding Bess, his
dog. That doesn't look like an accident, does it?"
"I should say not."
"Well then give me a motive."
"For the dog?"
"For Mitchell and the dog."
"I think Bess was shot for fear she would raise an
alarm. Mitchell may have been robbed."
"He had no money on him when you found him, it's
true, but Celia said he never carried any when he was
hunting."
"Revenge maybe."
"More likely, but for what? Men don't kill a banker
for refusing a loan—"


20 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"Didn't he have Red Salmon arrested for moonshining
a couple of years ago? Found his still in the woods or
something?"
"That's true, but Salmon's no fool. He knows that he
would be one of the first we would look for if anything
happened to Mitchell. We're after him now."
"Wasn't Mitchell a special game warden?"
"Yes, and he did much to break up illegal hunting in
this County. Arrested nine men so far as the records
show, but I've checked them all up and otherwise they're
pretty good citizens. Wouldn't they be in much the same
position as Salmon?"
"That's true. It's unlikely they would take such a
chance for a petty revenge. Have you any theory at all?"
"Frankly none, Doc. I'm as much at sea as you. I be-
lieve there is a reason back of this which we haven't
touched. Maybe Marvin can enlighten us—that is if we
can find him. He has surely read of it in the papers by
now—"
He was interrupted by a light step on the porch and
the shattering announcement of the big bell. I rose at
the same time as he did, for I did not wish to intrude.
He motioned for me to wait while he answered the door.
I heard a woman's voice and Celia Mitchell entered the
room followed by the Sheriff. She ran to me with both
hands outstretched as soon as she recognized me.
"I'm glad you're here," she said simply. "I'm terribly
worried about Marvin. Have either of you heard from
him?" I shook my head. "I called your house," she went
on. "Mrs. Ryan told me you were here. I wanted to see
Mr. Crossley anyhow."


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 21
She was distraught and tired and her friendly blue eyes
had filled with tears. It dawned on me that, wrapped up
in my own difficulties, I had been a very poor friend to the
lonely girl whom I had brought into the world nineteen
years before. I took her hands and drew her down on the
arm of the chair beside me.
"Celia, honey, you know if there is anything an old
man can do—and I'm sure Pete here feels the same!"
She ruffled up my graying hair with a quick gesture.
"Certainly I know. You're the two best friends in the
world and the two finest men—"
Pete coughed nervously and applied a pine splinter to
his pipe. The big hearted officer was used to everything
but words of praise. His face matched the bricks on the
hearth as he leaned over the fire.
"I wouldn't have bothered you tonight," she continued,
"but there was something I had to ask you."
It was evident that she was striving to keep a grip on
herself. I patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"Did either of you find Daddy's watch?"
"His watch?" Crossley's eyes were on me.
"The one given him by the Chamber of Commerce. He
always carried it. I have been through all his things this
afternoon and it's not there—"
"Would he have taken it in the woods with him?"
"He took it every place. You know how proud he was
of it." She stifled a sob. "Once I protested about his car-
rying it hunting and fishing, but he said a poor watch was
worse than none. There are not many personal things to
remember him by—"
"I'm sorry, Celia," the Sheriff said kindly. "We made


22 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
a very careful search but we didn't see anything of the
watch." He looked at me inquiringly. I shook my head.
"It wasn't in his pockets—that is—you see I was hardly
responsible myself. I was terribly upset."
Pete nodded understandingly. "There is a possibility,
of course, that he didn't have it with him."
"I believe I know!" Celia exclaimed. "I don't know
why I didn't think of it before. Daddy mentioned not
long ago that the watch gained a trifle. Isn't it possible
that he left it to be adjusted?"
"At Spence's? It's very possible!" Pete picked up the
telephone in a corner of the room and called Forman
Spence's home. We waited expectantly. Apparently there
was no answer. "Gone to the pictures, I guess. I'll see if
there is anyone at the store." He called another number
and after a short conversation he stated that he would be
right down.
"It's Harry Bartlett," he said as he hung up, "Forman's
new clerk. I think we better go down and see for our-
selves."
It is just a short distance from Crossley's home to the
store so we decided to walk.
"Why did Forman let Lewis go?" I asked as we left
the house. "He'd been with him twelve years, or more,
hadn't he? Nearly as long as Tim Reig, his watchmaker."
"He didn't let him go," Pete explained. "Lewis quit.
Got an offer from a big concern in Tampa, but Forman
didn't think he would take it. I guess the salary was too
good to turn down."
"Where did this fellow, Bartlett, come from?"
"Funny thing. Forman was talking to me about it the


24 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
sub-consciously noted that the young man walked with
an effortless ease. It was not until the lights went on
that I was aware that this was due to his harmonious
physique. Almost as tall as Pete Crossley, his height was
very deceptive owing to a pair of shoulders which were
the broadest I had ever seen. I felt that if anyone had
poked him with an explorative finger they would have
met a wall of muscles as hard as Bessemer steel. His
face was inclined to be dark and swarthy, and his piercing
black eyes gave him a ferocious expression which disap-
peared instantly under one of his slow smiles. Then the
whole face softened. The fierce black eyes became a wee
bit dreamy. When the smile broadened into a grin, re-
vealing the even white teeth, you felt that here, indeed,
was a likable individual. I was amused at the thought of
the mouse-like Forman Spence giving orders to this giant
employee.
Bartlett looked hurriedly through the "M's" in a small
indexed book which he picked up from the desk.
"There is no record of it here, Mr. Crossley, but that
doesn't mean that it isn't in the store. It is quite likely
that neither Tim Reig nor Mr. Spence would make a rec-
ord of a watch left by anyone they knew as well as
Mr. Mitchell. We'll have a look in the watch rack."
He unlocked a small safe under the watch repair desk
where Timothy Reig did his delicate work, but the racks
which he took out with numerous busily ticking watches
hung on their own tiny hooks yielded no results. While
we were rather hopelessly checking them over again we
heard a "Hello folks," and turned to find Tim Reig stand-
ing inside the door which we had not locked behind us


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 25
when we entered. He gave an inquiring glance at the
trays of watches. Bartlett hastened to explain.
"Maybe you can help us, Tim. We're trying to find
out if Mr. Mitchell's watch is here by any chance—"
"The one given him by the Chamber of Commerce?"
"Oh, you know it then?" asked the Sheriff.
"Certainly. I engraved the testimonial on it, but I'm
certain it's not here. It was a high priced watch and prac-
tically new. Why should he have brought it here?"
"Daddy said something about it gaining," Celia told
him. "I just thought—" She stopped abruptly and walked
to the door. I could see she was again fighting to control
herself.
"It's been missing since his death," Pete went on in a
low voice. "We thought there was a bare possibility—"
"Well, I'm sorry I can't help you, Mr. Crossley. I'm
sure Mr. Spence won't be able to either, for all the watches
come to me. Now if there is nothing else—I'm rather
tired—I just happened to be passing and saw the store
was lighted. My car is parked in the next block if I can
drive any of you home—no? Well good-night." He was
gone as quickly as he had come.
"Not very sociable, is he?" Bartlett asked with one of
his rare smiles. "He certainly never has much to say
around the store."
"Who? Tim Reig?" Crossley chuckled. "Say, I've
known Tim for fifteen years—maybe longer—and he
talked more tonight than I've heard him in all that time.
I still know less about him than anyone else in Orange
Crest—"
He was interrupted by a car which came to a quick


26 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
•stop in front of the door. The driver got out without shut-
ting off the motor and peered in the window. I recognized
Ed Brown. When he saw Crossley was inside he came in
himself and walked up to Pete who was standing with me
somewhat apart from the others.
"Sheriff," he said, "I thought you all would like to know
that Marvin Lee got back to town on the ten thirty-five!"


28 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
before leaving her with two children and a beautiful eight
room bungalow set in a small grove on the edge of town.
Like so many men astute in other ways Nelson had been
very neglectful of life insurance. When his estate was
finally settled it was discovered that most of the large
groves had gone and that there was only a small income
left to provide for his family. Marvin Lee had fought
hard to save what he could for the widow, for he was an
orphan and had practically been raised by the Nelsons.
He now occupied two large rooms and a sleeping porch
in the bungalow, and had a private bath which he had
built on at his own expense. He contributed largely to
the upkeep of the place, and Mrs. Nelson regarded him
as her own son. The grove was surrounded by a wire fence
to keep out marauding cattle, and when I got out of the
car to open the gate so I could drive in I saw Marvin
walking down the sand road which led to the house.
He was usually immaculate in his appearance, and I
noticed with some surprise that his clothes were unpressed
and dusty. His hair was ruffled and a limp strand hung
down over his high white forehead. He kept pushing this
up impatiently, a characteristic gesture of his when wor-
ried or excited. I had watched him many times in court
and it was an invariable sign that things were not going
to his liking when he started fighting with that stray
lock of hair. Neither of us spoke beyond a casual greet-
ing until we were stretched out in two long wicker chairs
on his screened-in porch. He nervously lit a cigarette and
began without preamble.
"Doc, they're trying to hang this Mitchell murder
on mel"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 29
"Who is?"
"The Sheriff's office."
"Don't be silly, Marvin. You're overwrought and
jumping at conclusions."
"Certainly I'm overwrought, but I'm not jumping at
anything. I know Pete Crossley and the way he works
better than anybody in this town and he thinks I did that
killing."
"But Marvin, it shouldn't be a difficult matter—"
"To prove that I didn't. Listen, Doc," he snuffed his
cigarette viciously in the ash tray beside him. "I'm a
lawyer and I know how black this thing looks. I was the
last one to see David Mitchell alive. I talked with him
less than a mile from Lake Louisa at four o'clock on the
afternoon he was killed. I followed him into the woods
carrying a shotgun because I wanted people to think I
was hunting and not looking for him."
"Why all the secrecy?"
He rose from his chair and held up a capable white
hand in a gesture of silence.
"Wait, please. Let me sum this up for you in my own
way. It may make it clearer to both of us." He began
to pace slowly back and forth as I had seen him do when
addressing a Jury. I lay back in my chair and watched
the shadows left by the setting sun change into violet, and
the violet darken slowly until only an outline of the orange
trees surrounding the house remained. Still he paced back
and forth evidently trying to get a concrete picture of the
facts together in his mind. Suddenly he began to speak
again.
"I know all the questions that are arising in your mind.


30 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
I spent the day, today, with Crossley and Ed Brown in
the woods around Louisa. They asked me all of them:
Why did I want to talk to Mitchell? Why did I leave
Orange Crest so quietly? Where did I go? Doc, the hell
of the thing is—I can't answer those questions—yet. It
may be two weeks or it may be three months, or even
longer, before I can talk. What is going to happen in the
meantime? Celia I can count on, thank God! She believes
in me. I hope I can count on you, but I won't blame you
if you believe anything." He switched on the small read-
ing lamp which stood on a table between our chairs and
sat down disconsolately. J reached over and laid a hand
on his shoulder.
"You can count me in to the limit."
"Thanks," was all he said, but when he looked up I
saw that his gray eyes were moist with tears. He lit an-
other cigarette and continued quietly. "There is more,
Doc. I have a new will of Mitchell's in which he leaves
me twenty-five thousand dollars. I needed the money
badly. It will furnish Pete with a fine motive, won't it?"
"Not necessarily, when you are going to marry
Mitchell's daughter."
"Yes. That's a point, but the marriage is some time
away."
"Marvin, you're making mountains out of molehills.
There must be plenty of others with motives just as strong
as any you might have. Let's look at this thing sensibly—"
"Doc, you still don't understand," he interrupted im-
patiently, "I can name plenty of people with motives—
moonshiners—game violators—even Forman Spence—"
"Forman Spence?"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 31
"Yes. Mitchell was a silent partner in his business, and
Spence owes him nearly fifty thousand dollars. It was a
personal matter and there is nothing covering it in writ-
ing. I know Mitchell has been pushing him and his busi-
ness is in bad shape. I told Crossley all about it today.
But it won't wash, Doc. I've been picked out for the
victim. They may get me yet."
"You mean Crossley?"
"Not only Pete, Doc, it's deeper than that. Listen to
this: I carried Mr. Nelson's old shotgun to the woods with
me that day. This morning Pete asked where it was, and
I told him it was here in my closet. He wanted to see it—
matter of routine and all that—but when we came out
here to get it—it was gone!"
"Gone!"
"Vanished completely. Mrs. Nelson and the children
are away for two weeks. Someone just walked in and took
it while I was away."
"But why?"
"Doc, it isn't damning enough to have the array of
circumstantial evidence already existing. They have added
the fact that I can't even produce the shotgun I carried
to the woods with me. I've seen juries convinced on thinner
cases than the one against me right now."
I sat staring into the darkness thinking how heavily
the shadow of the banker's death had fallen on our com-
munity. The terror of the night when I still thought that
I had been the careless assassin was so fresh in my mind
that I could realize something of the helplessness which
had gripped Marvin Lee. I was certain that he had no
hand in such a dastardly crime. I nevertheless had to ad-


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 33
cracker, for I knew that he was a man to be trusted, al-
though he had been mixed up in moonshining for many
years. I was, however, mad clear through at the scare he
had given us.
"What's the idea, Cass, coming in here like a sneak
thief? We're not revenue agents!"
"Nossuh, Doctah, hit's not that. I come from Red
Salmon. He's a mighty sick man. Hit's not safe for me
round hyah. I'm skeered right now the Sheriff knows I'se
in town. I cain't be too keerful."
"Well, what is it, Cass?"
"Doctah, hit's jest like I told you. Red's mighty sick.
He's ailing with a bad fever and chills, and coughing so
he kin hardly speak. Hit come on him sudden-like. There's
something about this killing he wants to tell you all, and
he ain't going to talk to no sheriff. But you better hurry.
There's no time to lose."
"What about it, Marvin?" I asked.
"Let's go. Ill trust Cass. Where is he, Cass?"
"He's hiding out and hit's quite a ways from hyah. You
all give me about thutty minutes, then drive out to Half
Mile Creek on road numbah two. I got Red's Ford there.
Stop a mite this side of the creek and dim your lights
three times. When youall see a tail light ahaid follow
hit. There's walking to be done, and hit ain't nice. Youall
betteh wear some clothes that's fit to be spiled. Hit's suah
bad!" He was gone even more silently than he had come.
The faint snap of a twig and the soft swish as a tree
branch snapped back into place were the only sounds to
mark his passing through the thick grove.
We did not turn on the light. Marvin got up and made


34 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
his way into the house. The window of his room lighted
up and I could see he was putting on a pair of high
leather boots. I decided I would stop by my house and do
the same. It would be advisable to let Mae know where
I was going—or at least with whom I was going for I did
not know my destination myself. I wondered if I should
telephone Pete and then decided against it. Cass Rhodes
had told the truth when he said that Red Salmon would
not talk to the Sheriff. They might arrest the cunning
red headed distiller, but they would never make him talk.
He had hated David Mitchell, but he was not the type
who would shoot a man for revenge. Cass had said he was
very sick. A real cracker does not exaggerate the seri-
ousness of an illness. They generally wait to call a doctor
until it is too late for the doctor to do any good. I hoped
we would not be too late for I felt we were on the trail
of the first real information anyone had had. Perhaps Red
had killed the banker, and was so near dying that he was
going to confess. Looking back on it now I realize that I
could not possibly have known what a ghastly discovery
we were to make that night, nor what terror our discovery
was to spread through the countryside. Yet later I was
unfair enough to blame the forces of law and order for
not having known about it and done something to pre-
vent it.
The light in Marvin's room went out. I heard his step
on the front porch. I rose and joined him. We stopped by
my house long enough for me to change my shoes to
hunting boots and reassure Mae that my trip with Cass
Rhodes was only a routine call. I took no weapon with


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 35
me for I knew that both Salmon and Rhodes had only the
friendliest feelings toward both me and my companion.
We headed west on State Road No. 2. Just before we
reached Half Mile Creek I pulled the car up on the side of
the road and flashed the headlights as Cass had directed.
Almost immediately a red tail-light shone in the dark-
ness ahead of us and I started in pursuit. I did not know
until later that another car was following our wild ride
through the night.


5
ELeeping the twinkling tail-light in sight on the wide
State highway was not such a hard job although Cass
Rhodes was giving the little car ahead of us all she would
take. The speedometer crept from thirty-five to forty-
five, and as we got further away from Orange Crest up
to fifty-five where it hung shivering. We passed few cars
for State Road No. 2 was not entirely completed, and the
traffic south generally took a longer route which avoided
many bad detours. We roared over the series of bridges
spanning Colonel's Prairie and left the cluster of un-
painted houses, which marked the turpentine camp of
Malo, far in our wake. Sixteen miles out of town the new
sixty foot highway ended and gave way to the old nine
foot brick road. Here our going was necessarily much
slower.
The road twisted and turned around ponds or any
natural obstruction that got in its way. It dipped sharply
down to the edge of creeks, to allow a precarious passage
over unrailed wooden bridges, which to the uninitiated
appeared to require the dexterity of a tight rope walker.
Two parallel planks running lengthwise of the bridges
served as guides to the driver, and woe to the novice who
ran off them for rusty nails and flat tires were the re-
ward, and far too often a dive in the creek.
36


38 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
had stopped some distance ahead to see if we made it,
but when our headlights proclaimed that we were safely
through he started off again.
We must have driven for an hour longer. All semblance
of road had long since disappeared. We were following
Cass merely by the trail his car left when it crushed
down the high grass and weeds which at times reached
up above our headlights. I expected any minute to run
into an invisible stump and end the journey permanently,
but I kept on, hoping for the best.
"Do you think he knows where he's going?" I asked.
"Sure, Doc. That cracker's as much at home in these
woods as we are in Orange Crest."
"Have you any idea where we are?"
"Only vaguely from the county maps. I've searched
titles for some timber lands out in this section. I think
we're skirting along the edge of Tiger Swamp, but I'm
not sure."
"Well we've come nearly forty miles from town and
I'm getting darn tired—"
We ran into a clearing as I was speaking and Cass was
standing right ahead of us waving us down. I climbed
out with a sigh of relief glad of the chance to stretch my-
self after the arduous drive. It was not long before I was
wishing myself back in the comfortable seat behind the
wheel. Marvin started a vigorous battle against the
mosquitoes which swarmed around us.
"Are we near there, Cass?"
"Hit's a right smart ways, Mister Lee. We all better
be agoin'." He produced a gasoline lantern from the rear
of the Ford, and lit it with some difficulty for it had to


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 39
be heated first, and the breeze kept blowing out his
matches. Finally the mantles flared up and the white,
hard light illuminated an area of twenty feet around us.
I switched off the car lights.
"I reckon I better go fust." Cass explained. "I kin take
keer of snakes and sech." Glad enough to give him the
right of way, Marvin and I fell in in single file behind
the swinging light.
We had to walk fast to keep up with the lanky moon-
shiner. He led us unerringly up to what appeared to be
a solid line of dense bushes, and we were right on top of
them before I noticed that a narrow path offered a dif-
ficult passage through them. Something jumped out in
the path once, sending my heart up into my throat. It was
only a terrified rabbit, roused from his slumber in a brier
patch. Marvin gave a startled glance over his shoulder,
but neither of us spoke. I grinned to myself, taking com-
fort from the thought that he was just as scared as I was.
The path ran on about the length of two city blocks,
then the bushes ended and I felt the ooze of soft ground
under my feet. The lantern ahead lit up the butts of great
cypress trees hundreds of years old. The light was re-
flected from dark stagnant water which looked as black
and hard as polished iron. I looked up, but the matted
branches overhead shut out even a glimpse of the stars.
Cass had waded into the water without any hesitation.
There was nothing for us to do but follow. I patted my-
self on the back for wearing my hunting boots, although
they did not aid much in keeping my feet dry. I was
thinking of moccasins, and the protection of the thick
leather around my legs was comforting. It probably would


40 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
not have done a bit of good against a pair of fangs had
I actually stepped on a big one.
Several times I thought we were lost. Cass would stop
at a fallen cypress tree which barred our way and hold
the lantern up high as if searching for a hidden land-
mark. Then he would make a quick decision and start
off—sometimes straight ahead—and sometimes in a course
which seemed to be at right angles to the one we had been
following. He did not need to worry about Marvin and
me. We hung too close on his trail. I know if he had sud-
denly plunged into a river we would have been close be-
hind.
I lost all track of time. We climbed over fallen trees.
I extricated myself from hanging vines with thorns on
them an inch long which tore me cruelly. I sank in mud
up to my knees and felt that each attempt to pull out my
tired legs would be my last. Marvin became a fiendish
shadow ahead of me which never stopped and which I
had to follow at all costs. We came to an abandoned tram
road once used by a big lumber company which had
logged in there. For an interminable length of time we
walked ties. I fell down and bruised my knee badly, but
I refused Marvin's proffered assistance rather curtly, and
was up again immediately stumbling on my way. I was
glad when Cass took to the swamp again for it was easier
going in the mud and water than on the old road bed.
Once Cass Rhodes stopped short and reached for the
heavy gun which swung at his hip. Some large animal had
crashed through the trees ahead of us splashing noisily
through the water. Then with a laconic, "Cow I reckon!"
he started on his way again. My imagination began to run


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 41
riot. I conjured up pictures of panther and bear stalking
us through the darkness. Then I became certain that I
heard the soft plop-plop of padded feet some distance in
back of me. I dismissed it from my mind but I instinc-
tively moved up closer to Marvin. I know now that I had
not been mistaken about being followed through that
eerie swamp, but the matter left my mind with a rush at
the time. Cass's lantern was growing dimmer. Suddenly,
with a final hiss, it went out entirely. We were left stand-
ing in a blackness so thick that even the faintest outline
of the timber surrounding us was blotted out completely.
"Youall stay where you air until I git a match," I heard
Cass say. "Th' daggown lamp's done run out of gas."
"What are we going to do?" I demanded petulantly. I
felt that it was useless to ask, and that we faced the
prospect of standing up in the swamp until daybreak.
Cass's next words reassured me.
"When I git a light youall come up and git aholt of my
coat. 'Taint fur to the hut. We shoulda seed the light
afore now. I kin find the way easy, though, in the plumb
dark." Matches rattled in a box. Then one flared up and
I saw that Cass and Marvin were much closer to me than
I had thought. Marvin took hold of Cass's coat and I took
hold of Marvin's, and in this fashion we started our slow
march to the finish of our journey. I did not relish
traversing that snake-infested ground in the pitch dark,
but anything was better than inaction.
We must have covered a quarter of a mile. Cass had
stopped only once to strike a match, and then had gone
straight on led by his unerring sense of direction. I heard
the ripple of water ahead. Cass stopped again.


