CHARLES J. BUTTON



WWMWWUNG
WW 1817
MULIMIA
ASUALITHUNTELIN
ARTES
SCIENTIA
LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE
WIVERSITY OF MICHI
UMID MAMADALLU
TCEBOR
ARROSS
SI-QUERIS PEN
AVAIN
ZAMAMONAM
CIRCUMSPICU
ESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
TURTILLUMILITY
SIMILARMON
MUOTOILU
H
huu DJTUALIT
BEQUEST OF
PROFESSOR OF LATIN
ARIDU!


to com





POISON UNKNOWN
By CHARLES J. DUTTON
"The first man to enter a new station
brings murder on his heels" is an old
police saying and Timothy Rogan was no
exception. His first assignment—to watch
the house of a wealthy gentleman who
had received two threatening letters—
seemed quite innocuous. But that very
night a prominent physician suddenly
dropped dead at that same man's dinner
table, poisoned by some drug unknown to
science!
Harley Manners, the famous professor
of abnormal psychology, whom Mr. Dut-
ton's readers remember well, is called in.
No clues, no motive, no method, not even
theories. Then fate strikes again, with an-
other murder, this time even more puz-
zling than the first. It is not until Man-
ners has discarded every idea he had built
up, and started afresh from the standpoint
of our newest criminal psychology, that he
is able to gain a hint of the method in
these crimes and their perpetrator.
Those who enjoyed the originality of
"Murder in a Library" will welcome this
astonishing story. For here is a brand
new poison which Mr. Dutton believes
has never been used in a mystery story
and is not mentioned in any work on
toxicology. As for the story, it has all
the excitement, speed and logic character-
istic of this widely-known writer.
BY THE AUTHOR OF:
THE CROOKED CROSS
FLYING CLUES
THE SHADOW OF EVU.
MURDER IN A LIBRARY





POISON UNKNOWN


BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Mystery Stories
THE UNDERWOOD MYSTERY
OUT OF THE DARKNESS
THE SHADOW ON THE GLASS
THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD
THE SECOND BULLET
FLYING CLUES
THE CROOKED CROSS
THE CLUTCHING HAND
STREAKED WITH CRIMSON
THE SHADOW OF EVIL
MURDER IN A LIBRARY
POISON UNKNOWN
Biography
THE SAMARITANS OF MOLOKAI:
THE LIVES OF FATHER DAMIEN AND
BROTHER DUTTON AMONG THE LEPERS


udson
By CHARLES J. DUTTON
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
New York
Chicago
Published by arrangement with Dodd, Mead and Co.
Printed in U. S. A.


BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM
Printed and Bound in the U.S.A. by the Grady BOOKBINDING CO., N. Y. C.


Το
JOE AND MAE


1
1


. E. за тР
BEQ (*ST
ve teto
200 ot-11-5
NOTE
I am indebted to Prof. Earle Galloway of the Des Moines
College of Pharmacy for information regarding the poison
mentioned in this book-a rare and extremely obscure
poison, which actually exists
o


1


CHAPTER I
Timothy Rogan wanted to take off his coat. It was
decidedly a new garment with brass buttons sparkling
on blue broadcloth. On his chest was a badge, a mas-
sive, glittering thing of gold, bearing the word
CHIEF. Only an hour ago the mayor himself had
made a speech, and after referring to "our brave and
efficient police chief" had pinned the badge over the
place where he thought Rogan's heart should be. The
occasion had been the official dedication of the new
police headquarters, and the speech had been rather
long and flowery. As he sank down into the chair
behind his desk, the thought of the speech caused the
round face to frown.
He wanted to take off his coat, throw it down on
the desk, and then light a stogie. That was what he
would have done in his old office. But this room, with
its shining furniture, its air of newness, rather awed
him. He had been in the habit of tilting back in his
chair and putting his feet on the desk. But that was
in the old office. Now the familiar desk, stained and
worn by the years, had vanished; and he realized
one must treat this shining mahogany with respect.
And he did not like the chair he was sitting in, a
chair which touched him in unexpected places. For
the chair, like everything else in the room, was new.
With a gloomy sigh he ran his big hands through
his snow-white hair. When the gesture was over, the


POISON UNKNOWN
hair was in wild disorder, but he felt more at ease.
Instinct caused a hand to reach down towards a
drawer, only to have it pause in mid-air. In the old
office there would have been a box of stogies in that
drawer. There was none here. But on the smooth
surface of the desk stood a box of cigars that some-
one had sent in as a gift—a box at which he gave a
scowling glance, just as though it did not contain the
most expensive brand the city could produce. How-
ever, they were better than nothing and, without
looking at the label, he opened the box and lighted a
cigar.
Slumped far down in the chair he soberly watched
the smoke drift through the room, as he realized
that he was very tired. All morning he had been com-
pelled to listen to speeches, and the lunch at which
he had been given the gold badge had ended the
ceremonies. For thirty-five years the city had been
talking about a new police headquarters, and at last
it had become a reality. For the first time he was
sitting behind his desk in the new building; and he
was not happy.
Thirty-five years . . . almost the same period
that he had been on the force . . . years of hard
work they had been, with small salary and, since he
became chief, lots of complaints. He would retire in
six months; but he realized he would never be happy.
If only they had allowed him to end his career in
the old office! There were memories in that room;
comedy and tragedy had played their "parts in the
dingy office, whose door for twenty years had told
the city he was their chief of police.


POISON UNKNOWN
As his eyes went slowly traveling around the room,
he admitted to himself this was a far better place.
There was space here, a high ceiling, large windows
that he knew overlooked the lake. But it was all so
new, the furniture so glittering, that somehow he
felt out of place. The old office had been home; this
place—well, he hardly knew what it was.
He should have been at peace with the world, for
the noon lunch had been given in his honor and very
flattering things had been said about him. His lips
twitched into a half-smile, as he thought of the non-
sense the mayor had voiced. What did the outside
world know about police work? Nothing! Though
they did know how to complain when things did not
suit them.
For some reason he felt depressed, uneasy and
alone. In the old station all sorts of sounds would
have come drifting down the hallways to creep under
his door. There were no sounds here. True, he could
hear the wind howling from across the lake; but that
was all. Save for the sound of the wind he might as
well have been alone in the building. He knew he
was not, knew that beyond his door were many other
rooms filled with men who were at their tasks; yet,
knowing this, he caught himself bending forward as
though listening for some sound that would tell him
the building was occupied.
He thought once more of the lunch. What was it
the mayor had said? Something about the city's now
having one of the best-equipped police headquarters
in the country. He had boasted that every scientific
device used in the detection of crime was now at the
I


POISON UNKNOWN
disposal of the citizens. Rogan had smiled a little
when this was said—though he knew it to be true.
As he thought over the mayor's remarks he slowly
shook his head. Science was all right, and one needed
every bit of technique one could get, but again and
again he had seen it fail. There was such a thing as
intuition (though Rogan would have called it a
hunch) and as he thought this he gave a start. He
had suddenly remembered an old saying that he had
heard quoted many times in police circles that when
a police chief moves into a new headquarters his first
case will be a murder.
He had been depressed before the saying flashed
into his mind, but afterwards his gloom increased.
So far as he knew, the desk man had yet to book the
first prisoner, for not until Rogan walked into his
new office had the headquarters been pronounced
open. As yet no one had wished to see him. But
somehow, deep down in his mind, he knew that be-
fore he went out there would be a visitor. Why he
knew it he could not tell; but he was certain.
For a while he tried to throw off the feeling which
had crept over him, by thinking of his long years on
the force. The thoughts brought him no comfort.
Thirty-five years was a long time, and during those
years all the sordid ugliness of the city's life had
come to his attention. It had been a small city when
he started out as a patrolman; now it had a popula-
tion of over a quarter of a million. And with the in-
crease in population had come an increase in stupid,
vicious crime.
He rose, at last, to walk slowly over to the win-


POISON UNKNOWN 5
dows. The old office had been partly below the street
level, and nothing could be seen from its windows
except the feet of people on the sidewalk. Bat these
windows commanded a view of the lake, and for a
while he stood looking down at the tumbling water.
A half-gale was sweeping in from Canada. It came
lashing across the lake, whipping its surface into a
mass of rushing white-caps. Below him he could see
the public dock, noticed spray was dashing in blind-
ing sheets over the lower end. Far out, almost at
the horizon's rim, an ore boat was laboriously pound-
ing its way into the wind.
The scene fitted into his mood. On a calm day
the lake would have been a mass of glittering silver,
with sunlight dancing on its surface. There would
have been boats, and through the windows would
come the laughter of children playing about the
docks. But today the water was dark and troubled,
and the wind shrieked around the building, howling
as if it were on the track of a long-wanted criminal.
As he walked back to his desk to sink down in the
chair he concluded he was old. In six months he ex-
pected to retire on his pension; and he decided it
was time he did. For twenty years he had directed
the police force of the city: twenty years of anxiety
and trouble, worry and hard work. It had been dif-
ficult enough when he first entered his position; but
in the last few years it had become worse. The char-
acter of crime had changed; there was more of it,
and the criminals were more youthful. A younger
man might find the office far less troublesome
than he.


6 POISON UNKNOWN
There were many in the city who said that the
red-faced man sitting behind the big desk was a
rough-neck. Others admitted that he was tough and
hard, endowed with a bad temper and totally devoid
of sympathy. But the men under Rogan never said
these things. Among themselves they might growl
and grumble about the "old man"; but they loved
him. Even those who disliked him, and there were
many in the city who did, admitted that he was ef-
ficient. And no one had ever accused Rogan of being
dishonest or unfair.
Lifting his head he gravely studied the large room.
His successor would have a better place to start with
than he had had. What was more, he would have a
well-trained police force, a group of men whom he
could trust. It had taken years to build up the force
to its present state of efficiency. He was proud of
his men; and his successor would be proud of them.
A sound came drifting across the floor. Someone
was fumbling with the knob of the door. Turning he
saw it slowly open, watched the head that gave a
quick glance into the room and recognized the face
as that of George Kent, the head of his Homicide
Squad. Soberly he watched the tall young officer slip
into the room and then carefully close the door.
Wondering a little what was wanted he waited as
the man crossed over to his side without speaking.
The inspector was a tall, raw-boned man, and if
Rogan had any favorite on the force it was the head
of his murder squad. He wondered if anything was
troubling his officer; but a glance at the expression-
less face assured him all was well. Obeying the chief's


POISON UNKNOWN
gesture the inspector brought a chair over from the
wall and seated himself beside the desk. Then his
eyes slowly traveled over the room.
"It looks better than the old joint," was the com-
ment.
There came only a grunt from Rogan; for he was
not going to express himself about his new office. He
was homesick for the old room, but he would never
say so. Yet as Kent watched the stern, sober face,
observed the disheveled white hair, he knew what
his chief was thinking. What was more he sympa-
thized with the look that was upon the red face.
With an odd expression, Rogan reached for the
box of cigars, and shoved it across the desk. With-
out a word Kent picked out a cigar, and slowly ap-
plied the match. Silence for a while, in which he
studied the cold, set face across from him. The chief
was not feeling very happy—though, thought Kent,
after the flattering words from the mayor Rogan
should have been in a far better humor than he ap-
peared. At last came the moment when the stodgy
figure stirred uneasily in the chair. The rough voice
growled forth a question:
"Everything in the place in running order?"
Kent nodded, replying that everything had started
off without any trouble. He smiled as he told the
chief they had already booked their first prisoner.
The sudden start from Rogan was due to his re-
membering the old saying. He wanted to know what
the charge had been, smiled when informed it was
only a drunken driver. Then sitting upright he be-
came serious:


8 POISON UNKNOWN
"You know, Kent, I have been in this game a long
time." There was a pause as he reflected a second.
"Thirty-five years. Heard and seen a lot of things
in my time. Did you ever hear the old saying they
used to pass around—about what happened when a
chief had his first prisoner brought into his new
office?"
Watching the smoke of his cigar drift across the
room, the younger man admitted he had no idea
what the saying might be. The serious tone in
Rogan's voice, when he replied, caused him to look
across the desk. He saw that the red face was seri-
ous, the gray eyes somber.
"Well, they say that the first case a police head
deals with, when he enters a new station, is always
a murder. And you know, there may be something
in it. I have known—"
The sentence was not completed. There came the
laughing voice of his inspector. A little smile played
around Kent's lips as he spoke:
"They may say that, Chief, but it won't apply to
you. There is a man down below now who wants to
see you. He ought to be in any moment. And it's no
murder case coming your way. Just an anonymous
letter."
"Who is it?" was the growled out question.
"Oh you know him. John Fletcher."
The only response was a half-grunt. Rogan knew
him; but the name brought forth memories of the
man's father. There had been a real man: honest,
intelligent, charitable. The city had lost an asset
when1 the elder Fletcher died. As for his son, for


POISON UNKNOWN
ten years he had been engaged in spending the money
his father had left. The comparisons between father
and son that flashed through the chief's mind were
not pleasant. Just as he was on the verge of voicing
some of them there came a knock at his door, a
sharp, determined knock. With a half-scowl on his
face he asked the unseen person to enter.
The man who passed through the door might
have been forty; but he was dressed as if he were
twenty-five. His white flannel suit was just a little
too tight; and the slender cane, swinging upon his
arm, caused Rogan to flash upon it a disapproving
look. The man's face was thin, disagreeable, Kent
thought, and a bit dissipated; but the air of satis-
faction which it wore could not be improved upon.
A very self-centered man, perfectly sure of himself
and one, thought Rogan, whom you would not care
to trust overmuch.
He came to a halt beside the desk, to grin down
at the stolid figure of the chief. A hand went up to
smooth the little black mustache into place, fooled
with it a moment, then went into a pocket to come
forth with an extremely flat cigarette case. As he
snapped it open a smile crossed the thin lips—the
smile of a man very certain of his own importance.
"Well, Chief," began the rather disagreeable,
high-pitched voice, "one of your leading tax-payers
has come to beg a favor. I feel you will grant it."
Without a word Rogan's gray eyes passed coldly
over the white suit, and rested upon the cane. His
action caused the sallow face to flush a little, and a
hand went up to his head to remove his hat. Lean-


io POISON UNKNOWN
ing a little on the table, he appealed to the chief.
"Somebody, Chief, has been writing me letters.
Silly sort of letters. And—"
"Got them with you?" was the gruff retort.
"One. Threw the first two away. Just thought at
first it was some silly joke. Some of the boys trying
to have fun with me, you know. But the one this
morning rather upset my wife." A knowing smile
crossed the thin lips. "You know how women are."
"Let me see it," was the snapped-out command.
Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat,
Fletcher brought forth a folded paper. It was dirty,
and after he put it on the desk he took out a colored
handkerchief and carefully brushed his fingers. For
a second Rogan watched the gesture; then his hand
shot across the desk for the folded letter.
It was an extremely soiled sheet of paper. Even
after it was opened, and his eyes had taken in the
three typewritten lines, Rogan sat wondering how
the paper could have become so badly creased and
so dirty. It looked as though someone had crumpled
it into a ball. And the typewritten letters were very
uneven, and badly smudged.
"This is the third time we warn you. Youse in for
trouble. Get you yet, won't be hard. Ain't much use
to try and avoid it. Could get you at your dinner to-
night."
Three short typewritten lines—that was all. Un-
signed, of course—every letter of this type he had
ever seen (and there had been a good many of


POISON UNKNOWN
them) had been unsigned. It contained a threat, and
a reference to a dinner. In general the letter was not
unlike others he had seen; and as a rule they led to
nothing. As he thrust it across the desk for Kent to
read, Rogan raised his head to glance at the silent
figure beside his desk.
"What have you been doing?" he barked out.
Fletcher's eyes opened wide in startled surprise.
The thin face flushed; then the red faded away. So
eager was his reply that he stammered out the first
words:
"Why—why—nothing, Chief. Can't imagine who
might send me such a letter. Have not the slightest
idea why. Unless—." A hand went waving out in a
hopeless gesture.
"Unless what?"
"Well, you see, Chief, if you have a bit of money
people get jealous, you know. Have all sorts of foggy
ideas, odd thoughts, and such things. Might be some-
body like that; that's all I can think of. But my wife
is a bit frightened."
The glance he received was cold and calculating.
Rogan was thinking. The man might be right. He ran
round with a rather wild crowd. The younger golf-
club set to which he belonged were noted far more
for their escapades than they were for their intel-
ligence. Somebody might be trying to frighten him.
And then, on the other hand, he had heard stories
about Fletcher. He did not have the best reputation
as to personal conduct. He asked about the other
letters.
There had been two others, he was told. They


POISON UNKNOWN
came by mail, to the man's house; and he had thrown
them away, thinking his friends might be trying to
frighten him. But his wife had seen this one, and it
had frightened her a little. To all of the chief's
endeavors to make him admit he had some idea who
might have written them, the same answer was made.
Fletcher simply threw out his hands in a hopeless
gesture, shrugged his shoulders, and said he had no
idea.
"What do you want me to do?" Rogan asked at
last.
"Why, I was thinking, Chief, that you might send
a couple of men up to my place tonight. Have a little
dinner on, tonight, at eight. It would make my wife
feel easier: that I know. And after all, I am a heavy
tax-payer, and ought to ask a favor of you once in
a while."
Rogan's first impulse was to retort that large tax-
payers thought they owned the city. The request for
two men to guard Fletcher's estate during his dinner
seemed unnecessary. He knew the man's place: a
house on the high bluff just outside the city. The
grounds were spacious, covered with trees, running
back from a bluff which rose for seventy feet above
the lake. It was the city's most exclusive residential
section, though the chief had always thought it a
rather lonesome place.
What he might have said, if it had not been for
the thought that flashed into his mind, would be dif-
ficult to discover. He had no liking for the self-
satisfied man who stood beside his desk. But he re-
membered the old saying which he had quoted to


POISON UNKNOWN 13
Kent: that the first visitor to the new office of a
police chief brings with him a murder. And the
thought caused his lips to set in a straight line.
The word "intuition" would have had little mean-
ing to Rogan. But he had great respect for what he
called his hunches. There was a good deal more to
police work than simply running down clues, acting
upon evidence. Like every other police chief, Rogan
would have told you that there was a thing which he
could not explain, a feeling, an obscure warning that
made him realize that evidence was not everything.
Intimations came at times, defying all reason; and
when they did, one must listen.
Of course the saying he had repeated to his inspec-
tor was simply a bit of superstition. But then, Rogan
knew of times when it had turned out to be true.
After all, Fletcher was not only the first person to
bring a problem into his new office; he had also
produced a threatening letter. No doubt the letter
meant nothing at all; yet, on the other hand, it would
do no harm to consent to his request. Two men sta-
tioned on his grounds, during the dinner, would pre-
vent anything from happening. Though when he said
he would see that the men were sent Rogan knew,
deep down in his heart, that they would not be
needed.
With a nod of agreement, Fletcher voiced his
thanks and started across the floor towards the door.
The letter had been replaced on the desk, and, seeing
it, Rogan picked it up and put it in his inside pocket.
Why he did this he did not know; for after all it
should have been sent into the file room. After the


14 POISON UNKNOWN
door closed he turned to Kent.
"Guess he's been up to something. But you'd better
send two of your men up there." He paused a mo-
ment to say, half apologetically, "He does pay a lot
of taxes, and it won't harm anything. Guess some-
body was simply trying to scare him a bit."
The inspector nodded; for he agreed with his
superior. Fletcher had a good deal of money, but
his type did not appeal. The letter had not impressed
him. Without a doubt somebody was trying to throw
a scare into the man; that was all, and nothing would
come out of it. But Rogan was right. If Fletcher
wanted two plain-clothes men to patrol his grounds
during his dinner, why, they must be sent. He be-
longed to a group which had a good deal of money
and whose taxes were heavy.
Voicing his thoughts he rose from his chair to
leave the room. A glance at his wrist watch showed
that it was four. With his hand on the door knob
he turned, as Rogan's voice came floating across the
room:
"I suppose you will be around here tonight. I am
going to have dinner with Harley Manners; so you
will know where to get me."
Kent nodded as he left the room. When the door
closed Rogan rose slowly from his chair and walked
to the window. For a while he glanced down at the
lake. The wind was still high, the clouds low and
black. It might rain before night, though he doubted
it. The waves were beating against the end of the
long public pier, and he saw the spray flung high in
the air. Gloomy and depressed, he decided he would


POISON UNKNOWN 15
go at once to his friend's, though dinner was not
until after six.
The friendship between the rough and unculti-
vated police chief and the wealthy and highly in-
tellectual professor of abnormal psychology had
always been one of the things which the city had
failed to understand. There were many things about
Harley Manners that people could not understand.
Why one of his social position and wealth should
spend his days teaching, when he had money enough
to do anything he wished, had long puzzled those
who knew him. But his warm friendship for Rogan
puzzled them more.
It was a friendship that went back to Manners'
boyhood days, and had increased as he grew older.
On many occasions it was the advice Rogan received
in Manners' library which had solved the problem
that baffled the police. Rogan knew nothing about
science, even less about that insight into the human
mind which was Manners' life work. Yet he realized
that without the aid of his friend he would have been
unsuccessful in the solution of the three crimes that
had been his hardest problems.
It was a little after five when he walked out of
the new headquarters, to stand for a second on the
wide granite steps. Stretching away before him, the
main street of the city lost itself between high, tower-
ing buildings. Through this narrow canyon the wind
swept like a leaping hound. A newspaper, thrown by
a careless passer-by into the street, whirled in a
fantastic dance over the court-house lawn. This was
to his left; and beyond it he could just make out


i8 POISON UNKNOWN
the door to open, he happened to touch his coat just
over the inside pocket. Something soft responded to
the touch; and he wondered for a second what it
might be. Then he remembered. He had put the
letter Fletcher had shown him in his pocket. It should
have been left at the station, to be filed away in the
document room. But as he heard footsteps within the
hall he smiled. It might interest Manners; anyway
he would ask him what he thought of it.