42 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"That's Tiger Creek," he said softly. "We're right on
the bank. I'm goin' to signal to Red so don' be skeered."
Despite his warning I was scared, for the uncanny hoot
of an owl sounded so close to me that I thought the bird
was right in front of my face. It was fully a minute be-
fore I realized that Cass had done the hooting. We waited,
but there was no reply. Cass repeated the signal.
"Durn funny!" he said. "'Taint right somehow. Red
was agoin' to leave a light and he ain't answered. Hit ain't
right. I reckon we better hurry."
We stumbled on through the darkness. Marvin and I
still clinging to our guide. The going was much easier. I
could hear the creek gurgling on our left. The trees had
given way to palmetto bushes, and by the faint light of
the stars I discerned the outlines of a small shack. Cass
stopped again and cautiously called: "Red! Hit's Cass
with the doctah." We waited expectantly. Again there was
no reply. We pushed open the makeshift door and entered.
My nerves were very much on edge. I had had but a
modicum of rest for four days, and I had not quite re-
covered from my gruesome discovery on Lake Louisa.
The trip through the swamp which we had just finished
had not improved matters in the least. I realize that it
was with a feeling of relief that I entered that ram-
shackle cabin. Far as it was from civilization it repre-
sented the handiwork of man. It was really a welcome
sight when such a short time before I had pictured my-
self spending the night wading around in water up to my
knees. I was upset about Red not answering Cass's
signal, but I knew that patients with a high fever often


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 43
slept very soundly. It was quite possible that he had not
heard us at all.
A few embers glowed in a rude fireplace and dimly lit
up the interior. I could see two rough chairs, a square table
in the middle of the room, and two bunks, one over the
other, built into the wall. A figure lay in the lower bunk
partially concealed in the shadow. I recognized my patient
by the gleam of the firelight on his red hair. The place
was stuffy and close. Marvin put some more wood on the
fire. While Cass was fooling with a smoky oil lamp, I un-
hooked and threw open the one window in the room. I
had brought a small medical kit with me in my pocket.
I took it out and placed it on the table.
"Red," I said softly. "It's Doctor Ryan. How are you
feeling, old fellow?" The figure did not move or reply. It
was then that it dawned on me that I might be too late.
I walked quickly over to the bunk and placed my hand
on his forehead. It was warm, but I could detect no sound
of the labored breathing which I would naturally expect
with pneumonia, and I had made up my mind that Salmon
had pneumonia, if Cass' story was true.
"What is it, Doctor?" Marvin asked.
"I'm not sure—yet," I replied. "I'm afraid we're too
late."
I took my stethoscope from the kit on the table, walked
back to the bunk and started to pull down the blanket.
It was tightly wound around the sick man and tucked in
under his feet. Part way down it stopped. I could move
it no further. I searched around to find out what it had
caught on. Just then Cass succeeded in getting the re-


44 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
fractory lamp lit and by its light, which cleared away the
shadows in the bunk, I saw what had happened. The haft
of a large hunting knife was pinning the blanket down
directly over Red Salmon's heart. He had been stabbed to
death.


6
Fate seemed to have selected me as the hub around which
that tragic web of murder and crime was woven. For years
my life had been uneventful and peaceful. An occasional
trip north for a short course of study in one of the famous
clinics was my greatest excitement. A rare case where
all my skill was brought into play to save a patient was
my antidote to boredom. The smashing strike of a bass,
the comfort of a good book, or the thrill of a talking
picture were my recreations. Then, without reason or
logic, I stood silent before the work of a killer who knew
no mercy. Twice within the period of a few days I was to
be the first to gaze horrified on his victims. Both times I
was to feel that had I been but a few short minutes earlier
a life might have been saved. The first had been a banker,
and my friend. The second, a rough moonshiner, whose
greatest crime was defrauding the government of his
country. But to me the second was far more horrible than
the first. An assassin who could shoot down an unarmed
man in broad daylight was venomous enough. There was
no name for a fiend who could cold-bloodedly stab a
victim who was desperately ill and defenceless.
Why I felt so sure that one man must have been con-
cerned in both murders I do not know. Only that our
community was ordinarily so peaceful and law abiding. It
45


46 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
is true that there had been other murders during my years
of practice. But they were different. The few that had
occurred had been crimes of passion, drunken brawls
that had ended in a shooting. The crimes of large cities
did not touch us. We lacked the wealth to attract the
racketeer and the gangster. Two killings so close together
could mean only one thing to me: A desperate menace to
us all, in the person of a dangerous criminal, was roaming
the county.
The three of us stood silent and awed before the figure
which lay so still in the lower bunk. Cass took off his hat.
I could hear his breath sharply sucked in between his
teeth. His big fingers rested on the butt of his pistol. I
felt that the law would never have to deal with the mur-
derer if Cass Rhodes could pick up his trail. I gathered
up my useless medical kit and packed it back in the case.
I thought how impotent a physician becomes in the pres-
ence of death. There was nothing to do except leave things
as we found them and wait for the authorities to act. I
was about to ask Cass if there was no easier way of get-
ting back to Orange Crest when a soft footfall sounded
outside the door. Cass' gun flashed from the holster and
he half turned, facing the entrance. A voice spoke outside
the window.
"Put down the gun, Cass. Thar's a thutty-thutty cov-
erin' yuh so don't move." Cass laid the pistol on the table.
The door swung open and Pete Crossley entered the shack
followed by Luke Pomeroy, an Assistant Deputy Sheriff.
Luke stopped at the door holding a heavy rifle at his side.
"Sorry we had to trail you out, Doc," Pete said with
a grin. "But we had to find Red Salmon. Luke saw his


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 47
Ford parked near the edge of town. We thought we'd come
along. Nice trip, isn't it?"
"Pete, you're too late."
"Too late?" He sobered instantly. "He's gone—" He
glanced at the bunk inquiringly, then walked quickly over
to it and pulled down the blanket with which I had cov-
ered Red's face. He stepped back and stood looking at
the dead man for a moment. He snapped his fingers im-
patiently.
"He was murdered," I stated so calmly that I surprised
myself. "Stabbed to death. We found him that way, Pete.
I came out here to treat him. He wanted to talk to me
and Marvin. Evidently he knew something—"
The Sheriff had taken off the top blanket while I was
speaking and was gazing at the forbidding haft of the
knife. He wheeled on Cass, his face contorted with violent
rage.
"Damn it, Cass Rhodes," he fairly shouted, "you'll
tell me what you know about this if I have to string you
up by the thumbs. You know who did this! Come on, spill
it. You'll get nothing but hell by keeping a shut mouth
with me. I'm going to send the dirty skunk to the chair
if I have to turn this county inside out!"
Stolid as he was, Cass Rhodes shrank back from the
fury in Pete's voice. "I swear fore God, Sheriff, I dunno
who killed Red. He ain' neveh tol' me no thin'. He say
hit's better I don' know nothin', and that the Sheriff's
office ain' goin' to believe him nohow. He done sent me
for the doctah and Mistah Lee 'cause he's skeered youall
goin' to hang that shooting at the lake on him. He knowed
who done that killin' 'cause he seed hit himself. The same


48 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
hound's done got him now, Mistah Crossley. He'll git me
too lessn I'se keerful, 'cause he thinks I done heerd some-
thing from Red. Red was my friend, Sheriff, and I'll be
powe'ful lonely—"
Crossley had pulled himself together while the woods-
man was speaking. He broke into Cass's vehement pro-
test, his voice friendly.
"I'm sorry, Cass. I'm acting like a fool. This whole
business is driving me crazy. I've been thinking Red
could throw some light on it. It never occurred to me
that he might be in danger if he could. We should be
looking around and not standing here jabbering. Can you
fill that gasoline lantern and light it?"
"Yessuh." Cass produced a small can of gasoline from
under the bunk and took it outside the window to fill the
lantern away from the open fire. While he was busy with
his task Pete and I proceeded to the more unpleasant one
of removing the knife. Pete carefully wrapped a handker-
chief around the hilt in case any fingerprints might be
found. He then started a systematic search of the dead
man's meager wardrobe. A box of thirty-eight caliber
cartridges, a pair of pliers, and a small paper backed book
on distilling were the only rewards. A cupboard in the
corner of the room occupied Marvin Lee and Pomeroy. It
yielded an unloaded thirty-eight six shooter which ac-
counted for the cartridges, and a pump shotgun. Crossley
examined the latter with interest It proved to be a 20
gauge. It was carefully oiled and cleaned so it was impos-
sible to determine whether or not it had been recently
fired. A half-box of shells was found which fitted it. They
were all number eights—a quail load. It appeared that


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 49
Red had not anticipated any trouble. Neither of his
weapons was loaded, and they were only of the type which
might be found in the house of anyone living far out in
the Florida woods. The leather sheath, for the hunting
knife which had caused his death, was found under the
table. Pete also wrapped it in a cloth and slipped it in his
pocket.
A light outside the window announced that Cass had
put the powerful wind-proof lantern into service again.
Pete asked Pomeroy to continue the search of the shack.
Marvin and I, glad of the chance to get out in the air,
went out with the Sheriff to be of what assistance we
could.
The small house stood in a clearing about sixty feet
square. The swift waters of Tiger Creek rippled at the
back. The fastness of Tiger Swamp guarded the front.
There was only one means of approach by land, the way
we had taken through the swamp. It was an ideal hide-
away, carefully chosen by a man who had spent his life
in the wilds. It was very improbable that anyone would
stumble on such a place by accident. It was inconceivable
that anyone without a thorough knowledge of Manasaw
County could find it at all. One thing was certain. The
Sheriff's office would have to search for a murderer who
knew that part of the State like a wild turkey. No casual
stranger to the territory surrounding our town had crept
up in the night to stab Red Salmon. At the first suspicion
that the law was close to him the man Crossley was seek-
ing could hide himself indefinitely.
The ground in front of the cabin was high and sandy.
It was hopeless looking there. The way we had come,


SO BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
through the palmettos, was just as discouraging. The other
side of the house presented a tangled morass. A rabbit
could hardly have penetrated into it. Our only hope of a
clue lay in the twenty feet separating the back of the
house from the creek. There the ground was softer. It
sloped down to black mud on the bank. Pete asked Marvin
and me to wait while he and Cass investigated. We stood
still and watched the light bobbing along close to the
ground. Even the woodcraft of Cass Rhodes failed to
detect so much as a footprint. It was Cass, however, who
found the only trace left by the clever criminal. While it
was not much still it served to show us how he had come
and gone.
A narrow footpath led from the house to the stream. It
had been tramped down hard by the carrying of many
buckets of water. It also served as a runway for numerous
semi-wild hogs which roamed the swamp at large. Cass
and the Sheriff had gone over it first without result. Fail-
ing to find anything in the wet ground they decided to
make a second and more careful survey of the path. We
heard Pete call from the bank and ran down to join them.
Pete held the lantern close to the ground and pointed.
There was a sharp V-shaped indentation in the muddy
bank.
"Cass found it," Pete said. "A boat's been here. Re-
cently too. Where does Tiger Creek lead to, Cass?"
"Hit runs inter the Manasaw River a piece down—
'bout eight miles I reckon. 'Taint likely no boat come up
from the Manasaw. Plum growed up with hyacinths. She's
putty clar for three miles down from hyah tho. Cain't get


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 51
up her from hyah at all. Big log dams her up jest a piece
above the house."
"Three miles down, hunh? By jiminy, that's right by
Sawdust Ford, isn't it? The old Bodman Lumber camp?"
"Putty clost, Sheriff, putty clost."
"I wonder—tomorrow I'll go out there and have a
look."
"If youall's goin' huntin' a boat, Sheriff, you kin save
your time. 'Taint no wooden boat been hyah. 'Taint a
wooden boat mark. Foldin' canvas that you kin tuck right
in a car. Takes down in ten minutes. Bo't like that'll float
in a foot of creek watah."
"That's something to work on, Pete, isn't it?" Marvin
asked.
"It sure is. I think Cass is right, too. A heavy boat
wouldn't navigate this creek. Some of those canvas boats
will take an outboard motor, too. A boat like that would
be hard to find if it was hidden, but it shouldn't be
hard to—"
"Trace through the company," I suggested.
"Right, Doc. That's just what I intend to do. I'll get
a list of all the manufacturers tomorrow. It's the first
hopeful thing we've stumbled on to."
We made our way back up to the house. All of us were
feeling slightly elated. I knew that Crossley had a long
difficult task ahead of him, but at least he had uncovered
a starting point. He was not a brilliant man. What he
lacked in brilliancy he made up for in common sense and
the tenacity of a snapping turtle. It turned out later that
his tenacity was to win out only by sheer hard work on


52 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
his part. It takes hard work for a county sheriff to beat
a clever criminal. Police in the cities are helped with every
mechanical device known to science. The sheriff of a
small county is dependent on his knowledge of his people
and the country in which they live. Had any of us realized
in part the devilish cunning of the man who had pitted
himself against society, we would not have been cheered
up a whit. As it happened, all of us were out-thought at
every turn. Perhaps his ability to do that very thing
should have been our strongest clue.
Luke Pomeroy had made a careful search of the cabin
by the time we returned. The cupboard had been stripped
bare and all the articles piled on the table. A small tin
box had yielded twenty-four dollars in crumpled bills and
a few old receipts for groceries. His minute search of the
bunks and mattresses had been fruitless.
The excitement which had kept me going had worn
off. I felt that I could not stand on my feet another in-
stant. It became painful to hold my eyes open. My long
drive to the lumber camp during the day, and the worse
one which followed it during the night, were having their
effect. I shuddered at the thought of having to face the
trip through Tiger Swamp again.
Pete had noticed that I was on the verge of collapse.
He thoughtfully suggested a cup of coffee before we
started on the trip home. As eager as I was to leave the
place, I nevertheless felt that it would be a life saver. I
did not believe that I could manage to drive without
something to keep me awake.
"Hold tight, Doc," Pete said. "I'll have it in a jiffy."
He rinsed out the big coffee pot and filled it from a


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA S3
bucket of water which stood in the corner. There was a
can of a good brand of coffee standing on the table. He
took off the top and started to measure out the savory
contents with a large spoon. Then quickly he reached into
the can and pulled out an object which gleamed dully in
the fire light.
"I'll be damned!" he ejaculated. "It's David Mitchell's
watch!"


56 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"It occurred to me, but it won't make sense either. He
certainly wouldn't stand the gun up against a tree so
someone could shoot him. And I can't picture anyone who
has just shot a man carrying another gun for a hundred
yards and leaving it in that position."
"Maybe it was the other way around," I suggested.
"You mean Mitchell was carried down to the lake.
By gosh! That may be possible, Doc. You may have hit
the nail on the head. But I still don't see why—"
"To hide the body. Or conceal it in the grass around the
edge."
"But the place is covered with thick bushes all around
where the gun was found. It looks like taking unnecessary
chances to me. The edge of the lake is about the worst
place he could have put it. You found it there in no time."
I must have looked rather miserable for he changed
the subject.
"What do you make of the dog being killed? It was
quite a while before we discovered her. I doubt if we'd
have found her at all if it hadn't been for buzzards."
"Say!" I exclaimed. "Isn't that the solution to the
gun being found cocked? Rather than stop to reload his
own gun the murderer took Mitchell's to kill the dog.
Probably thought she would give an alarm by wandering
back to town, or howling. Then he remembers that
Mitchell's gun will have a light quail load, and may only
sting Bess at a distance. He puts the gun down by the tree
and uses his own."
"It's a darn clever thought, Doc. But I still don't think
that explains it. Mitchell was killed with one load of buck


58 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"Yes, I know that," Pete agreed acidly. "But I'm not
talking about the main thing. I'm talking about things
outside of birds—"
"Snakes?"
"Maybe. There are other things, too. Wild hogs, for
instance. Sometimes a wild cow roaming around loose.
Then there's a hawk flying overhead. Or maybe the smell
of a skunk close by. But with any of those things a hunter
will either shoot or uncock his gun. He won't stand it up
against a tree."
"Granting you're right, what does that prove?"
"Nothing definitely. But you asked me if I had any
theory. Well I have. I believe that Bess was the cause of
Mitchell cocking his gun—but I don't think she was
pointing."
"What then?"
"I think she was nosing around as bird dogs sometimes
do. Some dogs will do it with snakes, and some with rab-
bits. Bess may have done it with a human being." Pete
spat reflectively through the open window. "Any dog may
have done it with a human being—if the said human be-
ing happened to be hiding in the bushes. What do you
think?"
"I think it sounds reasonable enough. But what about
the gun? I don't see where you have explained his leav-
ing it cocked."
"I haven't, but here's what I think: Mitchell sees Bess
acting funny and nosing around in the bushes. He cocks
his gun and goes up carefully to investigate expecting to
find a snake or see a rabbit run out, and instead he finds
a man—maybe another hunter—he's so upset at the


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 59
thought that he was close to shooting someone that he
leans his gun up against a tree without thinking to lower
the hammers. Before he can get it again he's been shot."
"Then you do agree that the murderer carried him
down to the lake?"
"I don't agree to anything, Doc. Maybe he was so upset
he wanted a drink of water, and there was none in his
bottle, and he was actually down by the lake when he was
killed. I'm sure I don't know."
"That's apparent," I agreed.
We rolled into Malo and I stopped the car and waited
for Pete to hunt the camp foreman and make arrange-
ments for the men to help bring in Red's body. Pete sent
a man out from the commissary with a cold bottle of
orange soda which I drank with relish. I settled back in
the seat and the next thing I knew Pete was pummeling
me in the ribs and telling me to wake up. I dazedly opened
my eyes. We were parked along the curb by the Court
House in Orange Crest.
"I just shoved you over and drove in myself," he told
me with a broad grin. "I was afraid you'd drive off the
road in your sleep if you tried to make it from Malo.
Besides I want you to come in the office for a few minutes
before you go home. I have to have a statement from you
about Mitchell and Red."
"Great guns!" I protested. "I'm dead. Can't that
wait?"
"Doc, I wouldn't ask you for worlds if it weren't neces-
sary," he assured me ruefully. "Carl Sanderson, the
State's Attorney will be in town this afternoon and I just
have to have it."


60 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
Painfully I unlimbered my cramped muscles and
climbed out of the car to follow him into the Court House.
I yawned prodigiously at the thought of the cool sheets
waiting for me at home. All my bones creaked protestingly
as we walked up the granite steps and entered the cor-
ridor. My eyes felt like they were filled with fine sand.
I sank into the Sheriff's own chair and groaned loudly
when he called Miss Phillips, his secretary. Through the
haze which enveloped me I dictated a statement of my
finding the bodies of David Mitchell and Red Salmon.
From the way I felt it should have been totally incoherent,
but when I read it later on it appeared very clear and
lucid. While Miss Phillip's nimble fingers were flying over
the keys transcribing her notes Pete's monotonous voice
kept beating on my numbed brain.
"Will you be there?" I heard him ask.
"Will I be where?" I demanded sulkily.
"I've already told you three times, you old crab. San-
derson is going to be at my house this evening. I would
like to have you and Marvin there about eight. Will you
come?"
"What for?"
"Good gosh, Doc. I want him to hear your story him-
self. He's a smart man. He may be able to help us. We'll
need all the help we can get to clear up this mess. You'll
be all right by then after you get some sleep. Can I count
on you?"
"Yes," I said dully. "I'll do anything if you'll give me
that statement to sign and let me go to bed."
I affixed my signature to the papers he laid before me
without stopping to read them. Like a somnambulist I


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 61
walked out of the Court House and climbed in the car.
How I managed to get it in the narrow driveway by the
house I do not know. I guess it was just force of habit.
The next hour was crammed full of heavenly recollections.
Hot steaming water and thick lather relaxing muscles and
nerves that were tight as the doors of a closed bank.
Golden iced orange juice—light fluffy muffins—wide-eyed
staring eggs and crisp crunchy bacon—Mocha and Java
and thick yellow cream—dark shades and cool linen
sheets—soft downy pillows—my own blessed bed—and
sleep—sleep—sleep.


8
It was seven o'clock in the evening when I was awakened
by Mae knocking on my door and telling me that I just
had time for supper if I hurried. I shaved quickly and
went downstairs to join her at the table feeling much re-
freshed, although I was still a trifle stiff from my exer-
tions in Tiger Swamp. There had been three telephone
calls for me during the afternoon, but luckily none of
them was very urgent and Mae had not disturbed me.
While I was eating I told her more in detail about the
happenings of the night before.
"Do you think Red Salmon killed Mr. Mitchell?" she
asked me directly when I mentioned that the banker's
watch was found in the shack.
"No, my dear, I don't," I told her after a moment of
reflection. "Although I'll admit that it was in my mind
several times on the way home. But I always seem to run
up against the blank wall of: why was Salmon killed if
he was the murderer? Salmon undoubtedly knew who
killed Mitchell, but I don't think he did it himself."
"Where did he get the watch, then? I thought you said
it was taken from Mr. Mitchell's body. Do you think
the murderer gave it to Salmon?"
"We don't actually know that it was taken from
Mitchell's body. I told you it wasn't found on him, and
that Celia said he always carried it. She got the idea
62


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 63
that the watch might have been left at Spence's for re-
pairs but there was no record of that. I was there night
before last when Pete checked up."
"But Will, dear, Celia told me about that check up
in the store and I don't think you know any more about
that than you did at first."
"What do you mean?" I asked in some surprise.
"Only that you have no real proof that the watch wasn't
left there. You only questioned that young man, Bartlett,
and Timothy Reig, and Tim said that Mr. Spence
wouldn't know anything about it. Has the Sheriff ques-
tioned Forman Spence himself?"
"I don't know but—"
"Well it wouldn't make any difference anyhow," She
interrupted with a smile. "You still wouldn't have any
proof. Would you?"
"But, my dear, you surely don't think that Forman and
both the men in the store would lie about a matter like
that. Why, Forman Spence—"
"—Is one of the leading citizens of Orange Crest. Cer-
tainly, Will, I know that. We weren't discussing anyone's
standing, my darling. We were discussing proof. I think
that is what detectives always demand in the stories I
have read—p-r-double-o-f. You can tell Pete Crossley
that he hasn't any proof that the watch was on David
Mitchell when he died, and he hasn't any proof that the
watch wasn't in the possession of someone in Forman
Spence's when Mitchell died. Now run on or you'll be
late, and please don't attempt to roam any more swamps
tonight. You'll be needing your own services if you do,
I'm afraid."