CHAPTER II
Slowly pulling the sheet of paper from his type-
writer, Harley Manners added it to the pile of
manuscript upon the desk, then fumbled in a pocket
for his pipe. Contentedly his long fingers patted the
tobacco firmly into the worn bowl, then applied a
match. As the first gray puff of smoke drifted out
into the room, he leaned far back in his chair and
smiled down at the typewritten sheets.
All the long afternoon he had been quietly writing
at the desk, which stood between the curving bay
windows of his library. For many weeks he had been
working there; and though he knew that the book,
when completed, would interest few, yet it had given
him a summer of fascinating work. A thousand
people, perhaps, might read the words upon the type-
written sheets of paper. That the book when pub-
lished might overthrow every existing theory con-
cerning witchcraft, and yet be of no interest to the
world at large, did not bother him. The work itself,
the new theory he had evolved, was the thing that
counted.
Leaning far back in his chair, he threw a long
reflective glance over the room. Twilight had crept
through the large windows, casting shadows into the
dim corners. The glass-covered book-cases that lined
the walls were now mere dim outlines, their thou-
sands of books a solid mass of uniform color. On the
19


20 POISON UNKNOWN
■
walls the etchings, mingled with eighteenth-century
colored French prints, were now scarcely distinguish-
able. Only the twenty Rops, whose devilish sugges-
tiveness leered down from the nearest wall, could
be clearly discerned.
He did not need to see this room; for its every
detail was firmly etched in his mind. It was a place
dear to his heart, the room in which he read, and
worked, and dreamed: containing the books and etch-
ings that he loved. Behind those glass-enclosed cases
stood thousands of volumes, collected with care and
discrimination. Long rows of books on popular su-
perstitions, customs and folk-lore stood beside his-
tory and psychology; and these in turn were flanked
by one of the largest collections in the country upon
crime. Almost every curious and out-of-the-way book
could have been found in that long room.
For a while, with closed eyes, he leaned back in
his chair, thinking. He was the most popular pro-
fessor the university boasted; but his popularity was
among the students, not with the president or faculty.
That one of his wealth and social position should
care to teach had been discussed more than once in
faculty meetings—when he was not present. That in
his own subject, abnormal psychology, he was one of
the leading authorities in the country was—if grudg-
ingly—admitted.
About Manners there was a great deal which both
the college faculty and his friends failed to under-
stand. Why, with the opportunity of living wherever
he might desire, he should from choice reside in the
lake city puzzled many. His wish for solitude, to-
S


POISON UNKNOWN 21
gether with a firm refusal to be part of the social
life to which his position gave him entree, perplexed
others. What they failed to understand was that
Manners had been gifted not only with a keen brain,
but also with a great curiosity concerning life. He
had but one fear: the fear that he might not know
enough about everything.
It was this desire to know all the curious by-paths
of human conduct that was responsible for his in-
terest in crime. Behind the glass-covered book-cases
stood a remarkable library. All the books dealing
with the absurd and weird abnormalities of men and
women, accounts of famous crimes and trials, could
be found there. And this interest was far from an
academic one. Three murder cases had been solved
by Manners' technical skill.
The sound of the wind howling around the house
made him open his eyes. All afternoon the half-gale
had shrieked at the windows, and it had been his idea
that it would die away when the dusk came. But as
the windows rattled at the blast, he placed the pipe
on the stand and rose to his feet. Pulling aside the
damask draperies he looked out into the gathering
dusk.
On the wide lawn the elm trees were swaying and
rocking before the wind. A mile away, down across
the fields, he saw the lake, a tumbling mass of angry
water. Turning, the etched outline of the city flashed
into his vision. By the sparkling gleam of lights—
which must just have been turned on—the long line
of the main street could be followed.
Chief among the reasons why he had built his


POISON UNKNOWN
house upon the top of the hill had been this view. He
would never tire of it; and the place was far enough
outside of the city limits to give him the solitude and
quiet he craved. On bright days there was always
the sight of the gleaming lake, and a long vista of
green fields. At night, when the city lights became
stars of flame in the darkness, there was a beauty
that brought peace to his soul.
For a time he stood looking out of the window.
Night was approaching; and though the wind was
blowing stronger than ever, he anticipated that it
would soon die away. A movement of his arm caused
his eyes to fall upon the sleeve of his silk shirt. Time
he was changing his clothes. It was his habit to do
all his writing dressed in a very disreputable pair of
flannels. White they had once been—but that had
been a long time ago.
Turning from the window, he went out to the
kitchen to interview his housekeeper. Rogan was
coming to dinner, and the chief would be weary and
also a bit depressed. The dedication of the new
police-station would have reminded his friend that
soon he must retire, and that another would take
his place. This was the reason Manners had invited
him to the house, that within its peace and quiet he
might relax.
The housekeeper seen, he hastened to the second
floor and into his bedroom. Water was turned on in
the bath, and he began to whistle as he dropped his
clothes to the floor. This bedroom overlooked the
lawn, and within it the furniture was plain and
simple. There were no etchings on the walls—though


POISON UNKNOWN
a picture did stand upon the dresser—the only pic-
ture in the room.
He stood, now, before it for a moment, and took
it in his hand, as a little pathetic smile crossed his
lips. It was a proud face he looked down upon: a
head held high, thrown back a little, with a wistful
smile lingering upon intelligent lips. The picture
might have explained a good deal about Manners
which his friends did not know; and when he re-
placed it on the dresser and went to his bath he was
unusually silent.
It was while dressing that he heard the sound of
the bell, and knew his guest had arrived. When he
went down into the library, he found Rogan already
seated in his easiest chair, with the dog lying a few
feet in front of him. A glance took in the new uni-
form; and he smiled as he saw the glittering gold
badge. The smile caused a self-conscious look to
sweep over the round face of the chief.
As soon as the first words of greeting had been
exchanged Manners excused himself to go to the
kitchen. Left alone, Rogan's gray eyes swept slowly
over the book-lined walls. There were more books
in this room than in any other place he had ever
seen, unless it be the public library. What they might
all be about he did not know, and once he had asked
Manners if he had read them all. The answer—yes
—had rather stirred the unimaginative police of-
ficial; and the sight of the book-lined walls always
impressed him.
But he liked the room, felt its peace and quiet
stealing over him. It had been a long hard day, filled


POISON UNKNOWN
with ceremony, speeches, and noise: a day in which
there had been always before him a reminder that
his work was about over. Somehow it had made him
feel that he was now an old man. And he did not
like the thought.
Dinner was served on the enclosed end of the
veranda. The table, with its glittering silver and fine
china, was very close to the windows. As Manners
had expected, the wind had suddenly vanished; and
the air was very still. Far across the fields could be
seen a light: the steady flare of the light-house. Over
the water, in the direction of Canada, a faint flash
of lightning broke the darkness for a passing second.
Down in the city lights were everywhere: all sorts
and shapes of lights, shining from windows of offices
and homes; and always the creeping brightness of
the moving headlights of cars upon the street.
It was a carefully planned dinner: chosen for the
weary man who Manners knew would sit down at
his table. A mixed vermouth came first, then a clear
soup, a trout, and an endive salad, crisp and cold.
Next was a duck, served with wild rice. A bottle of
Romanee Conti, when poured into the large glasses,
sparkled like a red ruby above the white linen. A
simple dessert, with coffee, was followed by a little
old brandy.
The meal was a silent one, however; for between
the two men there was a degree of friendship which
did not require speech. But when Rogan pushed aside
his chair to follow Manners into the long library, he
knew that the feeling of depression which had been
with him all the afternoon had vanished. A box of


POISON UNKNOWN 25
stogies was discovered in the drawer of the desk,
kept there for Rogan alone, and with a smile Man-
ners placed it in the chief's hand.
Sinking down into the easiest chair in the room,
Rogan lighted his long, thin roll, then cast a reflec-
tive look at his friend. Across from him, with a
little smile upon his face, sat Manners. The gray
suit which clothed the tall, lanky frame was of costly
texture; and in the gay tie there sparkled a precious
stone. For a while Rogan silently studied him: not-
ing, as always, the high forehead, the keen eyes, the
sensitive lips, the long artistic fingers. He liked this
young man; and he knew his age to be the same as
the number of his own years upon the police force.
Manners bore the friendly scrutiny with a little
smile playing about his lips. Rogan seemed more
rested than when he had come, and the somber look
had left the gray eyes. It should have been a proud
day in the chief's life, for kindly words had been
said regarding his long years of service. A year ago
the local papers were leading a political fight to have
Rogan thrown out of office. Today they had sung
his praises.
"Good deal of difference now, Rogan," he com-
mented, "from a year ago."
Taking the stogie from his lips, the chief nodded
his head. After a moment's reflection the rough voice
spoke. There came an admission that a great many
fine things had been said about him during the dedica-
tion ceremonies—followed by the sarcastic comment
that they meant nothing. One day the police were
praised, the next day nothing but evil was said about


26 POISON UNKNOWN
them. Rogan's attitude told his host that even the
pinning of the gold badge upon the blue coat had
not impressed him. Manners changed the conversa-
tion:
"Have you booked anyone in your new station?"
He was surprised by the effect of the harmless
question. With a start, the stogie was jerked from
the corner of Rogan's lips as the chief sat upright in
his chair. The look he threw his friend was a startled
one, as though the words had occasioned an un-
pleasant train of thought. After a pause he spoke:
"Harley, did you ever hear the old saying that
floats round police circles—that when a chief steps
into a new station, the first man to see him will bring
a murder case in with him?"
Manners slowly shook his head, smiling a bit.
Rogan might be hard-headed and realistic; yet there
was a streak of superstition in his make-up. The sight
of a black cat could always give the chief an uneasy
hour. The day the police car ran into a telephone
pole, for instance, Manners spent an hour endeavor-
ing to assure Rogan there was no connection between
the accident and the fact that, an hour before it hap-
pened, he had unwittingly walked under a ladder.
This, however, was a new superstition; and he re-
marked as much to the chief.
Rather grudgingly he was assured that though it
might be superstition it was yet a familiar saying in
police circles. Leaning back in his chair, as the stogie
was allowed to go out, Rogan commented upon the
cases in which he had known the saying to prove true.
There were not many, two in fact, but he produced


POISON UNKNOWN
them as if they were a hundred. When he had finished
he was asked one question:
"What was the first case you booked in the new
building?"
It was admitted that the first prisoner brought in
had been simply a drunken driver. At the little smile,
Rogan retorted that the tradition said "the first per-
son to see the chief." He had not seen the first
prisoner; that was a mere matter of detail for a
desk man. But there had been a man in to see him,
the first and only person he had yet interviewed in his
new office. As there came no inquiry as to who it
might have been, the information was volunteered:
"John Fletcher was in to see me."
The name made Manners smile. Fletcher was well
known in the city, and as Manners thought of the
man he realized the absurdity of what had been in
Rogan's mind. Fletcher was simply the son of a man
who had left a good deal of money for his offspring
to throw away. There were many unpleasant traits
in Fletcher's character; but crime in the usual mean-
ing of the word could not be thought of. He was
interested enough, however, to ask why he had
wished to see Rogan.
"He got an anonymous letter," came the answer.
Rogan was reminded that anonymous letters were
rather commonplace things, and as a rule meant lit-
tle. Warming to the subject, Manners commented
on the fact that almost eight-five percent of all such
letters were written by women: neurotic, repressed
women, wishing to injure someone, finding some
psychological satisfaction in what they did. But gen-


28 POISON UNKNOWN
erally such letters were meaningless, rarely leading
to murder. A few cases there were in which anony-
mous letters had figured in a murder. These, how-
ever, had been largely warnings sent out by certain
societies, whose membership consisted of people of
foreign birth.
"I have seen some funny letters in my time," began
Rogan in a reminiscent mood. The look of interest
on Manners' face led him to continue. "Knew a case
where for five years, every Monday morning, the
postman laid an anonymous letter on a man's desk.
Got so after a while he would have felt hurt if it
hadn't come. And who do you think was sending
them to him all the time? His own wife. And then I
got mixed up in a couple of cases where we dis-
covered that the persons receiving the letters were
writing them themselves. Women those were, and I
don't just see it."
The puzzled expression on the red face induced
the professor to enter into an explanation. He re-
minded him that the letters which the women had
written to themselves would be violent and obscene.
Nodding his agreement, the chief listened as he was
given the psychological reason why certain highly
repressed and neurotic persons are able to release
their repressions by writing to themselves. Scientif-
ically the explanation he received was correct; but,
when Manners paused to light a cigarette, Rogan
simply shook his head. It might all be true, and no
doubt was, but after all it was beyond him. He
started to voice this opinion, only to have Manners'
words cut in ahead of him:


POISON UNKNOWN
"What sort of letter was sent to Fletcher?"
About to reply, Rogan suddenly remembered. The
letter itself was in the inside pocket of his coat. With-
out speaking, he fumbled for the piece of paper.
Bringing it forth he tossed it into Manners' lap, and
waited for the comment which would come.
As he took the badly creased bit of paper in his
hands, Manners' first thought was that it was about
as dirty a letter as he had ever seen. If it had been
deliberately rubbed on the ground, it could not have
been more soiled. The manner in which it had been
folded interested him also. Twice it had been folded;
then, seemingly, it had been crumpled into a tight
ball. Nothing else could explain the multitude of
folds and creases in the paper. The message itself
appeared to mean nothing, though Manners noted
that the letters in which it was written were unevenly
spaced, and that the typewriter used must sadly have
needed cleaning.
At the station Rogan had given the letter but a
glance, then tossed it across the desk to Kent. He
was surprised, now, to see Manners rise and go to
the desk with it. Opening a drawer the professor
took out a large magnifying glass. For a few mo-
ments he peered at the letter, turning the paper over
and over: examining even the creases, which were
black with dirt. When the examination was over the
letter was handed back, and Manners sank down in
his chair without speaking.
"Well?" came Rogan's impatient voice.
"That piece of paper tells a lot," was the com-
ment. "I would conclude that whoever wrote it tried


POISON UNKNOWN
to disguise the class of society in which he moved.
Of course he overlooked one thing, in fact two, which
rather give him away."
The letter had been replaced in the chief's pocket;
but the last remark made him take it out again and
give it a quick glance. For a moment he stared, then
throwing back his head growled out a question:
"Overlooked what?"
"I mean this. Most anonymous letters are writ-
ten by people who are afraid to sign their names,
and who attempt to disguise their writing. In most
cases the person receiving the letter knows, or has
met, the one who wrote it. This does not apply, of
course, to prominent people much in the public eye,
whose mail is filled with letters from cranks. But the
average anonymous letter is written by someone who,
as a rule, knows the person to whom he is writing.
Oftentimes the writers are known very well, and of
course they try to disguise the handwriting, station-
ery, and phraseology. Such an attempt was made in
this letter; but in the very attempt the writer gave
himself away.
"You see," he said, reaching forward to take the
letter from Rogan's hand, "the first thought would
be that the writer of this letter was illiterate, careless
and rather fond of dirt. But look at the paper. It's
rag paper, an expensive brand, hard to find even in
the better shops. Then look at certain words in the
three lines. 'Ain't' and 'youse' are not used today
even by the uneducated. See how dirty the thing is.
What the writer did seems very simple."
"What he did?"


POISON UNKNOWN 31
"Yes. In writing the letter he wished Fletcher to
think it came from someone outside his own social
group. The sender used a dirty machine, spaced the
letters badly, and tried to pick words he thought an
uneducated person might us. He must have taken the
sheet of paper and rubbed it on the ground, in the
dirt. In no other way could it have become so soiled
as it is. Not satisfied with that, he then rolled it up
in a ball, in order that it might appear badly creased."
Yet one thing was forgotten: he had used a grade
of paper that is not only expensive, but is also a bit
hard to find. I wager, Rogan, you might find the shop
that sells this paper—rather easily; though that
would give you no idea who wrote the letter."
"What do you think this person was trying to
do?" was the question.
"Oh, just somebody trying to scare Fletcher, or
have a little fun with him."
"That was what Fletcher thought," was the re-
tort.
Manners nodded in agreement, remarking that no
doubt it was someone in Fletcher's own social group
who had written the letter to him. That it was of
any importance he did not believe, though he ad-
mitted there might be persons who would not feel
too sad if some misfortune did overtake the person
to whom the letter was written. Then a thought
struck him:
"Why did Fletcher bother to bring the letter into
your office? There is little in it to make him feel
excited: that is, unless he has some idea who might
have written it."


POISON UNKNOWN
"His wife saw it," was the comment. "You see,
this was the third letter he had received. He de-
stroyed the first two, but his wife saw this one and
got excited. They are having a dinner there tonight."
The remark about the dinner was not clear to
Manners; so Rogan entered into an explanation. He
told of Fletcher's request that two men guard his
grounds, shrugging his shoulders as he admitted that
if it had not been for the old saying about the first
visitor to a new police station he would have refused
the man's request. His added remark, that he had
sent the men because Fletcher was a heavy tax-payer,
made Manners smile.
The professor could picture an excited woman,
reading into the three lines a threatened disaster.
The admission of her husband, that there had been
two other letters, would only deepen her feeling of
terror. It was but natural that Fletcher should have
come to Rogan and asked for the two men: there was
nothing else he could do. Manners voiced this idea,
with which Rogan rather doubtfully agreed. Then
silence fell over the room.
It was a silence lasting a long time. At peace with
the world, rested, his mind at ease, Rogan allowed
his eyes to travel down the long line of books. There
was one section of the shelves upon which his glance
remained for some moments. There against the wall,
their covers bright splotches of color, were the books
upon crime. All the world's famous criminal trials,
accounts of famous crimes—from those well-known
down to more hidden, obscure happenings—were
upon the shelves. More than once the chief had


POISON UNKNOWN
anger.
As the receiver was replaced on the hook there
came a little click. After a moment the short, heavy
figure appeared in the doorway. No longer was
Rogan's face that of a man at peace with the world.
Once more worried lines had leaped around the thick
lips: lips now shut tensely. His gray eyes, like frozen
light, looked over at his friend. As their glances met,
Manners waited for the words which would come.
"Harley," came the rough voice, its tone even,
cold, and without expression. "That call was from
Kent at the station. Something has gone wrong at
Fletcher's dinner. Something—"
So icy was the tone that Manners' mind leaped to
but one thought—a thought expressed in his ex-
clamation:
"Murder?"
For a second there was no reply. Instead of speak-
ing Rogan looked over towards the windows.
Through the curtains could be seen the blackness of
the night. For a moment he studied the windows as
though he had never seen them before. Then all at
once he turned:
"I don't know, Harley. Kent 'phoned that one of
the plain-clothes men just called up to say that one
of Fletcher's dinner guests has died—died very sud-
denly, while at the table. Said there was something
suspicious about it, though he doesn't know what
it is."
In the silence that fell, Manners reached into his
pocket for his cigarette case. There came Rogan's
voice again. This time behind the even tone could be


POISON UNKNOWN 35
felt the tension in his mind.
"I just told Kent to rush up there and take our
police doctor. Told him to tell the men to allow no
one to leave the house till we get there. Told him
we would be at the place as soon as he is. That means
you will have to drive me out. He says the man died
very suddenly while at the table. Nothing out of the
way that he knows about. But—"
The big hands went sweeping out in a half-circle.
What the gesture might mean Manners could not
tell. But it was violent enough: the action of a man
who had made up his mind. As Manners thought
this, the chief spoke again:
"Remember what I told you, Harley—told you of
that old saying that the first visitor in my office would
bring a murder?"
As the last word rang over the room the chief
turned, while his eyes swept the hall. Yes, there was
his hat on the stand, just where he could reach it
without having to take more than two steps. He
would want it in a minute. But before he picked it
up, he must speak again:
"Maybe it's just a superstition. I don't know.
That's what you and Kent said it was. But get this,
Harley. Fletcher was the first man in my new office.
He wanted two men to guard his grounds tonight.
I sent them out there, and while they were on duty
one of his guests died—died suddenly at the table.
Now it all may be just a coincidence. But do you
know what I think we are going to find before we
get through with it? Do you?"
Though he knew what the answer would be, Man-


36 POISON UNKNOWN
ncrs had to return the question. For a second before
replying, Rogan's cold, gray eyes met his own. There
came one word—a word barked out with all the
conviction within the police official's soul:
"Murder."


CHAPTER III
There were three cars in Manners' garage. As he
hurried across the grass, with Rogan at his heels, he
decided to take the new roadster. It was the fastest
he owned, and the police chief, he knew, wished to
reach Fletcher's place as soon as possible. The old
superstition must be playing through his mind, and
though* to the psychologist this nervous uneasiness
seemed absurd, yet he knew how disturbed Rogan
must be.
It was dark on the lawn, and the tall trees were
scarcely distinguishable. Clouds hid the stars, and
far over the lake played intermittent flashes of light-
ning. The air was still, close, heavy, threatening an
approaching storm. Beyond the fields, on the edge
of the point running out into the water, could be
seen the steady flare of the light-house.
It took but a moment to run the long, low, road-
ster out of the garage. Even before his foot went
down on the starter Rogan was beside Manners, his
hand clutching his hat. In the chief's mind there were
no illusions as to what this ride would be. He had
driven with Manners before, on occasions when
speed had been suggested. And though he had said
nothing, he noticed that it was the fastest car in the
garage that was being used.
Almost in the second they came through the open-
ing in the hedge, the machine was in high. Just past
37


38 POISON UNKNOWN
the house, the road turned to run down a long wind-
ing hill. By the time they had crested the hill, and
begun their curving descent, the car was beginning
to pick up speed. Long before they reached the bot-
tom Rogan had glanced soberly at the speedometer,
and he blinked as he saw the swinging needle playing
around the figure seventy.
Not for long, however, was the speedometer
watched. The chief had ridden with Manners be-
fore, knew there was no better driver in the city. So
slumping far down behind the wind-shield, he gave
himself up, now, to his gloomy thoughts. Ever since
Fletcher had walked into his office he had been un-
easy. Just what it was he feared, he could not tell.
But Kent's telephone call, with the information that
a tragedy had occurred at Fletcher's dinner, had
caused all his disturbed feelings to solidify into a
suspicion. A man had no right to bring an anonymous
letter into his office and then five hours later have
a guest die at his dinner table.
The car went skidding off the main highway to
turn down a back road, one that ran in a straight
line for five miles, then connected with the lake drive.
Under the onrushing headlights the fields were a
black, moving line. The machine swayed from side
to side, and Rogan breathed a faint prayer that they
would not meet anyone. They were going ninety, and
it was fast enough. He stole a glance at his com-
panion, noticed the long fingers gripping the wheel,
then turned his eyes again upon the road, which
seemed to leap up to meet them.
Manners, though he saw every stone and rut in


POISON UNKNOWN
the road, was thinking as he drove. Rogan, he knew,
was worried. Why the chief should have the wild
idea that Fletcher's guest had been murdered was
beyond him. Kent had said nothing about a crime,
only that a guest had died suddenly at the dinner
table. The anonymous letter, he supposed, was to
blame for Rogaa's saying it would prove to be
murder—the letter and that absurd superstition. It
was an odd coincidence that one of Fletcher's dinner
guests should die; yet such things did happen.
Manners ran over in his mind what he knew about
Fletcher. The man's father had been a much re-
spected citizen, which was more than could be said
of the son. Fletcher belonged to a younger social set.
The group had money; but they lacked culture, and
possessed neither intelligence nor stability. Their
Saturday night dances at the golf dub, noted for
noise and wild drinking, had driven the more con-
servative members from the club on week-ends: a
selfish group, whose escapades, to the psychologist,
showed lack of balance and responsibility. Not a
criminal group; it took something Fletcher's crowd
did not possess to be that—it took courage.
He thought of Fletcher. The man must be close
to forty, though he dressed as if he were twenty-five.
There had been stories about him, floating round the
better clubs and business offices. For the moment
Manners could not recall what they were. Nothing
very bad, he concluded, mix-ups with women, and
something about an inability to carry his liquor. He
was unintelligent, of course, and selfish: a person
who had been the inheritor of money, but who had


POISON UNKNOWN
not the ability to know what money could buy.
He stopped thinking, to take his foot hastily off
the gas and apply the brakes. With a sickening lurch
the heavy machine skidded around a dog, who had
paid no attention to their lights. As the car bumped
back into the center of the road a muffled expression
escaped Rogan's lips. It might have been a prayer;
but it sounded too emphatic for that.
On the lake road, ahead, could be seen the traf-
fic, and Manners began to slow down. For a mile
they would be forced to travel on the most popular
highway of the city. It skirted the lake front, and
though it was far from a pleasant evening there
would be heavy traffic. High speed was over.
A mile down the highway they turned to go in
the direction of the water. It was a private road they
entered, wide, with tall trees lining each side.
Through the trees could be seen glimpses of stone
walls; behind the walls were hidden large houses.
They were in the most exclusive residential section
of the city, a place of large estates, with the houses
secluded behind high stone walls or well-trimmed
hedges. Only occasionally could they see lights in the
windows, cheery spots of brightness against the dark.
At the entrance to a private driveway the road
ended. Illuminated suddenly by their headlights, a
pebbled drive could be seen curving away towards a
large house. A high stone wall hid the yard, but they
could see dimly outlined the tops of tall trees. On
either side of the driveway was thick shrubbery,
much higher than a man's head, and smoothly
trimmed.


POISON UNKNOWN
The hedge ended before reaching the house, and
the driveway swept around in a wide circle. As the
car came to a crunching stop on the gravel, Manners
noticed there were cars parked to his right—noticed
something else: as his lights had swept round the
drive, the shadowy figure of a man darted behind
one of the machines. At least, that was his impres-
sion. Something had moved—of that he was sure;
though what it was he had been unable to discern
clearly.
For a moment, after the car stopped, they sat
looking at the house. It was a long white building,
with a veranda running across the entire front. The
entrance was directly before them, and they could
see the lighted hallway. To the right, in another
room on the main floor, there were lights; but all
other parts of the house were dark. Though they
knew there were people within, yet from the car they
could see no signs of life.
Only for a moment did they look, for with a sud-
den grunt Rogan flung open the door, pushed his hat
back on his head, and climbed out. As he started
for the veranda Manners turned off his lights, then
followed.
It was Rogan was reached the door first, and
whose finger went pounding down on the button.
Within the house came the faint ringing of the bell.
They could see a light, though the frosted glass in
the door prevented their looking into the hall. In
a second came the sound of a hand fumbling at the
knob; and when the door swung open a blue-coated
policeman scowled out at them.