64 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
I was pondering on my wife's statement as I backed
the car out of the garage. It was perfectly true, and I
doubted if Pete had considered that phase of the situation
any more than I had. If the two murders in our com-
munity had been in the hands of city police the personal
element might have been entirely eliminated. In a place
the size of our town such a thing was impossible. We all
lived too close together, and no suspicion of our neigh-
bors could find a place in our hearts. Pete Crossley, For-
man Spence, and I had attended a small district school
together. Any one of the three would have accepted the
other's word without question. Pete, although he was
Sheriff of the County, was bound to feel much the same
way about the people surrounding him whom he had
known for years. Such an attitude on the part of a peace
officer was certain to prove a handicap in the solution of a
difficult case, but it was highly preferable to having a
sheriff who lacked sympathy and understanding.
After all, it was not surprising that Mae had been able
to uncover a weak link in Crossley's chain. She read a
lot and she could adopt a detached and critical viewpoint
of statements which Pete might accept on their own
merits. The more I thought of it the clearer I could see
that her argument had been sound. Harry Bartlett had
admitted that either Forman Spence, or Tim Reig, could
have accepted the watch for repairs without making a
record. Bartlett, himself, might have done the same thing.
There was no way in the world of checking up to see if
any of the three was lying. Marvin had told me that
Spence owed the dead banker a lot of money. Pete Cross-
ley knew it too, yet he had apparently been satisfied with


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 65
the most casual inquiry into any connection the jeweler,
and his employees might have had with the affair. While I
could not bring myself to think that Forman was con-
nected with it in any way, nevertheless, he., must be
classed as a possible suspect worthy of investigation. I
stopped the car in front of the County Jail determined to
take the matter up with the Sheriff before I left that
evening.
When Ed Brown opened the front door in response to
the big bell I noticed that there were only three people
in the sitting room to the left. I looked at my watch
rather apologetically as I walked into the room, and felt
better when I saw it was just five minutes past eight.
Carl Sanderson was standing with his back to the fire
staring straight ahead of him—saying nothing. He was
a short ferret-like type of man who wore enormous horn-
rimmed spectacles which rested only half way up on his
thin nose. I had acted as an expert witness for him, once
or twice, in the Circuit Court, and knew him to be a capa-
ble and dangerous prosecutor. He had a habit of punctuat-
ing his most telling points by lowering his head and looking
over the top of his glasses. He would hold that pose for
several seconds until he felt that the jury had thoroughly
grasped his meaning. Then straightening up he would
continue in his loud booming voice that was surprising in
a man so slight of stature. It boomed out suddenly as I
entered.
"Just in time, Doctor, just in time. I hope you can do
something toward getting my fellow-member-of-the-bar
here to talk." He indicated Marvin Lee, who sat, legs out-
stretched, in the big chair before him. "This is all un-


66 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
official—absolutely unofficial," Sanderson continued.
"Mr. Lee could help the Sheriff and me greatly if he
would only do so."
Marvin greeted me with a nod. Pete rose from his chair
and selected a villainous looking pipe from a jar on the
mantel. The atmosphere of the room was very tense.
"Draw up a chair, Doc," Marvin said. "And join the
fight. The case of the well known State of Florida versus
Marvin Lee is in progress. So far it's a draw. I've told
my bloodthirsty inquisitor—Mr. Sanderson—everything
that I told you last night, but he's not satisfied. He wants
more, and there isn't any more."
"Don't drag me into it." I pleaded. "I believe every-
thing you say, Marvin, but I still can't help feeling that
Mr. Sanderson has some justification for wanting to know
more."
The young attorney sat up rigidly in his chair, an ex-
pression of extreme weariness on his face. "Good Lord,
Doc, I'm not disputing that fact. I'm a lawyer myself.
Sanderson's entitled to all the information I can give him,
and I've given him all I can give him—at least for the
time being." He stood up and faced the State's Attorney
defiantly. "If you think I had anything to do with shoot-
ing Mitchell, Carl, go ahead and let Pete arrest me. See
if you can get a true bill from the next Grand Jury. Maybe
you have enough evidence to convict me. I don't know.
Maybe you can figure out some way I killed Red Salmon,
too. You'd make quite a name for yourself." He picked
up his hat and coat that were lying on a nearby chair
and started for the door. The big bulk of the Sheriff
barred his way.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 67
"Listen wildcat," he laid one of his ham-like hands on
Marvin's shoulder. "If you don't put your things down
and go back and sit in that chair I'm going to favor you
with an old fashioned spanking—and I'm man enough to
do it too. Nobody said a word about you being connected
with any murder. I asked you here tonight because I
wanted your help, and Mr. Sanderson did too. There're
others coming in a few minutes and you can just wait.
Go on now and sit down. And don't fly off the handle
like a loose ax." He relieved Marvin of his hat and coat
and led him back to the chair he had just quitted. Marvin
hesitated a minute and then sat down with a grin which
relieved the tension. The doorbell rang and Pete answered
it himself. I heard him greet someone heartily. Then he
ushered into the room Forman Spence, the jeweler.
It was evident that our unobtrusive little friend was
very nervous. He shook hands with everyone present and
I noticed that his hand was cold to the touch. I thought
he started and seemed confused when he first saw Marvin
Lee, but it may have been my imagination. He placed his
dapper felt hat on the mantel and stood beside Carl
Sanderson in front of the fire. From where I was sitting I
could see him nervously clasping and unclasping one hand
which he held in back of him to the warming blaze. With
the other he was toying with the bottom button of his
overcoat which he had not removed. "Quite a party you
have, Mr. Sanderson," he said. "I hadn't expected to find
all these leading lights of law and medicine. Looks almost
like a Rotary meeting."
"Quite unofficial, Mr. Spence. Quite unofficial. I asked
Pete to request you to come tonight in hopes you could


68 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
help us out a little. We've had to impose on Dr. Ryan and
Mr. Lee, too. Slip your coat off. Might as well make your-
self comfortable."
"It's a third degree, Forman," Marvin muttered from
the depths of his chair. "You better retain me right now,
and I'll tell you what questions to answer. You can't trust
a State's Attorney."
The jeweler darted a quick look at the speaker as if he
felt there might be more truth than jest in his words.
Marvin favored him with a wink which seemed to re-
assure him. In his quick fluttering manner he divested
himself of overcoat and muffler, handed them to Crossley,
and perched himself like a small gray bird on the edge
of a straight backed chair which Sanderson pulled up into
the circle. The prosecutor resumed his place in front of
the fire and looked down his nose at Forman. "You knew
David Mitchell very well, did you not, Mr. Spence?" he
began.
"He was one of my best friends. Probably the best."
"He had some connection with your business, had he
not?"
Forman moistened his lips. "You might say that. He
helped me start it. In a financial way, that is. After all,
that's rather a personal matter, isn't it?" He glanced at
Marvin and me.
"Quite so, Mr. Spence. Quite so. We won't go into that
now. The main thing I wanted to know was about this."
With the motions of a prestidigitator Sanderson produced
from his coat pocket a gold watch and placed it in For-
man's hands. "Can you identify that?"
The jeweler turned it over quickly in his skilled fingers


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 69
and snapped open the back. "You hardly need my identi-
fication, Mr. Sanderson. It is engraved on the inside of
the case. It was bought from me by the Chamber of
Commerce for David Mitchell. It's his watch all right."
He handed it back to Sanderson who stared down at it
with a puzzled frown.
"Now Mr. Spence, the Sheriff is very anxious to find
out for sure that Mitchell had this watch with him when
he was killed. There's no chance that it was in your store
for repairs without your knowledge, is there?"
I could see Forman bristle. "I've already been into that
with Pete. I didn't take it in from Dave Mitchell, and
neither did Tim Reig or Bartlett. There's not a chance
in the world that that watch was in my store."
"How do you know, Forman?" I asked quietly. "I don't
want to interfere, but my wife brought up that very
question at supper tonight. She said there was no way
anyone could know about the watch. No matter what hap-
pened we would have to depend on the truthfulness of
Harry Bartlett and Tim Reig."
"She's right, too." Crossley put in quickly. "You ad-
mitted to me yourself, Forman, that things in your store
were pretty lax where records were concerned."
Forman rose to his feet, his face white with anger.
"What the devil are you trying to do, Crossley? Tie me
and my employees up with the murder of my best friend?
I suppose I don't know what's going on in a business I've
been running most of my life! What right have you to
think Tim and Bartlett are lying, or that I'm lying? An-
swer me that! I tell you Mitchell never brought that
watch in the store and that's all there is to it!"


70 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"Oh forget it, Forman," Marvin advised with a laugh.
"I'll be in jail for the murder long before you will. You
wouldn't retain me as your lawyer—so I want to ask a
question now. Have you any objections?"
"No. Go ahead." He smiled at Pete apologetically. "I
guess I'm upset along with everybody else. I'm sorry,
Pete."
"Well I hope you don't blow up at this one," Marvin
said. "But I was wondering where you were the afternoon
Mitchell was killed?"
"Why I was in the store all day. Didn't leave there
until after seven."
"Who was there with you, Mr. Spence?" The State's
Attorney looked at Forman over the top of his glasses.
"Why nobody. That's why I stayed so late. I let both
the boys off to go hunting. You see it was the last day of
the season—"
"Yes," said Pete Crossley, "I seem to remember."


9
When I attempt to analyze my mental reactions to the
various events which led up to the solving of our local
mystery I find that my mind did not function clearly.
Like Forman Spence, I was "upset along with everybody
else." My suspicions swung from one person to another.
I was swayed by the slightest bit of evidence, regardless
of whether it was real or circumstantial. Marvin's reti-
cence in the face of an overwhelming need for frankness
aroused in me a grave solicitude. I eagerly grasped at
the thought that Red Salmon was the guilty one. After
Red was killed I reluctantly began to suspect Forman
Spence. I could not deny that a strong motive existed to
implicate him. His evasion of Carl Sanderson's question
about his financial relations with the deceased banker
inspired distrust. I hated myself for entertaining misgiv-
ings about old friends. I only needed the flimsiest of ex-
cuses to pick other suspects. As soon as I heard that
Timothy Reig, and Harry Bartlett, had been hunting on
February fifteenth, I pointed at them a mental finger of
suspicion without demur.
Ed Brown entered the room carrying a pile of firewood
which he dumped noisily on the hearth. Forman was ap-
parently surprised at the turn the questions had taken.
He stood rigidly watching the Deputy stack the wood on
71


72 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
one side of the fireplace. When Ed was through, and had
brushed the splinters from the hearth into the fire, Pete
spoke to him quietly.
"When Tim Reig and Bartlett come I want you to stick
around just outside the door, Ed. I want you to hear what
they say."
"Sure," Ed replied as he left the room.
"You all act as if there was something queer about
Reig and Bartlett going hunting." Forman Spence de-
clared stiffly. "Just because somebody got the fool idea
that Dave Mitchell could have left his watch at the store
you seem determined to hook one of us three up with his
murder. It would seem more sensible, to me at least, if you
made some attempt to find the murderer who robbed his
victim."
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood us entirely," Sander-
son said placatingly. "You know where the watch was
found?"
"Everybody within ten miles knows that by now."
"We're not trying to hook up any of you with either
Red Salmon or Mitchell, Mr. Spence. We're merely try-
ing to eliminate any possible connection with your store.
We must be certain that Mitchell had that watch with
him. It's our only clue. Did you know that his daughter
stated that he had made a remark about his watch gain-
ing?"
"No. I didn't know that. When?"
"According to her it was a few days before his death.
She doesn't remember exactly. Naturally we felt that you,
and your employees, would be anxious to help. We wanted
to talk to you before we saw them. That's all."


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 73
"111 help in any way I can," Forman said, mollified.
"And I'm sure they will, too. I couldn't help but feel
some resentment at my business being questioned. I'll
just forget it. Is there anything else you want to know?"
"About Bartlett," Pete said. "Did he do much hunting
this season?"
"He went out about once a week, I believe. Things have
been pretty slow and I have been letting both Tim and
Bartlett have quite some time off. The last day of the
season was the only one they were both away at the same
time, though."
"Did Bartlett usually go by himself?"
"I think he did. He has his own dog, and an old Ford.
He has stopped at the store once or twice, but I don't
remember seeing anyone with him."
"How about Reig?" Sanderson inquired. "Did he hunt
much?"
"I can answer that," Pete said. "He was out every
chance he could get. He's not only good on quail, but he's
brought in a lot of turkey, and several nice bucks in the
last few years. Ed has been out with him lots of times.
He can tell you more about it than I can."
After Forman had answered a few more questions
about Bartlett he excused himself with the statement that
Mrs. Spence was waiting for him to start a bridge game.
He gave the State's Attorney further assurance of his
cooperation, and departed with evident relief. He had
scarcely gone when Ed Brown opened the front door to
admit Timothy Reig.
The watchmaker was one of those men whom you see
every day for ten years and then cannot describe. He was


74 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
made up of several things which I noticed individually at
different times. When I try to blend them all together and
picture him as a whole, I find that one characteristic off-
sets another, and the picture fades. He becomes just a
figure bending over a work bench in Forman Spence's
store. I could pass him on the street and speak to him,
and in five minutes forget all about it.
When I try to pick out the most noticeable thing in his
makeup I invariably think of his hands. Poised over his
work bench, holding the delicate works of a watch, they
were the hands of a skillful surgeon. I can never picture
them at all hanging by the side of Tim Reig. My strong-
est impression of him is that I have never seen a man so
totally unimpressive.
In the brief moment that he stood in the doorway be-
side the Chief Deputy, I unconsciously compared the two
men. Ed Brown remains much stronger in my memory,
although I have seen Tim twenty times to once that I have
seen Ed. The Deputy's face was the bronzed, fearless, al-
most ruthless face of the born man hunter, tight lipped,
and square chinned. The watchmaker's face was tanned,
but it seemed uninteresting beside the Deputy's. Com-
pared to the officer, Reig was delicately built. I believe
that Reig was so average that compared with any other
man he became uninteresting. Probably if I had seen him
beside Forman Spence I would have been much more in-
terested in the jeweler.
"Hello folks," Tim greeted us. "Still on the trail of the
mysterious watch? Well I don't know any more about it
than I did the last time." He stopped as he saw Carl
Sanderson. Pete introduced them. "I'll be glad to help if I


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 75
can," Tim went on. "You ask, Mr. Sanderson, and IH
try to answer."
"Thank you, Mr. Reig. We're really not so much inter-
ested in the watch as we are in getting some information
from the hunters who were out on February fifteenth. You
were out on that day weren't you?"
"Yes. I went out to a place called the 'Possum Farm.
It's a good place for quail."
"Just where is that, Mr. Reig?"
"It's about thirty miles west of here on State Road
No. 2. It's a big clearing in the flat woods. Ed Brown
knows where it is. I've hunted there with him."
"I see." Sanderson polished his spectacles and replaced
them. "Were you alone?"
"Yes. I generally hunt alone. There are only a few
men in this town I trust near me when a covey rises. I'd
rather be alone than with any of them. Safer—and more
sport."
"Then Mr. Bartlett didn't accompany you on your
trip?" Sanderson looked over the top of his glasses.
"Bartlett? You mean Harry Bartlett in the store? Why
I didn't even know he was a hunter. What gave you that
idea?"
"He was out that day, and I merely thought you
might have been together."
"No, sir. You're way off there. Is there anything else?"
"Just one more thing, Mr. Reig. I understand from
the Sheriff that you have a small place where you live,
ten miles out on the road to Lake Louisa. How is it you
do not hunt out in that direction?"
"I do, sometimes, if I haven't much time. But the


76 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
hunting around the 'Possum Farm is much better, and
very few people know about it. I'd drive a hundred miles
to get good quail shooting."
There was an interruption caused by the arrival of
Harry Bartlett. He acknowledged our greetings, and the
introduction to Carl Sanderson. Then he came and sat
beside me until Tim had said his "Good nights" and gone.
He seemed much older to me than he had when I talked
with him in the jewelry store on Saturday night. His eyes
showed evidence of loss of sleep, and his face was drawn
and tired. I was about to tell him that he was breaking
himself down with overwork when Sanderson spoke.
"We're sorry to bring you here so late, Mr. Bartlett,
but I have had a lot to do tonight, and only one night
to do it in. I'll try to hurry things along. You've been
with Mr. Spence just a short while, haven't you?"
"Nearly six months."
"How did you happen to go with him?"
"Briefly, I had been in the jewelry business for eight
years." He named two large firms on Fifth Avenue in
New York. "My health was bad, and I went to Miami.
The store I was with there failed. That was a year ago.
I tried the races." He smiled. "It didn't pay. When I was
nearly down and out I met a friend from Tampa, and he
told me about an opening with Mr. Spence. I borrowed
enough to get here and landed the job."
"You live out near Mr. Reig, don't you?"
"About a mile beyond him. I bought five acres cheap.
I've fenced part of it, and have a garden and a two-room
house which I built myself."


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 77
"You hunt a lot?"
"I'm very fond of it."
"Much luck?"
"I didn't have much at first, because I didn't know the
country very well. I did pretty well toward the end of the
season. Got twelve birds on the last day."
"Where did you go?"
Bartlett grinned. "I'm really not sure where I went.
You see I followed Tim Reig. He took me on quite a trip
out State Road No. 2.1 stayed away from him, for I didn't
want him to see me, but I could hear him shooting."
"Were you near him all day?"
"Yes. I followed him home. It was dark when I got in."
"Thanks, Mr. Bartlett. There's nothing else, unless
Mr. Crossley has something he wants to ask."
"Nothing more, Harry," Pete said. "Good night, and
thanks."
"So the Spence-Bartlett-Reig trail ends at 'Possum
Farm," Marvin remarked after Bartlett had gone. "A lot
of information you got out of that trio, Sanderson."
The State's Attorney sat down for the first time dur-
ing the evening. "Only, that if they're all telling the truth,
none of them could have had anything to do with the mur-
der. It shouldn't be hard to check their stories."
"I can check part of them right now," Pete declared.
He shouted a lusty "Ed!" The Deputy stepped into the
room.
"Did you hear what Reig and Bartlett had to say?"
"Sure. Reig's story is O. K. I've been out with him to


10
It was not quite daylight when I woke the next morning.
I dressed hurriedly, glad to get into my warm hunting
clothes for the weather was raw and cold. I scarcely had
time to finish a second cup of coffee when I heard Ed
Brown blowing his horn for me in front of the house.
When I stepped out on the porch to tell him I would be
ready in a few minutes I found that I could not see ten
feet in front of me. A white cotton-like fog pressed closely
around me, completely hiding from view the automobile
which stood at the curb. Only two weird yellow globes of
light gave any indication as to its location.
The Deputy refused my invitation to have a cup of
coffee before starting, so I went back in the house, turned
off the lights, and quickly rejoined him. Once in the sedan,
I felt entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Wind-
shield and windows were thickly clouded. Peering ahead
through the half-moons kept clear by the busily working
wipers I saw that the headlights were dim and ineffectual.
There was not a breath of air stirring, and the fog clung
close to the ground. The most powerful searchlight would
have been futile against such a blanket. Ed made good
time. He drove skilfully and quickly over the familiar
road. His speed was far greater than I would have dared
to attempt under similar circumstances.
80


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 81
"Looks like we're in for this all morning," he remarked.
"If the sun comes up it may lift, but I think it's going
to be cloudy."
"It's going to be pretty difficult to do any searching,
isn't it?"
"I guess so, Doc. But I don't think it will make much
difference anyhow. We've been over that ground with
everything but a magnifying glass."
"You didn't find anything in the Simmons house?"
"Nothing but rubbish. Nobody has lived in it for
years. Sometimes a fisherman will spend the night there
if the weather is bad, but I wouldn't want to."
"Why?"
"Oh, I just don't like old houses." He twisted the wheel
over and gave me a bad moment as he deftly dodged a
farm wagon which had been carelessly left on the side of
the road. "You can have the pleasure of searching it this
morning if you like. Have you ever been in it?"
"No. I've always been too busy fishing. That's the
only thing that brings me to Lake Louisa."
Our talk turned to bass, and the many lakes which
abounded in our County. Daylight came, and with it a
light breeze which rolled the fog along the road like giant
snowballs. There would be a short stretch where we could
see clearly, but we would immediately enter another bank
with zero visibility. Ed told me of a small unnamed lake
which he had heard was teeming with fish, and I made
him promise to take me there at the first opportunity. The
fog became thicker and thicker. Before I realized it the
car had stopped in the clearing where I had entered the
rowboat with Buddy Nixon just a week before.


82 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
The breeze had died out again. Everything was ghostly
white and deathly still. I strained my ears but I could
not hear even the soft lapping of the lake against the
shore. Every blade of grass and twig underfoot was cov-
ered with hoar frost which crunched loudly as we walked
down to the boat. We left a trail of footprints as clearly
as if we had walked through flour—footprints which
would disappear at the first touch of sun. We pushed
through the reeds, and were instantly cut off from any
sight of the shore. The fog hung about a foot above
the placid surface of the water, reaching down now and
again to hold to it with spectral tentacles. Ed set to work
with the oars and rowed vigorously until we reached the
sparse grass which indicated we were close to the inside
shore of the west fork. He turned the boat sharply south
and, guided by occasional glimpses of the shore line,
headed for that shallow portion at the south end known
as the Cow Pasture.
"It would be quicker if I could head straight down the
lake, Doc. But there's no telling where we'd end up in
this fog," he explained. "You keep your eyes peeled and
when we get down a ways I'll keep as close in as I can.
I'd like to land at the same place you did if it's possi-
ble."
"Ill do my best," I promised him. "If I can't find the
place from the boat, I think I'll know it when we get on
shore. The bank slopes up rather steeply right where
I shot at the ducks."
The fog thinned out a bit as we neared the south end
of the lake. Ed was rowing as close to the bank as he
could get. Occasionally I could glimpse the trees which


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 83
grew closest to the water. We rounded a point which I
judged to be the one that ordinarily cut off the view of
the old Simmons dock. If my surmise was correct we were
right off the spot where I had found the banker's body.
"Pull her in here, Ed," I directed. "This is about as
close as I can judge it. I fired just as Buddy pulled around
a point of land. I remember seeing the dock just ahead."
"Well this is the same place then." He gave a few
more strokes which ran us into the grass. "We can land
right here. Pete wants me to pace off the distance from
the lake to where we found Mitchell's gun."
"What had I better do?"
We pulled the boat half out of water before he an-
swered. "Walk around the edge of the lake to the old
dock. If you don't find anything see what you can unearth
in the house. I'm going to have a look around in the grove
at the back. I'll join you in the house later."
"I really don't know what I'm looking for," I admitted.
"What do you think Pete expects us to find?"
"Nothing at all." He took a package of cigarettes from
his pocket, offered me one and lit one himself. "I've been
over the house and the ground in front. Pete figured it
wouldn't do any harm to have another person look things
over as long as you were coming out. The main thing he
wanted checked was where you found the body."
He strode off up the slope and was swallowed in the
fog. I started walking slowly along the bank imbued with
all the eagerness of the amateur detective on the trail
of clues. I poked into every bush and turned over every
clod of earth which I felt might conceal anything of im-
portance. I found an old log which was partly burned and


84 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
a few empty tins, but grass had grown up where the fire
had been and the tins were red and indistinguishable with
rust. The dock yielded nothing. I lifted up a couple of
boards which were loose and discovered there was a small
space between them and the beams. Determined to over-
look nothing I waded out underneath the dock and ran
my fingers the entire length of the space. It was empty.
As the morning wore on the fog began to lift. When
my search of the dock was ended the outlines of the Sim-
mons house were visible. There was evidence that Arnold
Simmons had made an attempt to beautify his place for
I followed an old path bordered with conch shells up to
the front steps. All the large trees which might have inter-
fered had been cut down to give an uninterrupted view
of the lake from the front porch. Barring the incon-
venience of transportation I could not imagine a more
ideal location for a home.
The house was built on sloping ground, and was sup-
ported by a foundation of rough stones mortared together
to form a solid wall which ran all the way around the
building. It was exceptionally well constructed for an old
Florida house, and must have cost its owner a lot of
money. There were no rocks in the vicinity such as were
used in the foundation. I remember wondering what had
prompted Simmons to go to the expense of having them
hauled in to a place where timber was so plentiful. It was
true that the solid wall foundation served to keep out
wandering animals that delight in making a home under
a farmhouse, but a wooden lattice would have served the
same purpose.
The steps which led up to the porch were badly rotted.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 85
I ascended them gingerly. I was rather surprised to find
the verandah in good condition. It extended across the
front of the house, and part way down the west side. At
the end was a closed and bolted door, which I later found
led into the kitchen. The porch had once been entirely
screened against mosquitoes, but only a few dots of rusty
screen wire held by tack heads bore witness to the fact.
There were two windows opening out onto the side porch,
but the glass was filthy with the accumulated dirt of years,
and I could see nothing when I tried to look inside. I met
with no better success with the two which opened onto the
front porch—one on each side of the double front door.
Two panes were missing from one of the sash, but the
openings had been boarded up with ends from an orange
box. I gave up trying to look inside, and tried the front
door. It was unlocked. Rather hesitantly, feeling as
though I were intruding upon a long dead past, I pushed
it open and entered.
A wisp of white fog followed me in. I closed the door
behind me and stood still for a moment until my eyes
accustomed themselves to the gloom of the chilly hall.
To the left a flight of narrow stairs led to the second
floor. At the foot of the stairs a door opened into one of
the rooms I had tried to look into from the porch. A simi-
lar door at my right hand led into the other room. I
walked to the end of the hall and found myself in a large
room which covered two thirds of the back of the house.
Evidently it had been used as a general living room and
dining room. A huge old fashioned stone fireplace cov-
ered almost the entire wall which formed the back of the
house. There were three windows—one on each side of


GROUND FLOOR PLAN
Simmons Fawn House
Lake Louisa, Florida
(not mahn to scale)


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 87
the fireplace, and one at the east end of the room. The
one to the left of the fireplace had a broken pane at the
bottom. A door at the west end led into the kitchen I had
tried to enter from the porch. The two small rooms on
each side of the hall, the large room at the back, and the
kitchen, constituted the entire downstairs.
It did not look very promising. There was the usual
litter found in any old house to which people have access.
A broken lamp chimney was on the mantelpiece. A
chipped white plate and a teacup without a handle—both
black with grime—lay on the hearth. A calendar—1903—
displayed the buxom charms of a picture-hatted lady
using a face cream. Hat and lady were both very much
fly specked. There was a single piece of furniture in the
room—a cheap cane bottom chair. The cane bottom was
missing, but the hole had been covered with newspapers
offering a makeshift resting place.
I turned my attention to the kitchen. An old iron sink
stood in one corner surmounted by a cobwebbed pump.
I could not resist the impulse to try it, and it shrieked at
me vilely for my pains. The flue in the wall contained
nothing but soot. Thoroughly begrimed, I left the kitchen
and tried the two front rooms. They were absolutely bare.
I tested the floors for loose boards but the house had
been built when lumber cost but a pittance, and nails
were cheap. The floors were as solid as the day they were
laid. Tired and disappointed I climbed the stairs to the
second floor.
There were four small rooms upstairs, and I searched
every inch of them. I was thoroughly annoyed at my in-
ability to find anything of interest. One of the rooms had


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 89
NIMRODS WARNED BY
COMMISSIONER
Open Season Closes Today
I glanced at the date line and saw that it was dated
Wednesday, February 15th—the day David Mitchell was
killed.


11
There was nothing particularly unusual about finding a
copy of the Miami Floridian in the Simmons house. Both
newsdealers in Orange Crest received them daily on the
early morning train, and a number of people in the town
were subscribers. On the fifteenth the woods had been
full of hunters. Buddy Nixon had told me that cars were
passing his house from before daylight until late in the
afternoon. Any one of a great many people might have
stopped to eat breakfast or lunch in the deserted Sim-
mons place, and left the paper behind them. Neverthe-
less, I felt that I had made a momentous discovery. I
could readily understand how the Sheriff's office could
have overlooked the paper. The house had been searched
merely as a matter of routine. There was really nothing
tangible to connect the vacant residence with the crime.
Even with the close search I had made I would not have
noticed the daily if the item about the hunters had not
attracted my attention.
Prompted more by curiosity than anything else I
started to look through the paper. On the third page there
was an advertisement for a Miami real estate develop-
ment with an ample margin of blank space around it.
Written in the margin of the ad, with a soft lead pencil,
in an uneducated scrawl were the following figures:
90


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 91
j
94.00
32.00
18.80
j
130.00
40.00
26.00
a
120.00
30.00
24.00
s
78.00
22.00
15.60
0
90.00
26.00
18.00
n
138.00
24.00
27.60
d
182.00
60.00
36.40
j
94.00
20.00
18.80
926.00
254.00
185.20
254.00
672.00
185.20
486.80
I copied them down when I arrived home that night so
I know they are correct. They meant nothing to me at the
time. If I could have been sure who wrote them, and what
they meant, I would have guarded them more carefully
than I did. As it was, when we found out their real sig-
nificance it was too late to do anything about it.
I refolded the paper, slipped it into the capacious
pocket of my hunting jacket, and turned my attention to
the others on the chair. The one which I picked up had
been lying loosely on the top. The others were wedged
down in the opening of the seat as if they had been sat
on many times. I lifted them out carefully so as not to
tear them. They were grimy and dirty around the edges,
but fairly clean inside. There were fourteen more, all
Miami Floridians. As I glanced at the dates I received
the biggest thrill of my life. There was a single paper for


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 93
lessly rippling over the pile of newspapers. I think I even
hummed softly to myself. I could hear the violent ham-
mering of my heart, and I dreaded that it would betray
my agitation to the silent watcher. Every instinct in me
cried out to me to get out of that room—to run for the
kitchen door, or to scream for help. I believe now that had
I foolishly attempted any such move I would never have
lived to write about it. My very incapacity saved me.
Exactly what had warned me that I was in danger I
do not know. Possibly an incongruous noise in a house
which should have been silent. Perhaps just the sensitive-
ness of one human being to the contiguity of another. Out
of the turmoil of my racing brain I evolved a plan of
action and it proved to be good. I placed all the papers,
but one, back on the chair, lit a cigarette, sat down and
pretended to read. In reality my eyes were surreptitiously
searching every part of the room vainly seeking to find
what had so unnerved me.
Gradually I began to get myself in hand. I casually
turned over the pages of the paper held in front of me
seizing every opportunity to study the windows. No sign
of a peering face rewarded me. The door to the kitchen
was partly open but five minutes of watching it convinced
me there was no one concealed behind it. The walls of the
big room were plaster. The fireplace appeared to be solid
stone. There was no door to the hall behind me which led
to the front door. I could hear my watch ticking loudly
in my pocket. Still I leafed over the pages trying to ap-
pear unconcerned, trying to act as though I were deeply
engrossed in the blurred print swimming before me.


94 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
My body grew rigid and tense and then relaxed with
sheer weakness. I had heard footsteps on the porch and
the click of the latch on the front door. I lowered the copy
of the Floridian and turned to see the welcome figure of
the Chief Deputy coming down the hall. Companionship
had never seemed more welcome to me, yet I was utterly
at a loss what to say. I certainly could not tell a practical
individual like Ed Brown that I had been cowering in
fear of something I could not see. Besides, unless my
senses had played me false, it would be safer if I made
no mention of my belief that there was something bane-
ful and pernicious about that room. If someone was
watching it would be just as easy for them to dispose of
two people as one. I will admit that my courage rose as
Ed entered.
"Good Lord, Doc," he said when he saw my face. "You
look like a Barbados nigger. You must have been up the
chimney. Any luck?"
"Nothing at all," I answered without hesitation. "I
found a text in a bureau drawer upstairs, but that's about
all. I had a look in all the flues too, but there was noth-
ing doing. How about you?"
His face clouded. "I found something. Just luck I guess.
I'll show it to you when we get to the boat. It looks bad,
Doc. Very bad."
"What do you mean?"
"When I left you I started in back of the house and
made a search of the grove. I did a pretty slick job too. I
searched from orange tree to orange tree so that I cov-
ered all the ground in checks. At the far end of the grove
I saw a pile of brush. I passed it the first time but on the


96 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
pick up the pile and take them with me. I could explain
to Ed when we were in the boat.
"Wait just a minute, will you, Ed? I forgot something
in the back room."
I walked calmly down the hall, crossed the room,
picked up the papers from off the chair and tucked them
under my arm. As I straightened up I saw that my com-
panion had followed me into the room. He was standing
not more than six feet from me looking at the window to
the left of the fireplace. On his face was an expression of
horror which raised the hackles on my neck. Before I
could move or speak he croaked: "Look out for God's
sake!" Then he launched his two hundred pounds on me.
I felt his whip-like arms encircle me and with him on
top we crashed to the floor. I made no attempt at re-
sistance. I was too stunned to know what was happening.
Quickly we rolled over together, and I felt us bring up
with a thud against the wall under the window to the
right of the fireplace.
It may have happened while we were rolling, or it may
have been just as we stopped. I distinctly remember being
conscious of a shooting tongue of flame and a double ex-
plosion which sounded like a charge of dynamite in the
confines of the room. A cloud of white plaster rose like
talcum powder beside the entrance to the hall as two
charges of shot smacked viciously into the wall. Then
Ed was on his knees beside me and I heard the tinkle of
glass by my head as he fired through the window pane.
Three times his forty-five automatic crashed out. Then
he stood up and slipped it into the holster.
"God, I hope I didn't hurt you, Doc! You'd have been


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 97
mincemeat now if I hadn't seen the muzzle of that cannon
creeping through the window. Let's go! Our friend, who-
ever he is, disappeared into the grove, and I'm not going
after him in there without a posse. I promised to deliver
you safely home!"
I gathered the scattered papers together and followed
Ed out of the house. I was shaking from head to foot, and
even when we were in the boat I felt that any minute that
murderous shotgun might roar out from the shore and
end both our parts in the case of David Mitchell.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 99
have been watching through the window and seen me look-
ing at the papers." I riffled the pile in my lap.
"Say! I forgot about them. So you did find something
of importance." I explained to him about the dates, and
the figures on the one in my coat pocket. He stopped row-
ing long enough to mop his forehead with a big handker-
chief. "That explains the shooting then. Whoever it was
was going to let us leave without trouble so long as you
left those papers. He must have seen you reading them
and realized that you had stumbled on something he had
foolishly left lying around. There was a chance that you
didn't know the value of your find. When you came back
to get them, and I walked into the room after you, he got
into a panic and decided to let us have it. A couple of
more dead men don't seem to mean a thing to that damn
louse."
"There would have been just that, if it hadn't been for
you, Ed."
"Ah, forget it, Doc. I was saving my own hide as much
as yours. I'm sick I didn't get a better look at him. Pete
will have a fit when I tell him I was that close to the devil
and didn't even hit him. He'll want to skin me."
"You couldn't tell anything about how he looked?"
"Not a chance. He was crouched over running and was
gone in the trees in a second. I just saw his outline through
the fog anyhow."
The shotgun which Ed had dug up in the grove was ly-
ing at my feet in the boat. I glanced at it curiously. It was
sandy and rusty and looked as if it might have been in
the ground for several days. It struck me that if Marvin
had wanted to conceal a weapon he would have had more


100 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
sense than to bury it close to the scene of a crime, where
there was every likelihood of its being found. I mentioned
my thoughts to my companion.
"There are lots of funny things about this whole busi-
ness, Doc. Pete and I have talked it over many times.
What's happened this morning don't seem to clear it up
much either. Makes it worse to my mind. Now take this
gun." He let the oars trail as he pointed to the incriminat-
ing weapon. "You think Marvin Lee would have been
crazy to bury that where I found it and mark it with a
brush pile. The question is—would he? Wouldn't it be
pretty slick?"
"I don't see whyl" I exclaimed, rather startled at his
question.
"Well the case has looked black against him ever since
the start. He came out here with Pete and me the day
after he got back in town, and showed us where he talked
to Mitchell on the afternoon of the fifteenth. That wasn't
more than a mile from where you found the body. He ad-
mitted that he had a gun with him. This gun. But he won't
say why he was so blamed anxious to talk to Mitchell,
and he won't say where he was nor what he went away for.
Then he comes out with a story to Pete that the gun was
taken from his room in the Nelson house. That leaves us
only two guesses. Did the murderer take the gun in order
to throw more suspicion on Marvin Lee, or did Marvin
Lee bury the gun in order to throw more suspicion on him-
self?"
I began to get a glimmer of what was in the Deputy's
mind. Marvin's statement that the Sheriff's office, or some-
one, was trying to hang the murder on him came back to


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 103
morning, there are still a lot of things I can't see. How
did he know we were coming out here? And if he did know
it how could he follow us? Wouldn't he have to pass the
Nixons house?"
"Not necessarily. There's an old road which Simmons
used to use from the dock across the lake from the house.
It's a few miles longer than the one we are on, but I think
it may be still passable. Of course he'd have to have a boat.
But if he has—and the Salmon murder would have needed
one too—then he could have landed nearly any place
around the house without us hearing or seeing him."
"But he must have known that we were coming. How?
He had left last night when Pete asked me to come."
"Maybe he didn't know. Has it occurred to you that he
might have thought of those papers himself? If he did, he
couldn't have picked a better morning to come and get
them."
"It's insane, Ed. Why should Marvin Lee have been at
the Simmons house on the fifteenth of every month for
the past fourteen months?"
"Why should anybody? That's one of the many things
we have to find out. Anyhow, I wish you'd give him a
ring at his office as soon as you get to the house. I'm in-
terested to know where he was this morning."
We pulled up in front of my home, and I climbed out
still clutching my bundle of papers. It never entered my
head that I might just as well have been carrying around
a package of nitroglycerin. I had certainly had sufficient
warning that the Miami Floridians were dangerous, and
there was nothing to stop me from asking Ed to put them
in the safe in the Sheriff's office until Pete returned. My


104 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
head was whirling with thoughts of Marvin Lee, and the
narrowness of my own escape from death. It was after
twelve and I had an important meeting with the County
Commissioners at one o'clock. Ed drove off with a wave of
his hand, and I ran upstairs to change my clothes, and
shoved the papers in the top drawer of my bureau. It
was the dumbest thing I ever did.
Mindful of my promise to the Deputy I phoned Mar-
vin's office. His secretary told me he had not been in all
morning. I called him at Nelson's, but there was no an-
swer. Very much upset, I finished dressing and went down
to lunch, to find Mae and Celia Mitchell waiting for me
at the table. I was in a great hurry, and decided to post-
pone my story of the morning's happenings until later.
"I've invited Celia to stay with us for a while," Mae
told me as she helped my plate. "It's too lonesome for
her in that house by herself."
"You don't mind, do you?" Celia asked. "IH try not to
be too much trouble."
"I'm an old fool not to have thought of it before," I
assured her. "Mae is always doing something to show she
is the real brains of the family."
"The brains didn't work so well this morning, Will. Tell
him about it, Celia." I looked up from my plate.
"It may mean nothing at all, Doctor. I have been
straightening up the house, and going through some of
Daddy's things. He had seventy dollars in his wallet which
he had left at the house. In another pocket of the wallet
I found a ten dollar bill. I didn't think anything about it
until this morning, when I went shopping with Mrs. Ryan.
We stopped in the bakery next to the bank to get some


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 105
things, and they didn't have any change. I took the bill
into the bank to get it changed, but Mr. Nevers, the
teller, wouldn't accept it. What Mrs. Ryan means is that
she can't figure out why Daddy should have carried
around a ten dollar bill when he obviously knew it was
counterfeit."


13
The meeting of the County Commissioners was a long
drawn out affair, and I am afraid my attention wandered
more than once from the business in hand. I sat day-
dreaming about my narrow escape in the Simmons house,
and automatically voting for payment of an endless list
of items read out by the County Clerk. Forman Spence
was a member of the Board, too. We walked down the
Court House steps together when the meeting was over.
He came back to my car as I was about to drive away
and stood leaning in through the window.
"I've been picked as a juror on the Salmon inquest,"
he remarked nervously. "It's been put off until Crossley
gets back tomorrow. I suppose you'll be a witness."
"Certainly. If anything more happens around here, I'll
have to give up my practice entirely."
"You ought to be glad they haven't accused you, Will.
That remark of yours last night, about the watch, turned
loose a hornet's nest on my business. That ape, Sander-
son, seems positive that the store's connected with it in
some way. Every time I walk down the street I feel like
one of Pete's deputies is following me. What did they say
to Tim and Bartlett after I left?"
"Oh, nothing much. They wanted to know where each
of them had been on the fifteenth. Bartlett said he fol-
106


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 107
lowed Reig in order to find a good place to hunt. They
went out on road two. No place near Louisa. Marvin is
the one that puzzles me. Why is he so close mouthed?"
The jeweler leaned closer to me and lowered his voice.
"I think it's on account of the bank. You know there have
been rumors that it wasn't in the best of shape. I knew
Mitchell pretty well, and he was worried to death before
he was killed. I'm trusting to your discretion, Will. Don't
mention that to anyone."
I drove home with a lighter heart than I had known in
days. Forman's mention of the bank had cleared up Mar-
vin's silence for me in one stroke. I had been groping
around trying to find out something that was perfectly
obvious. I knew he was attorney for the bank. What was
more natural than that he should have had to make a
secret trip in its behalf? Banks had been closing up all
over the State. Perhaps the very mention that Marvin Lee
had been in negotiations with out-of-town bankers would
start a run on our local institution which could never be
stopped. And all the while the words of the Chief Deputy
kept running through my head: "It's possible that he has
an A-l explanation of why he went away, and why he
talked to Mitchell. Maybe he's just trying to act suspi-
cious—." I walked into the house to find the subject of
my thoughts seated in the living room talking to Mae and
Celia.
"Hello, sleuth-hound," he greeted me, airily. "How did
the grand search of Lake Louisa pan out this morning?
Did you put the minions of the law to the blush?"
"How did you know I was out there?" I demanded
rather testily.