POISON UNKNOWN
As Rogan brushed his way into the house, a sound
on the lawn made Manners turn. He had not been
mistaken; he had heard the sound of a motor. There
appeared to be little effort at concealment; for with
a sudden roar an engine leaped into life, and he saw
a machine come off the grass to turn down the drive-
way—a machine that was picking up in speed every
second. He watched the red tail-light until it van-
ished around a curve, then stepped into the house.
The policeman who had opened the door either
had not heard the car, or was not interested. He was
at the farther end of the long hallway speaking to
his chief. Rogan's head was vigorously nodding,
though he was not saying a word. Both men disap-
peared into another room. In a second Manners was
hurrying after them.
The long hallway down which he hastened was
very spacious. A beautiful stairway curved up to the
second floor, and he noticed that there was a light
on the landing. The furniture was all colonial, and
he would have given much to own the chairs stand-
ing along the walls. One thing was striking: the
silence. Not a sound could he hear, except the noise
of Rogan's footstseps ahead of him.
There were two persons in the living-room, the
tall raw-boned head of the Homicide Squad and a
large man to whom he was talking. At the sight of
his chief a relieved look crossed the face of the in-
spector. They were all standing now by Kent's side,
and the look he cast his superior was a doubtful one.
"I did what you said," he began. "Got up here


POISON UNKNOWN
at once. Brought Bell with me. He is in the dining-
room now. But what the—"
"Never mind all that," broke in Rogan, turning
with an impatient gesture to the patrolman. "I want
to hear what Rice's got to say."
"There's not much to tell, Chief. The inspector
sent Mike and me up here, to sort of keep watch on
the grounds, while those birds were at dinner. Nice
lonely job it was. Dark as the devil out on that lawn,
and nothing to see. I looked in through the windows
every little while, but there was nothing out of the
way there—just having a dinner. Then about nine,
I hear somebody yell in the house, and hustle to
the window and give a look. There was a man half-
lying on the table. All the dames were yelling, every-
body all excited. So I busted into the house. They
said he had just flopped over and died. That's all
there seems to be in it. But I got thinking—"
An embarrassed smile passed over the policeman's
face as he uneasily shifted his feet. It was Rogan's
impatient voice that broke the silence.
"Well?"
"Well, Chief, I don't know why we were sent up
here. But it's just not natural for a man to be laugh-
ing one minute and be dead the next. I saw him
through the window, laughing his head off every time
I looked in. Then when I hear them yell, and bust
in the house, why, there he is dead. And it didn't
look right. Besides—" Again he hesitated.
"Besides what?"
"Well, he looked sort of funny to me. Don't know


POISON UNKNOWN
why. So I just called the inspector, and he said to
keep everyone here and he would be up. So I did."
For a moment Rogan's gray eyes soberly studied
his officer. Then he turned to Kent.
"What did you do with those people who were at
dinner?"
"They are out in the kitchen," replied the official,
with a vague gesture of his arm and a shrug of his
shoulders. "And they raised plenty hell when I told
them they could not leave until you came." The voice
became serious— "God knows what's in your head,
Chief, but those people not only have money; but
they also have lots of influence. They raved round
a lot when I herded them up like a bunch of crooks.
And I can't think what under heaven you are doing
it for."
"You don't have to think," was the growled re-
tort. "That's one thing I did not ask you to do. Told
you to see no one got out till I had looked this place
over. Remember that letter I showed you?"
Rogan's temper was displaying itself. Kent had
been through many experiences with his chief. Like
everyone else on the force he loved the old man;
and he realized now that there was something dis-
turbing him. His request that they rush to Fletcher's
house, and investigate what was without a doubt a
sudden though natural death, had puzzled him. But
the mention of the letter explained it. The old man
was again playing one of his hunches. And he knew
he would have to play along with him.
Manners had observed the worried look upon
Kent's face and knew what the inspector was think-


POISON UNKNOWN
ing. Rogan might be getting himself into trouble,
and into plenty of trouble, A man had died suddenly
while at a dinner; and the chief was trying to find
something mysterious in what was an uncommon but
also a perfectly natural occurrence. No doubt the
people who had been seated at Fletcher's table were,
as Kent had said, both wealthy and well-known in
the city. To be told they could not leave the house
until police gave permission would not be much to
their liking.
Turning, Manners' eyes glanced at the long table
he could see within the dining-room. It was covered
with china and glassware and decorated with flow-
ers. The wineglasses were half-empty. Chairs were
pushed back from the table, and he could see a
napkin lying on the floor. Evidently the people who
had been eating there had left the meal half-finished
and gone away hurriedly. As he gazed through the
doorway he saw a man come into sight, and he
recognized him as the young police doctor, Bell.
Rogan had again turned to Kent; but Manners
did not wait to hear what he was saying. Crossing
the floor he hastened into the dining-room. As he
came through the door, the police doctor hurriedly
turned to see who was intruding. Manners knew the
young physician rather well, and simply smiled a
greeting. Then he turned to study the dining-room.
It was a beautiful room, but only for a second
did his eyes pause on its details; instantly they
traveled to the most significant object there—an
object that, as he looked, became awesome and
sinister. In a chair, with his head bowed upon the


46 POISON UNKNOWN
table, was a man: a man whose shoulders did not
move, a man who would never again sit at a dinner
table.
The dark head was lying against the table, with
hidden face pressed into the white linen. Out-
stretched were the long arms, the fingers tightly
clenched. A picture flashed into Manners' mind—of
that man sitting there but a few moments before,
among laughing guests. Sprawled out now over the
table, the silent figure told that death had come
suddenly, and without warning.
Turning his eyes from the dark head, Manners
glanced once more down the table. Eight chairs
stood around it, at some little distance from the des-
sert plates, as though hastily pushed back. Evidently
the man had died before the dinner was over.
As Bell did not speak, Manners continued to
glance about the room. He noted that the table stood
rather close to long, wide windows overlooking the
lawn. There were five of these windows; and two of
them were swung back. On the walls were a few fine
hunting scenes, their gay colors making a spot of
brightness against the light wall-paper. Close to a
door which led to the rear of the house was a serv-
ing table, and upon the buffet stood a number of
bottles.
"Well, what does it all mean?" came Rogan's
voice from the doorway.
The chief had just entered the room. His face
wore a scowl, which vanished as his eyes took in the
bowed head upon the table. For a second the thick
lips set in a tight line, the gray eyes narrowed. Then,


POISON UNKNOWN 47
as he moved across the floor, there came his second
question:
"What is it all about, Bell? What did he die of?"
The doctor was a young man. He had taken his
office as a means of securing experience before en-
tering into private practice. An unusually efficient
doctor, Manners had often told Rogan, far superior
to the usual medical man doing police work. He ex-
pected a quick, decisive answer. To his surprise it
was several moments before Bell replied.
Instead of speaking, the doctor walked to the table
and gently lifted the bowed head. As the shoulders
were raised, there came first the sight of a wide ex-
panse of white shirt front, then the little black tie.
As though not wishing them to see the face until he
was ready, Bell had bent forward as he raised the
head upright. Supporting it in his hands, he stepped
aside. One quick glance at the white features, twisted
a little by pain, and Manners gave a sudden exclama-
tion.
He knew the man. So did Rogan. It was Dr.
Langdon, the child specialist, one of the best-known
physicians in the city. Unmarried, quiet and scholarly
in his tastes, he was the last person Manners would
have expected to be at a dinner in Fletcher's house.
But he had been. And that white, silent face, whose
eyes still bore a startled look, would never smile
again.
An astonished grunt escaped from Rogan's lips as
he recognized the dead man. It was even worse than
he expected. This man was not only well-known; he
was one of the best-liked physicians in the city. There


48 POISON UNKNOWN
would be big headlines in the morning papers. As he
looked at the cold intelligent face, all the forebod-
ings in his mind leaped into his voice.
"What was the matter, Bell?"
"Well," came the slow, dry retort, "he seems to
have died."
An impatient oath leaped from the chief's lips.
"What of?" was the sharp query.
Very gently Bell allowed the head to fall back
upon the table. Then, with a puzzled expression
upon his thin face, he looked soberly down at the
bent shoulders. The look surprised Manners; for in
it was a mixture of doubt and wonder. When he did
reply to the chief's impatient question Bell's voice
was slow and hesitating:
"Well, Rogan, offhand I should say it was a
stroke. He must have died very suddenly—that's
evident from the looks of the table. It appears to be
a natural death, only—"
Like a dog pointing a partridge, Rogan leaped at
the last word:
"Only what?"
"Just this, Chief," was the reply—and the voice
was a little puzzled. "If it was an embolism, a clot
of blood hitting the brain and producing a stroke,
then he died pretty quick. Of course oftentimes they
do, though it seems here that death was very rapid. I
have little doubt that's what it was. Only—"
Again a pause, as if the young doctor were trying
to pick his words carefully. Impatient, the chief
started to speak, but closed his lips when Bell con-
tinued.


POISON UNKNOWN
"You see I knew Langdon. For a busy, well-known
specialist, he always was rather kind to me. And he
would be the last man in the world I should think
would have a stroke. He always seemed in perfect
health." He paused, slowly shaking his head. "But
of course you never can tell. I noticed he was very
pale when I first examined him, his skin moist and
cold. The body seems to have become rigid rather
rapidly; but that means little."
"It means an autopsy," broke forth Rogan.
The doctor turned and looked at his chief. The
stern glance he received was not unfamiliar to him.
Stubborn determination was on the red face, a half-
scowl around the tight lips. Bell shrugged his shoul-
ders. The old man had made up his mind, though
what he was insisting upon would be an absurdity.
Langdon had died while seated at the dinner table of
his host. The occurrence was sad, much to be re-
gretted, but of course the death was a natural one.
An autopsy would not only be absurd, it would make
a lot of talk.
He voiced his opinions. Rogan was reminded that
he was not dealing with people devoid of influence
and power. An autopsy would make the city talk,
wonder whether there was any hint of a crime. When
the chief was forced, as Bell assured him he would
be, to tell the papers that the death had been a
natural one, then the fireworks would begin. Toward
the end Bell became even eloquent, and with ironic
sarcasm in his voice demanded if Rogan thought he
knew more about medicine than his doctor did.
His face expressionless, the chief listened. When


POISON UNKNOWN
the doctor paused, more because he was out of breath
than for any other reason, the police official only
gave him a long searching look. Very sarcastic was
the rejoinder that came, reminding the doctor that,
after all, he would have to take his orders from his
superior. He was going to have an autopsy, no mat-
ter what Bell thought about it. And his next words
were a command—to arrange that the body be taken
to the proper place.
Rogan knew what the men in the room were think-
ing. There was much truth in what Bell had said.
Fletcher and his guests did have influence, and the
autopsy would make a great stir. In a sense there
was no reason for one. Tlie doctor had said the
death was a natural one. Yet Rogan had not failed
to notice the hesitancy in his voice, and it had made
him remember the old superstition. Besides, there
was an tmeasy feeling in his own mind: a warning
that all was not well. What caused it he did not
know. It was a feeling that had come over him on
other occasions. And whenever he had followed the
warning things had gone well for him.
At the farther end of the room a door was sud-
denly thrust open. For a second there was a glimpse
of a butler's pantry. A face looked anxiously into the
room—that of a policeman. His eyes fell upon his
chief, and in a loud whisper he said he wished to
speak to him. With a shrug of his shoulders Rogan
crossed the floor to pass through the door.
As the latter swung back into place behind him,
Maimers turned to Bell. There was a disgusted look


POISON UNKNOWN
on the young doctor's face, and as the glance of the
professor met his own he slowly shook his head. It
was an expressive gesture; that of one who realized
from sad experience in the past that Rogan would
have his own way. It occasioned a question from
Manners:
"You think it absurd to have an autopsy?"
There came a long look at the silent figure slumped
over the table. Then the doctor spoke.
"Professor, we were told when we got here that
there were eight people at this table. Suddenly Dr.
Langdon gave a cry, and a moment later fell over—
dead. There is no hint of anything mysterious in his
death. I will admit the setting is unusual; and it's odd
it happened to be him. But such things do take place.
And everything I can see points to his having died
from a stroke. Only—"
"Only you are not certain," was the retort.
"No," was the grudging admission, "I am not
certain that it was a stroke. I don't like the way the
corners of his lips are pulled down. But if you think
I have any idea that it was not a natural death, you
are all wet. Rogan's just got one of those hunches he
loves to talk about, that's all."
The doctor was reminded that the chief had not
forgotten Fletcher's receipt of an anonymous letter,
warning him that he might be in for trouble. Bell
nodded, evidently having been told of the letter by
the inspector. Then he retorted:
"Sure, that's the thing bothering the chief. But the
old boy forgets it was Fletcher who was going to get


52 POISON UNKNOWN
into trouble, not one of his guests. Yet because, by
sheer coincidence, Dr. Langdon died at Fletcher's
dinner, Rogan goes crazy for an autopsy." The tone
was sarcastic.
Seeing that Bell was thinking of the work ahead
of him, Manners walked away toward the end of the
table to stand directly behind the bowed shoulders
of Dr. Langdon. Gravely he glanced down the length
of the table, as his eyes narrowed.
One odd thing about that table, he thought. Dec-
orations and fittings: everything one might expect.
But one thing seemed out of place. The head of the
table stood very close to the center window. There
had been six guests. It was the custom for host and
hostess to sit at either end of a dinner table. Yet
Langdon's body was in the chair Manners would
have expected Fletcher to occupy.
As he moved closer to the silent figure, the profes-
sor felt something crunch under his feet. Stepping
aside, he looked down at the rug. For a second he
was unable to detect anything; not until he bent down
could he distinguish the white, powdery substance on
which he had stepped. Sugar, was his first thought;
but when, reaching down, he ran his hand over the
rug, he was not so certain. The substance was a bit
too coarse and rough to be sugar.
Whatever it was, it covered several inches of the
rug. The sole of his shoe had ground the substance
into the fabric. In his pocket there was an envelope,
and, obeying some instinct, he sank down on one knee
and managed to gather a few of the white crystals


POISON UNKNOWN
between his fingers. It was rather difficult, for they
were almost a powder, and there was not much of it.
He felt a little embarrassed as he rose to his feet,
but noticed that Bell had not observed his action.
Bell would have had no time to comment on it at
any rate; for Rogan had come slamming through the
door. Something had roused him. There was an
angry flush on his face. His glance swept quickly
from Manners to Bell, then passed to the door lead-
ing into the living-room. At the question he barked
forth Kent hastened to his side.
"How many persons did you say were at this din-
ner of Fletcher's?"
"Eight."
"You told them they must all remain here until I
said they could leave?"
He was informed that the inspector had com-
manded the two policemen not to allow anyone to
leave the house until the chief arrived. The guests
with their host and hostess had been sent to the
kitchen; and with a hint of sarcasm in his voice Kent
assured his superior they were still there. The re-
sponse to this remark was a long, cold, angry look.
"They are?" came the icy comment. "They are?
Well get this, Kent. You bring Fletcher into the
dining-room. Go out and get him yourself. And when
you get in that kitchen count the people out there.
Count them well!"
"What do you mean by 'count them'?"
Rogan's hand plunged into the pocket of his coat,
searching for one of the stogies he had taken from


POISON UNKNOWN
the box on Manners' desk. The end was snapped off
with a vicious bite of the white teeth; but the stogie
was not lighted. Instead:
"There were eight at the dinner. Dr. Langdon is
dead. That leaves seven. Out in that kitchen there
should be seven people—should be! It happens only
six are there. One of them has vanished."


CHAPTER IV
Though it had nothing to do with what had just
been said, an old Italian proverb flashed into Man-
ners' mind: "The Devil knows how to make the cup,
but can never make the cover fit tightly." An absurd
thought, and why it occurred to him he did not know.
Was there even the slightest chance that Rogan
might in the end discover that his suspicions had
some foundation? Then came another thought. He
recalled the sound he had heard as he entered the
house. Once again he saw the darkly outlined car
sweeping off the grass and into the driveway. Rogan
had said that one of the guests had vanished. Who-
ever had been driving that car had been in a hurry
to get away. Turning, Manners told the chief what
he had observed.
With an uneasy frown upon his face, Rogan lis-
tened. All afternoon he had been feeling restless.
Just now he was far more than restless—he was
nervous. Everything was going wrong. If it had been
Fletcher who was found dead he would not have
been greatly surprised. But the doctor— And he
stopped to remark that it would at any rate not be a
difficult task to discover which one of the guests had
disobeyed his order not to leave the house. Then he
snapped out a sharp command to Kent.
The inspector, with a short nod, hastened in the
direction of the kitchen. With an uneasy shrug of his
55


56 POISON UNKNOWN
shoulders, Rogan observed the door swing to behind
him, then walked into the living-room. Manners
watched him cross the floor and pass through into the
hall; then saw a light spring into being beyond. The
room the chief had entered was a library.
Turning to the scene behind him once more, Man-
ners looked again at the table. The still shoulders,
the dark head lying there against the mahogany,
made his lips tighten. If there was one man in the
city whom he would not have expected to die at
Fletcher's table, it was the famous child specialist.
And only a moment ago the chief had snarled out
that one of the dinner guests, despite police orders,
had vanished.
The sound of a voice drifted through the closed
door: a high voice, its tone shrill, querulous, angry
and complaining. It was carrying on a one-sided con-
versation; for there were no answering words. Even
after Kent pushed open the door, to half-shove the
man in front of him into the room, Fletcher's voice
was still going on. There seemed little doubt, judg-
ing by the way his tongue slurred and tripped over
certain words, that he had drunk a bit too much.
He took but two steps into the room; then re-
treated to lean against the wall. The white shirt of
his dinner suit was ruffled; his hair was in disorder.
Well-waxed, however, was the tiny black mustache;
and the small eyes threw an angry, uneasy look over
the room. As they fell upon the silent figure at the
table, Manners noticed that Fletcher gave a little
shudder.
Only for a second did his glance remain on the


POISON UNKNOWN 57
table. Turning his eyes away, he looked coldly
toward the doctor, then raised his eyebrows a trifle
as he saw Manners. Though he knew him, there was
no sign of recognition. Instead, turning his back upbn
the three men, Fletcher walked to the buflet. With
an eager hand he reached for a tall glass; and the
Scotch he poured from one of the bottles was enough
for three drinks. Throwing the glass down, his hand
reached again for the bottle, hesitated, then fell to
his side. With a sudden motion he whirled about.
"What in hell does all this mean?" was the snarl-
ing question to Kent, followed by a nervous gesture
with the hand still holding the glass. "It's bad
enough to have a guest die at my dinner table, with-
out you damned fool police coming in and ordering
my guests around as if they were a bunch of crooks.
Where do you get that sort of stuff? You are not
dealing with people who will allow you to get away
with any rough stuff."
Kent made no reply. After all, this was Rogan's
party, not his. And the old man was going a bit fur-
ther than the occasion warranted. Fletcher was an-
gry, and deep down in his heart Kent did not blame
him. The death at his dinner table of one of the
distinguished physicians of the city must have been
a shock. To have the police come rushing in, treating
a natural death as though it were a suspicious one,
refusing to allow one's dinner guests to leave the
house—it was not the sort of thing to make a man
like Fletcher feel happy. With relief, the inspector
heard the commanding voice of the chief from across
the hall.


58 POISON UNKNOWN
In obedience to the voice, with Fletcher in the
lead and Manners bringing up the rear, they crossed
the living-room, to enter a room on the opposite side
of the hall; Bell alone remaining behind. It was a
small room, with book-cases on three sides, and to
Manners' surprise they were well filled. Someone in
the house did some reading; though he felt certain it
could not be the angry man who had walked into the
room ahead of him, and was now standing directly
in front of the chief.
For a second Rogan's cold glance swept over the
raging figure before him. Weight about a hundred
and forty-five, in poor physical condition, and de-
cidedly angry—so Rogan summed him up. Not much
color to his face, and it would do him no harm to lay
off liquor for a while. As he thought this the chief
suddenly wished he had a drink himself. He needed
one; it would do him good. Fletcher was angry, his
flushed face told that, and he'd best be careful what
he said to him. After all, this man did have a good
deal of power in the city.
"What in—" began the high voice.
"Only want to ask you a few questions," came the
chief's interruption. The mildness of his tone made
both Manners and Kent smile. "Only want to ask a
few questions. Maybe we'd better sit down to talk."
It was evident for a second that a vicious retort
was trembling upon Fletcher's lips. Then, with a
half-shrug of his shoulders, he walked over to a
sofa. For a moment, from his seat, he watched the
three men find chairs, which they brought close to the
desk in the center of the room. Then, as though sud-


POISON UNKNOWN 59
denly remembering his wrongs, he burst into speech
once more.
"What in hell do you mean, Rogan, by telling my
guests they can't leave the house till you say so? One
would think we were a bunch of crooks."
"No," was the slow retort, "not that. But you
know, Fletcher, you wanted two men sent up here to
see that nothing happened at your dinner. Well,
something did happen—Dr. Langdon died. Now
tell us all about it."
There came a moment's silence. Fletcher's hand
searched into the inside pocket of the dinner coat, to
find a cigarette case, which he nervously snapped
open. As the odor of the Turkish tobacco filled the
room, he spoke.
"There's not much I can tell. Had a little dinner
oru Langdon was one of the guests. All at once,
toward the end of the dinner, he gave a little cry,
and a minute later slumped down on the table. Of
course the shock of finding he was dead made some
confusion. Then your policeman came bursting in,
and told us he was calling you. But all I know about
it is that he just sort of fell over, and died."
Rogan nodded, as his restless hand started to
reach into a pocket for a stogie. He realized that
Manners and Kent disapproved of what he was
thinking: that there was something mysterious about
the doctor's death. He also realized that he disliked
the well-dressed man sitting on the sofa. There
seemed, however, nothing more he needed to ask
Fletcher. He cast an imploring glance at Manners.
The professor came to the rescue. Had Fletcher


60 POISON UNKNOWN
noticed any appearance of illness in the doctor? And
he had mentioned a sudden little cry; what had he
meant by that?
When the reply came, Fletcher's voice was icy. It
was evident that he resented the source of the ques-
tion. Before speaking, he carefully placed one knee
over the other, then looked down to see if the sharp
crease in his trouser leg had been harmed.
"Saw nothing out of the way in his appearance,"
came the admission. "He did make a little cry—all
at once—as if in pain. That's all I can tell you."
Manners fumbled for his cigarette case, felt its
cool surface, then allowed it to remain in his pocket.
"Just one more question, Fletcher," he apologized.
"Stupid perhaps to ask it. But how did it happen that
Langdon was sitting at the head of your table? Un-
usual, you know, for any but the host to sit there."
A puzzled look swept Fletcher's face. "Oh yes,"
he said. "I remember. I got up to turn on the radio.
Suggested he might like to talk with Clara Under-
wood, who was sitting on my right. That's how he
happened to be in my chair. I took his."
"Which one of your guests disregarded my order
not to leave the house?" came Rogan's impatient
question.
Fletcher gave a sudden start. There was no doubt
about the surprise which played across his sallow
face. A nervous hand reached up to feel of the little
mustache. His eyes opened in startled astonishment
—as though he did not comprehend the chief's
meaning.
"Left!" was the shrill exclamation.


POISON UNKNOWN 61
"Yes. Who sneaked away? One of them drove out
of this yard just as we came into the house," came
Rogan's impatient voice. "Who was it? And why did
that person go?"
Rising slowly to his feet, Fletcher stared at the
police official as though he doubted the sincerity of
the question. One quick look at the stern, set face,
and there came a slow shake of his head:
"I can't tell you. I know Billy Hardy went into the
butler's pantry, saying he wanted a drink. Come to
think of it, I don't remember that he returned. But
if he sneaked out of the house I can't tell you why he
did it. Haven't the slightest idea. Funny thing to do."
Kent crossed to the chief's side. As they started a
low, whispered conversation there came a muttered
remark from Fletcher that he needed a drink, and he
hurried from the room. Only for a moment did the
two officials speak, then with a little understanding
nod Kent turned to hasten out into the hall. A second
after he had disappeared Fletcher returned.
He did not come far into the room. There was a
tall glass in his hand, two-thirds filled with Scotch.
He moved his hand so that the liquid swirled in the
glass, and his little eyes soberly followed the revolv-
ing fluid. Then, with a quick motion, the glass was
raised to his lips, and the drink gulped down. Sud-
denly he started to laugh.
It was far from a pleasant laugh. Behind the shrill
inflection one could hear hatred. It was evident that
the last drink had not been needed—the smile that
crossed the thin lips was fatuous. Suddenly he turned
to Manners, with a vague gesture of his right arm.