108 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"Your charming wife, my dear Doctor. Never confide
in your wife if you would keep a secret from a scheming
attorney. Not only did I ferret out that you had gone clue
hunting with Ed Brown, but I deftly persuaded her to in-
vite me to dinner, and then told her that I wouldn't come
unless she cooked me chicken and waffles a la Ryan. Have
you any objections?"
"Plenty! I just get things fixed up to spend an evening
with the prettiest girl in the State, and you blow in and
spoil everything. Life is like that. So I guess you might as
well stay." I settled down comfortably in my chair, and
selected a cigarette from the glass jar on the table, then:
"Where were you this morning? I phoned your office when
I got home. The girl told me you hadn't been in." .
I was sorry as soon as I said it. Marvin had been laugh-
ing and jolly, but at my question his face sagged into
hard tired lines. Celia noticed the change, too. She stroked
his cheek once with the back of her hand before he replied.
"I drove to Lakeland today." And after a slight hesita-
tion. "I wish you wouldn't mention it to anybody. Unfor-
tunately my ordinary routine has suddenly become a mat-
ter of great importance to the police." He pushed the re-
fractory lock of hair up out of his eyes. "I'm sick to death
of explaining—explaining—explaining. First Pete and Ed
Brown, then Sanderson, and now you start. I thought I
might get a little rest here."
"Why Marvin 1" Celia broke out, but I interrupted.
"He's right, Celia. My question was a thoughtless one.
He has had enough of it to upset anyone. Come on. The
things are on the table. Let's eat." Marvin's justified an-


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 109
noyance was lost in the bustle of getting seated and attend-
ing to endless piles of Mae's fairy-like waffles. I came to
a very definite decision during the meal. I did not believe
that Marvin had anything to do with either of the murders,
and I determined to give him all the information in my
possession before he went home that night. I might be
violating Pete Crossley's confidence in doing so, but I had
reached a stage where I did not care. If, by any stretch
of the imagination, I could figure that the young lawyer
was guilty, then he already knew everything that I knew.
If he was innocent, then he was entitled to all the help I
could give him.
After dinner we settled down to an evening of tenth of
a cent contract bridge, Mae and I taking on the young
couple. Two hours of desultory playing on my part served
to convince my wife that my mind was not on the game. At
eleven o'clock she asked me to settle the three dollars we
had lost, excused herself, and went up to bed taking Celia
with her. I stirred up the fire and made an excursion into
my small operating room to unearth a bottle of really good
Scotch which I kept against emergencies. I produced ice
and seltzer from the kitchen, and returned to find Marvin
sitting with his face buried in his hands.
"Here's your medicine, young man," I poured a good
two fingers into the glass and gave it a splash of soda. "Put
this under your belt and quit nursing your head. It's be-
coming a habit of yours. I've got something upstairs I
want to show you. I'll be back in a minute." I made a
hurried trip upstairs, kissed Mae good-night, and secured
the Miami papers from the drawer where I had left them


110 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
in the afternoon, not forgetting the one in my coat. Mar-
vin was fixing another drink when I got back to the
living-room. He looked much better.
"Hail to a great physician!" He held the glass up to
the light. "You've cured a man with a sick mind by giving
him a drink that didn't taste like it came out of a lamp.'
Has your practice fallen off so that you've decided to
become a newsboy? Why all the papers?"
"I found them stuffed in the bottom of a broken down
chair in the old Simmons house this morning. They must be
of importance because if it hadn't been for Ed Brown's
quickness there would have been two more customers
for Amos Pryor."
"Let me get this straight, Doc. Are you trying to tell
me that someone attempted to kill you both out there?"
"I don't know what else to call it. They took a pot shot
at us with a shotgun when I tried to take the papers from
the room. Ed saw the barrels of the gun coming through
the window and promptly tackled and rolled me out of
the way. It was touch and go."
Marvin leaned back in his chair and locked his hands
behind his head. "Before I look at the papers will you go
over your trip from the time you left the house until you
returned? I want to get the whole thing clear in my mind.
It may be of the utmost importance to me." He did not
move as I tried to give him every detail of the trip. I
omitted, however, to make any mention of the gun the
Deputy had found, or of the remarks he had made to me
on our way home. When I had finished Marvin half turned
his head and looked at me for a long time.
"Is that all?"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 111
"No, it isn't. Ed Brown found Bert Nelson's shotgun
buried in the orange grove back of the house. He said
that it made things look awfully black for you." I stopped
and applied a match to my cigarette with a trembling
hand. "He also explained to me in detail how it would
have been possible for you to have killed Red Salmon—
and to have followed us out to Louisa this morning—if
you had a boat."
The gray eyes flickered. "I didn't think they were fools.
I knew somebody in the Sheriff's office would figure that
out shortly—about getting out to Salmon's, I mean. I
thought they were on that track when Sanderson asked me
where I'd been during the afternoon. It won't be long now
until I have a boat."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing exactly. Just wait and see. How did Brown
account for my dodging Cass Rhodes?"
"By jove, I never thought to ask him that."
"It doesn't make any difference. It all fits together
nicely. I made it a point to find out that Cass left Salmon's
shack shortly after two o'clock—which would give me
ample time to commit my bloody deed. Did Ed say any-
thing else?"
"Only that you might have buried the gun yourself, and
that you might have a good explanation of where you had
been, and just wouldn't say because you wanted to make
the case look too black to be real."
The attorney sat bolt upright in his chair. "There's a
thought for you, Doc," he almost shouted. "That never
originated in the thick head of a Deputy Sheriff. That's
perfumed with the sweet smell of Carl Sanderson, our


112 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
genial State's Attorney. He's already thought this case out
so far ahead of me that maybe I can use his own stuff to
beat him. Say, that would be rich! I'll let him frame up his
pretty prosecution, then I'll agree with it all and use it
for a defence. You're lucky you'll be called as a witness
when I'm tried, Doc. It will be interesting."
"I hope to God it will never come to that, Marvin.
Think what it would mean to Celia. She could never
stand it."
"Oh yes she can, Doc. I've already prepared her for it.
She thinks the same way as I do—that I'll be arrested for
the double killing within the next few days." His manner
changed. The gray eyes opened wide and took on some of
the fighting glitter I had noticed when he was defending a
case. "Did Celia tell you about the ten dollar bill she
found in her father's wallet?"
"Yes. She mentioned it at lunch today. Do you think it's
of any importance?"
"I don't know," he studied his finger nails thoughtfully.
"There has been quite a flood of them let loose in the
State. Mitchell was talking to me about them not so long
ago. The race tracks have been stuck for plenty. I think
the bill Celia has came into the bank in the deposit of a
Miami bookmaker. Mitchell took it himself for some rea-
son. Of course it may have no significance at all." He
looked at me guilelessly. "And then again it may be one of
the real reasons why David Mitchell was killed. Now let's
have a look at those newspapers."


114 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"I figured that out mentally as soon as I saw it," I said
disparagingly. "Even if I did miss the months. The small
letters threw me off there. Why didn't the writer use cap-
itals?"
"Uneducated, Doc. Look at those figures. You can see
how laboriously they were written. No sir, no real estate
salesmen made those calculations."
"But all real estate salesmen don't write as well as law-
yers. Lots of uneducated people broke into real estate dur-
ing the boom. You'll have to admit that the figuring is
correct."
"And you'll have to admit there are plenty of niggers
working in the saw mills who can't write their own names,
but every one of them can figure his time out correctly to
the last penny."
"What are you trying to prove?"
"That the person who wrote those figures on the paper
was first, uneducated."
"All right. He was uneducated. What then?"
"Secondly, that he was engaged in some sort of business
where he received or paid commissions, and that he had
been in the business eight months, or longer. Right?"
"It sounds all right the way you put it. But you haven't
disproved my real estate idea."
"You're butt-headed if nothing else, Doc. There have
been some cheap lots sold in Florida, it's true. But I don't
think you'll find that the company who is advertisting
there has any as cheap as seventy-eight dollars. That's
the amount opposite September."
"I'm not butt-headed," I protested. "You just hadn't
convinced me before. I'll agree with you now. He wasn't


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 115
in the real estate business. I don't see that those figures
prove he was in any business. How do you know he wasn't
checking up a bank balance. He has subtracted the last
two columns from the first. Maybe the first is deposits and
the last two are lists of his canceled checks."
Marvin looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. "The
twenty per cent, Doc, the twenty per cent. A man doesn't
draw an even fifth of his deposits out every month, does
he?"
I was waiting for that. "Not unless he happens to have
a savings account in the bank and wants to deposit a stated
amount in it every month. He might then."
"By George, you may have hit it." The young man
gazed at me admiringly. "If you're right it might be worth
my while to check up in the bank and see if they can find
an account with a January 31st balance of four hundred
and eighty-six dollars and eighty cents. We could locate
the person for sure if the withdrawals corresponded with
the rest of the figures. It's a long shot, but I'll try it to-
morrow."
"You don't think there is any use trying to trace those
papers?"
"Utterly hopeless. There is no way of telling whether
they were bought at a news dealer's or received by mail.
I don't suppose the mysterious visitor will return to the
Simmons house on the fifteenth of March after what hap-
pened on his last visit. Pete will probably have it watched
anyhow. What do you think he was doing there?"
"I don't think there is any question that he had a defi-
nite reason for going there every month on that date."
"Yes. It looks like it was a standing appointment. It's


116 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
almost a certainty that he met someone else there. He
didn't go just to read his papers in peace. The figures seem
to indicate that whoever he expected to meet was late on
the fifteenth. Our constant reader must have finished his
paper and then turned to figuring to pass the time. It's a
point you might mention to Crossley when you give him
the papers."
"I certainly will. It's the best thing you have brought
up so far. Are you going?"
He had risen to his feet and stretched prodigiously.
"Yes. I've got another day of explaining tomorrow. Sal-
mon's inquest you know. Have you been summoned?"
"Not yet. I'll go anyhow. Where is it to be?"
"Pryor's Funeral Parlors at ten o'clock. I'll see you
then."
I walked out on the front porch with him and stood
there awhile after he had driven away. Of the many strange
things that ensnared us all in the death of David Mitchell,
one of the strangest, to my mind, is the fact that the Miami
Floridian, of February 15th, which we had scrutinized so
carefully for an hour, was bought on the day of the murder
by Marvin Lee himself.
The weather had turned much warmer heralding the
early Florida spring. The fog of the morning had totally
disappeared. Overhead the stars were steely points. The
moon was bright, and lit up the path from the porch steps
to the gate, painting the ground with black velvet patches
around the trees bordering the walk. I drew in a few
breaths of the scented night air, and went back into the
house, latching the screen door behind me.


118 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
room so that there would be no chance of Celia being dis-
turbed. I was glad I did so for the phone began to ring
stridently at three o'clock in the morning.
With the mechanical proficiency of long practice my
arm followed a fixed course and secured the phone with-
out my having to open my eyes. My mind clicked into that
semi-receptive state of doctors' minds when they are
awakened from a deep sleep. It was ready to probe my
weary body into action if the call warranted, prescribe a
simple remedy if a harassed parent wanted to quiet a fret-
ting child, or slip back into blankness if a wrong number
was the cause of the disturbance. It happened to be none
of these. I recognized the voice of a wealthy visitor from
the north, a Mrs. Jenkins, who came south every winter
to nurse a heart which she was convinced was bad. As I
dared not pit my humble opinion against her northern
specialists, I treated her seven times a week with personal
calls, and once a week at night by phone.
My cagey brain prescribed a double dose of the med-
icine I had given her the day before. I lay back in bed
waiting, in a semi-stupor, for the second call, which I knew
from past experience would come within an hour. With an
effort I opened my eyes and adjusted them to read the
luminous face of the clock on the taboret. It was exactly
ten minutes past three. Then I was painfully awake and
ice cold, for the door to my room, which I had closed so
carefully, was standing wide open and a gentle breeze was
blowing the curtains of my windows out into the room.
The horror of my morning's experience was so fresh in
my mind that it is a wonder I did not lose my head en-
tirely. The moon had gone down, and the only light in the


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 119
room was from a bulb in a street light at the front of the
house. My bureau stood in a far corner, but I did not dare
risk raising my head to see if it was distinguishable in the
feeble rays. A dozen wild plans of action which paraded
before me were promptly rejected. I knew that no com-
mon sneak thief had opened the door to my room. If the
intruder was actually inside with me my position was as
dangerous as jay-walking blindfolded on a city street. I
had not the slightest doubt that if Mae, or Celia, happened
to get in his way he would kill them as cold-bloodedly as
he had the helpless man on Tiger Creek. While I was
thinking the 'phone bell suddenly pealed out again. My
nerve held out enough for me to let it ring three times
before I answered. I recognized Mrs. Jenkins' voice again,
calling to say she felt better, and that I need not come.
She probably still thinks I am crazy, for I exclaimed, ex-
citedly: "Bleeding from the mouth? When did that start?
Have the nurse give him a hypodermic immediately. I'll
be right over. I may have to operate."
As I hung up I heard a noise in the hall at the foot of the
stairs as if someone had stumbled over a rug. It reassured
me. At least the marauder was not in the room with me.
I got quietly out of bed and opened the door of my closet.
There was a loaded thirty-two revolver on the top shelf. As
I reached for it I knew my mistake, but it was too late.
I heard the movement behind me before the blow fell and
saved my life by throwing up my arm. There was a shower
of stars, and my left ear felt as if it had been torn from
my head. Then I slipped to the floor too sick to stand.
Feet scurried unheedingly down the steps, and the front
door slammed, shivering the glass panel into long icicles.


15
Outside of contusions to my right arm and scalp, and a
painful abrasion of my left ear, I had escaped lightly from
the vicious blow dealt me by my nocturnal visitor. If I had
not heard him behind me in time to divert the full force of
it with my arm, I think it would have crushed my skull like
a china cup. The strange part of the adventure was, that in
the excitement of the moment, I could not for the life of
me figure out why anyone, particularly Harry Bartlett,
should have wanted to break into my house. The Miami
Floridians ensconced in my bureau drawer did not enter
my head until Ed Brown arrived on the scene in answer to
Celia's phone call.
"Bad business," he remarked at the sight of my band-
aged head. "Might have finished you for sure. Did he get
the papers?"
"I never even thought of them," I had to confess. "Have a
look. They were in the top bureau drawer. I won't move
off this bed for anything. My head is splitting."
"O.K." he reported after a short delay. "Fifteen of them.
I think I better take them along with me and give them to
Pete in the morning. I don't think your friend will return,
but you'll rest better if they're not here."
"For your information, Ed, Miss Mitchell saw a man
121


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 123
was. I found some Miami newspapers in the Simmons house,
and it appears that I was being watched. Somebody poked
a shotgun through the window and took a pot shot at me
as I was leaving. Ed Brown happened to see the muzzle of
the gun and pushed me out of the road in time."
"So he brought the papers home with him, instead of—"
"Don't rub it in, Pete. My head's bad enough without
that."
"I understand that you saw a man under the street light,
Miss Mitchell. Ed Brown says that you thought it was
that Bartlett fellow." Sanderson regarded Celia over his
poised cup.
"Everything happened so quickly, Mr. Sanderson. I
heard a clatter on the stairs, and the front door slam. I
ran to my window without thinking. I was in the back room
but there is a window in the 'L' which faces the front of
the house and the gate is clearly visible. The man was run-
ning and I could not see his face—"
"Did he come out of the gate?"
"I don't think he did. He was running along the side-
walk, close to the fence, in the direction of Mr. Rogers'
house next door."
"That's to the left as you were standing, isn't it?"
She nodded. "I watched until he disappeared into the
shadows. There was something very familiar about the way
he moved. I'm almost certain it was Harry Bartlett."
The Sheriff interrupted. "How would you describe him,
Celia?"
"Short, stocky, dressed in a dark suit and felt hat, and a
very fast runner."
"I'm afraid that wouldn't convince a jury, Miss Mit-


126 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
on. You said you tried to look through the windows open-
ing on to the front porch, but they were so dirty you couldn't
see anything inside. How about the windows in the back
room. Were they any cleaner?"
I thought for a moment, trying to visualize them. "I be-
lieve they were. You see the fog was thick outside, and it
was hard to see out of the windows anyhow. But the room
was fairly light."
"Wouldn't the windows shielded by the porch be dirtier
than those the rain could get to?" Mae asked.
"Thank you, lady! I believe they would." Sanderson
smiled. "I hope to be in town long enough to go out there
with Pete and see for myself. Now, if you don't mind, Doc-
tor, I'd like to hear the rest."
In telling the rest of my story I did not mention about
the shotgun which Ed had found, nor did I say anything
about the suspicions he had voiced against Marvin. It
would all be common knowledge soon enough and I wanted
to spare Celia in every way possible. I knew that the Sheriff
was .already in possession of the facts and would not speak
of them for the same reasons which restrained me. I also
kept to myself the fact that I had told Marvin everything
I knew about the whole affair.
"You don't think there will be any repetition of what
happened last night, do you?" Mae asked the Sheriff when
I stopped.
"Not a chance, Mrs. Ryan. Whoever attacked the doctor
was after those papers without a doubt. The ringing of the
phone, and his own failure to knock Doc unconscious
spoiled his plans. You didn't hear a thing, did you?"
"Only the ringing of the phone. It always wakes me. I
-


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 127
must have dozed off after it rang the first time, but I woke
again on the second call. I heard the doctor fall, and the
man run downstairs and slam the door, but that's all."
"You thought you heard a noise in the hall downstairs,
as I understand it, Doc."
"I was certain of it. That's why I got out of bed so
bravely and started to get my revolver off the closet shelf.
My first intimation that anything was wrong was when I
noticed my door was open. When I heard the noise down-
stairs I thought that whoever had been in the room had
gone."
"Do you still think that?"
"Why yes, why?'"
"Well, someone hit you, didn't they?"
"There's no question about that."
"No. But there is a question in my mind as to who hit
you. Did the man you heard downstairs have time to sneak
back up and crack you on the head, or didn't he?"
I felt my bandaged head in perplexity. "I hardly think
he did."
"Neither do I," Pete agreed. "There were undoubtedly
two people in the house!"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 129
by battered Ford and mule team. As we made our way
down to the front, where seats had been reserved for wit-
nesses and the Jury, Crossley whispered in my ear:
"There's a long barrelled horse pistol stuck in every waist-
band in the place."
An ordinary kitchen table had been placed at the end
of the room to serve as a desk for the Justice of the Peace,
Donald Atwater, who presided over the court. There are
no regular Coroners in Florida, and in the cases where an
inquest is necessary the duties fall on the local Justice.
Atwater, an elderly attorney whose failing health had
caused him to abandon a lucrative practice in one of the
larger cities, was a capable man and highly respected in our
community. He took the office of J. P., which he had held
in an honorary capacity for some years, very seriously.
Anything which fell under his jurisdiction was assured of
a fair and impartial handling. Miss Phillips, Crossley's
secretary, was acting as court stenographer. She was seated
at the table when we entered. Atwater's chair, and the six
chairs placed to one side for the Jury were vacant.
"They're inside," Luke Pomeroy informed us with a
nod toward a door which led to the embalming room at the
rear. We seated ourselves beside him and immediately had
to rise, for the door opened and Atwater entered followed
by the six jurors. They took their places rather stiffly, a
gavel sounded, and we seated ourselves again.
The necessary formalities were gone through quickly.
Lawrence Rogers, my next door neighbor, was sworn in
first as Foreman of the Jury, and the other five were given
a shorter form of oath. Justice Atwater then charged them
that it was their duty to determine from the facts presented


130 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
whether Salmon's death was a felony, an accident, a sui-
cide, or from natural causes. In the event they found it was
a felony, they were to determine, if possible, the guilty
party. The finding of the inquisition would be presented to
the Circuit Court, together with the material evidence,
under seal.
Although I knew I would be called upon to testify, I was
very nervous when Atwater handed a list to Luke Pom-
eroy, and I heard the Deputy read out my name as the
first witness. As I was taking the oath there was a stir at
the back of the room and I saw Marvin Lee and Ed Brown
making their way down front through the crowded chairs.
Crossley found seats for them near him. I took my place
in the impromptu witness box. The Justice asked me a few
preliminary questions concerning the length of time I had
known the deceased John Salmon—more commonly known
as "Red Salmon," and when I had answered he requested
me to tell exactly how I had happened to discover the body.
I repeated the story in detail, and told him that I had al-
ready made a written statement which was in the hands of
the State's Attorney. He gazed reflectively at the ceiling
when I had finished.
"How long did it take you to go from Orange Crest to
Salmon's place on Tiger Creek, Dr. Ryan?"
I tried to get the time element straightened out in my
mind. "I should judge about two hours and a half. I'm
not sure."
"Do you know the distance you drove?"
"Just over forty miles. But we had a long walk through
the swamp as I explained. That must have taken an hour.
Maybe more."


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 131
"As I understand it you drove the first twenty miles at
high speed. Would forty minutes cover it?"
"Easily, I should say. We were running around fifty-five
miles per hour most of the time."
"I see. But the second twenty miles was through the
woods on a bad road, and you stopped once. Could you
have covered it in twice the time? Say an hour and twenty
minutes?"
"I don't think it took quite that long. An hour would be
closer to it."
"You have no clock on your car?"
"No, your Honor. That is to say—I have one but it never
runs." A ripple of laughter ran through the court room.
Atwater frowned.
"You have made out a death certificate for the deceased,
I believe. Will you tell the jury what, in your opinion,
caused his demise."
"Without going into technical details he died from a
knife wound in the heart."
The Justice took a folded paper from his desk and handed
it to me. "This is a copy of the autopsy report of Dr. Stuart.
Please tell the Jury if you agree with his findings."
I studied the report carefully, and found that my col-
league had confirmed the cause of death given in my cer-
tificate. The autopsy showed an inflammation of the pleura,
which accounted for the symptoms described to me by
Cass Rhodes, but Dr. Stuart stated that the pleuritis was
not severe enough to have caused death. The hunting knife
had penetrated between the fifth and sixth ribs on the
left side and pierced the right ventricle of the heart—a
fatal wound. I handed the paper back to the magistrate.


132 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"Dr. Stuart's findings substantially agree with my cer-
tificate."
"Thank you, Doctor. Now will you please tell the Jury
how long, in your opinion, the deceased had been dead
when you found him."
"I don't know."
There was a hum of incredulity from the spectators at
my answer. Atwater stared at me with an expression bor-
dering almost on dislike. He had evidently counted heavily
on my testimony regarding the time of Salmon's death.
"But you stated, Dr. Ryan, that the body was warm
when you found it." There was protest in his voice. "Surely
you can give the Jury a fairly accurate estimate as to how
long the man had been dead. You can realize the impor-
tance of our determining approximately the time he was
stabbed."
"I'm sorry to have to disappoint the Court, your Honor."
I was slightly ruffled at his tone. "I'm unfortunately not an
expert in forensic medicine, and I doubt if even an expert
medical examiner in a large city could answer your ques-
tion. With your permission I'll explain." He nodded. "I
stated that Salmon's body was warm when I placed my
hand on his forehead. That is true, but it certainly isn't
much aid in determining how long he had been dead. There
are many factors to be taken into consideration in deter-
mining how quickly a body grows cold after death. The de-
ceased was in a small hut in which a fire had been going for
several days. He was covered over with blankets in bed.
He had pleurisy, which is generally accompanied by a high
fever. Under those conditions the body might have re-


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 133
mained warm for several hours. There were no signs of
rigor mortis. That fact would seem to indicate that Salmon
had died within six hours, or less, of the time we arrived at
the hut, although I have heard of exceptions. I can cite you
cases where there has been no rigor mortis at all—gen-
erally in very emaciated people I'll admit."
The Justice twisted the gavel aimlessly around in his
fingers a few times before he spoke. "So you can't place the
time of death any more accurately than 'within six hours or
less' of the time you arrived, Dr. Ryan?"
"Not accurately enough to avoid the possibility of plac-
ing an innocent person under suspicion, your Honor. There
is another element of probable doubt, too. Even if I placed
the time of death at the exact minute it would not definitely
prove that Salmon was stabbed at that moment. There
have been cases where men with worse heart wounds than
the one which killed Salmon have lived for hours—even
days. I am sure Dr. Stuart will bear me out in this. Red
Salmon might have been stabbed several hours before he
died. The chances are against it, but it has happened."
Rather to my surprise, after a few more questions, I was
excused without being asked anything about my experience
in the Simmons house or my encounter of the night before.
I learned later that Pete had requested the Justice to
cooperate with the Sheriff's office by keeping the matter
quiet for the time being. Atwater had to pound loudly with
his gavel to restore order when I left the witness stand.
In the babble of voices I could hear the name of Cass
Rhodes being repeated, and for the first time I saw the
trend my testimony had taken. While there was no appar-


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 135
popular as a victim. I could feel a definite antagonism
against him among the spectators, unreasoning and unfair.
I shuddered. Then Luke Pomeroy stood up and called his
name.


17
The lanky woodsman softly repeated the oath and seated
himself in the witness chair. He must have felt, as I did,
that the court was latently hostile, but his deeply lined face
remained grave and inscrutable. He wore corduroy trou-
sers stuffed into the top of his high leather boots, and a
thick blue shirt, open at the throat. His dark leather coat
was obviously a concession to the dignity of the court, but
it was somewhat offset by the chew of tobacco cleverly con-
cealed in his left cheek. He answered Donald Atwater's
staccato questions calmly, and with slight hesitation.
"How do you make a living, Cass?"
"Trapping, mostly, Jedge."
"Was Salmon a trapper, too?"
"Waal, some. He did a mite of farmin', and raised a few
hawgs. Now and again we made up a raft of logs. Sorter
one thing an' another—"
"A little shine, now and again, eh?"
Cass flushed under his tan. "Waal, hit wouldn't do no
good fur me to say no. But we hain't done any stillin' for
quite a spell now."
"What do you mean by 'quite a spell'?"
"Hit's goin' on two years—"
"That's a lie, Cass, and you know it!" the Justice said
sternly. "I've talked to three men who have bought shine
from Red within the last month. We're not arguing about
136


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 141
"Do you realize, Cass, that you are not doing very much
to clear yourself of suspicion in this affair? You have
heard the testimony given by Dr. Ryan. According to him
it would have been possible for you to have killed Salmon,
or to have left him for dead, before you left the shack. You
have absolutely no witnesses to prove where you were on
the afternoon David Mitchell was killed. Don't misunder-
stand—"
"If the Court pleases," boomed out beside me. Everyone
turned to stare at Carl Sanderson, who had risen to his
feet. Atwater recognized him with a nod. "I have a few
questions in mind which may possibly clear things up a
little. With the Court's permission I would like to examine
the witness. I would not presume to interrupt if I did not
feel it would be helpful to bring out certain things at this
point."
"The witness is yours, Mr. Sanderson. You understand,
of course, that he is not bound to answer."
"Certainly, your Honor." Sanderson adjusted his spec-
tacles to their usual precarious angle and favored the
woodsman with a friendly smile. Somebody coughed. "You
stated, Cass, your reasons for assuming that Salmon saw
the shooting of David Mitchell. At the same time you said
he did not go in town. How could he have gotten to the
scene of the crime without using his automobile?"
"Walked. 'Taint more than an hour and a half to two
hours from the cabin to Lake Louisa—if you knows how
to git thar."
"Then the murderer could have gotten to the cabin by
way of Lake Louisa."
"He might have, but hit's a sho nuff bad trip. Hit can't


142 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
be done in the dark, and thar hain't many as kin do it in the
daytime. Red war one of the few. But thar war a boat
came to the camp like I told the Sheriff."
The State's Attorney consulted a slip of paper in his
hand. "When Salmon returned to the shack on February
fifteenth and started to oil his guns you remarked to him:
'Hunting's over today, Red.' He replied: 'So I seen, but
'tain't never over for skunks.' Just what did he mean by:
'so I seen'?"
Cass replied without hesitation. "He read hit in the
paper. He told me the next day the Game Commissioner
said hit war goin' to be hot fur anyone who hunted after
the closin' day."
Sanderson lowered his voice. "You stated Red wasn't
in town on the fifteenth. Where did he get a newspaper in
the woods, Cass?"
"Seems like I remember bis sayin' he saw hit in a paper
he took out of some hunter's car. I hain't sartain—"
"Well, I am," Marvin Lee exclaimed. "Ill bet that's
what happened to the Miami Floridian that disappeared
from the front seat of my car while I was talking to David
Mitchell."
A crazy feeling of exultation surged through me. San-
derson's cleverness had brought to light something
which seemed to fit in with the rest of the picture—if the
handwriting on the paper I had found only turned out to be
Salmon's. The Justice rapped loudly to quiet the hubbub
which had broken out at Marvin's remark. The State's
Attorney was not through. He still had another surprise
in store for his holiday audience. Even while Atwater was
trying to restore order he lowered his head, like a bull


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 143
about to charge, and bellowed at Cass Rhodes: "What
kind of wood do you burn to heat your cabin?"
"Lighter-knots, but—"
"Pine knots, eh? Full of resin?" The astonished
cracker nodded.
Sanderson removed his spectacles and gazed benignly
around the room. "Your Honor, and Gentlemen of the
Jury. I am prosecutor for this District, but it is just as
much a part of my duty to clear an innocent man as to con-
vict a guilty one. We have heard some interesting things
here this morning. We have learned pretty accurately
that it takes about five hours to go from Salmon's shack
on Tiger Creek into Orange Crest and back. We have
learned that Cass Rhodes, now on the stand, made that trip
on the day his friend was murdered. We also know that he
was seen at Malo on the way in, and that two people ac-
companied him on the return trip, and two more followed
close on their heels. We have heard Dr. Ryan state that as
soon as he entered the shack he recognized his patient by
the firelight gleaming on his red hair. The Doctor also
stated that the corpse was wrapped up in a blanket—had
been stabbed through a blanket."
He paused and polished his glasses. Cass squirmed un-
easily on the hard chair. Sanderson gave his remarks time
to sink in, then continued: "Now, your Honor, and
Gentlemen of the Jury. You have heard the witness state
that pine knots are used to heat the cabin. Pine knots, as
we all know, burn hot—and fast! Yet, five hours after he
leaves the cabin, probably much more—this witness re-
turns accompanied by Dr. Ryan and the doctor sees the
firelight shining on Salmon's red hair. Gentlemen, I sub-


144 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
mit to you as the strangest fact brought out here this
morning, the fact that a criminal as clever as the mur-
derer of David Mitchell, and Red Salmon, should put
more wood on the fire in the cabin of the man he stabbed.
I submit this to you as a fact, because it is inconceivable
to my mind that Salmon, mortally wounded with a knife
stuck in his heart, could get up and replenish the fire,
then get back in bed, wrap his blanket around him again,
and tuck it in under his own feet!"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 147
back to Forman Spence and his employees, Carl? It's
true you showed me up as a rotten lawyer this morning,
but I'd still like to bet that you're on the wrong trail
where Forman is concerned."
"You haven't helped us much, Mr. Lee the Mysteri-
ous!" Pete grumbled.
"But you're so hard to help. The machinery of the
Sheriff's office grinds with such ponderous wheels. Every-
thing is kept so dark and secret. If you think Bartlett is
mixed up in this why don't you arrest him and apply the
third degree as used in our best cities? If you started on
me I'd talk without hesitation—"
"You tempt me strongly. I'd certainly like to give you
a dose of it if that's the case. Everybody in Orange Crest
is buzzing around my ears to know—"
"Where Marvin Lee was after Mitchell was killed, and
why Marvin Lee followed Mitchell into the woods. I
know, Pete. That's why I brought it up. At nine thirty
this morning I received an express package, and now I
can talk." Marvin critically regarded his finger nails.
The three of us sat expectantly, our food growing cold.
"Well go on and talk, you pest!" Crossley exploded.
"Or I'll give you a third degree right here."
"Oh, Sheriff! Don't get so excited." Marvin was thor-
oughly enjoying himself. "I was just collecting my
thoughts. You see I've been on the spot, myself, for the
last few days. I believe all of you know that the Road
and Bond Trustees for this District have nearly a half-
million dollars of road money deposited in the Bank of
Orange Crest." We nodded. "Well, to get that deposit, the
bank had to place securities for that amount in the hands


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 151
ways broken on the folds. The papers Doc found were
bought at a newsstand. They had only been folded to quar-
ter page size, and hadn't a break in them."
Carl applauded soundlessly. "What a gigantic mind
you have, Mr. Lee. You're stupendous!"
"I seem to be hemmed in by brilliant attorneys." The
Sheriff laughed. "Let's go over to the Court House and
have a look at the papers themselves." We settled our
checks, and as we were leaving the hotel, Pete said to me:
"Marvin's not so dumb at that, Doc. I think I'll take his
hint and try the news dealers. There's a bare chance—"
We crossed the lawn to the Court House, and as we
were ascending the steps we met Miss Phillips just leav-
ing the building. "I came right up from the inquest," she
said to the Sheriff. "Those two letters you gave me this
morning are on your desk to sign. Mr. Reig was waiting in
the office for you, but he left in a few minutes."
"Tim Reig? Did he say what he wanted? Why he was
in the dining room of—"
"He didn't say. I'm going to get some lunch."
Pete muttered something to himself as we went on in.
The door to his suite was open and the office was empty.
Marvin perched himself on a desk, and Sanderson and I
took chairs. The Sheriff walked over to the big double-
doored safe and started to twirl the combination. When
he swung the doors open I could see, from where I was
sitting, that the safe contained a motley collection of
guns, jugs of confiscated liquor, parts of copper stills,
and papers. He took out several of the guns and laid
them on the floor. Marvin began to kick his heels on the


152 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
side of the desk. There were footsteps in the hall, and Ed
Brown and Luke Pomeroy came into the office. The
Sheriff turned around as they entered.
"Where are the Miami papers that were in here this
morning?"
"Search me," Luke said.
Ed walked over and looked in the safe. "They were
here when I left for the Inquest at ten this morning.
I closed the safe myself."
Pete picked up the guns and put them back in the
vault. "You know," he said softly, "it makes me sorer
than hell to have evidence stolen out of my own office."
His voice was soft, but his face was drawn and his eyes
were harder than I had ever seen them before.


19
I thought at first that Crossley was fooling. I should
have known better. My left ear was a throbbing reminder
that someone was willing to take desperate risks to re-
cover those fifteen old Miami papers. The lapse of
twenty-four hours had not served to entirely quiet my
nerves from the shattering blast of a shotgun directed at
me when I attempted to remove them from the Simmons
house. Yet, in spite of my own experiences, I sat cold and
unbelieving when Pete announced that they were gone.
To me it was the final breaking down of all the forces of
law and order. A curious feeling of utter helplessness
took possession of me, as if I were pitting myself against
one of those dream monsters from which we can never
escape. Shooting and stabbing were horrible, but tangi-
ble. We had competent officials elected to stamp out such
things. We placed our faith and our security in the hands
of those officers. There was something sinister and de-
moralizing about the self-confidence, and cleverness, of
a criminal who thought no more of the power of the law
than to walk in, in broad daylight, and steal evidence
from the locked safe in the Sheriff's own office.
Marvin's heels still beat their annoying tattoo on the
side of the desk. Pete swung around and faced the State's
Attorney, and exclaimed so savagely that Sanderson visi-
153


154 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
bly jumped: "Go on. Ask me all about it! It's my fault.
I can't even keep things in my own safe any more. Next
week I'll find they've been making shine in the County
Court Room. Here's all I know: four people have the
combination to the safe, Ed, Luke, and Miss Phillips,
besides myself. I'm not very careful with it. Lots of
people stand beside me when I open it. I couldn't name
them all—"
Sanderson stood up. "Don't yell so, Pete. Your blood
pressure will run way up and you'll die from it. What
time did you leave here this morning, Ed?"
"Shortly after ten. I came over from the jail. Mr. Lee
was waiting in the office when I got here. I opened the
safe to put in a knife we took off a nigger last night. The
papers were there then. I locked it again and walked over
to Pryor's with Mr. Lee."
Marvin stopped kicking his heels. "Thanks Ed, but
you better tell them the whole story. He did lock the safe,
Carl, but he went across the hall to the Clerk's office, and
was out of the room for fifteen minutes before we left.
I thought you and Pete might be back before the inquest.
I was anxious to tell you why I had been out of town."
The Chief Deputy looked gratefully at Marvin. "I
didn't think that—"
"Sure, we understand, Ed," the Sheriff said nastily.
"You didn't think it would make any difference. Since
Mitchell was killed nobody in this organization has
thought anything made much difference. It looks like
we're getting afraid somebody in town murdered these
two people, and we might have to arrest them. You didn't
lock the office door when you left?"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 155
"No, sir. It's never locked during the day, as you know.
You—"
"Well, you can lock it now, before the safe is taken.
I'll tell Miss Phillips never to leave it open again. There's
nothing more we can do now. Let's get back over to the
chapel. It's nearly two."
We walked back to Pryor's in silence. Even Marvin's
high spirits of an hour before were dampened by the loss
of the papers on which we had counted so highly. Crossley
was a bundle of nerves. Twice during the afternoon he
left the chapel, and I saw him pacing back and forth in
front of the building. The inquest dragged to a close with-
out anything more of importance being developed. It be-
came obvious, after Marvin, Luke Pomeroy and Crossley
had been questioned, that the Jury would bring in another
verdict of death at the hands of an unknown person.
It was after five when we left the Coroner's Court.
From the testimony given I had formed a very clear men-
tal picture of the happenings at Tiger Creek on the previ-
ous Sunday. Of course, I had no means of knowing that
any of my conclusions were correct, but the evidence
tended to show that the murderer had come by boat up
Tiger Creek, probably from some point less than three
miles below the camp. It was impossible to say whether
he had watched Cass leave the shack, or arrived after
Salmon's friend had left for town. If he had intended
throwing the blame on Cass Rhodes by leaving Mitchell's
watch in the coffee, it had been a fatal piece of careless-
ness to put more wood on the dying fire. Just why he
should have unloaded Salmon's guns, was another point I
was unable to explain to my own satisfaction. The most


156 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
logical reason seemed to be that he wanted to give the
appearance that Salmon had not anticipated any danger.
Marvin left us with the statement that he might drop
in later to call on our guest, and the Sheriff offered to
drive me home. I was still idly conjecturing about the
events of the day when we stopped in front of my house.
Pete and Sanderson, who were in the front seat, started
to laugh, as the Sheriff applied the brakes. As I got out
the cause of their amusement was easy to find. A large
white mule, tethered securely to my gate post, was con-
tentedly munching on my pet kumquat tree which grew
just inside the fence.
I had hardly put my foot on the ground when my front
gate was flung open, and I found myself being literally
dragged into the house by Buddy Nixon. The negro boy
was so distracted that he was incoherent. I finally had to
take him by both shoulders and shake him vigorously to
bring him to a point where I could understand what he
was saying. Out of his hysterical sobbing I gathered the
fact that his father, Abe Nixon, was desperately hurt.
Buddy's own condition was proof enough of the serious-
ness of the case. Without waiting to ask more questions I
dashed into the house for my medical kit. Pete yelled
after me: "I'll take you, Doc. Carl wants to ask Nixon
some questions, anyhow."
I was out again in an instant and bundled the frightened
boy into the back of the sedan. The car leaped under me,
and Buddy clutched my arm in terror as the Sheriff blew
his police siren for an open road. I made an effort to quiet
the boy into a semblance of sanity so I could find out what
to expect.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 157
"Mah po' pappy's dying. Oh, mah po' pappy."
"If you don't quit saying that and tell me what's the
matter with him, I can't help him at all, Buddy. Come
now. Where was he hurt?"
"He cain't talk, Doctor. He's dyin'. He done lef the
house fo' mawning agoing fishin' in the lake. Now he's
dyin'. Mah mammy done find him 'bout a mile from the
house. His laig—hit's all swole, and he cain't breve. We
done drug him home and he cain't talk—" The boy cov-
ered his eyes with a tattered arm. I did not ask him any
more. I had learned enough to know that I had a battle
on my hands if Abe Nixon was to live out the night.
We reached the house as the last light faded from the
sky. I made my way through the quiet negroes gathered
in the yard—gathered together by the underground tele-
graph of the woods which so quickly broadcasts tragedy
to one of their race—and picked my way gingerly over
the litter of sleeping pickaninnies on the porch. The front
room was silent except for the soft sobbing of three
woman huddled close about the fire.
"Where is Abe, quick?"
One of the women rose and picked up a lamp from the
table. I followed her into the back room. As soon as I
entered I could hear the quick, uneven breathing of the
man on the spotless white bed. "Get Mr. Crossley," I
said.
"Here I am, Doc." The Sheriff spoke in back of me.
"Hold the lamp, Pete." I turned to the woman. "You'll
have to wait in the next room. I'll call you if I need you.
Heat some water—boiling."
The man's pulse was quick and feeble. I turned back


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 161
"Go ahead," I said. "It's on the way in, anyhow. Do
you think he's mixed up with those counterfeits?"
"I intend to find out."
"Did you understand anything Abe said?" Carl in-
quired. "I thought you—"
"I'm afraid his mind was wandering. It's a characteristic
of snake poisoning. He told me to keep away from the
snake's sister."
Pete slowed down a trifle. "The snake's sister? That's
a weird one, Carl. Did you ever hear that expression be-
fore?"
"No. Doc's about right. He was out of his head. Say—
he might have been talking about the second bite he got.
Don't rattlers run in pairs sometimes?"
"Let me tell you something, Carl. I've roamed this State
more than average since I've been Sheriff. I've heard a
lot of talk about rattlesnakes. I'm yet to see my first one
in the woods, and Abe Nixon is the first man I have ever
seen bitten. How many cases have you treated, Doc?"
"This is the third—in twenty years. I think one of the
other two was a moccasin bite. I've killed one rattler in
the woods in that time. That doesn't prove that they aren't
plentiful—if you start to look for them. I know one man
who makes a living catching them. He has found as many
as ten in one day—"
"But what I'm driving at is that rattlesnake bites are
rare. They're a lazy snake. They'd rather rattle than
strike. But when they get mad, or something moves
quickly near them and scares them, they're sudden death.
I don't like it, Carl. I don't like it."
A match glowed and revealed the troubled face of the


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 163
furnishings were simple. A blue linoleum rug lent a touch
of color. A white enamel single bed in one corner was care-
fully made—army style. A heavy gasoline chandelier
hung from the ceiling on a rope which ran through a
pulley. An ingenious device which allowed it to be low-
ered for lighting and filling. A reading lamp, and a few
books and magazines were the only articles on the big
table in the center of the room. In another corner a glass-
doored cabinet contained dishes and more books. Some
clothes were hung on the wall, shielded by a chintz
curtain.
The Sheriff started a quick, but thorough search. He
turned the mattress back on the bed, and felt it over care-
fully. Then he took off all the covers and scrutinized the
ticking on both sides, and along the edges. "Nothing there.
Make it up, will you, Carl." A drawer in the table dis-
closed a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends. I re-
placed them while Pete took the books out of the cup-
board and shook each one to see if anything fell from
between the pages.
"No luck," he growled. "Let's try the kitchen. Bring
the lamp, Doc." The back room contained only a kitchen
table and chair, a kerosene stove, and a big, trunk-shaped
ice box built to hold several hundred pounds of ice. Pete
lifted the lid and looked in. A large cake of ice was in
each end of the box. A pan, half full of milk, a plate of
butter, and some cold fried chicken, lay on one of the
cakes. On the floor of the ice box in the center were five
galvanized pails full of water. Pete closed the lid, and
we went back into the front room.