62 POISON UNKNOWN
"Tell you something, Professor," volunteered the
sly voice—and he lurched a little as he spoke. "Tell
you something. First time you ever visited my house
—first time. You know, I feel awfully sorry over the
doctor's death. But I never invited him, never in-
vited him to dinner.. He's my wife's friend. She asked
him. I—"
A silly smirk crossed his face, as he tried to throw
back his shoulders. "Never did like him very much.
He was too sancti—sanctimous. Told me once I ran
round too much, drank too much. 'Lazy' he called
me. Think of that I" He made a wide circle with his
arms. "Pine man, though. Doctor a big man. But too
sanctim—sanctimous." There came a grin, as for the
third time he struggled with the word, then burst
out— "Oh, you know what I mean. Too strict and
all that sort of thing. Funny he'd come to a dinner I
give, and then die. Funny thing that. If—" The
rambling voice died suddenly away.
His guests were coming into the room. In the lead
were three women, whose low-cut evening gowns
showed shoulders pale as their faces. In the rear fol-
lowed the one man, a short tubby man, with a big
head and flaming red hair—a man whose round fat
face was working nervously as his eyes threw one
searching look at the police.
Tommy Davidson was well-known chiefly because
each year he managed to figure in a serious automo-
bile accident. No one could ever know as much as
Davidson thought he knew, or be as pompous as he
was on certain occasions. As Manners saw him come
through the door he smiled to himself. Once, when
*1


POISON UNKNOWN 63
called as a psychological expert in court, he had testi-
fied that Davidson belonged to the type that never
should be allowed to drive an automobile. As the
little eyes flashed a quick look in his direction, he
knew the statement was being recalled.
Two of the women Manners knew, though they
did not give any sign of recognition. There was
Davidson's wife, a tall well-formed brunette—whose
shoulder-straps threatened at ever moment to slide
from her shapely shoulders. Her face was handsome
enough; though around the painted lips dissatisfied
and petulant lines showed. Behind her was Mary
Moorhead.
Every one in the city at least knew about the tall,
angular woman called Mary Moorhead. Her en-
thusiasms were many and varied, from badly played
roles at the Little Theater to poorly done book-
reviews at the Book Forum. With a quick temper,
unbounded conceit, and a not over-truthful tongue,
her father's fortune allowed her to bully her selfish
way through the social life of the city. There was a
half-sneer on her narrow lips, as she coldly surveyed
the room.
The third woman Manners did not know. She was
by far the best-looking of the three, with hair of a
shade between auburn and blond. She might have
been over twenty-five, though the voluptuous body,
plainly showing in the tightly fitted evening dress,
seemed younger. Not an over-intelligent face,
thought Manners, and the sensuous lips trembled a
little as she came into the room, as though she were
afraid.


64 POISON UNKNOWN
As Rogan slowly eyed the group his heart sank.
He was recalling the remarks of his inspector. These
people, with their wealth and social position, could
not be treated as could the criminals whom he saw
daily. That they were all angry was clearly apparent;
and that he would find it rather difficult to explain his
reason for refusing to allow them to leave the house
was becoming every moment more evident. He had
allowed a foolish suspicion to run away with him.
He was about to speak, when there came a little
sound at the door.
Another woman had come into the room. Man-
ners', as he turned and saw Fletcher's wife, had to
stifle a surprised exclamation. He had kept very
much to himself in the last two years, and when in
the city had been hard at work in his library. Social
affairs had been neglected, and though under or-
dinary circumstances he would have met Ann Fletcher
long ago, his first sight of her was as she came slowly
into her library.
A very beautiful woman, he thought, tall, with a
perfectly proportioned figure which her simple black
velvet evening gown showed to perfection. But it was
her face that interested him: a sensitive face, with
clear honest eyes, and finely shaped lips. There was
intelligence there, and breeding, which showed in the
proud way she carried her head.
Yet in the brief moment she stood motionless in
the doorway he saw she was both unhappy and
troubled. Though the dark head was held high there
were shadows under the gray eyes and, he thought,
traces of tears. As her glance slowly swept the room,


66 POISON UNKNOWN
The low voice trembled into silence. Rogan's eyes
swept the room. No one seemed to wish to add any-
thing; though he saw several heads nod in agree-
ment. Perhaps it was best to ask no more questions.
After all, there was nothing to be discovered. But
one thing more he did wish to know.
"Can any of you tell me why it was that one of
your number left the house, despite my orders for all
to stay?"
Somebody gave a nervous little laugh—one of the
women—though which one the chief did not know.
It was stifled almost as soon as it began. But it was
Davidson who leaped into speech; and Rogan no-
ticed that his wife, who was standing beside him, laid
a warning hand on his fat arm.
"He just beat it," began the high voice. "Walked
into the pantry saying he was going to have a drink.
Must have climbed out of the window. We heard his
car a few minutes later."
"Why?" Rogan demanded.
There came a little icy laugh from Mary Moor-
head. "We are not mind-readers," she said ironically.
"Do we have to be? I suppose he just got tired of be-
ing told he could not go."
Silence fell. Manners saw Fletcher's wife lean
wearily against the wall. The white shoulders
drooped as though she were very tired, weary and
sick at heart. The fine face trembled a little, then
suddenly her eyes met his—deep, clear eyes, honest
and searching. For a moment their glances held;
then she looked away. It was Rogan who broke the
stillness:


POISON UNKNOWN 67
"You can go now. I am sorry I had to ask you to
remain until I arrived. But it was necessary."
They turned to rush out of the library. In the
confusion Fletcher's voice was heard, a little shrill
and excited; and he was having difficulty with the
words.
"Now it's all over we'd better have a drink. That
includes the police, and—" he paused, to add sar-
castically—"Professor Manners."
No one replied. The women were leaving the
room. Davidson had gone close to Fletcher's side
and whispered something in his ear, which made
them both laugh. With a half-scowl on his face,
Rogan watched Fletcher and his guests hurry out of
the room, and knew by the sound of an opening door
that they had not gone into the dining-room. Lang-
don was still there—and his silent figure was some-
thing they would not care to see.
As the last one vanished, the chief reached into his
coat and found a stogie. With a vicious click of his
teeth he bit off the end. The explosive manner in
which he blew forth the first cloud of smoke showed
his disgust. It did not need the words he poured
forth to tell Kent and Manners that he was also
angry.
"People like those," he started in, "give me a pain
—a big one. Think they own the earth. But there's
nothing more I can do—nothing I have a right to
do. So I'm just going to let Bell hurry through the
autopsy."
Kent protested. "But Chief, you do not need one.
It was a natural death. You heard what they said."


68 POISON UNKNOWN
"Yes—they said nothing. But get this, Kent. It
was a sudden death. And the law in such cases allows
an autopsy by the coroner. That's why we had our
own police doctor made coroner—so it would be pos-
sible to look into sudden deaths of this sort. I am
going to have an autopsy—even if you don't like it.
The doctor was a big man; and it won't hurt anyone
to discover why he flopped over and died. He died
too damn quick to suit me." A pause—in which the
red face flushed, and a half-oath. "What's more, I
am going to find out why that young pup sneaked out
of the house."
Fifteen minutes later Manners came out of the
front door to stand for a moment looking over the
lawn. It was a place of shadows filled with pools of
darkness, the shrubbery forming large squares of
blackness. Save for the slight breeze in the trees
there was no sound.
There was still lightning, though the storm was
far over the lake, and apparently would come no
nearer. A faint wind had sprung up; and the air was
cooler than when he had entered the house. Rogan
had refused his offer to drive him back to town, say-
ing he would remain until the body of the doctor had
been taken away. Feeling there was no reason for his
remaining Manners had said good night.
Stepping off the veranda he paused, for a moment,
to get his bearings. Fletcher must have a rather large
estate, he thought. To his right stretched the yard,
a mysterious place of shadows and darkness reaching
to the top of the high bluff—which at this point on
the shore ran for almost two miles along the lake


POISON UNKNOWN 69
front. To his left the driveway curved towards the
road outside the stone wall.
In a sense it was a lonesome place, rather isolated,
the other houses some distance off. Beyond the stone
wall, at least a thousand yards away, shone the lights
in the road. But there were no lights in Fletcher's
grounds. And it was impossible to do more than dis-
tinguish the dark outlines of the trees.
Instead of going to his car the professor turned,
to step on the soft, springy grass. Reaching the end
of the house he walked a few yards over the lawn, to
find himself under the shadow of tall elms. If he con-
tinued he knew he would reach the top of the bluff,
and that seventy feet below him would be the lake.
But he turned to his left.
Walking about forty feet, he paused to look at
the house. The first floor was now lighted, its win-
dows bright oblongs against the darkness. In the
second story there was but one lighted window, well
toward the front of the house. From where he was
standing he could look directly into the dining-room,
through a large bay window made in five sections,
two of which were swung open. He could see the
long table, the white linen and silver—see also the
dark, still form at the end of the table. And he noticed
the moving figure of a man in the room. As the man
came forward into his vision he knew, from the blue
uniform, that it was a policeman.
For a time Manners stood motionless. His first
thought had been to cross the grass and stand di-
rectly under the window. But that would be a useless
thing to do. He knew what was in that room. From


POISON UNKNOWN
where he stood there was nothing to break the view.
True, under the window there was shrubbery; but it
was not high; and the tree, only a few feet from the
house, was not in his line of vision.
Within that house one of the most distinguished
men of the city had suddenly passed out of life.
Death is the fate of every man; Manners did not
forget that. But back in his mind was another
thought, mingled with a vague wonder. Langdon had
been a scholar, a man wrapped up in his profession.
The guests at Fletcher's dinner would not be the
type of people the physician would choose for his
friends. Nor could he picture Fletcher as ever be-
coming a confidant of the doctor.
This thought was with him as he drove home. It
was late, with little traffic on the road, and he could
have driven as rapidly as he wished. But the car
moved slowly. He was thinking.
Odd, indeed, that Langdon should have been at
that dinner. No one there worthy of a moment of
the doctor's time. Then he remembered Fletcher's
wife. Her clear-cut, sensitive face flashed into his
memory. Intelligence there was there, and also un-
happiness. He wondered how she found life with the
man whom she had married, why she had married
him. . . .
He gave up thinking after a while, knowing his
thoughts were leading nowhere. Had it not been for
the anonymous letter Fletcher had brought into the
police-station Rogan would not have been disturbed.
But the chief had been led to expect that something
would happen—only he had expected that it would


POISON UNKNOWN 71
happen to Fletcher.
When he had put the car in his garage the dog
came leaping over the grass, to thrust a cold nose in
his hand. Together they walked into the house, and
the Airedale followed him gravely out to the kitchen.
Here Manners opened a cabinet, found a squatty
bottle, brought out a stubby one of soda, and mixed
a long drink. The mixture was carried back into the
library, and—with a sigh—he sank down in his easi-
est chair.
He was tired, and a little disturbed. The quiet
evening he had so carefully planned for the chief
had turned into a night of horror. For horror was
the only word to express his feeling over the death
of the doctor. It had been a shock, and part of the
shock had been his startled wonder at the place
where the doctor died.
Sipping the Scotch, his eyes wandered over the
room. Slowly they passed down the long line of book-
cases, lingering for a moment at the section that
contained his collection upon crime. There were hun-
dreds of volumes in that section, the stories of every
nation. But there was nothing in any of them that
would meet the situation he had just encountered.
The glass drained, a cigarette lighted, he smiled.
He could picture Rogan, ending what should have
been a happy day, in a spirit of unrest. The chief had
played one of his hunches; and it was very apparent
it had gone wrong. But the stubborn old boy would
never admit he had been mistaken—though Man-
ners knew that, even now, he was wishing he had
gone a bit slower.


POISON UNKNOWN
He stopped thinking, to lean back, in his chair with
eyes closed. It was very peaceful in the long room;
its restful quiet came sweeping into his soul. For a
long while he did not stir; then suddenly a hand
reached down to linger for a moment on the head of
the dog, who was asleep by his side. At last he rose
to his feet.
It was time for bed. As he went up the wide, wind-
ing stairway, he was sure of one thing. He would
hear from Rogan tomorrow. That was a certainty.
Whenever the chief was troubled Manners always
heard from him. With that thought in his mind, he
began to prepare for bed.


CHAPTER V
Timothy Rogan scowled down at a disordered desk.
Twenty-four hours in his new office had resulted in
one thing: the surface of the desk was cluttered with
a mass of papers and reports, a careless litter that
looked as though it might have been accumulating
for months. The disorder rather pleased the chief;
it was the only thing in the room that reminded him
of his old office.
There were, however, two objects on the desk that
made his lips tighten. In one corner was tossed the
morning paper, while directly in front of him, crum-
pled into a tight ball, lay the noon edition of the
Evening Star.
He did not have to pick them up and re-read their
news columns to recall what was on the first page of
both papers. Heavy black headlines had leaped forth
to hold his attention when he first looked at them.
In the morning paper the headlines announced the
sudden death of Dr. Langdon. The early afternoon
edition had begun to hint at something else.
In the morning paper the account of the sudden
death of Dr. Langdon at Fletcher's dinner party had
not disturbed the chief. Many columns had retold
the story of the physician's prominence in the social
and professional life of the city. They were news
stories revealing clearly the warm place the doctor
had* filled in many hearts.
73


POISON UNKNOWN
This account had not disturbed Rogan. No refer-
ence had been made to the fact the police had gone
to the house, nothing was mentioned about the au-
topsy. But the afternoon edition made up for what
had been omitted in the morning. In headlines that
ran across the page, it had shrieked to an eager pub-
lic that Rogan had demanded an autopsy. And it
hinted that a sensation was coming.
What the sensational developments might be the
paper had not indicated; for it did not know. But
the public had been reminded that autopsies were
performed only when the police were suspicious as
to the cause of death. Much was made of the fact
that Rogan had ordered the autopsy himself. From
then on the chief's name became very prominent in
the news columns.
It had been a strenuous morning. First the station
had been swamped by reporters. The news of the
autopsy had sent them thronging into Rogan's office.
Many of their questions he had been unable to an-
swer—mostly because he did not know the answers
himself. Why had he ordered an autopsy ? Was there
any suspicion that Langdon's death had not been due
to natural causes? It was his answer to the last ques-
tion that had provoked the ironical, perplexed edi-
torial in the afternoon paper.
A more diplomatic police chief might have been
able to answer this question satisfactorily. But even
Rogan's best friends had never looked upon him as a
diplomat. Honest, hard-working, efficient he might
be; but his direct soul led him to tell the truth always
as he saw it. He had informed the reporters that so


POISON UNKNOWN
far as he knew there was not the slightest evidence
Langdon had not died a natural death. He had or-
dered an autopsy, he told them, because he felt un-
easy.
"Rogan Is Uneasy"—these words had headed
the leading editorial in the afternoon paper. It
was a sarcastic, ironical editorial, the very mem-
ory of which made the chief flush. Repeating the
expression "Rogan is uneasy" again and again the
writer had reminded the city that the doctor had
been dining with people whose wealth and social
standing were of the highest. Rogan's remark that
there was not the slightest suspicion of foul play was
given an important place. The editorial ended with
the suggestion that the chief of police must have lost
his common sense.
Rogan had turned very red when he slowly read
this comment on his actions. He thought of the previ-
ous day, of the dinner in his honor, the long dreary
speeches. Then they had given him flowers. But that
was yesterday, and this was another day.
He had discovered another item in the paper that
made him scowl. The medical association had met
at noon. Long resolutions had been passed; resolu-
tions that spoke of the high professional standing of
their dead colleague. But there had been a second
resolution introduced—which passed, the paper
stated, "without a dissenting voice." It was one con-
demning the chief of police for mutilating the body
of their former member in order, as they put it, to
gratify a whim of his own.
This resolution stung. Rogan knew almost every


76 POISON UNKNOWN
doctor in the city; liked most of them. That after
long years of service they should believe he had had
no reason for his action hurt. And it was at this point
that doubt began to creep into Rogan's thoughts.
The visit of the police commissioner had nothing
to do with his state of mind. True, his superior had
suggested that he might have been unwise; but
Rogan knew he would back him to the limit. One
thing the political leaders of the city saw to: the
head of the police force was given a free hand. No
one interfered, and he had often boasted that this
could be said of few police departments.
But the resolution of the medical association let
him see his action from the viewpoint of the public.
He had ordered an autopsy. Deep down in his heart
he knew there was not the slightest reason for one.
That is, there was none unless he could trust his
hunch of the previous evening. It had been a vague
warning; a suggestion that things were not as they
seemed. Now, as the clear soft light of early after-
noon crept into his office, he began to wonder if he
had not been foolish.
Reaching down to a drawer, he jerked it open to
find a box of stogies. When the smoke was lighted
he sat for a while, staring moodily at the desk. Pa-
pers covered the surface, reports, letters, thrown in
a wild confusion. But he felt more at home than
when he had first sat in his chair. He had never liked
a clean desk. His finger went banging down on a
button. He sank back in his chair, throwing a regret-
ful glance at the newspapers. He was thinking to


POISON UNKNOWN 77
himself that they were not through with him. He
had forbidden the reporters entry to his office; but
he knew they were down in the basement of the
building. They would have more to say about him
before, the day was over.
It was his police inspector, Kent, who opened the
door and came in. The look he give his superior took
in the newspapers on the desk and the troubled look
on the other's face. And it was Kent's idea that
Rogan deserved to look troubled. Though his loy-
alty to the chief would never have allowed him to
admit it to a single soul, Kent felt that the editorial
in the afternoon paper took the correct attitude.
Rogan had gone too far; because of "an uneasy feel-
ing" he had rushed into a situation in which he had
not a fact to stand on.
Seating himself, Kent waited for the question that
he knew would come. It was delivered in a voice that
was both impatient and irritable:
"Did you check up on Langdon?"
Rogan was told that though the Homicide Squad
had followed his instructions they had discovered
nothing about the physician that was unknown to the
public. Langdon had been unmarried, a doctor whose
practice filled almost all of his waking hours. Books
and music were his hobbies: and he had little to do
with the social life of the city. Rogan received this
information without a change of expression—he had
known it all for some years.
"There was only one thing that looked a bit
funny," was Kent's slow observation.


POISON UNKNOWN
mahogany surface. In no other way could it have be-
come so untidy in a few hours. But it was upon the
tossed-aside newspapers that his look lingered; he
knew that by tomorrow they would be pursuing the
police as a hound pursues a frightened hare.
"Chief," he began in an apologetic voice, "don't
you think you pulled a bad one in insisting on that
autopsy? After all, there was no real reason for it.
And you can't pull off the usual police methods on
people of the social standing of Fletcher and his
crowd."
There was no reply for a moment. Rogan liked
the tall, lanky man who sat opposite him. Some day
Kent might succeed him; he hoped he would. He
realized that his inspector did not approve of what
he had done. For that matter, he was not very cer-
tain that he approved of it himself. But he made no
reply to what had been said; instead, he asked a
question:
"Now about that young man who sneaked out of
Fletcher's window. Got any dope on him?"
"Hardy? Oh, he plays round with Fletcher's
crowd. Rather an excitable young man. Some money.
Took women's parts in several of the Little Theater
shows last winter."
"Oh, one of those things!"
"Well, anyway he is an excitable fellow. Can't
stand much liquor—the type that always talks the
loudest and makes a scene at a party: shy on brains,
like all the crowd he travels round with."
Rogan took some little time before replying. The
stogie was out, and needed relighting; the operation


8o POISON UNKNOWN
was very deliberate. When it was going to suit him,
he slowly shifted his position in the chair. "Odd he
sneaked off as he did last night," was the only com-
ment.
"We found his car," Kent volunteered.
"You did!"
"Yes. Got a call this morning that a deserted ma-
chine was in a ditch down the Lake Road. We found
it two miles beyond Fletcher's. License plates show
it was Hardy's car. Looks as if it skidded and went
off the road."
Rogan digested this information for a moment.
All morning, at frequent intervals, one fact had kept
running through his mind: rack his brain as he might
he could see no reason for Hardy's disappearance
from Fletcher's house. Excitable and emotional,
Kent had called him: no doubt the young man had
been afraid of the police. But what Rogan wanted to
know was why the thought of the police should have
frightened him. He was just about to express this
when there came a knock at his door.
"Manners, I think," he commented. "Called him
up and asked him to come down. Just about time—"
His voice died away as he observed that it was not
Manners who was entering his office, but Fletcher—
a dapper-looking figure, dressed in a tight-fitting
double-breasted blue suit, and with a necktie that
was wonderful to behold. The little mustache was
carefully waxed, but the sallow cheeks were flushed
with excitement. As he came hurrying to their side
Rogan observed that the small eyes were twitching.
"What do you think has happened, Chief?" began


POISON UNKNOWN 81
the high-pitched, nervous voice. "What do you think
I got this noon?"
Rogan gave him a disapproving look. He was
surprised to see him; and it was evident the man was
highly excited. As he stood at the desk, the hand that
rested on its surface was trembling. What was more,
the chief thought he knew the answer to the excited
question—but he was going to give no sign. So he
simply growled out, "What?"
For a second Fletcher's nervous fingers fumbled in
the inside pocket of the blue coat. They found what
they were seeking, and came forth with a folded piece
of paper—a piece of paper that he waved before the
chief's face. "Another letter. Came in the noon mail
to the office. And I am beginning to get a bit fright-
ened myself. Only—"
"Give it to me," was Rogan's command, as he shut
off the threatened flow of words.
For a moment before he unfolded the paper the
chief soberly studied it. Rather soiled it appeared,
crumpled a bit, and that was all. Opening it, he saw
the one typewritten line: a line in the exact center of
the sheet. Typed on a machine that needed cleaning
were the words.
"Made a mistake. Get you yet."
Without comment he slowly read the uneven line
of writing. It was a similar letter that had led to his
uneasiness over Langdon's death. And behind the few
words of this one there was not only a threat but a
hint: a hint that caused every suspicion he had felt


82 POISON UNKNOWN
on the previous night to leap again into being. But
when he turned to the excited man, who was eagerly
watching his face, he gave no sign of what he was
thinking.
"Any idea what this means?"
There came a flood of words, which Rogan shut
off as soon as he could. Fletcher, however, was deter-
mined to talk: eager to insist that he had no idea
what the letter could mean: wanted to ask the chief
a series of questions—questions that Rogan could
not answer and that he felt no desire to hear. It
took several waves of his hand to stem the torrent
of words. When they ceased he spoke again.
"What in hell have you been doing, Fletcher?"
Another flow of words. Vehemently Fletcher in-
sisted that there was no reason why anyone should
write him an anonymous letter. His hands gesticu-
lated wildly, his voice shook. When he stopped,
mainly because he was out of breath, Rogan spoke.
His voice was cold and even. "Mixed up with any
women, Fletcher?"
The thin face flushed, as a half-smirk passed over
it. He threw out his hands in a sweeping gesture.
"Well," began his apologetic voice, "you know how
women are. But I am not mixed up very seriously
with anyone."
Steadily Rogan studied the slim figure standing
beside his desk. Fletcher was excited, yet there was a
determined certainty behind his wild outburst. Rogan
did not like the man. Fletcher's type had never ap-
pealed to him. But there seemed to be no doubt that
he was speaking the truth. Rogan changed the subject:


POISON UNKNOWN 83
"When did you get this letter?"
"I found it this noon. When I went to my office it
was on the desk. But I can't understand what the
word 'mistake' means—?"
Rogan made no reply. There was wonder in his
own mind. Could it be that the writer of the note was
hinting that Langdon's death had been a mistake?
If so, perhaps he had been right in his suspicion of
the night before. But he did not spend any time think-
ing of this. Instead, in a few words, he told Fletcher
he would look into the matter, and was pleased to
see the man turn and leave the room. As the door
shut, Rogan let slip a half-oath.
Picking up the letter he carefully examined it.
There was a curious expression upon his round face.
He held the letter far away from him as if it were an
object that might soil his fingers. Paper, typing,
creases: in all these points it resembled the letter he
had seen yesterday. But what the one-line message
might mean he could not tell. He thrust it across the
table; and the gesture was violent.
"I would like to know what this thing really
means. Fletcher's been up to something. Sure of that.
But that expression 'Made a mistake' . . . What
do you think it means, Kent?"
The inspector reached down to pick up the soiled
sheet of paper. His eyes searched the typewritten
line. His face was expressionless. When he spoke it
was evident that he was carefully picking his words.
"If Langdon had been—" he hesitated as though
not wishing to utter the word in his mind. "If he
was—murdered, then this note saying that 'a mis-


84 POISON UNKNOWN
take' had been made must mean that they had been
after Fletcher and got the wrong man—"
Rogan's hand slammed down on the desk. So vio-
lent was the gesture that letters went flying to the
floor. His voice was rough and eager as he spoke:
"Yes. If it had been a violent death, that's what it
would mean. Wish I had some idea why Fletcher's
getting this sort of letter. But there are a good
many things I would like to know. For instance, if I
knew—" The words died on his lips as he saw the
door opening.
This time it was Manners; Manners dressed in a
light gray suit, wearing a gay tie, very much at ease
and smiling a welcome at his friend behind the desk.
He noticed that the chief was excited, and that the
emotion was partly shared by the head of the Homi-
cide Squad. But without a word to either, the pro-
fessor walked over to the desk.
It was shortly after lunch when he had received
the 'phone call from Rogan. It had been a disturbed
voice that had spoken over the wire, requesting that
Manners come to the station early in the afternoon.
The morning paper had told him that nothing new
had happened during the night. On the way to the
station he stopped and bought the early afternoon
edition. For five minutes he had parked along the
curb, while he ran through the paper. The caustic
editorial showed very clearly that things were the
same as when he had left Fletcher's house.
Before he reached the center of the room Rogan's
hand had motioned to a chair standing against the
wall. Manners brought it close to Kent's side; then,


POISON UNKNOWN 85
as he sat down, he reached for his cigarette case.
Rogan was still upset—that was clear. As the new-
comer's glance dropped to the desk, he noticed the
open letter lying directly in front of the chief. For a
second he glanced at it; then his eyes shot an eager
question.
"Another letter!" growled out Rogan as he picked
it up and threw it across the desk.
Without speaking, Manners rose, picked up the
sheet of paper and sank back in his chair before open-
ing it. Slowly he studied the soiled note: same ma-
chine on which the other letter had been written—
no mistake about that, for the same letters were
unevenly aligned; same dirty type; same. kind of
paper. The short message, however, seemed inex-
plicable. He looked over at Rogan.
The white head was slowly shaken. "Fletcher just
brought it in. Looks queer. Be a damned sight
queerer if we knew just what happened to Langdon."
Manners started to ask a question, but the tele-
phone on Rogan's desk stopped him. With a shrill
insistence it rang through the room. The chief
reached down for the receiver, growled into the in-
strument. The conversation was short, and when the
receiver was slammed back on the hook Rogan's
face was serious:
"That was Bell. He's coming right over."
No one seemed to feel like speaking. Manners
could see that Rogan was nervous. The fingers of his
big hands kept fumbling at the end of his vest; and
he lighted another stogie. As for himself, Manners
was wondering why it was he did not like this room


86 POISON UNKNOWN
so well as the old office. The old office had been a
dingy place, dark, dirty, filled with a vile, heavy at-
mosphere. This one was large, with plenty of win-
dows; and the paint was still fresh. Yet somehow the
old room appealed to him more than did this. As-
sociation, he thought . . . memories of the past,
which this room did not have.
Suddenly into the room there crept a sound. Some-
where out in the street a band was playing. Manners
gave a start as the chords of music came drifting into
the room; it had been years since he had heard a
street band in the city. Yet to his ears came floating,
now, the lilting strains of the "Blue Danube" waltz.
His thoughts leaped over space and time, remem-
bering the previous summer when in every casino in
Switzerland he had heard that waltz. And as he was
thinking this the door was suddenly flung open.
All turned to look at the police doctor. His hair
was in disorder; and his face would have looked bet-
ter for a shave. The young man's eyes were blood-
shot, as though he had not slept for many hours; a
half-smoked cigarette was stuck in one corner of his
lips. His white face was set in a tense, fixed expres-
sion; and he looked at none of the three men as he
came in. His walk was that of a man who needed
sleep, weary to the point of exhaustion. Coming to
the desk he walked to its furthest end, then leaned
against it in a tired way. The cigarette was tossed
into an ash tray, as he reached into a pocket for an-
other. This was lighted with the unconscious manner
of a man who does not know what he is doing. It


88
POISON UNKNOWN .
swept out in a helpless gesture, one that was eloquent
of despair and regret. His voice came again, slow,
hesitant: "Poisoned and I doubt whether we shall
ever know the poison that was used !"


CHAPTER VI
A curious silence had fallen over the room.
Rogan's cold gray eyes eagerly searched the face of
his police doctor. For almost twenty-four hours he
had felt a hint of impending disaster. He had tried
to cast it aside by assuring himself that it was only
superstition. He knew, now, it had been anticipa-
tion. His harsh whisper broke the stillness:
"Murder, Bell?"
The doctor's slight figure moved uneasily in his
chair. The motion was one of weariness, though the
long look he cast at his superior was filled also with
perplexity:
"That's for you to find out, Chief. All I can say
is that Langdon was poisoned. It looks like murder
to me."
One question was in Manners' mind. Bell had said
Langdon died from poison. This in itself was a
startling statement. But what had followed was even
more so: the doctor doubted whether they would
ever be able to identify the poison used. Manners
knew his toxicology; and he could not recall any
poison that would fail to show up in an autopsy by a
trained man. And Bell was a good man.
Now he put all his questions into speech.
Slowly the doctor's hand fumbled in the pocket of
his coat. The cigarette was half-smoked before he
replied, with a shrug of his shoulders:
89


POISON UNKNOWN
"I know it seems a crazy thing to say, Manners;
but it's true. There is no doubt Langdon was
poisoned. Suppose you just run off for us the symp-
toms of strychnine."
Manners realized that Bell's request for informa-
tion was in reality made for the benefit of Rogan and
Kent. He began to review what he knew of strych-
nine. He reminded them it is a vegetable poison,
and that death results from its use within a period
ranging from a few moments up to three or four
hours. It is not difficult to detect; for before death
there are violent convulsions, with at times the body
so arched that only the heels and the head touch the
ground.
The last bit of information was too much for
Rogan. Profanely he reminded them that they had
been told that the doctor gave a little cry and a mo-
ment later slumped down on the table; there had
been no convulsions at all. At least, he assured them,
no one had mentioned them.
"That's just what I wanted you to say," retorted
Bell. "Because, Rogan, our autopsy gave many of
the characteristic post-mortem symptoms of death
from strychnine. The joints were fixed; the body had
extreme rigidity; the feet were arched, and all that
sort of thing. Only it happens we found no trace of
strychnine. There were some of the symptoms, but
not all. And there were certainly none of the reac-
tion symptoms before death. So that poison is out."
For a second Rogan glared at his doctor, as if
wondering why he had gone to the trouble to ex-
plain that death was not from strychnine. He began


POISON UNKNOWN
to put his perplexity into words, only to have Bell
stop him with a wave of the hand.
"You see, Rogan, there is another vegetable
poison—aconitine. Odd thing is, we also found in
the autopsy post-mortem symptoms of that—but not
the poison itself. Found congestion of lungs and
brain, blood abnormally fluid and red. Now aco-
nitine is very difficult to detect in any case; and yet
we are certain it was not that."
The look Bell received would have made Man-
ners laugh if the topic had not been so serious.
Rogan's face was a puzzled mixture of disgust and
doubt. There came his astonished growl:
"What in the devil are you trying to tell me ? Why
all this talk about those two poisons if you know
they were not used?"
"That's just the trouble," was the retort. "We
find post-mortem symptoms of both—that is, some
symptoms of each one, though not complete. Aco-
nitine is very difficult to detect. But before death the
person who has taken it becomes very pale, and is
deathly sick. And though one might die from it in a
very short time, yet it has been known to take from
one day to four for death to occur. What I am get-
ting at is this: though we might conclude that one of
these two poisons had been used, the post-mortem
leaves us up in the air. In fact, we think it was a
new poison, one whose symptoms are similar, in
many respects, to those of strychnine and aconitine
combined."
"What poison?" Rogan demanded.
"We don't know. That's the whole truth of the


POISON UNKNOWN
affair. That there can be a deadly poison not in the
latest Webster, or other standard works on toxi-
cology, seems absurd. But that's what we seem to be
up against. Some of the symptoms are like those of
strychnine; but it was not strychnine. Some are like
those of aconitine; but it's not that. We don't know
what it is."
Silence fell again, as they thought over the doc-
tor's information. The most startled of the three
men was Manners. A new poison, unknown to the
writers of the standard works on poison—that
might seem reasonable in a mystery story, but not in
a real case. Bell was one of the shrewdest young
physicians he had ever known; there was little
chance of his making a mistake. That the autopsy
had shown that Langdon had been poisoned—and
yet that the poison remained unidentified—seemed
incredible. It was Rogan who put his thought into
words:
"How was it given to him?"
"I am positive of one thing, Chief," was the re-
sponse. "He did not take it internally. That was an
impossibility."
"Why?"
"He died too quickly. Aconitine generally takes
several hours to produce death—that is, if taken
internally; so does strychnine. As I said, though we
discovered symptoms characteristic of both poisons,
yet his actions at the table show that neither could
have been used. Aconitine produces a burning and
numbness of the throat, which the doctor would
have detected and by his actions betrayed. The typi-


POISON UNKNOWN
cal convulsions that strychnine produces were ab-
sent. But the poison, whatever it was, must have
been introduced directly into the blood stream."
Rogan stifled back a sigh. The conversation was
getting technical. Bell had said that the man had
died from poison; yet it was a poison he did not
know. Now he was asserting that the poison had
not been swallowed, but had been introduced directly
into the blood stream. Why was he so certain of
this? As though reading his mind, the doctor spoke:
"You see, Rogan, what makes it very odd is this:
aconitine, when swallowed, will kill one—but it
takes a matter of hours or even days. Yet if ad-
ministered hypodermically it will kill in a few mo-
ments, or even seconds. So with strychnine. As we
know Langdon died very suddenly, just after giving
a slight cry, we are positive he could not have swal-
lowed the poison. He must have received it directly
into his blood stream. But how? That's the big
problem."
It was getting worse, the chief thought. There
was now little relief in his mind at the fact that his
demand for an autopsy had been justified. A mur-
der had been committed. They did not know the
poison used, or how it had been given. An uneasy
suspicion swept his mind. If the criminal was shrewd
enough to employ an unknown poison, they might
never know more about the crime than they did
now. As he thought this, his glance dropped to the
table and rested on the letter Fletcher had brought
in only a few moments before.
For a second he stared at it—then his hand shot


POISON UNKNOWN 95
"It's murder," was Rogan's comment, as the door
closed.
"It's very evident it's murder," Manners re-
torted. "And do you realize that if the murderer
knew of a poison so rare that the latest books on
toxicology do not mention it, you are going to have
some work ahead of you before you solve this case?"
"Fletcher's letters are the end to look up," Rogan
shot out. "The one he got today says they made a
mistake: killed the doctor thinking it was Fletcher."
For the first time in many minutes, Kent spoke:
"How could anyone make that mistake?"
"Remember—last night they told us that Fletcher
got up from the table and turned on the radio, and
that Langdon took his place—so that he was sitting
where Fletcher had sat all evening."
"That doesn't make any sense, Rogan," sniffed
the inspector. "Everybody in that room knew Lang-
don. It made no difference where he sat. You're not
trying to tell us that someone outside the house
killed him! I had a man outside that dining-room
window, and he says no one was in the yard all
night. For that matter, you have no idea how the
poison was given. I can't see any sense in getting
excited over the note to Fletcher. It's my idea it
refers to something else, not to this murder."
Rogan made no reply. What Kent had said
seemed sensible. The letter, nevertheless, appeared
to be the one clue he had. But he would have to go
very slowly. He would need all the advice he could
get. As he thought this, he looked over at his friend.
Th« sight of Manners' calm, thoughtful face gave


96 POISON UNKNOWN
him assurance. It was no time to be indulging in
theories: the case was just starting. What they
would discover later on no one could guess. He rose
to his feet.
"Kent, I am going out to Fletcher's right away.
Harley will take me in his car. You dig up Rice and
bring him out so we can go over the ground with
him. Fletcher's is the place where we must start our
investigation."
The only reporter who happened to see Harley
Manners and Rogan hurrying out of the police-
station was Carty Rand. It was no accident that he
observed them. Four o'clock had just struck; and the
last edition of the Star was running off the presses.
Both papers were under the same ownership; and
Rand was connected with the morning edition. He
had strolled into the police-station shortly before
four, just in time to see the chief and the professor
hastening down the corridor.
He was a shrewd young reporter, rather a fa-
vorite with Rogan. As the two men went through
the front door he turned and hurried after them.
Something was up: Manners would not be at the
police-station unless Rogan had called him in. The
two men were in a hurry. They must have heard
from the autopsy.
Hastening through the door he ran down the
three steps, reaching their side as they were about
to climb into Manners' long blue roadster. The
scowl he received from the chief did not bother him;
and he grinned back. "What's up, Chief?" he de-
manded.


POISON UNKNOWN
Rogan liked the thin, eager newspaper man. Only
a year ago he had been one of the principals in the
oddest murder that had ever occurred in the chief's
long career.* But it was an unfortunate time to have
Rand asking him questions; he made a sudden de-
cision.
"Listen, Carty. We just got the report from the
autopsy. Langdon was poisoned."
Though the reporter had known Dr. Langdon,
and respected him as he did few men, yet a grin
swept over his face. It was blotted out in a second,
as, leaning against the car, he listened to the plead-
ing words of the chief.
"He was poisoned, Carty. But that's all we know.
We don't know the poison used, or how it was given.
In fact we don't know anything. Bell is at work with
Hoff now. I want you to see the editor and tell him
to keep it out of the afternoon papers. We will give
you every fact we have in time for the morning
edition. To publish anything at this moment might
do a great deal of harm. No one knows anything
about the autopsy except the police. How about it?"
The reporter nodded. The library murder of a
year ago had shaken the city; and he realized that
this story would create an even bigger sensation. A
great newspaper story was about to break—one in
which he would have a chance to play a leading
part.
He assured Rogan there would be no difficulty in
keeping the story out of the evening paper. The last
edition by now would be on the street. He would call
* Murder in a Library. Dodd, Mead & Co. 1931.


98 POISON UNKNOWN
the editor; better still, he would return to the of-
fice and impress upon him that nothing must leak
out till morning. This would forestall the issue of
an extra. Only one thing did he insist upon: that the
chief give him every detail for the story he would
write later. Assured that he might depend on Rogan,
he turned away from the car and started on his way.
Both Rogan and Manners were silent as the road-
ster covered the miles. The July sun was warm, the
air still. When the suburbs were reached it became
possible to let the machine out. There were plenty
of cars, for the Lake road carried the heaviest traf-
fic in the state; but Manners was a skillful driver,
weaving the big machine in and out among the
slower cars, as he kept the speedometer close to
sixty. Rogan, he knew, was impatient; for that mat-
ter, he was always so.
Slumped far down in the seat, his face expression-
less, Rogan stared ahead at the rushing road. He
saw neither the cars they swept by nor the large
estates on each side of the highway. He was think-
ing. The nervous uneasiness of the last twenty-four
hours had passed away. Now that he knew that
Langdon's sudden death had not been natural, he
had become calm. Murder—that was what it was,
without a doubt; a murder that would prove very
difficult to unravel, that perhaps they might never
solve. Only his confidence in the calm man sitting be-
side him gave any hope.
Poison . . . and an unknown poison at that. A
crime committed at a dinner—yet it seemed rather
evident he could not suspect any of the guests. Death


POISON UNKNOWN
must have come within several moments after the
poison entered the Lody. He tried to evolve some
theory that might offer a hint as to how the poison
had been administered; but gave it up after some re-
flection. After all, until Bell told him how the drug
had entered the doctor's body, a guess was of no
value.
To a certain extent his thoughts were running
parallel with those of Manners: the professor real-
ized far more than did the chief that it was no ordi-
nary murder they were going to investigate. Poison
was not the weapon used in most cases of violent
death. It was a weapon employed only after long
deliberation and shrewd planning. Somehow Man-
ners had the idea that Langdon's death followed
someone's cunning choice of the place and the time
for him to die. Rogan credited the letter, which said
it was a mistake; Manners felt certain that no mis-
take had been made. It was a carefully planned
crime: beyond that he was not willing to go.
At last they turned off the main highway and
ran down the road that led to Fletcher's estate. Tall
elms flanked the road, their leafy branches making
a green arch overhead. Through open gates green
lawns flashed by, and gardens filled with color.
When they reached the Fletcher place, they left the
car in front of the house. Manners followed Rogan
around the side of the wide veranda, to stand op-
posite the dining-room window. Directly below the
window was a cleared piece of ground filled with
soft earth. It was only about three feet wide, and
not more than twenty long. Evidently it had been


POISON UNKNOWN 101
out flower or plant. In the center were two well-
defined footprints—good-sized footprints, those of
a man who had worn rather large shoes. They were
directly in line with the center window. Before he
could comment, Rogan's voice came again in his
ear:
"Someone was here, Harley. We don't know
whether these were made last night, but the odds are
they were. They are rather clear, right under the
window at that, and directly in line with the chair
Langdon sat in."
"They may be Rice's," was the retort. "After all,
he was right in this spot last night."
"They are not Rice's. Hell, none of the men on
the Homicide Squad who do leg work ever wear any-
thing but squared-toed shoes. Look at those prints;
the toes of those shoes are pointed. What's more,
they are too large for Rice. He never made those."
Manners looked again at the footprints. They
could not be those of the detectives who had
guarded the grounds the previous night: what
Rogan had said about the square-toed shoes worn
by the police force was conclusive. But the profes-
sor was interested in something else.
"Rogan," he said slowly, "there seems no doubt
that Rice didn't make those prints. Yet that some-
one was standing out here last night seems highly
probable. Exactly what's on your mind? What do
you really think happened to Langdon?"
The chief's eyes swept over to the open windows,
then down to the earth. There came a half-shake of
the white head, and Manners saw the big hands shut.


POISON UNKNOWN
Then suddenly Rogan's hand fell upon his arm, pull-
ing him through the shrubbery. He kept his hand
upon him, as they walked over the grass, out under
the tall trees, and some distance from the house.
Then the chief spoke:
"I will have casts made of those prints, Harley.
But—" he paused, to turn and glance back at the
house, "Harley, I am starting out with the idea that
those letters Fletcher got had something to do with
the murder: for of course it's murder; Langdon
could not have killed himself."
"Oh, he could have committed suicide, Rogan.
That might be a far more feasible theory than that
he was killed by anyone at the dinner. That is, it
might be if I had not known the doctor. His psycho-
logical type never commits suicide. So that theory's
out. But why are you so insistent those letters have
something to do with the affair?"
"Well, you can't think that any of that gang who
were at the dinner would kill a friend of theirs. Be-
sides, they wouldn't have nerve enough. And
Fletcher did receive those letters. The one we saw
yesterday said he was in for trouble: the one today
says a mistake was made. It's my idea Langdon was
killed by mistake, by someone who thought he was
Fletcher."
"From outside the house!" came the skeptical
question.
Rogan slowly shook his head. "Seems silly. Can't
see how it was done. But if we eliminate everybody
inside, it's got to be someone outside. Agree with
me r


POISON UNKNOWN
"If it was not someone inside the house, as you
put it, then very naturally it must have been some
person outside the window. But, Rogan, there are at
least a dozen ways the poison could have been ad-
ministered by a person sitting at that table."
A violent exclamation sprang to Rogan's lips and
he would have spoken, had they not at that moment
heard a car coming up the drive. It circled around
Manners' machine and stopped before the veranda.
Out of the small roadster there stepped a woman.
Both recognized her: they watched Ann Fletcher
hasten up the steps of her house.
With the words "We must see her," Rogan
started at once across the grass, Manners close at
his heels. They found the front door closed, and
were forced to ring the bell twice. Then the door
was flung open and the mistress of the house looked
out at them. Her face flushed a little as she saw the
chief; and she did not look at Manners.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher," began Rogan. "But
I had to see you."
For a second her grave eyes studied the police
chief. Again Manners felt surprise. The slight figure
was beautifully shaped, and the black street dress
could have been chosen only by an artist in clothes.
But it was her face that interested him: breeding
showed there, also intelligence and fineness of char-
acter. As he was thinking this, she turned to him.
"I am sorry, Professor Manners, that your two
visits to my house have been with the police. That
we had not met before last night shows how rarely
you go into society."


POISON UNKNOWN
As she stepped aside for them to enter the house
Manners noticed that the sensitive lips were trem-
bling. What was more, he had looked deep into her
eyes—and they were dark and piercing eyes, which
were now full of fear, and very anxious. As they
were shown into the library in which they had sat
the night before, he felt certain of one thing. De-
spite her outward calm this woman was afraid.
She did not speak when they entered the room.
Instead, walking slowly over to the table she opened
a silver box, found a Turkish cigarette and lighted
it. Then, leaning against the table, she turned to
the police chief:
"Well?" she said in her low, husky voice.
Rogan was embarrassed. Women always did em-
barrass him. He had decided this woman was a lady;
there was no higher compliment he could pay her.
But—lady or not—he wanted information. Clearing
his throat, he spoke:
"I am sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but I have to ask
some questions. You see we have just discovered
that Dr. Langdon was—w
Manners noticed a sudden, frightened expression
sweep across her face, saw the cigarette suddenly
crushed in an ash tray. Then she spoke, the voice
low, trembling, hesitant:
"Dr. Langdon, you said, was—"
"He was poisoned—murdered," shot out the un-
thinking retort.
Manners saw Ann Fletcher's hands grip the table
for support. The long lashes closed over the gray
eyes. Her face went white, and for a second she



POISON UNKNOWN 105
swayed a little. As she fell forward, he caught her
in his arms. As they went clasping round the soft
body two thoughts were in his mind: What does this
woman know ? Of what is she afraid?


POISON UNKNOWN
fore him. That she knew anything about the doctor's
death he did not believe. Nor did he expect that any
information she might be able to give him would be
of value. There was a question in his mind: how
much should he tell her at this time? He decided it
would be little.
"How did it happen that Dr. Langdon was sitting
at the end of the table, Mrs. Fletcher? Did he sit
there all evening?"
She shook her head, "No. Somebody said some-
thing about picking up a fight on the radio. Mr.
Fletcher went into the living-room to tune in. It was
then the doctor took my husband's place; it was just
an accident that he happened to be sitting there."
Accident—thought Rogan. Better not tell her it
was his idea that the wrong man had been killed. It
might be she suspected as much. One never knew
what any woman was thinking. This one appeared
calm enough, looked him directly in the eyes, and all
that sort of thing. Still—you couldn't tell what was
in that small head. Beautiful woman she was. He
wondered how she ever happened to marry a man
like her husband. Wish one might ask her that,
thought Rogan; but if you did you would get noth-
ing for your pains.
"Mrs. Fletcher," said Manners quietly, "we were
told last night that Dr. Langdon gave a sudden little
cry: that a moment or so later he slumped down on
the table."
"Yes. That's what happened," she answered
slowly. "The radio was going in the other room;
and, I must admit, everybody was talking rather


io8 POISON UNKNOWN
loudly. Suddenly Dr. Langdon gave a cry—of sur-
prise rather than of pain, it seemed. We all looked
at him for a second; then everyone started to talk
again. But all at once his head fell forward on the
table. There was great confusion, and from some-
where a policeman suddenly appeared. I was sur-
prised to see him."
Manners had another question: "You were sit-
ting at the opposite end of the table from the doc-
tor: when he gave the cry did you observe anything
he did—any action on his part?"
"No—" came the hesitating reply. "You see, I
did not look up until after I heard his voice. I think
his arm was above his head, but I am not certain."
"Mrs. Fletcher," suggested Rogan, "everybody
at your dinner was on good terms with the doctor?"
Though her reply came quickly enough, it was
Manners' impression that behind the words there
was hesitancy. She assured them that so far as she
knew every person at her dinner was a friend of the
physician. Even when Rogan tried to suggest that per-
haps the young man who had vanished from the
kitchen—Hardy—might have quarreled with the
doctor, she only smiled, a pathetic smile, and replied
that so far as she knew the idea was absurd.
Rogan might have gone further with his question-
ing; but through the window he saw the police-car
sweeping down the drive. With the remark that he
would see her again in a few minutes, he beckoned
Manners and hastened out into the hall and on to
the veranda. By the time they were down the steps
the machine had come to a stop, and Kent with his


POISON UNKNOWN
plain-clothes man—Rice—was stepping out on the
ground.
To Kent's surprise his superior officer gave a gruff
command to follow, and started round the side of
the house. He came to a pause directly in front of
the bay window, pushing the shrubbery aside with
his hands. Directing Rice to come to his side, he
grabbed the plain-clothes man with one hand, and
pointed down at the footprints with the other.
"Are those yours?"
Rice was the typical policeman: round, red face,
thick-set body, and a slow-thinking brain. For a mo-
ment he stared at the soft earth under the window.
Solemnly his eyes took in the well-defined footprints.
Then all at once he broke into protest:
"Hell, those ain't mine. I never stepped in that
dirt last night. Anyway, you can see they're too big
for me. My feet are big enough, but not as large as
those footprints. I never made those—and what's
more, they're too big for Mike."
Satisfied, the chief let the branches fall into place
and stepped back on the grass. His eyes went over
the long expanse of lawn, and out toward the lake.
Far away he could see an ore boat, the smoke from
its funnel an etched line of inky blackness against
the sky. For a second he studied it, then turned:
"Did you hear anything while you were out here
last night, Rice?"
Very positive was the assurance he received. The
detective had heard nothing, had seen nothing. He
had spoken twice to Mike, who was guarding the
rear of the house. Mike had heard nothing—but he


no POISON UNKNOWN
had complained that it was a nice dark assignment
they had been given. To make his statements more
emphatic Rice reminded them that he had spent a
good deal of his time behind the shrubbery: the
group within the house had interested him, and from
this spot he had been able to look directly into the
dining-room. He had seen the doctor fall forward
on the table, had heard the people within the room
scream out as they crowded around the silent figure.
No one had walked under the window. He was posi-
tive of that.
Seeing that Rogan would make Rice show him
every foot of the ground he had walked over the
previous evening, Manners told him he would drive
on home. He realized that the chief would question
Mrs. Fletcher further before leaving. Somehow he
did not wish to have any part in that examination.
He wanted to go to his own house, sit down in his
easy chair, and think.
On the ride back he purposely kept himself from
thinking. True, he drove slowly; and it was some
time before the long blue roadster came to a stop in
front of his veranda. Leaving it there -he stepped
out, patted the head of the big dog who ran down
the steps to meet him, then hurried into the house.
There he got out the Scotch and the soda, with a
glass, and put them on the desk. Sinking down in the
deep arm-chair, he let his hand fall on the brown
head of the dog, as he realized he was tired—tired
and lonely. A restful room, this, whose quiet and
peace always brought him comfort. But he knew
there ought to be someone in the chair across from


POISON UNKNOWN in
him—someone to whom he could talk, whose very
presence would make the room happy as well as
peaceful. But he realized that this kind of thinking
was not sane; for the only person he would have
wished to be in that room could not be there. He
poured three fingers of Scotch into the tall glass,
then watched the soda change the color of the con-
tents to pale yellow. Leaning far back in the chair,
he sipped his drink—and began to think about the
crime.
One of the oldest maxims of the law ran through
his mind: "Quis, quid, ubi, quibus auxiliis, cur,
quomodo, quandof": "Who, what, where, with
what, why, how, when?" When all those questions
could be answered you had the solution of any crime.
But oftentimes you were unable to answer more than
one—could go no further than that one.
"Quibus auxiliis: With what?" Poison. This they
could answer. Murder by poison was of course not a
new method of killing. As a rule it was a weapon
employed by superior or at least fairly well-educated
persons: by people who could plan and elaborate a
crime but who were not able to bear the sight of
death, or to be present when the victim passed from
life. As a rule this class of murderers were over-
confident; and always they made mistakes. He
thought of the many doctors who had used poison:
Palmer, Buchanan, Crippen, Harris, Lamson. All
had been detected.
But there was another fact to consider about
poison: it was a woman's method. Two-thirds of all
the solved poisoning cases ended with the discovery


ii2 POISON UNKNOWN
that a woman was the criminal. It had been so in the
Middle Ages, and the same had proven true in the
eighteenth century in France. Poison was a woman's
weapon.
There was still another thing to be considered.
When poison was employed in a murder, you could,
as a rule, be certain of one fact: the crime had been
well thought-out; it had been deliberate. To commit
a murder with poison meant that the criminal must
do much planning before he could be successful. And
it was at this point that Manners began to disagree
with Rogan.
The chief was firmly convinced that the anony-
mous letters Fletcher had received had something to
do with the murder. As a teacher of abnormal psy-
chology, Manners realized what Rogan did not:
that people who write anonymous letters do not
commit murder. They make unsigned attacks be-
cause they lack the courage to face openly those
whom they dislike. Manners did not forget that
there were exceptions to this rule; but he knew the
exceptions to be few.
Rogan's investigation would take one line: that
Langdon had been killed by mistake; that when he
rose and changed his seat at the table he had met his
death because the murderer mistook him for
Fletcher. But this could mean that the murderer saw
only the back of his victim—an idea that seemed ab-
surd; for it would place the criminal outside the
house. And Rice was positive that no one had been
under that window, or on the lawn.
This presented a problem the professor could not


POISON UNKNOWN 113
solve—and he gave it up after a while. He was sure
no uneducated person had planned and committed
this murder, however. Also, he had the uneasy idea
that no mistake had been made. It was his belief that
from the first Langdon had been the intended victim.
Why he thought this he could not have said—but it
was his conviction.
"Quibus auxiliis?" He smiled, as he thought how
Rogan would ask what the old Latin phrase meant.
"With what?" Poison unknown. That was all they
were sure of: an unknown poison; one that was not
in the latest books of toxicology. This suggested that,
whoever had been the intended victim, the murderer
was someone with a keen mind, shrewd enough to
pick a poison that could not be detected, one that
would act quickly. If the leading authorities upon
poison did not know of the drug, where had the
criminal procured it?
His hand reached up to pour a small quantity of
Scotch into the glass. When the soda was added he
gave a little twist of his wrist and watched the yel-
low liquid swirl in the glass. An unknown poison—
so rare that experts knew nothing of it. And this
proved that the crime had been planned with great
shrewdness, skillfully executed. But for what rea-
son?
He thought of the dead physician. A child special-
ist, known throughout the state, an admirable citi-
zen, a man of fine character and mind, Langdon was
beloved by thousands. Books, music, etchings were
parts of his daily life; and the leisure hours which
his professional duties left him he spent in his


POISON UNKNOWN
115
dinner would soon be served. It was not yet twi-
light, but before leaving at noon he had suggested
an early meal. Looking at his watch he saw he still
had a few moments for meditation. He lighted an-
other cigarette-and began to think of Ann Flet-
cher. ...
Had Manners been asked to describe the qualities
a woman should have, he would have named some
very like those that Fletcher's wife possessed. There
must be proudness of bearing, intellect, of course,
beauty if possible, with breeding, refinement and un-
approachableness. He liked the way Ann Fletcher
carried her head, proudly, with a realization of her
own worth. Yet he remembered that when Rogan
woman had been afraid.
Fear had played in the dark eyes, fear that she
had attempted to hide. But why should she have
been afraid? Could it be the letters her husband had
received ? Perhaps this was the explanation. As he
thought over the point, there came to his mind an-
other mystery: why had a woman of her type mar-
ried a man like Fletcher? As the housekeeper's voice
sounded from the dining-room he rose slowly to his
feet. . . . She must have married him because she
loved him. ... How she could have done so he
could not understand.
It is to be doubted if he ever knew how fine a
dinner he had that evening. The dog, sitting upright
beside his chair, tried several times to gain his atten-
tion, but failed. Just before the dessert was brought
in, the animal was startled to see his master sud-
e dinino
oved b. She


n6 POISON UNKNOWN
denly push back his chair and leap to his feet. With
an exclamation, Manners half-ran out into the hall-
way and hurried up the stairs to his room.
He was looking for the coat he had worn the
night before. He found it in the closet, and his face
was anxious as he searched the inside pocket. He
found the envelope he was seeking, and a second
later he was looking at it—was recalling its contents.
The previous evening, by Langdon's chair, he had
stepped upon something. Salt, perhaps—but he re-
membered that when he reached down and touched
it it had seemed far too coarse for either salt or
sugar. He had gathered together all the fragments
he could find, and this envelope contained them. It
was still sealed; and he hastened down to his library
before tearing it open.
Going over to a cabinet he pulled open a drawer.
In a box was his high-powered microscope. It was
brought to the desk and taken from its box. Then he
reached down and picking up the envelope tore off
one end. He poured part of the contents into his
hand and studied them.
Whatever it might be that he had picked up, it
was very evident that it had been crushed beneath
someone's feet. Yet as he looked at the white sub-
stance lying in his palm he knew it was glass: and
there was even one fair-sized piece remaining; a
fragment several times the size of the head of a
pin. Carefully he placed it upon a slide and slipped it
under the lens.
Bending down to the eye-piece he adjusted the
apparatus until the fragment on the slide sprang into


POISON UNKNOWN 117
relief. He was looking at a piece of glass, very much
magnified—an extremely thin bit of glass it was.
And as he continued to look he noticed a faint green
stain upon it. Scarcely perceptible, it yet was there.
Rising, he walked several times, quickly, around
the room. He had stepped on this glass; it had been
directly behind the chair in which Langdon was sit-
ting; someone else had stepped on it before, no
doubt when those at the table had crowded about
the dead body. Thin glass . . . and he had ob-
served a green stain. . . . He gave a start, and hur-
ried out into the hall.
As he dialed a number there was but one question
in his mind. Would Hoff still be in his laboratory?
He wanted him to have those bits of glass. A suspi-
cion was sweeping over Manners. Soon a deep,
grave voice came over the wire. It was Hoff; he was
still in the laboratory, and would remain there until
the professor came down.
Returning to his desk he carefully placed the
crushed glass in a new envelope, which he sealed. As
he started for the door the housekeeper reminded
him he had not eaten his dessert. Protesting to her
that he would not, he ran out of the house and
leaped into his machine. A moment later he was on
the road.
Down the long, steep hill the car was hurled, its
speed increasing every second. The professor was in
a hurry—for he realized he might be carrying im-
portant evidence. Ann Fletcher had said that after
Langdon's sudden cry she had looked up, to see his
arm dropping from his head. The poison had


n8 POISON UNKNOWN
entered his body externally. Could the crushed
pieces of glass in the envelope hold the explanation
of how it had been given?
The University stood on a hill, in the very center
of the city. Long granite buildings enclosed the
campus on three sides. A new dormitory was being
erected, and he had to weave his car past trucks and
drays in order to reach the chemistry building. Lead-
ing the machine in the first open space, he jumped
from it to hurry into the low brick structure.
Hoff's laboratory was on the second floor. Man-
ners sped down a long corridor where his footsteps
echoed from vacant class rooms. A door was slightly
ajar; and he entered a long room. Beyond this was
the private laboratory of the toxicologist, a place
that few were allowed to enter. The door to this was
partly open, and he stepped within.
There was no order in the professor's laboratory;
everything was in confusion. Bottles and retorts
were upon the many tables; piles of magazines were
flanked by books; and the long sink was filled with
bottles and test-tubes. At the farther end of the
room, his eyes glued to a microscope, was the slight
figure of the man Manners was seeking.
Though the entire city-knew the toxicologist few
ever stopped to realize that the man was world-
famous. Perhaps it was his gruffness of speech, per-
haps his personal appearance, that accounted for
his neglect by the general public. His intelligent
students loved their professor; those less blessed
with brains were soon persuaded to leave his classes.
At the sound of Manners' footsteps Hoff lifted


POISON UNKNOWN 119
his head, gave him one glance, then slid down from
the stool. The unkempt hair no doubt had felt his
hands a hundred times during the afternoon. As he
turned and peered through his thick glasses there
was a scowl on the grotesque face. Only for a mo-
ment did it last; seeing who it was, he growled out a
word of greeting.
Pausing beside the table, Manners eyed the micro-
scope. There was a question that only Hoff could
answer, and he had to ask it: "Have you discovered
the poison that killed Langdon?"
For a second the little eyes behind the thick
glasses studied him. Then came the guttural answer:
"Harley, how much time you throw away on all this
crime stuff I What an absurdity. Why don't you stick
to your psychology?"
They were friends, these two. Manners knew this
was simply Hoff's way of telling him he had failed to
discover anything. He merely commented: "Found
nothing?"
The bushy head nodded, as the finely shaped
hands of the toxicologist fumbled in the pockets of
his coat. Climbing back on the stool he lighted the
cigarette, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and said:
"Know he died from poison, that's all. But, my
God, Harley, just think of it I Here is a poison I
never heard of. Haven't the slightest idea what it
can be. Think of running into a thing like that! I
feel pretty good about Bell's calling me in. He is a
good man. But in a thing like that . . . why . . ."
his arms swept out in a wide circle.
Manners knew Hoff to be one of the best toxi-


i2o POISON UNKNOWN
cologists in the country. And he had just confirmed
what the police doctor had told them in the station:
that Langdon had been killed by an unknown poison.
Hoff was an expert upon poisons—yet he had ad-
mitted he did not know what poison had been used.
"Think he committed suicide?" questioned Man-
ners.
"No," was the disgusted reply. "You know he
did not. Langdon never would commit suicide. It
must be a murder—though you know more about
that end than I do. It's the poison that interests me.
In action it resembles both strychnine and aconitine;
yet it's neither. It is a new poison, something I never
ran into before, nor ever heard of."
Manners' hand was reaching into his pocket. His
fingers closed around the envelope, and he brought it
forth. The eyes of the toxicologist followed him
with interest—watched the motion as he tore off the
end of the envelope—leaned forward eagerly as he
began to speak.
"Hoff, I do not know just what this means,"
Manners said slowly. "But in this envelope are some
tiny bits of glass. They were found on the floor, be-
hind the chair in which Langdon died. I looked at
them under the microscope. And there seems to be a
green stain—"
The sentence was never completed. Hoff's hand
shot forth to snatch the envelope from his fingers.
Very carefully the contents were poured upon a
sheet of white tissue paper. Then the toxicologist
reached for the microscope, placed a piece of the
glass on a slide, and slipped it into the apparatus.


POISON UNKNOWN 121
Climbing upon the stool he glued his eyes to the
instrument.
Silence came over the laboratory. So long did it
last that Manners was impelled to speak:
"Hoff, what do you think it means?"
The little figure whirled around on the stool, then
slid to the floor. One look, and one only, did he give
his friend. Then came a violent motion of his hands.
The voice that shrilled forth was eager, command-
ing.
"Harley, for God's sake get out of here. Go down
to the police-station and talk to that police captain.
Go to the movies, go anywhere. I don't know what it
means. May take a long time to find out. But it
means something. And for God's sake get out and
let me work in peace."


CHAPTER VIII
Seated once more in his car, Manners smiled up at
the building he had just left. Hoff had ordered him
out of the laboratory. It was like the excitable toxi-
cologist. He knew Hoff would spend all night over
his test-tubes and retorts. When engaged in a
problem he wanted no one around him. And the bit
of glass that he had shaken out of the envelope had
greatly excited him.
A glance at his watch showed Manners it was
half-past seven. Twilight had fallen over the city,
and he had half a mind to return to the house and
spend the evening reading. On second thought he
realized this would not do. A little wave of excite-
ment was running through him. He knew he would
never be able to spend the evening alone. He de-
cided to go down to the police-station. Rogan might
have picked up more information.
As he parked beside the gray granite building, he
sent a glance upward at the chief's office windows.
They were dark. So when the professor entered the
station he went down a long hallway to halt before
the door which bore the words "Police Inspector."
A light was shining through the glass; and he knew
Kent was in.
He did not knock, but pushing open the door
walked into the little room. The tall, raw-boned in-
spector was sitting at a small desk, under a bright
I
122


POISON UNKNOWN 123
light suspended from the ceiling. His coat was ofi;
and he was puffing a worn black pipe. Pushed to one
corner of the desk were two plates, one bearing rem-
nants of sandwiches, the other the crust of a pie. A
thermos bottle stood close to a cup that had con-
tained coffee.
Evidently he had been working upon reports; for
a mass of papers was pushed aside as, leaning back
in his chair, Kent threw a smile at his visitor. There
was only one vacant chair in the room, and Manners
pulled it close to the desk. He lighted a cigarette and
asked a question in the same breath:
"Found anything new?"
Kent shook his head slowly. "You know, Man-
ners, Rogan is certainly going to have the city jump-
ing on him tomorrow. When they hear Langdon was
murdered there will be an uproar. And just at this
moment the old boy has two theories."
"Two?"
Kent gave a half-laugh. "Two at the same time.
They are as far apart as two theories could be. One
moment he has made up his mind that somebody sit-
ting at the table killed the doc. The next he is just as
certain it was someone outside the house. He would
stick to the second theory, but for one thing."
"What's that?"
"WelL you see he believes Rice. Rice says he was
under that window most of the time. He admits
there were occasions when he wandered off to have
a word with Mike. But he says that for fifteen min-
utes before the doctor fell all over the table, he was
standing outside that window, looking in. Says no


POISON UNKNOWN
one could have got anywhere near there without his
knowing it. Anyway—" he paused and laughed—"I
tell the old man that somebody had to stick that
poison into Langdon. They couldn't do it from out-
side, so it must have been an inside job. Somebody
at the table could give him a jab with something that
had the poison on. Remember that other case—that
poisoning case where they placed curare upon a
needle and put it on the horn button of a car? *
Might have done something like that in this one."
Manners well remembered the case the police of-
ficial mentioned. There had been two deaths, sudden
and mysterious, solved in the end by his own quick
wit. In that case the fast-acting poison had been
placed on a needle, and the needle fitted into a rub-
ber cap that covered the horn button of a car. But
he assured Kent that nothing like that had happened
in this affair. Then he added: "No motive seems to
be in sight."
"Oh, that young chap, Hardy, who did the vanish-
ing act on us, was jealous of the doctor," was Kent's
surprising contribution.
The remark brought Manners to the edge of his
chair; and he wanted to know what was meant. The
inspector told him that after he had left, Mrs.
Fletcher had admitted having had a little difficulty
with Hardy. The young man was jealous of the doc-
tor, and had raved a bit when he discovered that
Langdon was to be at the dinner. This surprised
Manners.
"She did not say much," Kent admitted. "Said
• The Shadow of Evil. Dodd, Mead & Co. 1930.


POISON UNKNOWN 125
the doctor was an old friend of hers, and that young
Hardy was a queer sort of youth. He is all that, and
a bit more. Anyway he had been at the house all
afternoon, and when he heard the doctor was to be
at dinner, he grew a bit sarcastic. Jealous, and all
that sort of thing."
"Did he make any threats against the doctor?"
"She never mentioned that he did, though we
tried to get it out of her. Simply said he acted like a
fool. I came very near telling her that all he had to
do was just be himself."
Manners made no reply. So there had been dis-
cord at the dinner. There was no doubt Mrs.
Fletcher had been afraid. Fear had shown in her
eyes. She had fainted when Rogan said Langdon had
been murdered. Hardy he did not know, but he ac-
cepted Kent's description as correct—an effeminate
young man, neurotic, self-willed, high-strung—one
who might be called a hanger-on to a social group
to which he did not belong. But in the act of think-
ing this, Manners realized he could never believe a
young man of such a type would commit a murder by
poisoning. He would lack the brains.
Kent became sarcastic: "The chief also believes
that the letters Fletcher received have something to
do with the affair. He has all those things mixed up.
Somehow he believes they all entered into the crime.
But we can't get very far until we have some kind of
a motive. There always is a reason for a killing."
Manners reminded him of the three main motives
for murder. There were those crimes which had a
sexual background, in which jealousy, or betrayal of


126 POISON UNKNOWN
faith, or a woman played a part. There were the mur-
ders for gain, to procure or to keep money. There
were those of another and larger group: crimes in
which one looked for the psychological motives and
discovered it to be fear—fear of exposure, fear of
a hundred different things: murders committed by
people so much afraid that in many cases they killed
in a sudden, raging frenzy. But for one thing he
would have thought Langdon's death lay in the third
group.
Kent asked why he had decided fear was not the
motive in the heart of Langdon's murderer. Man-
ners told the inspector that most murderers whose
fears had broken forth in a frenzy killed on the
spur of the moment. Langdon's death had been care-
fully planned, was without a doubt the result of long
deliberation.
There came an amazed exclamation: "Langdon's
death carefully planned! Why do you say that?"
"It was poison. It takes time and thought to pro-
cure poison. It takes a plan—as to how it shall be
used. The doctor's death was premeditated. Why
Langdon was picked to be the victim I cannot, of
course, say."
Kent made no reply. He had great respect for the
tall man seated across from him. Manners knew
scores of things which to him were but names. And
the professor might be right. As for himself he had
no theories. Theories he would leave to Rogan; he
had enough. And there was detail work at hand for
himself: to discover every fact he could about those
who had been at the dinner: to try to capture


POISON UNKNOWN 127
Hardy: and to find out why the latter had vanished
from Fletcher's house.
Excusing himself, Manners rose from his chair.
He had seen Kent throwing uneasy glances at the
mass of papers upon his desk. He knew the inspector
had hours of detail work before him. With a short
"good night" he turned and left the room. As he
climbed into his car he noticed that Rogan's office
was still dark.
For a moment he sat motionless, slumped down in
the car, behind the wheel. It was a warm night with
barely a breath of air to fan his face. A glittering
mass of lights, the long line of State Street stretched
away before him. Far above his head he heard the
steady drone of a motor as a plane went winging its
way toward Canada. And then suddenly he knew
what he was going to do.
Rogan was preoccupied by the anonymous letters.
He had once said to Manners that he believed a
blackmailing gang was at work in the city. It was
only a suspicion; for people who were blackmailed
made the mistakes of never bringing their troubles
to the police. If the underworld did have a black-
mailing group among their number, the professor
knew he could find out the truth about them. He was
going out to Joe Zuko's.
Zuko was presumed to head one of the most no-
torious gangs in the country. This was his reputa-
tion—it had never been legally proven. Ten miles
outside of the city was his road-house, known
throughout the state. Other speakeasies were raided
—Zuko's was never touched.