164 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
Sanderson looked at his watch. "It's getting late, Pete.
Looks like you're wasting your time. Where do you think
he is?"
A thought occurred to me. "I'll bet he's at the Elk's
Dance. It's Washington's Birthday, you know."
Crossley was gazing speculatively around. "I wonder
where he keeps his shotgun. I haven't seen anything of
it." He rummaged through the clothes under the curtain.
"Nothing here. I think I'll take a look under the rug.
It's the only place left." He pushed the table off the
linoleum, and rolled back half of the nine by twelve mat.
A brass ring was set flush with the floor. He hooked his
finger in it, and lifted up a trap door revealing a closet
about a foot deep skilfully built between the joists. It
was lined with tin, and appeared moisture proof.
"That's pretty neat," Sanderson remarked. "A gun
closet under the floor."
The Sheriff picked out a pump shotgun and a 30-30
rifle and examined them under the lamp. There was noth-
ing else in the closet except several boxes of ammunition.
"A nice pair of guns for a jeweler's clerk on twenty-five
per week. The shotgun's worth about sixty dollars, and the
rifle considerably more. Where did he get off telling us he
was an amateur hunter? No amateur ever picked out
these two. And look at the way he keeps them." He placed
them back carefully where he had found them.
I was about to lower the heavy lid which I had been
holding, when Pete stopped me. "Hold on, Doc. I'm not
satisfied with this yet." He felt carefully over the tin
sides of the closet, then got up and started kicking around
in it with one foot. He went down on his knees again, and


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 165
pushed one end of the receptacle. Like a well fitted drawer
it slid out of sight under the floor. I held the lamp higher
to better illuminate the opening.
On the ground, a few feet below us, was a bulky, ob-
long bundle wrapped in heavy brown canvas. It was
bound lengthwise, with a thin strong rope. By lying flat on
his stomach, Pete was just able to reach the top of the
bundle. He could lift one end off the ground, but his
position was too awkward to get it up into the room.
"Unh!" he grunted. "Give me a hand, Carl." They tried
it together, very much hampered by the cramped space
in which they had to work.
"It's no go, Pete. I'll have to get down in there. I'm
smaller than you. No. Wait. I've just thought of the real
reason for that rig-up on the ceiling lamp." He stood up
and walked to where the loose end of the rope supporting
the light was tied to a hook on the wall. "Look out. I'm
going to lower the lamp. Good! Now unfasten the lamp
and lower the rope into the hole. That's it. Hook it onto
your package now—and up she comes. Your friend, Harry,
thinks of everything, Pete." Carl hauled in steadily on
the rope. With the help of the improvised hoist we soon
had the unwieldy thing on the floor, and I was working
feverishly on the buckle of a strap.
"Don't take it all apart," Pete cautioned me. "I just
want to look in one end. I know what's in it."
"You know what's—"
"Sure. It's a boat. It had to be around the place some-
where. I traced it through a sporting goods store in Lake-
land. They don't sell a lot of these. They remembered
Bartlett when I described him. All right, tighten her up


166 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
again. Well put it back. Are things beginning to look
clearer to you fellows now?"
"No." The State's Attorney spoke decisively. "And I
doubt if they look any clearer to you, either. I don't know
of any law prohibiting a man from owning two guns and
a boat. And furthermore, he can bury them if he wants
to. You can't arrest Bartlett on that, and you—"
"Did you hear me mention arresting anybody, Doc? I
merely asked if things looked any clearer—" We replaced
the ceiling lamp, the rug, and the table. Pete looked
around to see if things had been left as we found them.
I went out of the house first to turn on the car lights.
Bartlett's dog thumped his tail on the porch as I passed.
I patted his head and he wriggled appreciation. I felt
like I had been intruding. The neat house, homelike and
clean, the unlocked door, and the friendly pup—some-
how they just did not fit in the picture with the hidden
gun closet, and that damning canvas boat. A difficult
thing to explain away—that boat so carefully concealed
under the living room floor.
The others joined me in the yard. I passed around my
cigarettes. Carl held a match for the Sheriff and me, then
flicked it away. "No three on a match for me tonight.
Ugh! That business about the snake's sister—"
Pete interrupted. "You said back in the house that my
friend, Harry, thought of everything. You really meant
that, didn't you?"
"I certainly did. That gun drawer. The hoist to pull up
his boat. You can bet—"
"I guess I haven't had experience enough with men with
his brains." Pete opened the door of the car, and paused


21
There comes a time in every man's life when he realizes
he is past his prime. Whether it comes suddenly, or
gradually, it is always a bitter pill to swallow. I had not
fooled myself into thinking I was still young and chipper,
but I had allowed the lure of terrific excitement to
bolster me up through a week of mental distress, and
physical exertion, which would have broken down many
younger, and stronger, men. Tearing around in my car,
trying to match the unbounded energy of the Sheriff,
coupled with my own terrifying experiences, had proved
too much for me. Ordinarily a sound sleeper, for seven
nights I had been restless and wakeful. My ear was pain-
ful, and was not healing as it should. On the morning
following Abe Nixon's tragic death I was so exhausted
that I knew I would have to stay in bed for at least a
day and rest.
I felt rather like a repentant schoolboy when I an-
nounced my decision to Mae, and asked her to bring me
some breakfast. She had warned me, more than once,
that I was overtaxing my strength, and I had scoffed at
the idea.
"I'm glad you're going to rest," was all she said, when
I told her. "If you like, I'll set up the card table, and
Celia and I will have breakfast with you in your room."
168


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 169
"If you do that I may decide to stay in bed every
morning."
"But we're going as soon as we eat. You have to sleep.
I'm not going to wake you for phone calls."
"Now, Mae—"
"Dr. Stuart can handle anything that's urgent. You're
out of town for the day."
Our informal breakfast was very pleasant. Celia regaled
us with the plans she and Marvin had made for their
wedding, and how happy she was that her fiance was re-
leased from his self-imposed silence.
"He's a fine man, honey. You won't find one in a hun-
dred who would have kept his mouth shut under the
same circumstances."
"He couldn't have stood it if you hadn't believed in
him."
"I think it was your belief much more than mine."
"Oh, he knew I would. You and Mrs. Ryan gave him
the additional support he needed. It looked like every-
one thought he was mixed up in this thing except you
two."
"I don't think that, Celia," Mae said. "I doubt if Pete
Crossley ever had an idea that Marvin was involved—"
"If he ever had, it's gone now, anyhow. He found a
canvas boat under Bartlett's house last night. It was a
rather terrible evening. Buddy's father died from a rat-
tler bite." I told them what had transpired. "I suppose you
heard about the inquest, and the Miami papers disap-
pearing."
"Marvin told us. He said you all had quite a day of it."
Mae thoughtfully munched a piece of toast. "Are you


170 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
certain Abe said that about the snake's sister, Will? It's
so strange—almost uncanny."
"I'm as certain as I can be. Of course, the man was
dying, but that's what I understood him to say."
"So that was Harry Bartlett I saw the night before
last—"
"It's beginning to look that way, Celia. Anyhow, Pete
said he was going to act quick—right or wrong. He said
he had to find out where Abe got that counterfeit
money—"
"Were they the same as the one Celia turned over to
Pete?"
"He didn't say, and I didn't think to ask him. He evi-
dently recognized them as being phoney right away. I
see he took Buddy's mule."
"Early this morning, I heard his car, and got up." Mae
started to clear away the dishes. "I hope Pete doesn't
make a fool of himself—this 'right or wrong' business I
mean—"
"I don't think he'll jump at things, Mae. He didn't
mention arresting anybody. Sanderson seemed rather
afraid he might act hastily, too." Celia left the room carry-
ing the tray. "Pete also said last night that Mitchell
might have left those Floridians." I told my wife.
She put down a cream pitcher she was holding, and
patted my pillows into place. "That's true, he might have.
One guess is as good as another, when you don't know.
Go to sleep now, and don't play detective any more to-
day." The door closed softly behind her.
I nestled down comfortably in my bed, and immediately
started on a most wonderful series of mental journeys to


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 171
points of interest around Orange Crest. An auto trip to
Lake Louisa was made in record time, and I got shot at
all over again for my pains. I discovered a new route from
the lake to Tiger Creek, but the going was not so good.
I waded through endless swamps adroitly dodging a pro-
cession of moccasins and rattlers which persistently fol-
lowed me. I found several new flues in the Simmons
house, and unearthed some vicious looking knives, and
endless neat packages of counterfeit bills concealed in
canvas boats. It took twenty minutes of swishing about
the country before I grasped the fact that sleep was out
of the question. A lifetime of early rising could not be
put aside in a single morning.
A few minutes later I was propped up in bed deeply
immersed in the business of solving our local mystery
with the aid of a pencil and a large pad of paper. I
started out first by framing a short word picture of Celia's
father, and of the known facts about him which might
have led to his death. After much alteration it read some-
thing like this:
david mitchell (deceased)
Age. 55. Widower. One daughter—Celia. Bank President.
Orange Crest, Fla. Special Game Warden: Arrested many illegal
hunters. Motive of revenge—possible but unlikely. All suspects
investigated by authorities.
Fanatical Prohibitionist: Caused arrest of Red Salmon (de-
ceased) for making moonshine. Motive of revenge: possible.
(Why was Salmon killed?)
Banking Interests: Refused many loans. Foreclosed on many
people. Reputation of being a hard man. Motive of revenge:
possible but very unlikely.
Private Fortune: Left considerable money and property. In-


172 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
terested parties: Celia, Marvin Lee, and possibly Forman
Spence. Motive of personal gains: possible but unlikely.
Connection with Counterfeits: Only connection is bill found in
wallet. Very improbable that a man of wealth and high stand-
ing could be involved in a gang of counterfeiters. Therefore:
Criminal motive very unlikely.
Robbery: Watch taken, but according to Cass Rhodes left
where it would throw suspicion on someone else. Robbery mo-
tive: unlikely.
I read it over carefully, then remembered I had not
included the old police slogan of cherchez la Jemme. I
added:
Women: Daily life under close scrutiny in a small town. No
whisper of a scandal. Women motive: out of question.
A summary of what I had put down indicated only that
every motive was unlikely. I laid the dossier of David
Mitchell to one side and started compiling one for possi-
ble suspects. When Mae looked in at lunch time to see
if I was awake, I handed her the list to read:
Marvin Lee: Motive: $25,000.00 left him by Mitchell. Last
known person to have seen Mitchell alive. Satisfactory explana-
tion for that, and for trip to New York. Unsatisfactory explana-
tion about buried shotgun. Could have killed Red Salmon, i.e.
if he had a boat. No. What about fire in shack which cleared
Cass Rhodes? (Suppose some unknown person came to shack
after Red was killed, put wood on fire, and left frightened.)
that would also implicate:
Cass Rhodes: Motive: possible hatred for man who had caused
Red's arrest. Could have killed David Mitchell and Salmon.
Motive for killing Salmon: because Salmon knew he was Mit-
chell's slayer.
Forman Spence: Motive: $50,000.00 which he owed to


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
173
Mitchell and for which he was being pushed. Suspicious reti-
cence about loan from Mitchell. In his store on afternoon of
Mitchell's death. Witnesses to prove it. (Who?) Then how could
he be murderer?
Timothy Reig: Motive unknown. What about connection with
counterfeits? Reig is an engraver. Apparently has an alibi
through Harry Bartlett. Why did he leave dining room when
he saw Bartlett at window? Where was he Sunday afternoon
when Salmon was stabbed?
Harry Bartlett: Motive unknown. Admitted playing races in
Miami. Counterfeit money received by bank in deposit of
Miami bookmaker. If Reig's alibi is good then Bartlett could
not have killed Mitchell. What did he use boat for? What was
he doing outside my house at night? Where was he when Salmon
was killed; when I was shot at in the Simmons house? Might
not he and Reig be in it together, and neither of the alibis any
good?
"You've covered them pretty thoroughly, Will. Where
are the rest?"
"That's all. Have I left anyone out?"
"Several. Put these down." I listed them as she named
them.
DEAD.
Red Salmon: Motive: Revenge. If he killed Mitchell then why
was he killed, and by whom?
Abe Nixon: Did he get the counterfeit bills the day he was
killed, or did he take them from Mitchell's body the day
Mitchell was killed? No check up, but he could have killed both
Mitchell and Salmon, also done the attempted shooting, and the
attempted robbery of the papers at night. Could hardly have
taken the papers from the Sheriff's safe. What did he mean by
the "snake's sister"?
"Good heavens, Mae! You certainly complicate things


22
Dinner time found me up and dressed, much rested and
refreshed by my day of idleness. When our local after-
noon paper was delivered I found that Pete had kept a
lot of things to himself. I eagerly pored over every word
of the front page feature—the biggest news break our
modest daily had had since the big freeze. The editor, a
former member of the staff of a large metropolitan daily,
had let himself go and imbued the story with all the dig-
nity of a feature in the New York Times.
BARTLETT ARRESTED BY
SHERIFF'S OFFICE FOR
MITCHELL-SALMON
MURDERS.
CLERK IN FORMAN SPENCE'S JEWELRY
STORE SEEN WITH DECEASED BANKER
A YEAR AGO.
Used Folding Canvas Boat.
Sheriff Crossley Finds Guns and Boat
Hidden under Floor of Suspect's House
on Louisa Road.
An athletic, soft-spoken, young man
who has worked as a clerk in Spence's
176


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
Jewelry Store since last August, and who
admits he had a fondness for playing the
races in Miami, is in the County Jail this
afternoon charged with the murder of
David Mitchell, and John (Red) Salmon
because an intelligent officer of the law
attempted the formidable task of tracing
every canvas boat shipped into this State.
The prisoner, who has gone under the
name of Harry Bartlett, and whose
twenty-nine years have included two
years in College and two years in the
army, was held without bail for a hear-
ing next Wednesday, at which officers
hope to identify him with two recent at-
tempts on the life of Dr. William Ryan,
and the theft of papers from a safe in the
Sheriff's office. Meanwhile Sheriff Cross-
ley was receiving the congratulations of
State's Attorney Sanderson for making
an arrest which involved both physical
courage and unusual headwork.
Connection with Banker Withheld.
Bartlett, with quiet hauteur, refused
to tell the officers anything about his
family or his personal life, other than
that by occupation he was a goldsmith,
and an expert carpenter. His former con-
nection with the murdered President of
the Bank of Orange Crest was not dis-
closed. It was learned on good authority
that a few weeks before the prisoner
started to work for Mr. Spence, he was
seen shaking hands with the deceased
banker as the latter was alighting from


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 179
The officers examined with interest
the formidable Luger automatic pistol
he had carried in an armpit holster, and
asked him if he would have shot a man
with it.
"Certainly not," he answered non-
chalantly. "I used that to shoot rabbits
for dinner."
Used Boat for Fishing.
When queried about the 30-30 rifle,
the twelve gauge shotgun, and the fold-
ing canvas boat found in his house, he
was equally uncommunicative. The au-
thorities said they learned, however, that
Bartlett (?) had bought the boat through
a sporting goods store in Lakeland. The
guns, he claimed had been given him by
his father. He flatly refused to reveal his
father's name or address.
There was much more, of course. The two murders
were rehashed in detail. A long editorial eulogized the
County officers for their efficiency. My part in the affair
received a column to itself. I blush today when it is men-
tioned. We learned the rest of the particulars from Mar-
vin at dinner.
The Sheriff had become suspicious of Bartlett the day
after Mitchell was killed. The station agent, Nate McCor-
mick, a regular old woman for gossip, had recalled seeing
Mitchell get off the 10:35 train from Jacksonville one
night about a year previous. The banker had talked with
a man in the vestibule of the Pullman car while the train
was in the station. When the banker got off the man went


180 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
back in the car and sat down by the window in the smok-
ing compartment. McCormick had been trying since Bart-
lett came to town, to think where he had seen him before.
On the sixteenth, with the papers full of the crime, he
suddenly remembered him as the man with whom
Mitchell had spoken on the train. He took his information
to Forman Spence, who carried it to Pete.
It was a small thing to work on, but old Nate's remem-
brance of unimportant happenings had helped the Sheriff
before. With plodding pertinacity Pete had started mak-
ing casual inquiries about Forman's employee from the
farmers and loggers of Manasaw County. He was re-
warded by finding three people who were ready to swear
they had seen Bartlett in the vicinity of Orange Crest
several times before he went to work for the jeweler.
Ed Brown and Luke Pomeroy were given the job of
interviewing all the purchasers of hunting licenses to ob-
tain a list of those who had been out on the last day.
Again a stroke of luck favored the officers: a hunter was
located who had seen Bartlett's Ford on the fifteenth. It
was parked near the Cow Pasture across Lake Louisa
from the Simmons house about five in the afternoon. The
man had been out hunting with Bartlett, and knew his
car. The information appeared reliable.
New developments tumbled over each other. The clerk's
references were proven false when his photograph was
sent to his supposed prior connections. His purchase of
the boat in Lakeland was uncovered. The culmination
came with our search of his house, and Crossley's finds.
The Sheriff had laid all his information before Sanderson,


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 181
and together they had returned to Bartlett's house after
leaving me at home. When Bartlett came home, about one
in the morning, he was placed under arrest.
"Do you think they will be able to convict him, Mar-
vin?" Mae asked.
"That's very hard to say. He has refused to talk to
anyone. Doesn't want a lawyer. Says he just wants to be
let alone."
"But what could Daddy have been doing on the train
with a man like that?" Celia asked.
"Carl and Pete are both close-mouthed about that
phase of it. They must know something. As I told Doc,
Tuesday night, that counterfeit bill may have been the
cause of his death. What I had in mind was that he might
have stumbled onto a gang of counterfeiters through in-
formation which he picked up in the bank. If Bartlett
happened to be a member of such an outfit—"
"Then he wouldn't have been coming from Jackson-
ville with Celia's father."
"That's true, Mae," I agreed. "If Mr. Mitchell knew
the facts. But suppose Bartlett had deliberately set out
to scrape up an acquaintance with Celia's father. If he's
a member of a gang circulating bad money in this State,
he may have been sent here to watch. He may have been
following Dave Mitchell in Jacksonville, and taken the
same train to see what information he could get. It's easy
to start a conversation in a smoking room of a Pullman.
You never heard your father mention that he knew Bart-
lett, did you Celia?"
"Never."


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 183
remark: "In spite of all the facts against him, I don't
believe you think he is guilty."
"It's a nice case." He rested his elbow on the table,
cupped his chin in his hand, and gazed pensively at a
picture on the wall. "Sanderson won't have any trouble
proving that Bartlett could have committed both the
crimes. Why, hang it all, he wasn't even in the store Tues-
day when you and Ed were at the lake. Said he was home.
Bad headache, or something. Furthermore he hasn't a wit-
ness to prove what he did the Sunday Red was killed. On
the surface the motive seems to be the only weak link,
and you have succeeded in thinking up one that is as
good as any. The really inexplicable points that exist will
be glossed over with great skill by our eminent prose-
cutor."
"And they are?"
"Who took the Miami papers from the safe. I was in
the office when the daors were locked. According to Ed
Brown they were in there then. Miss Phillips was in the
office from noon until we went in and discovered the
loss—"
"But Bartlett had an equal chance with anybody else."
"How do you make that out, Doc? He was in Pryor's
when Ed and I went in, and he stayed there all morning.
You just didn't see him, but he was sitting in the next
to the last row of chairs. Did you see Tim Reig?"
"Yes."
"Well, Bartlett was four seats in back of him. Now
that's one thing, and there are plenty of others. Neither
Crossley, nor Carl, have any idea what connection Abe
Nixon has with this business. I was present this morning


184 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
when they questioned Bartlett. Either I don't know my
witnesses, or Bartlett's the best liar in the world when he
says that he never heard of Abe Nixon in his life." Marvin
took his elbow off the table and pointed a finger at me.
"Bartlett may be guilty as hell, but they've got to show
me! I'm going to spend the next few days trying to find
out about the snake's sister. When I find that out, I'll be
well on my way to knowing who planted a canvas boat
under my porch this afternoon, while I was in the jail
talking with the man they've arrested!"


23
Pure chance played the largest part in connecting me
with the events dated between the fifteenth and the
twenty-fourth of February. That is not quite true, either.
Professional calls took me to Salmon's, and Nixon's. My
trip to Lake Louisa with the Chief Deputy was an out-
come of my close friendship with Pete Crossley. For what
happened after Harry Bartlett was lodged in the jail I
have only my consuming curiosity as an excuse—that,
and a deep proneness toward meddling. Mae once re-
marked sententiously: "There's no fool like an old doc-
tor!" Shall we let it go at that?
Friday was beautiful—Florida fishing weather—drip-
ping sunshine washed by a light west wind. I dis-
carded the bandage on my head and put a less conspicu-
ous adhesive tape dressing on my ear, which still felt
the size of a platter of roast beef. Then, fortified with a
new spring suit, I sallied forth to call on some of my
patients. I made my rounds, greatly relieved to find that
nothing untoward had developed during my short period
of neglect. By noon, slightly piqued, I had decided that
my ministrations were not nearly so important as I had
always thought.
I found a parking place in front of Thatcher's Drug
Store, and went in to leave a couple of prescriptions, and
185


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 189
While I was dressing Marvin told me more of his plans.
He had learned from an ancient darky who groomed the
Court House lawn, that an old man, named Langley, had
assisted in building the Simmons house. Langley had a
place about the size of Bartlett's several miles further
out on the same road. Our first stop was to be there in a
quest for information about the construction of the build-
ing erected so many years before. The attorney had high
hopes we would get some hint which might lead us to a
secret hiding place. I was skeptical. I had searched the
house, and I scoffed at the idea that I could miss a place
big enough to operate a still.
I left a note for Mae that I had gone fishing with Mar-
vin, and asked her to save us some dinner in case we were
late. When I put my tackle in the back of Marvin's car I
had to pack it in beside a bundle similar to the one we had
found under Bartlett's floor. Its bulk nearly filled the back
of the small sedan.
"Why the canvas boat?"
"Someone left it for me. I might as well use it. I'm
going to try to find the old road Simmons used to use to
the lake. It will save us time. Langley can tell us about
it. It's somewhere right near his farm. Get in."
"How do you know that thing's safe?" I poked it with
a derogatory finger.
"I don't, but I'm interested in seeing what it's like,
and how long it takes to set it up. If we can't manage
it we'll have to drive back and take the other road out
to where your boat is."
We passed the last neat white bungalow on the edge
of town, and as I watched its rows of crimson poinsettias


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 193
detached on our rough trip over the road. It was more
sensible to assume that the card had already been loose
when the incriminating boat was planted. In his estima-
tion the thing was done, more to throw suspicion on Tim
Reig, than on Marvin Lee. "I'm just guessing," he ad-
mitted, as we settled ourselves in the tiny craft. "It's a
bad habit, but I'm learning not to believe everything I
see. Don't forget Bert Nelson's shotgun."
We had wasted a lot of the afternoon, so I regretfully
dismissed the pleasure of trolling. I knew my companion
was eager to make his own investigation. I could fish on
the way back if time permitted. The little shell, which had
caused us so much conjecture, skimmed gracefully over
the water at every dip of the oars. A real craftsman had
designed it. Although it was only nine feet long, it was
broad of beam, and far steadier than many larger boats
I had fished from. We grounded by the Simmons house
dock in less than ten minutes after leaving the opposite
shore.
Marvin took from the boat a heavy burlap sack which
clinked dolefully when he moved it. "Tools." He laughed
at my expression. "I'm going to find something if I have
to dig up the house."
"You don't have much faith in my searching ability."
"I admire it highly. But I'm armed with knowledge. I
know that Simmons had a hiding place—and a big one.
That's more than Pete knows now. You and his men have
saved me the trouble of a routine search. Did you bring a
gun?"
"No. What for?"
"You can ask me that? Here, take this." He handed me


194 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
a long barreled thirty-eight, and two handfuls of car-
tridges. "It's loaded. Keep it in the side pocket of your
coat. See that it's free and clear. I want you to watch
while I look."
"What do I watch for?"
"Anybody who is around here. Here's the idea: I'm
going to look over the inside first. We go in together, and
quickly go through every room. Keep the gun in your
hand—cocked. If there is anybody in any of those rooms
—don't wait—shoot. They're trespassers and we're not.
I have written permission from the present owners to
make this search. Keep firing until you drop anyone we
see. Can I count on you?"
"But all this melodrama?" I said, dubiously. "I can't
just shoot a man down in cold blood—"
"There have been three funerals in the past eight
days." Marvin was showing signs of strain. "There have
nearly been four—yourself being the fourth. If you don't
feel like shooting in cold blood—in case we find anybody
in the house—we better go back now. We may not go
back at all."
"I'll start shooting."
"Come on then—quickly!" He picked up his bag of
tools, and together we almost ran up the rise to the front
of the house. He dropped the bag by the porch steps.
"Right in back of me now! Stick together 1" He opened
the front door. A pungent, sickly stench rushed to meet
us. My stomach nearly revolted, but Marvin went in and
I followed. The hall was dank. (As I read back over what
I have written, I realize that, even now, I detest that


196 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
and watched him as he minutely scrutinized every inch
of the floor. His search extended out into the hall, where
he also went over the walls, and the front door. He came
back, and with a pocket knife started digging in the small
shot holes in the plaster by the entrance to the hallway.
I heard him mutter: "Damn!" Then, rather to my cha-
grin, I found I had been peeping out of the windows my-
self.
He saw me and grinned. "Gets you, doesn't it? Has
Pete been out here since you were?"
"I think he has. Sanderson mentioned coming—"
"I guess they beat me to it."
"What?"
"The shot. I've been trying to find one of the pellets.
There are none here. You're positive you heard two shots
Tuesday morning?"
"Positive. They were very close together, but—"
"That's what I can't understand. The fellow who
blazed at you was using a funny load. Count these holes
in the wall."
"Nineteen, but I don't see—"
"Nor I. Mitchell was killed with double-0 buckshot. I'm
assuming the same kind was fired at you—I don't know
until I find one. I happen to be up on shotgun loads
through a case I defended. I know this much: there are
only nine pellets of single-0 buckshot in a 12 gauge shell
—so that load is eliminated. There are nineteen holes
here. See?"
"Yes, that's clear enough. But what about a larger gun
—a 10 gauge for example?"
"No good. Neither are the smaller ones—a 16, nor a


25
It was dusk when we crossed the lake on our way home.
We pulled the boat up on shore, and I started to dis-
mantle it. Marvin stopped me.
"Help me hide it in the bushes."
"You're going to leave it here?"
"I'm coming back early in the morning. I prefer the
bad road to the long row."
"Haven't you had enough of that place?"
"Too much. But I sidetracked myself this afternoon.
I came out to find Simmons' old distillery. I'm not going to
quit until I do." We hauled the boat into a thick clump
of palmettos, and put the tool sack into it.
"What time had we better leave?" I asked.
I could not see his face, but I heard his chuckle. "So
the old sleuth can't stay away from the trail either?"
"Stay away!" I stormed. "Wild horses couldn't drag
me out here on my own. It's only the sight of a silly dolt
like you sticking his chucklehead into something alone.
I'll come and take care of you for Celia. You and your
'shoot on sight!'"
"Thanks," he said soberly. "Put it any way you want
it. You're still one hundred per cent. We'll leave town at
seven in the morning."
Neither of us attempted to talk as we thumped and
200


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 201
jounced over the sand trail. The headlights pointed alter-
nately at the black sky and down into the white sand. I
watched them with a fascination which acted as a nar-
cotic to my discomfort. My mind was busy with the events
of the afternoon, and troubled with what the morning
might bring. Bodily relief from the jolting brought me
back to the car. The road had flattened out. I gazed at
the two faint black lines we were following into the dark-
ness beyond. They were grass grown and dim, and totally
unfamiliar. Then I knew that Marvin had no idea where
we were going.
I kept my mouth shut, the best—and hardest—thing to
do under the circumstances. Sand roads spider-web every
mile of the Florida woods. Their signposts are fallen trees,
old logs, swamps and lakes, and a mediumistic knowledge
of their peculiar habits. Trails of the logger and the
hunter, they lead everywhere, and just as surely nowhere.
It takes skill to drive them in the daytime; sure knowl-
edge at night. The motorist who hesitates in the darkness
at one of their thousand forks is lost. The most familiar
landmarks perversely become unrecognizable in the glare
of electric lamps. In the vast wilderness of Gulf Hammock
one night, I drove for five hours with a woodsman who
had lived there all his life. We were trying to find his
farmhouse. When we came upon it from the back, both of
us failed to recognize it. He stopped the car at his own
home to inquire where we were.
Marvin drove on. The black ruts changed to white.
Stunted oaks pressed in close on each side of us, scraping
the paint and banging noisily on the fenders. I closed the
windows beside me to keep their branches from snapping


26
I lay awake for an hour after Marvin's phone call. Step
by step, with the ephemeral clarity of late wakefulness,
the events of the past ten days paraded themselves be-
fore me. It was hard to realize that it was only ten days.
It seemed more like weeks, or even years. I switched on
the reading light beside my bed, and jotted down my
part in the affair on a prescription pad.
The discovery of Celia's father, and the bad night that
followed; the search for the banker's watch in Forman
Spence's store; the harrowing trip to Tiger Creek, fol-
lowing Cass Rhodes' bobbing lantern through the swamp;
the tragic discovery at the end of the journey; my nar-
row escape in the Simmons house, and in my own room;
(I glanced nervously at the door when I wrote this to
see that it was really closed.) my part in the Salmon in-
quest, with my unwitting implication of Cass Rhodes;
our lunch in the Southern Hotel, and the theft of the
Miami Floridians from the Sheriff's safe; Abe Nixon's
strange death, and his stranger last words; the arrest of
Harry Bartlett; and the, to my mind, conclusive evidence
of the previous afternoon, that, in some way, Tim Reig
was mixed up in the whole ugly business.
The cigarette I had lit was finished. I put it out in the
ashtray beside my bed, and read over the list again. With
207


208 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
the implication of Tim Reig things began to fit together.
He had been in Crossley's office the morning the papers
were stolen. His long delicate fingers were better fitted to
manipulate a stubborn combination than those on any
other pair of hands in Orange Crest. On the list of sus-
pects I had drawn up the day before, I had already
marked down the possibility of his connection with the
counterfeit money.
There were two people in the house the night I was
attacked. Why not Reig and Harry Bartlett? Bartlett
had lied about Reig's whereabouts on the day Mitchell
was killed. What object could he have had in that if not
to protect an accomplice in his crimes? The whole thing
began to look very simple. Bartlett, through some former
connection in the jewelry business, had probably known
Reig long before. He had interested the staid watchmaker
in counterfeiting as an end to making easy money. The
taciturn David Mitchell had crossed the trail of the gang
with whom Spence's employees were connected. Bartlett
had been assigned to the job of seeing that the banker
created no trouble. Tipped off by Tim Reig that there
was a vacancy in Forman's store, he had secured it to keep
a closer watch on Mitchell. The rest was simple!
I reached over and shut off the light with a disgusted
snap. Simple, except for the fact that I was leaving at six
o'clock in the morning to hunt for something that had to
do with a pump in the kitchen of the Simmons house, and
that Marvin expected a bird dog to do the finding. Simple,
but for the fact that I had spent the whole previous after-
noon with my nerves as taut as banjo strings and a cocked


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 211
"If we find anything and need them, we can get them.
The main thing now is the dog."
We met Buddy a quarter of a mile down the road from
his house. I gave him a cock-and-bull story about Mr. Lee
wanting to see how a bird dog worked, and he received
it with the characteristic imperturbability of his race.
The boy was still so dejected over the loss of his father
that I doubt if he comprehended what I was talking about.
At any rate he agreed, without argument, to allow me to
take Kate, his pointer bitch, for the day. He jumped on
the running-board of the car, and we drove up to the
house to get the dog.
"If she gets to runnin' rabbits, Doctah, just switch her
a bit and she'll quit it."
I was afraid we might have trouble with her. On the
contrary, she wriggled and squirmed gleefully at the sight
of the car. When I held the back door open for her, she
jumped in eagerly, and proceeded to make herself com-
fortable by putting her hind legs on the back seat, and
her two front ones on the back of my seat, where she
could breathe on my neck and look out of the window.
Buddy had said she was a pointer. I did not inquire fur-
ther into the matter. All dogs belonging to negroes in the
South are pointers if they hunt birds, regardless of what
strange breed may crop up in their ancestry now and
again. Some of them are better than thoroughbreds, some
of them indifferent, and some of them perfectly terrible.
Luckily, Kate belonged in the first classification. She was
black and white, long and rangy, with big strong legs.
Her head was broad, and her friendly eyes were limpid
and intelligent. She snuffled eagerly down the neck of my


27
I had wondered many times during my life just what I
would do face to face with great personal danger. Would
my actions be those of a strong man or a weakling? Would
I act with calm deliberation, or disastrous recklessness?
Did I have the same stuff in me as the debonair gentlemen
in the cigarette ads, who remained nonchalant with the
world crashing about their ears? Futile wonderings from
the safety of my own armchair! In the throes of the
wildest nightmare, I could never have pictured myself
crouched in utter darkness on a four foot ledge, the death
rattle of the tropics whirring in my ears!
I laughed! Nerves will stand just so much. Mine had
had more than enough. As the rectangle of sunlight was
blotted out, I heard the click of the fastened staple over
our heads. It finished me. I burst into crazy, hysterical
laughter. Marvin let go of my wrist. A match flared.
Vigorously, and with great deliberation, he began to slap
my face. It brought me to my senses like a plunge in the
lake. I did not get mad. I was not even surprised. It
seemed a perfectly natural thing for him to do. Neither of
us has mentioned the incident since.
"How many matches have you?" The voice in the
blackness was as casual as if he had bid three no trump.
218


220 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
"I hope she's all right. We didn't hear any shots. If
she does get back home it won't do us much good. They'll
just think she wouldn't hunt with strangers."
It is with a sense of utter futility that I attempt to ex-
press my admiration for Marvin Lee. Imprisoned in that
place, as black as the bottom of a full tar barrel; on a
narrow ledge with no room to stand erect; with a horrible
death awaiting him at the slightest slip; he calmly started
squirming around to explore our dungeon while I struck
matches.
The sliding door by which we had entered was hopeless.
It covered an opening in one corner of the vault. The rest
of the arched top was of mortar and stone. The wood of
the underside of the door was as slippery as mica, and
offered no handhold whatever. The cistern was large. We
measured it afterward and found it was ten feet deep,
twenty-four feet long, and eighteen feet across. Trapped
in it, it was as boundless as the endless caverns.
I had burned ten of our matches when Marvin found
that the ledge we were on extended around the wall on one
side. It was narrower along the side, just two feet wide,
to be exact. We sat in the dark and discussed the advan-
tages and disadvantages of trying to negotiate it on our
hands and knees. The risk of slipping was great. We had
tried lighting three matches at once, but we could not be
sure that there was a ledge at the other end similar to the
one we were on. If we met a blank wall at the other end
and had to turn around—I broke out in a cold sweat at the
thought.
"I think it's foolish to try it, Marvin. If we gained any-
thing—"


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 223
slipped over the side into the pit below. The matches
dropped from my nerveless hand.
"Exit the elaps fulvius." He was breathing fast as he
clipped off his words. "They're dangerous, but you have
to jump on one to make him bite you. Now if our friend
had only thought to import a couple of cobras—"
"You mean these snakes were put in here?"
"Surely. Do you think it's some kind of a clubhouse?
Strike another match and I'll show you the door they are
guarding. It's right over my head in the end wall."
It was there, right enough. We swung up a heavy piece
of sheet iron, revealing an opening large enough to admit
a good sized man. The iron was old and rusty, but it
moved easily on well oiled hinges. A large hook in the
top of the cistern was placed to hold it open. My com-
rade wriggled half through. I gave him more light. He
disappeared entirely.
"Stay where you are for a minute." His voice reverber-
ated hollowly. There was a noise of matches scratching.
Then, blessed relief, the whole place was flooded with
light from a pressure gasoline lantern.
We found ourselves in another stone chamber, almost
a duplicate of the one we had just left, only larger. We
knelt together on the platform at the end and looked down
onto the floor. It was at least fifteen feet below us. Iron
rungs on the wall served as a stairway. The snake's cistern
was too close to us for us to do anything rash. We watched
the floor for fifteen minutes before deciding to descend.
The air was a trifle stale, but easily breathable. It was
undoubtedly connected in some way with the outside. We


226 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
tool in the place outside of the wrenches for the press.
This looked the most promising. Are you game to try it?"
"It looks like we'll have to try it."
We made the trip back to the trapdoor without mishap.
Half the terror of those frightful reptiles dissolved under
the bright light. We crawled along the ledge as before,
Marvin shoving the sash weight and lantern in front of
him. Neither of us spoke of the peril we were in. We
both knew, only too well, that even if we broke out we
risked being shot down on sight.
For two hours we worked like fiends, hammering and
pounding on the slippery wood without result. The final
blow fell at ten o'clock. I had just looked at my watch
when the lantern hissed and went out. Utterly exhausted,
and bathed in perspiration, we stretched ourselves out on
the hard shelf too tired to care. I closed my eyes. When I
opened them again I was looking at a star. The trapdoor
was slowly opening over my head.
I did not dare speak. I clutched the heavy piece of iron
in my hand, and nerved myself to crush a head if it ap-
peared through the opening. The snakes had quieted down
as if used to our presence. Suddenly their strident clamor
broke out again. I tensed all my muscles. An electric torch
bathed us in soft radiance.
My grip on the sash weight relaxed. It was no use. I
was looking into the muzzle of a foot long automatic.
There was no mistaking the deadly earnestness of the
man who held it. His face, stern and relentless, was visible
in the reflected light of the torch. It was Harry Bartlett.


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 231
ning like one pursued by a fiend. I knew that I was not
in my right senses. I had crashed into trees and fallen
countless times. I was torn, bruised and bleeding. One
leg of my breeches hung in shreds. It was vitally necessary
that I take myself in hand. Around me I could see a dozen
bobbing lights—hunting—hunting!
I was close to the water's edge on the west fork of the
lake. I quietly gathered a few small sticks together and
lit a blaze. I sat down by it and carefully cut off the trail-
ing ends of my breeches at the top of my boot. Then I
picked up one of the blazing twigs, and went down to
the water to bath my face. The thick grass just off shore
was bending under the breeze. Lapping gently on the
white sand bottom were tiny waves. I held the blazing
twig down close to them. They were red—blood red!
He was lying not six feet away from me, along the
bank. The back of his head was in the water. The blood
was streaming from the ugly wound in his throat, and
dyeing Lake Louisa crimson. I have said that I could pass
him on the street and in ten minutes forget that I had
seen him. It will take as many years to forget the way
he looked that night. The clever hands of Timothy Reig,
that strange misfit in society, had engraved their last
plate. He lived until the next night—just long enough to
clear up a few of the things we did not know.
Marvin and Pete came at my call. We moved him up on
the bank. I did all I could to stop the loss of blood. "Did
you see who did it?" the Sheriff asked me.
"I know who did it. It was Bartlett. He escaped—"
"Harry Bartlett hell!" Pete said savagely. "There is
no Harry Bartlett. He's an Operator of the Secret Service.


232 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
We put him in jail at his request so that Tim would think
it was safe to come and get the plates. We didn't know
where they were hidden— What's that?"
Out in the lake we heard a splash. We rushed to the
water's edge together. Pete's torch shone out over the
surface. Like a picture on a screen we could see a man
bending to the oars in a canvas boat. He was rowing
easily. The light craft was flying along.
"Stop!" Pete shouted. "Stop, and come in. You haven't
a chance. The lake is surrounded!"
The rower let his oars trail. For a moment I thought
he was going to obey. I saw a spurt of fire, and Pete
dropped his torchlight and clapped a hand to his shoulder.
"He got me, Doc. You and Marvin get down. Don't
stand with your back to that fire. He'll plug you."
"Who is it? Have you any idea, Pete?" We dropped to
the ground.
"God knows! It's some murderous sidekick of Reig's.
Knifed Tim because he was afraid he would talk—■
Listen!"
Two staccato explosions came from the lake. Then we
recognized the steady purr of an outboard motor. The
boat was heading for the Cow Pasture.
"Come on," Pete said gamely. "Let's cross over to the
other fork of the lake. If he tries to land at the old dock,
Ed will get him. He's stationed over there."
We made our way as quickly as possible overland, help-
ing the wounded officer the best we could. When we
reached the dock by the Simmons house, the boat was
already off shore. It was heading for the landing on the
other side. When it was still a hundred yards from the


29
We heard Tim Reig's story the next morning. It was
given us piecemeal. There were long pauses while he
fought to conserve his failing strength. He lay in one of
two small, spotlessly clean rooms, in the house of an
elderly retired trained nurse. A place which we glorified
with the name of a hospital.
He refused to tell us many of the details—how, and
why, he actually started counterfeiting were among them.
I think he had some relative dependent on his earnings,
someone whose name he wished to protect at the last.
There was a vain pride about his skill as an engraver. It
may have led him into his contest of wits with the govern-
ment.
Shortly after he came to Orange Crest, he had found
the old cistern, while hunting. He had assembled his press
in it a piece at a time, and started experimenting on bills.
It was Ed Brown who had caused him to put the first bad
money into circulation.
The Chief Deputy had seen him leave the cistern late
one night. That was five years before. Reig had been un-
der his domination ever since. Ed Brown was ruthless,
and grasping. By threats of exposure he drove the weaker
man to perfecting a* ten dollar bill which he felt could be
passed without detection. The Deputy scorned Tim's
234


236 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
the lookout, saw him outside of my house. In his haste to
get upstairs to warn Ed he stumbled over the hall rug.
"Did you know who killed Mr. Mitchell, and Red?"
Crossley asked him.
"I was almost certain. I tried to believe he hadn't. He
said he was going to fix the cistern so no more people
would monkey around it. He put those snakes in it after
Mitchell was killed. They always frightened me, but he
wasn't scared of them. He knew a small island in the
Manasaw River that was lousy with rattlers—he got them
there. He used my boat all the time. Had it the afternoon
Red was killed. He got afraid of me finally. I knew too
much. He was afraid I'd talk. I knew he would get me
some—" His voice trailed away.
After a while Marvin asked him: "Those Miami papers,
Tim? Salmon left those there, didn't he?"
"Yeah, that's right. Salmon was paying graft to Ed for
protection. They used to meet once a month in that old
house. Ed was wild because those papers were left there.
He was afraid of Salmon, though. The only thing he was
ever afraid of at—" He stopped again. His pulse grew
weak. I gave him a stimulant, and he brightened visibly.
"Did you get up the chimney when you were in the
cistern?" he asked.
"I was in it, but it was dark," Marvin told him.
"You can see into the back room of the house from
there—if there is a light in the room. Ed fixed up an old
shotgun trap he found in it. The gun could be fixed in
the chimney so the muzzle stuck in a hole at the back of
the fireplace. You could fire it from the room by kicking


BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA 241
to agree with him, that the banker was killed, coldly and
deliberately, rather than have the plant revealed to the
authorities. We all agree that Mitchell was shot close to
the entrance, and carried away from the trapdoor down to
the edge of the lake.
Ed's agent in Miami was arrested by the Secret Service
shortly afterward. He revealed that the Deputy had three
bank accounts in Miami under different names. A safe
deposit box was also uncovered. It contained three thou-
sand dollars in good money.
It really was Bartlett with whom Mitchell had talked
on the train. The banker had gone to Jacksonville with
specimens of bills received at the bank. He had reported
the matter to Gordon, the U. S. Marshal. Bartlett hap-
pened to be in the city at the time, and took over the
assignment. He had ridden down with Mitchell to Orange
Crest to get all the details, and gone on through to Tampa
himself. The long trail had led him to the race tracks at
Miami, and back up to our town where the case was
closed.
Nothing much has happened since I started to write my
story. Celia's wedding to Marvin has gone in a blaze of
orange blossoms. They have settled down to the happy
life of Orange Crest. The fishing is still good in Lake
Louisa. The hard roads have not found it yet. I hope they
never will.
It was a long time before I could get Buddy to row for
me again. Sometimes, when he is paddling quietly down
the shore in the moonlight, a tear rolls down his black
cheek. I look out at the center of the lake expecting to see
a phantom boat running crazily in a circle. I strain my


242 BLOOD ON LAKE LOUISA
ears to hear the single crack of a rifle, and the long drawn
cry of the hoot owl. There is nothing there, of course, ex-
cept peace and quiet, and the sharp clean smell of the
pine trees.
THE END





JWO W£££ bOOK