128 POISON UNKNOWN
The two men, professor and gangster, were far
apart in the social scale. Yet between them was an
odd sort of friendship. Out of their many conversa-
tions Manners had obtained little glimpses of a
world to which he did not belong, a cruel world, in
which men who were at war with society faced death
almost every hour. Perhaps he should have despised
the gangster. He ended by understanding his odd
code of morality, and even respecting him to some
extent.
It did not take Manners long to reach the out-
skirts of the city. Ahead lay a white ribbon of road,
illuminated by his onrushing headlights. Soon it
skirted the shore; and to his right he saw the flash of
the lighthouse. After going almost ten miles he
turned away from the concrete, to travel over a nar-
row country lane that ran toward the lake.
He stopped the car, at last, where the way was
barred by a high wooden gate. On either side of it a
high fence vanished from sight in the darkness.
Blowing his horn three times, he waited until the
gate swung back. A short, stocky man drifted out of
the darkness to the side of the car, flashed a light in
his face, then motioned for him to proceed. Not a
word had been said; and as he started the car again
he saw the man vanish into the night.
He drove perhaps a thousand feet from the gate,
then came to a stop. Before him stretched the long,
irregular outlines of a low wooden building. No
sound drifted to his ears, nor when he stepped from
the car was he able to see a light. Not until he
walked around the side of the building did the single


POISON UNKNOWN
low-powered electric bulb come into sight. Below it
he could see the outlines of a door.
He opened the door, and passed down three steps.
From far within the house the sound of a buzzer
came faintly to his ears. It lasted but a second, then
died suddenly away. Above his head was a light,
which made the entry he was in like day. Before him
was another door, with a closed slot at the level of
his eyes—a slot which was softly opened as cold,
impersonal eyes searched every line of his face.
Then the slot was closed; and the door swung
quietly open.
He entered a short, deserted hallway, with a door
at its farther end. Opening this he stepped directly
into the bar. Down one side of the room, forty feet
in length, ran a great mahogany bar. There was a
frosted mirror behind the rows of tall bottles, and
three white-coated bartenders were silently pouring
out drinks for the dozen or more in the room. As he
walked through, he smiled; the bar was quieter,
more orderly than many churches in which he had
sat.
He came into another hall, this time a short one
and rather dark. Halfway down its length was a
closed door, upon which he knocked. Silence fell for
a moment, then a voice called for him to enter.
Pushing open the door he entered the room—a room
that would puzzle him until his dying day.
It was a large one, with book-cases running
around three sides. These were overflowing with
books, and books were piled high on the beautiful
table that stood in the center. Upon the floor were


POISON UNKNOWN 131
whose name was synonymous with crime, should
have row after row of poetry was a thing Manners
had not tried to analyze. But they were there, as
were more rows of biography, and a good many
volumes on astronomy. As for the etchings upon the
wall, he owned a few Rops himself. But Zuko had
almost a hundred and fifty. He must have spent a
good deal of money in getting them.
The door opened, and Zuko came hurrying back
to his side. A long bottle was under his arm, in his
hand two small glasses. He placed the bottle on the
table, then stood off a few feet and looked at it. A
smile passed over the round face, and going to the
desk he carefully drew the cork. His face was grave
as he poured the pale liquor into the small glasses.
"Good brandy, this. You like it. Lots of bunk
about Napoleon brandy. Been drank up long, long
time ago. This just as good. You like it."
Had he told the truth Manners might have con-
fessed that he could live a lifetime without ever
drinking a drop of brandy. But he raised the glass to
his lips and sipped the liquid. Soft and smooth it
was, and he slowly nodded without speaking. The
gesture elicited a smile from the gangster.
Refilling the professor's glass Zuko went over to
a nearby chair, and sinking down, watched his
visitor. He liked this young man, admired his brain,
and enjoyed the few evenings they had sat in this
room and talked about books. On those occasions
the gangster had dropped his mask and allowed
Manners to have a fleeting glimpse into his life. But
as he looked over to the other chair he realized his


POISON UNKNOWN
visitor wanted something tonight.
A twinkle flashed into the small eyes: "Want
something, Professor?"
"Not in the sense you mean it, Joe," was the re-
ply. "I do want a little advice from you. Want to
see if a theory of mine is correct. You heard about
Dr. Langdon's death?"
For a moment the fat face steeled into a set ex-
pression. "His murder, you mean," came the soft
response.
Manners gave a start. How did Zuko know
Langdon had been murdered? News moved quickly
in the criminal groups. If any of their kind had com-
mitted the crime Zuko would know about it. He put
his surprise into a question.
Slowly the mountain of a man took a little sip of
the brandy. Then he smiled: "Sure. Murder, Profes-
sor. I know about the doctor. A good man, good to
the kiddies. He would not commit suicide. If he did
not, it's murder. That's how I know—not because of
any fact, but just—what do you call it—intuition?
Am I right?"
Manners admitted he was. As he briefly told his
host what he knew of the crime, he was thinking in-
tently. One thing he could be sure about: Zuko was
truthful. He said he knew nothing about the murder.
That would be the truth. He had simply done what
Manners himself would have done—used his head.
He half-smiled at the thought which came to him.
The good people of the state called the man who sat
across from him a menace to society. No doubt he
was. Yet one thing was certain. Manners knew


POISON UNKNOWN
every word he uttered within the room would be a
locked secret in Zuko's breast. He decided to take
him into his confidence.
"What do you know about Fletcher?" he asked.
A disgusted expression passed over the fat face:
"Oh, him—you know. Like all his sort. Cheap
women, cheap friends, a cheap man. Saw his wife
once. She nice lady. But what about Fletcher? He
kill Langdon?"
"Good heavens no, Joe. Not the slightest sus-
picion of it. But somebody's been writing Fletcher
anonymous letters. Wondered if you heard any gos-
sip about him, about anything he's been doing. Ro-
gan has the idea the letters will explain the murder."
Seeing the surprised look on Zuko's face, Man-
ners mentioned the chief's theory that a mistake had
been made: that Fletcher would have been the vic-
tim if Langdon had not taken his seat. Through his
recital of facts the round face was expressionless,
though once he saw the gray eyes flash with interest.
When he paused, Zuko slowly rose, walked to the
table, refilled the glasses, then went back to his
chair.
"I hear things," came his mild confession. "Lots
of things. But, Professor, once in a while—say
among the Italians—someone gets a Black Hand
letter, and later somebody gets bumped off. Some-
times it happens. But I don't know anyone's after
Fletcher. No one I heard of. Maybe he has been, as
you say, running around with some woman. But you
know most people who write those sort of letters do
it just to frighten someone. They don't kill. I hear


POISON UNKNOWN
things. Heard some about Fletcher, mostly about
women. But know nothing about letters." He
paused, then grinned: "He worth so much money
that if someone was after him I would know."
The small eyes traveled upwards to the wall.
They rested upon one of the best known of all Rops*
weird and sinister etchings—"Satan semant l'iv-
raie." For a second Zuko studied the pictured image
of death, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Professor, I just remembered. Some time ago,
out in the bar, a man raved round a little about
Fletcher. Said he was after him. Just remembered it.
He runs a small shoe-store on State Street. Was
saying something about his wife going out with
Fletcher, and that he was after him. But"—there
came a shrug of the fat shoulders—"nothing much
could be in it."
Manners made no reply for a moment. He studied
the ship model on the ledge above the deep fire-
place. What Zuko had just said had not moved him.
True, he would report it to the chief. But no shoe
clerk could have shrewdly planned a murder in
which an unknown poison was used. He checked this
thought by another: after all, one always discovered
that every rule had its exceptions. So he asked a
question:
"Know his name?"
There came a nod— "Yes, Tollen. He has never
been back here since. I keep the place quiet, as you
know. Can't have excitable people talking about get-
ting even with people in my place."
Manners had to stifle a smile. There was a little


POISON UNKNOWN 135
indignation in Zuko's tone. Yet if all reports were
true, in this building there had been plotted con-
spiracies that had resulted in more than one man's
losing his life. To look at Zuko's smooth, calm fea-
tures, one would never have guessed he was pre-
sumed to be the state's most undesirable citizen.
They talked awhile; but it was mostly a general
conversation of no particular importance. Once
Zuko rose and ambled over to the nearest book-
case. The volume he placed in Manners' hand was
an obscure novel, but one that collectors had diffi-
culty in securing. For a time they discussed it; then,
after a glance at his watch, Manners rose to his
feet. It was almost eleven, time he was returning.
To the end of the small hall he was escorted—
Zuko did not enter the bar. With a friendly pat on
his shoulder, the big man begged him to return
soon, chuckled as he hinted he would like to know
all the details when the crime was solved. With that
he said good night, and ambled back to his room.
Climbing into his car, Manners sat motionless for
several minutes, his eyes searching the darkness.
Close at hand was the lake; he could hear the water
lapping on the rocky shore. Far out over the water
was the light of a distant boat, a tiny gleam of
brightness in the blackness. Nothing could be heard;
and the long wooden building close at hand was
simply an outlined shadow.
Rather slowly he drove toward the city. Rogan
would be sure to base his investigation upon the
anonymous letters. To Manners they seemed but a
coincidence. Yet—even as he thought this—he de-


POISON UNKNOWN 137
There was a house some distance in the rear, but
it was dark. Keeping close to a stone wall he fol-
lowed it until he was stopped by another. The road
curyed to his right and was some distance away. His
hands shot upward, gripped the flat top of the wall,
and in a second he was on the other side.
His first action was to look toward the house. It
was some distance off, and there was a light in an
upper window. The lower part was dark, and except
for the single light there were no signs of life. Turn-
ing his glance from the house he started over the
grass, keeping close to the trunks of the many trees.
He did not care to be seen; for it might be rather
awkward to explain what he was doing there so close
to midnight.
It was very dark under the trees. Their wide-
spreading branches, far above his head, made en-
circling pits of gloom on the lawn. Skirting what
was probably a garage, he turned and followed the
stone building. Past it he caught sight of the house.
It was but a few yards away, black and silent.
At last he reached the shrubbery which fringed
the bay windows; and peering through them he tried
to look into the dining-room. It was impossible, be-
cause of the darkness. There was no light on the
first floor, and the windows were but vague, shad-
owy outlines. However, when he turned away he
had decided one thing. Rice could have looked into
that room; but it would have been impossible for
anyone else to get so near to the house and to look
into it without being noticed by the detective.
• His first thought was to return to the car. Some-


138 POISON UNKNOWN
thing caused him to change his mind. Fletcher's
grounds ended at a high bluff above the lake. Many
times Manners had sailed past the place in his speed-
boat. It was his idea that a boat-house stood on the
shore directly below the bluff, and that a long flight
of steps ran down to the water. For no reason at
all he was going to satisfy his curiosity.
The ground sloped a little as it ran away from
the house. There were trees to avoid, flower gar-
dens to skirt. The nearer he got to the edge of the
bluff the lighter it became. This was partly because
the trees had ceased, also because he was approach-
ing the lake. But it still was too dark to distinguish
any object.
He came to the edge of the bluff. Far below, a
huge blanket of darkness, lay the lake. He could
faintly hear the sound of water, playing against the
shore. After walking a few yards he found the steps,
steps which dropped away into the blackness be-
low.
With one hand resting on the wooden rail, he
stood hesitating. The shore was at least seventy feet
below him, and it seemed rather absurd to descend
the long flight of stairs at all. He decided he would
go back to the car, return to his house and go to
bed. After all, he was beginning to feel tired.
He paused, to take one last look into the dark-
ness below. A murmur came softly to his ears, the
faint lapping of the water upon the shore. But his
eyes could not penetrate the gloom. A thick blanket
enveloped everything, darkness in which he could
distinguish nothing.


POISON UNKNOWN 139
Suddenly—in the very act of turning to walk
away—he was frozen to attention. He had seen a
light. It lasted but a second, and was but a fleeting
dot of brightness—a flame which had suddenly
flared forth, then was extinguished as if the one
responsible for it had tried to conceal it at once.
It had flashed from down on the shore, only a
few yards from where he guessed the foot of the
steps to be. Bending eagerly forward he waited for
it to come again. But the darkness remained impene-
trable.
Suddenly he made up his mind. He would go
down the steps. He would try to discover what the
light could mean.


CHAPTER IX
Fear had never played a part in Harley Manners'
make-up, but curiosity had. It was the latter that
decided him to go down the long steps to the beach.
What he would find upon reaching the shore he did
not bother to ask himself. One thought only was in
his mind. It was midnight—at least close to it—and
for a fleeting second he had seen a light; that light
should not have vanished so quickly as it had.
With a hand gripping the railing for support he
fumbled for the first step. The board swayed be-
neath him; he skipped it and reached for the second.
This was solid—and carefully, groping in the dark-
ness, he descended, testing each board before he
placed his foot upon it.
The steps were close together. Though he knew
the beach could not be much more than seventy feet
from the top of the bluff, it seemed hundreds. Half-
way down he paused, for a moment, listening. Noth-
ing could be seen—though he tried to pierce the
darkness with his eyes. Nor did he hear anything,
except the low ripple of the water against the shore.
At last his feet fell upon the crunching sand of
the beach. A few yards in front of him was the lake.
To the right and left stretched a long tunnel of
blackness. He had a pretty good idea where he was.
Not for nothing had he sailed the lake in the past
few years. Somewhere to the left, not more than a
I4»


POISON UNKNOWN
hundred yards away, was a boat-house. And it was
near this he had seen the light.
He hesitated a second before starting over the
sand. What he was doing was absurd. After all, he
was on private property. No doubt the person who
had flashed the light had a perfect right to be on
the beach. Only one thing sent him forward—the
light had vanished so quickly, as though the one re-
sponsible for it were very eager that it should not
be seen.
Carefully, so that there should be no sound, he
crept over the sand. Above him, a pool of gloom,
towered the dark bluff. Seventy-five feet he went;
then a faint shadow loomed before his eyes. It was
a dimly outlined building close to the water's edge.
He had kept close to the bluff, knowing the shad-
ows were darker there than out on the beach. Oppo-
site the building he hesitated for a moment. It was
a long, low structure, evidently jutting far out into
the water—a boat-house without a doubt.
He paused, listening. Once he thought he heard a
sound close to the water's edge—as though one
pebble had scraped against another. But in-a mo-
ment he decided he had been mistaken. Strain his
ears as he would, nothing could be heard but the
water against the shore. He made up his mind to act.
There was no effort at concealment; for he de-
cided that whoever had been on the shore had gone.
Hurrying across the sand he reached the side of the
boat-house. His hand fell against the building, to
discover that it was made of stone—heavy granite
blocks, which felt cool to his touch.


142 POISON UNKNOWN
He stood silent a moment, then half-crept to the
front of the building. Stumbling against a flight of
steps he concluded they led to the entrance. Decid-
ing against climbing, he skirted them. With a hand
sliding over the stones he moved forward. Sud-
denly—his hand slipped off the stones into space.
Catching himself, he managed not to fall. His
hand explored the dark vacancy. It must be a door,
he thought, one very close to the ground, a door
that swung inward and was partially open.
As' he had stepped from his car, on the road
above, he had put a small flash-light in his pocket.
He half decided to use it, then changed his mind.
But he was determined to see what was behind the
half-open door. That anyone was inside he doubted.
No sound came creeping through the blackness.
Reaching into a pocket for a match he struck it
against the cold granite, a little above the level of
his head. There came a tiny sputter, then the bit of
wood leaped into flame. For a second the darkness
was illuminated—then the match went out.
Just as the flame vanished, in the very act of
reaching in his pocket for another, he heard a sound
—a faint scraping noise, as if someone might be
creeping over the sand. Suddenly he knew he was
not alone on the beach. A half-step was taken—
then out of the darkness came a blow. Aimed evi-
dently at his head, but falling on his shoulders, it
was a tremendous blow, which caused him to stag-
ger. Before he could regain his balance there came a
half-shove, a vicious push—and he went hurtling
through the open door.


POISON UNKNOWN 143
So sudden had been the attack that there was no
time to try to save himself. Rolling over and over
he went bumping down a flight of steps, sliding over
a hard, wet floor. With a thud, a shoulder crashed
against a hard wall. From out of the darkness came
a loud bang—as though a door were being slammed
shut.
He did not stir for a moment. He was not badly
hurt, but his shoulder burned like fire. He was lying
on a floor that was very wet and slippery, and his
extended hands were in little pools of water. The
darkness was intense. And nearby could be heard the
sound of water—water beating against a barrier.
Pulling himself into a sitting posture he realized
he was not badly hurt. True, his shoulder ached,
and no doubt his clothes were torn. But his chief
feeling was one of chagrin. Lighting the match had
not been an intelligent action. The tiny flame, play-
ing across his face, had given him away. He should
have known better.
A hand slipped into the pocket of his coat. The
flash-light was found and brought forth. Struggling
to a standing position he groped along a wall. It
was made of wood, and felt damp and cold. Rais-
ing his arm above his head he found himself unable
to touch anything.
A recollection of that sound, heard as he had
gone sprawling over the wet floor, came back to him
—a sound like the closing of a door. There seemed
little doubt he was alone in the boat-house. A search-
ing finger found the clasp of the flash-light, and
pulled it back. The ray of light broke the darkness.


POISON UNKNOWN 145
As he heard the sound of the splashing water his
first thought was that the partition had been raised.
Hurrying across the wet floor he played the flash-
light over the wooden barrier. It was in place; and
there was not the slightest sign that any water was
seeping in around the edges. Yet the sound of the
f ailing water continued—and it was growing louder.
The light swept over the walls, wooden walls, wet
with slime. Then—to his horror—he saw an open-
ing. It was above his head, a circle twice the size of
his arm. Through it a stream of water was pouring
into the slip in which he stood.
For a moment, unable to move, he stared at the
falling water. He knew what it meant. Separated
from him by only a few inches of wood was a second
slip. There must be some arrangement whereby the
slip he was in could be filled, without opening the
heavy partition which kept out the lake. This ar-
rangement had been put to use. If he did not act
quickly he would drown like a rat in a tub.
It was like Harley Manners to light a cigarette
first—then think. His gesture was not one of defy-
ing Fate, but simply a subconscious motion. He
would have to act in a moment and act quickly. Deep
down in his heart he wondered if there was anything
to do.
Ten feet above the floor was the wooden cover-
ing. The hole through which the water was pouring
was perhaps two feet below this. Reach it he could
not; and even had he been able to do so, he could
never have prevented the water from coming
through. It was running in a heavy stream now, and


POISON UNKNOWN
to that. Whoever had thrown him into the slip had
known who he was, must have known—for his face
had been seen as he lighted the match. There came
an ironic smile to his lips. He was always telling his
students that their actions would be judged ac-
cording to the intelligence they used. His own action
had been far from intelligent.
The water was almost over the first step, creep-
ing upward in a swirling motion that he did not
care to look at. Moving back a little, a foot slipped,
and went slamming down on the first step. To his
surprise the board moved, swayed beneath his
weight.
With a leap he plunged to the floor, the water
splashing across his ankles. Bending down, his hands
reached under the heavy board. There came a tug,
a strain. The step moved—he heard a creak. Again
he pulled, giving a sudden upward twist of his body.
As he did so the board came loose.
It was a heavy one, five feet long, and over an
inch thick. Good substantial wood, he thought, and
for that he was glad. At least he had some sort of
instrument with which to attack the trapdoor.
There might not be much chance of escape. But
whatever there was he would take.
Standing on the second step, he raised the board
and gave a violent blow upon the trapdoor. The
sound went reverberating through his prison. Again
and again the action was repeated; until there came
a moment when he had to pause and rest.
A downward look showed that the water had
crept to the level of the second step. It swirled and


i48 POISON UNKNOWN
moved under the Impact of the falling torrent.
Dark, sinister-looking water, it made him give a
little shiver of disgust. In a sudden burst of energy
he turned, to attack the trapdoor again.
All at once it swayed a little. Another blow and
there came a creaking noise, as the board splintered.
He rained a torrent of blows upon the trapdoor.
Blow after blow—all were delivered at the same
spot. Then—with a suddenness that almost caused
him to lose his balance—the board gave way.
Desperation gave him increased strength. Attack-
ing the edge of the broken board, he sent it whirl-
ing into the darkness with three blows. He passed
on to the next—and when it fell with a splash into
tJie water, which was now over his shoes, he knew
he had won.
A hand reached through the opening, to fumble
over the remnants of the door. There must be a bolt
somewhere, and his creeping fingers searched in the
darkness. At last it was found: an old-fashioned,
heavy bolt, which took but a moment to slip loose.
A shove, and the trapdoor fell backwards.
Not a moment did he waste. Pulling himself
through the opening he scrambled to his feet. One
quick sweep of the flash-light revealed that no one
was in the boat-house. He had not expected to find
anyone. Whoever had pushed him into the slip, and
allowed the water to run in, had wished to kill him,
but intended to be far away when his death took
place.
Standing by the square opening he allowed the
light to travel down to the dark water. It was well


POISON UNKNOWN 149
over the second step now, coming upwards with
every swirl. A few moments more and it would have
covered him. With a little shiver he turned the light
on the room in which he stood.
The boat-house was evidently divided into two
parts. A wooden partition shut off one side, and be-
yond it a boat would be lying in a slip. The room he
was in was cluttered with rope and various odds
and ends. There was even a chair dose to the oppo-
site wall, and seeing it, he crossed and sat down.
Now it was over, he realized how narrow had
been his escape from death. The boat slip was of
the type which had a door to keep out the lake. It
would take almost nine feet of water to fill it. Per-
haps he might have stood on the steps and kept his
mouth above the water. But sooner or later his
strength would have vanished, and wearily he would
have slipped down to his death.
His death! What he had just passed through
seemed incredible. Why should anyone have wished
to kill him? What had he stumbled upon ? All he had
seen had been a light upon the shore—a momentary
flash of brightness in the darkness—yet he knew
that in some mysterious manner it had been con-
nected with what had taken place.
The light had been seen near the boat-house. As
he thought this he rose, and began to examine every
inch of the room he was in. The door had been open,
and it was very probable that whoever had carried
the light had been in the building. But why?
The room was littered with all sorts of articles.
Evidently it was more a storehouse than anything else.


POISON UNKNOWN
There were bits of rope, broken-down barrels and
boxes, an outboard motor and even a few magazines.
No fear that his light would be seen outside the
building troubled him. The door was closed, and
there were no windows on this side of the boat-
house.
A quick examination revealed nothing of any mo-
ment. True, his eyes did rest for a second upon a
rusty saw. It lay on a barrel, and little pieces of saw-
dust were clinging to the brown teeth. But this was
of little interest. There was nothing in the room
which gave a hint that anyone had been there at
midnight.
The thought made him turn the light on his wrist
watch. Its hands stood exactly at one o'clock. He
had been in the place almost an hour. Time he was
leaving. He rose slowly to his feet. There was a
dull ache in his shoulder, and the gray suit was torn
and soiled.
He hesitated, before flinging open the door. But
as he slipped the catch of the flash-light, putting it
out, he assured himself there would be no one out-
side. Whoever had been there had long since de-
parted, and by now would be far away. Thinking
this, he gave the door a shove, and a second later
stepped into the night.
The air felt fresh and cool. It was lighter now,
for a faint moon was beginning to break through
the clouds. The lake, a moving mass of silver, could
be dimly seen. Above him the bluff vanished in a
vague pool of darkness.
He was both disgusted and perplexed—disgusted


POISON UNKNOWN 151
because he had fallen into a trap, perplexed because
he could only wonder what it might mean. The at-
tack upon him seemed an absurd thing, without any
reason behind it. And it had been no ordinary at-
tack. The man had intended he should die.
With a faint sigh he started over the sand, walk-
ing in the direction of the steps. The flash-light had
been replaced in his pocket. It was not needed. The
moon, pale though it was, allowed him to distinguish
the objects before him. And it was growing lighter
every moment.
He paid little attention to his footsteps. The sand
was soft, crunching under his feet. A sudden breath
of air moved across his cheeks, promise that a
breeze was coming. Ahead, the long steps rose like
an etched black line above his head. And it was at
that moment he saw the sinister-looking shadow ly-
ing at their foot.
One swift glance, then he started forward on a
run. It was a shadow sprawled in a grotesque, hor-
rible fashion at the foot of the steps—a shadow
that did not move; and for some reason it filled him
with sudden terror.
As he reached it, though his trembling hand fum-
bled for the flash-light, he knew he did not need it to
recognize what lay at his feet. But he pulled it forth
and at last managed to slip the catch. Hardly dar-
ing to look he swept it over the motionless object
at his feet.
Lying upon the sand, her head thrown to one
side in a strained position, was a woman. One hand
was outstretched, the slender fingers clutching deep


152 POISON UNKNOWN
into the sand. The black dress was far above her
knees, and several inches of flesh gleamed white
under the light. The face he could not see.
But as he slowly sank down on the sand he did
not need to see her face to know who it was. Gently
his arm slipped under the dark hair. Carefully the
head was raised and turned in his direction. One
quick look, and he allowed it gently to fall back.
There at his feet—with a little pathetic, wondering
smile upon her still, cold lips—lay Ann Fletcher.
For her the world had ended.


CHAPTER X
Very slowly Manners dropped down on the sand
beside the still figure. A hand reached forth, care-
fully touched the soft cheek. It was still warm. How-
ever death had come, its visit had been only a few
moments before he burst his way out of the slip.
As he thought this a great wave of anger swept
over him.
There by his side lay Ann Fletcher. Never again
would that dark head be proudly carried. The sensi-
tive lips were silent forever. He had seen her but
twice; yet he knew as he knelt beside her still body
that she was one of the most beautiful women he
had ever met. And now—she was dead.
Rising slowly to his feet he stood looking out
toward the dark lake. His hands were clenched at
his side; his lips were a straight line. What had hap-
pened seemed very clear; she had fallen the length
of the steps; and the fall had killed her.
But as he turned to look up at the shadowy outline
of the bluff a warning passed over him. What had
she been doing on those stairs after midnight? Why
had she left the house? Whom had she been going
to see? No ordinary errand had brought her out of
the house in the darkness, to descend the steps to
the shore. That was certain.
There was but one thing to be done. It would be
the most distasteful message he had ever sent over
153


POISON UNKNOWN 155
boat-house. It was a rusty saw, but bits of sawdust
had been clinging to its teeth. The significance of it
all swept over him. She had fallen down the seventy
steps—but it was no accident. Someone had known
she would go down these steps and had cut away the
first one, so that when she trod upon it she would
be thrown seventy feet to the shore. Her death was
not an accident—it was murder.
Murder ... an ugly, vicious, cruel murder. . . .
As, with a leap, he jumped for the edge of the bluff,
he swore an oath with himself. Down on the sand
lay the body of what only a few moments before
had been a beautiful, charming woman. She was
dead—murdered. And as Manners turned and faced
the lake he resolved to himself that he would bring
her murderer to justice.
There was no time to lose. Turning, he started on
a run across the grass. Ahead was Fletcher's house,
where he could telephone to the city. Whom he
would find at the house he had no idea; he doubted
if there would be anyone but the servants. Fletcher
—somehow he did not expect to find him home.
It was much darker on the lawn than it had been
on the shore. The moon was climbing. But under the
trees were pools of darkness. He could see the house
now, outlined in the distance, noticed there was a
light in the upper story. Someone was up; and for
that he was glad.
He came off the lawn directly in front of the bay
window that looked into the dining-room. Still run-
ning, he continued down the length of the house. It
was as he came around the front that he saw the


i56 POISON UNKNOWN
figure crouching on the grass. Too late, he tried to
avoid it. As the crouching figure started to rise to
his feet Manners went banging into him. For a
second he tried to keep his balance; then went plung-
ing to the ground.
So unexpected had been the encounter that the
crouching man was taken by surprise as completely
as Manners. Yet he was the first on his feet. Scram-
bling up, without casting a look around, the man be-
gan to run. As he started over the grass Manners
sprang to his feet and set out in pursuit.
It was only a short chase. After they had crossed
the pebbled drive he was almost at the man's heels.
His voice rang out in a command—the flying figure
did not halt. Instead Manners saw a hand go reach-
ing down into a pocket. On the instant, he flung him-
self forward at the man's legs. In a tumbling heap
they went rolling over the ground. Once a hand
brushed Manners' throat; but he flung it aside. As
a conflict it was soon over. The figure he was grap-
pling with was slight, and the thin arms seemed to
possess little strength. As Manners' hand clasped
the man's throat he suddenly ceased to struggle, and
lay quiet.
Rising to his feet he pulled the fugitive upright,
as his hands went searching into the pockets of the
man's coat. His fingers closed over a cold, flat sur-
face—and came forth with a gun. Even in the dark-
ness he knew it to be a vicious automatic. Pressing it
into the man's side, he spoke:
"You're going to walk over to that house, go up
those steps, and stand there while I ring the bell.


POISON UNKNOWN 157
Any trouble, and I will use your own gun."
There was no reply. All desire for battle seemed
to have left the other, and he started obediently
toward the house. A foot behind him, the gun in his
right hand, marched Manners. Who the man was he
did not know—young, evidently, not over-strong,
and of slight physique. Why he had been crouching
in the shadow of the veranda Manners intended to
discover.
'Up the steps they walked, then to the front door
of the house. There was no light in the hallway; but
as Manners reached out to push the bell he saw that
the door was slightly ajar. Throwing it open, and at
the same time pushing the bell button, he motioned
for the man to enter the hallway. Searching the wall
for the light button—which he knew was there—he
found it. Suddenly the hall sprang into light.
As it did so, the man in front of him quickly
whirled. The face was that of a young man, white,
pleading, and badly frightened: a fairly well-dressed
young man, though the suit was a little loud, and
Manners would rather have died than be seen in the
necktie. In a voice which went ringing through the
hallway, the man broke into speech:
"Professor Manners, let me go. Don't turn me
over to the police. I have not done anything. Let me
go, let me go!"
That he was recognized was no surprise to Man-
ners. The mention of his name, however, did prove
one thing. This man must live in the city. Before
answering, there swept over Manners the thought
of the slight, silent figure lying upon the beach. An


158 POISON UNKNOWN
angry retort was leaping to his lips when there came
a loud'scream from the stairway; a long, piercing
scream which shrilled hysterically through the
house.
Both men whirled. On the first landing of the
stairway leading to the second floor was a maid. Her
face was twisted with fright, while her staring eyes
fixed their glance on the gun in Manners' hand. As
they dropped further, to his torn and disheveled
clothes, she screamed a second time.
There was but one thing to do. Shoving the man
a little to one side, Manners tried to calm the
frightened maid. By this time he had managed to
make her understand his name, two more women
had thrust their heads over the railing: women who
he knew were servants, and who had evidently re-
tired for the night. Telling them to go back to their
rooms and dress, he again turned his attention to the
maid.
Though it seemed she had been calmed by the
mention of his name, yet the gun which he still held
in his hand appeared to terrify her. Again and again
her startled eyes crept down to give the weapon a
frightened look. It was with great difficulty he man-
aged to persuade her, reluctantly, to come down to
the first floor.
Time was precious; and from the woman before
him—bewildered by their presence and badly shaken
—there were several things he wished to know:
questions which he felt must be answered before he
could call the police-station.
"Where is Mr. Fletcher?"


160 POISON UNKNOWN
the door at his left. It occurred to him that it must
be the library he had been in the previous evening.
With a request that she switch on the lights he
turned to the man:
"Go in that room and sit down in a chair. I prom-
ise you that if you have been up to no harm, I shall
see you get into no trouble. But if you try to slip
away . . . why . . ." he made a motion with the
hand holding the gun.
The man nodded eagerly and started to speak,
only to fall silent before the wave of Manners'
hand. At the motion his captive hastened into the
library; and the speed with which he took a chair
showed Manners he need have no fear of an at-
tempt at escape.
The telephone was on a stand near a tall book-
case. Just as his hand reached out for the receiver
the maid started to leave the room. A command
made her turn, gave him one frightened look, then
obey. As she seated herself on a sofa he saw her
face: it was terrified, yet at the same time eager.
With his hand on the receiver he hesitated. It was
very late; Rogan would have gone home, and there
was little chance Kent would be in his office. He
not only needed both of them, but the doctor must
be reached, and also several plain-clothes men. The
moment his call reached the station it would spring
into life: and he knew the consternation it would
cause.
Another murder at the Fletcher estate ... he
could see it in headlines. This time the gracious mis-
tress of the house. No doubt about its being mur-


POISON UNKNOWN 161
der—no doubt about how it was done. All at
once he gave a start. The maid had said there
had been a 'phone call—for Fletcher. Had that step
that someone had sawn through been a trap for the
master of the house: a trap into which his wife had
fallen?
He stopped thinking, to yank the receiver from
the hook. There was a long wait; then a sleepy
operator asked the number. Long before the police-
station answered he had concluded they must all be
asleep. Then came a voice, slow, deliberate. And to
Manners' surprise he was told that Kent was in,
though on the point of leaving.
He had to wait several minutes before the in-
spector could be located. But at last came Kent's
rough voice, sounding a bit impatient, and decidedly
sleepy. Only for a second, however; when he dis-
covered who was speaking his tone changed to one
of consternation.
"Kent—this is Manners. I am at Fletcher's.
There is trouble out here. Get me—it's the real
thing—I don't want to say more."
There was hesitancy at the other end of the wire,
and he knew the inspector was digesting his words.
The maid and the man were behind him, and he did
not wish to say more. There came Kent's voice; all
impatience had vanished, only astonishment and
eagerness remained. "You mean murder?"
"Yes. The woman this time. You will have to get
Rogan and, of course, Bell. And I think you'd best
bring at least three patrolmen, and your fingerprint
man and photographer. And Kent—don't ask any


i62 POISON UNKNOWN
questions, but hurry. It's not very pleasant up here
just now."
A gasp of astonishment came over the wire, fol-
lowed by a short: "All right." As the telephone be-
came silent, he pictured the police-station. Buttons
were being pushed, bells were ringing. In a moment
cars would come rushing out of the police garage, as
hurrying men leaped for their equipment. And then,
strange to say, he thought of Rogan's old police
superstition: the first visitor to a new police-station
brings a murder. This time there had been two.
Turning, he cast a glance at the man and woman
behind him. He had tried to be non-committal in
his message, but he saw that both were badly
frightened, though it was the man who seemed the
more upset. For a second he studied the thin, white
face; then made up his mind what he would do. The
woman must be got out of the room. He made an
excuse:
"Suppose you round up the cook and have her
make some sandwiches and coffee. The police are
coming. There has been a little accident, and they
will be here soon—hungry, you know."
The haste with which the girl rose from the sofa
showed how glad she was to leave the room. Not
until he heard the sound of a door closing at the end
of the hall did he turn to the man. Just about to open
his lips, he heard the same door reopen, and there
came the sound of footsteps hurrying down the hall.
The woman had come back to stand in the door-
way—some excuse of a question, he supposed. But
he was glad she had; for there was one thing he had


POISON UNKNOWN 163
forgotten to ask her. Giving her no chance to speak
first he shot out:
"You said someone called on the telephone:
wanted Mr. Fletcher. Was it a man or a woman?”
"Oh, it was a man, sir. The voice sounded a little
familiar, but I did not quite recognize it.”
"Do you think Mrs. Fletcher recognized the
voice ?"
The girl threw him an astonished glance. "Why,
sir, if she had not recognized it, she would never
have gone down to the boat-house at this hour.”
She was right. No woman would cross the dark
lawn, go down those long steps to the lonely beach,
unless she knew for whom she was going—whom
she would meet. Before he could even try to theo-
rize, however, the woman spoke again:
“Will you want a good many sandwiches, sir?"
Impatiently he sent her away with instructions to
make several dozen. Then again he turned to the
man, who was sitting on the very edge of the chair,
clasping and unclasping his hands. Seems rather
harmless, thought Manners, but you never can tell.
Besides, what had he been doing in Fletcher's yard
at midnight, hiding by the veranda with a gun in his
hand?
Into a pocket he reached for a cigarette, lighted
the yard?”
"İ-1-just wanted to see Mr. Fletcher," came
the stammering reply. “I was not going to do him
any harm."
"And you hide by his veranda at midnight, with


164 POISON UNKNOWN
a gun in your pocket!" was the ironic retort.
"I know it seems foolish, Professor. But—"
"What's your name?"
"Tollen, sir. I have a little shoe store on State
Street."
Manners' eyebrows rose a little: Tollen. That
was the name Zuko had mentioned: the man who
had made threats against Fletcher; who had been
forbidden ever again to enter the speakeasy. If
Fletcher had not gone to Canada there might have
been a third murder. Yet as he looked at the man he
wondered if he would have had the courage to use
the gun.
"What was the trouble?"
A flush passed over the thin face. Tollen's lips
worked, then he leaned far back in the chair. "He
had been running round with my wife. I wanted to
frighten him."
"And did you expect he would be frightened?"
"I don't know, sir. I—I—just wanted him to
leave my wife alone. She was flattered by his money,
and it was not fair, Professor. He has everything. I
just wanted him to leave my home alone. Why, I
even wrote to him."
An uneasy thought swept into Manners' mind.
"You wrote to him. Did you sign your letters?"
"I did the first one. But the last two I didn't sign."
There came an appealing look, one which begged his
interrogator to believe him. "You see, I thought I
might frighten him: frighten him so he would leave
the city for a while."
The cigarette between Manners' lips had gone


POISON UNKNOWN 165
out. Whatever might be the truth in Tollen's story,
one thing was certain. The man was in for trouble,
and for a lot of trouble. Rogan was looking for a
motive for the murder; when he heard Tollen's
story he would say he had discovered it. But as he
thought this possibility over, Manners realized that
as a theory it would not do.
The chief believed the doctor's murder had been a
mistake: that Fletcher was the intended victim. He
had only to glance at this man seated before him
to know he would never have used poison. What
was more, it was to be doubted whether he would
ever have mistaken Langdon for the man he hated.
Kill, this man might. But his killing would have been
done in a sudden burst of rage, and with a gun. To
plan a murder shrewdly, then execute it carefully,
would be beyond the powers of the man sitting in
the chair across from him. Yet the first motive to
raise its head had just come forth.
"Were you up here last night?" Manners asked.
There came a violent shake of Tollen's head.
Eagerly he assured him he had never before been on
Fletcher's grounds. The previous evening after com-
ing from the store he had remained at home. He had
not left the house at all. Manners believed he was
telling the truth.
There were other questions he might ask. But he
was weary; and he could not put from his mind the
thought of Ann Fletcher. Alone she was, and though
she would not mind the darkness and the silence
now, yet somehow he wished there were someone be-
side her. The police were taking a long time. His


166 POISON UNKNOWN
shoulder ached; he was very tired. If there were
other questions to be asked, let the police ask them.
They would. When Rogan had done with him
Tollen would wish language had never been invented.
Nervously, another cigarette was lighted. As a
rule nothing bothered Manners. But he was troubled
now. More to seek distraction than for any other
purpose, he turned to study the contents of the tall
book-case at his right: an old-fashioned book-case,
with leaded glass doors. Perhaps a hundred books
stood upon the shelves, books whose titles could
easily be read.
They rather puzzled him; for they were not at
all what he would have expected to find in Fletcher's
house. Half of the shelves were filled with old
volumes whose faded titles indicated they were
dreary works about New Zealand and Australia.
Manners knew books; they were his outstanding
interest. But most of the books behind the glass
doors he had never heard of. And as he read the
titles he guessed that no one else had.
A sound came drifting into the room. Cars were
approaching the house—cars driven at high speed.
As he turned to look through the windows, the
gleam of a headlight flashed into the room. It van-
ished only to be replaced by a second; and when that
passed there came the light of a third car. The
police had arrived.
Manners had not bothered to close the front
door, and he knew the maid had not done so. There
were lights in the hall, and Rogan would of course
come directly into the house. He heard the sound of


POISON UNKNOWN 167
brakes being applied; then the noise of the motors
died suddenly away. Voices came, and he heard foot-
steps hurrying down the hallway.
He met Rogan at the door of the room: a grumpy
Rogan, who gave him one astounded look, raising
his eyebrows as he observed the sad plight of Man-
ner's suit. Something has happened, thought the
chief; never saw Manners so soiled, or wearing such
a torn suit. And then he noticed the man sitting on
the edge of the chair, and the gun in the professor's
hand.
"What in—" he began, as Kent and Bell crowded
with him into the room. Behind them were the inter-
ested faces of the patrolmen.
Manners only gave a little shrug of the shoulders.
What he had to say had best be said with Tollen out
of the room. He waved in the direction of the chair.
"Rogan, you will want this man. Treat him de-
cently, though you are going to be astonished at his
story. Better send him out to the car with one of the
men you brought along."
For a second the chief scowled at his friend. He
had been pulled out of a deep sleep by the insistent
ringing of the telephone. Kent's voice had been ex-
cited; he had hinted at another murder. The last
thing in the world Rogan wanted was another crime.
He was grouchy as well as half-asleep. But when he
looked into Manners' grave eyes, he suddenly be-
came wide awake. There was trouble, and without
doubt serious trouble.
Protesting, Tollen was led from the room. As the
sound of the footsteps died away Rogan spoke:


168 POISON UNKNOWN
"Snap into it, Harley. What's it all about? We
had enough trouble up here last night. Why the—"
"Rogan," came the weary voice, "down on that
beach you're going to find the body of Ann Flet-
cher." He had to pause as he thought once more of
what he had discovered at the foot of the steps.
Rogan made no effort, for a moment, to break
the silence. He saw the fine lips tighten in a straight
line, noticed Manners showed more emotion than
was his custom. Then, as there came no further
words, he had to ask the question in his mind:
"You mean—"
There was a nod. "It's murder: clear-cut murder.
You'd best have Bell and Kent get down there at
once."
With a shrug of his shoulders the police doctor
placed his bag under his arm and started for the
door. With one foot in the hallway, he turned to
throw a disapproving look at the man who had given
the command. "I only wish, Manners," he drawled,
"that you would discover your bodies earlier in the
evening. It's a bit too much to be called out at two
in the morning."
"You want to watch the first of those steps that
lead down to the beach," was the only answer. "It's
been sawn through, and is now broken off. And,
Kent, in that boat-house you will find the saw. Take
it, keep your eye on it, and better have your finger-
print man go over it."
With a look at his chief, who nodded briefly, Kent
grabbed Bell's arm and the two officials vanished.
Rogan cast his eyes curiously over his friend. The


170 POISON UNKNOWN
but a few moments. His face softened for a second
—hardening again as he recalled that he now had
two murders to solve: two murders, and without a
doubt they were connected.
Finally, with a gesture toward the door, Rogan
suggested: "We better be getting down to the
shore."
Manners slowly shook his head. "Rogan," he said
wearily, "I have had about all I can stand for to-
night. I am not going down to the shore. I've given
you every fact that I know. For tonight at least you
go it alone. Tomorrow will be another day."
As they came out on the grass he watched the
chief turn in the direction of the shore. For a mo-
ment his eyes followed the heavy figure, then looked
upward. Above his head myriads of stars glimmered
cold and pure in a dark sky. A faint breeze fanned
his cheeks, and there was the slight whisper of wind
in the leaves. He stood motionless for a time. Then,
with a little sigh, he turned toward his car.
Past the three police machines he went, the gravel
of the walk crunching beneath his heels. He was
worn out; and he lurched a little as he stepped.
Though his car was only a short distance beyond
the wall enclosing the estate, it seemed the longest
walk he had ever taken. And though he did not wish
to think, some forgotten fact kept trying to pierce
his consciousness. What it was he had no idea.
He found the car, where he had left it, wearily
climbed into the seat, then slowly fumbled for the
cigarette. As his hand fell upon the wheel there
leaped into his consciousness the forgotten memory.


CHAPTER XI
When Manners entered his breakfast-room the
next morning he received a disapproving look from
his housekeeper. It was long after ten; furthermore,
she had heard him come in at some unearthly hour.
Nor had she failed to observe the gray suit flung
carelessly upon a chair. Its torn and soiled condition
shocked her Scotch soul; she would have given a
great deal, also, to know how he had managed to get
it in such condition.
As she set the breakfast on the table, she laid
the morning newspaper close beside the plate. To
her surprise he did not pick it up, though it was his
invariable custom to spend the first few moments at
the table in glancing at the news. She decided it was
time to speak:
"Professor Hoff called you. Three times he did.
That man never knows what he wants." (She
thought of the toxicologist—and shook her head.)
"First he wanted to see you at eleven. Then he said
he would see you at twelve. The last time he changed
it to one. You are to go to his laboratory. The poor
man seemed excited, all mixed up in what he was
saying."
Seeing that there would be no reply, she shrugged
her shoulders. "And the police-station called you,
sir. It's my belief you would be far better off writing
172


POISON UNKNOWN 173
your books and leaving those policemen alone. They
want to see you this afternoon."
For the first time in many hours a faint smile
crossed Manners' lips. She bullied him, watched
over him, worshiped him a little, but Mrs. McNeil
would never get over her distrust of the police. Even
Rogan, whom he suspected she liked deep down in
her heart, was treated rather curtly when he came
to the house. And the sight of the torn gray suit
must have caused her misgivings.
He did not open the paper until after breakfast.
It was a clear, warm morning, with not even the hint
of a breeze. Out on the lawn he could see the robins;
and under one of the elm trees lay the sprawled-out
figure of his dog.
Deciding to read his paper under the trees he
made several trips from the veranda to the lawn.
First a small table was set in the shade of a tall tree;
then came a garden chair; and a third trip was neces-
sary for paper and pencils. These were placed on the
table, and, sitting down in the chair, he lighted the
first cigarette of the day.
For a while he gazed languidly over the lawn.
To his left stretched the rambling house, its side
covered with the red roses of July. The lawn ended
at an ivy-covered wall, and beyond it, far in the dis-
tance, could be seen the smooth blue surface of the
lake. Satan had risen to greet him, but deciding his
master was going to stay for some time he dropped
down at his feet to sleep.
It was a peaceful view, undisturbed by sound. Oc-
casionally a bird would call; but there were no noisy


POISON UNKNOWN
cars rushing by on the road. His house was too
isolated for traffic to disturb, the main roads so far
away that no sound from them could creep into his
retreat.
With a half-sigh he opened the paper. One glance
at the front page—and he sat upright in the chair.
There were heavy headlines, letters black and large,
spelling out the story of murder: of two murders,
for after one swift glance at the news columns he
saw that Rogan had given out the story of Ann
Fletcher's death. What was more, the chief had not
minced his words. He had called it murder.
When the paper had been allowed to fall to the
grass, Manners realized he knew no more than be-
fore. He himself indeed was in possession of more
details than had been furnished the paper. No men-
tion was made of the anonymous letters Fletcher
had received. Little was said about the poison. True,
the news account mentioned that Langdon had died
of poison; but that Hoff was even now trying to dis-
cover what the poison might be was not reported.
Knowing Rogan as well as he did, the news story
told the professor a great deal. It was not so much
what was said as what had been left unsaid. The
chief was always free in giving out information to
the reporters; that is, he gave them all the unim-
portant facts he wished them to know. But his real
theory never saw the light of day until he was willing
that it should.
He had omitted any mention of the anonymous
letters: without a doubt that was the theory he was
working upon. Though the chief had not said so,


POISON UNKNOWN 175
Manners was certain that he believed the woman's
death was linked with the doctor's. What was more,
Rogan had been very positive in his statement that
Langdon's death had been a mistake: that Fletcher
had been the intended victim.
It might be true—of the first murder. But could
they say the same thing of Ann Fletcher's? The
maid had mentioned that the 'phone call had been
for the woman's husband. If he had been at home
no doubt he would have hurried down to the boat-
house. In that case it would have been his foot that
would have fallen upon the damaged step. It would
have been he who plunged down to his death.
He thought this over for a time.. It appeared
logical. If Fletcher had been home, he would have
been the victim. This idea was all that was needed
to bolster up Rogan's theory: that Fletcher was the
one whom the murderer had been after on the night
of the doctor's death. The chief would now say an-
other mistake had been made: that the woman's
death was an accident.
Two mistakes—leading to two murders, only a
little more than twenty-four hours apart. Rogan's
theory that Langdon had been mistaken for Flet-
cher might be true. Could they say the death of Ann
Fletcher was the result of a mistake? The fact that
the telephone call had been for her husband did
seem to show it had been intended he should go
down to the boat-house. But two murders . . . and
both mistakes? It did not seem reasonable.
There came a second disquieting thought. Who-
ever had used the telephone had asked for John


176 POISON UNKNOWN
Fletcher. The maid had said he was out. Then the
voice had asked for his wife. She must have known
who was talking, for she had not been disturbed by
the call. No woman of her type would go out of the
house at one o'clock in the morning, intending to
descend those long steps to the dark beach, unless
she knew whom she was going to see. That at least
seemed logical.
And this brought another thought. It had been
Manners' idea that whoever sawed the step away
also made the telephone call. But if this was true, it
led to confusion. For it meant not only that the
caller had been willing Fletcher should be killed; it
meant something else: and the something else
seemed absurd. It meant that the murderer was per-
fectly willing, if he could not kill the man, to kill his
wife.
Manners puzzled over this for a time, in the end
abandoning the thought. He could see no way to
reconcile the two conflicting ideas. There had been
cases where a person had been murdered by mistake.
But he knew of none where the mistake had occurred
twice. Even as he was thinking this, he could hear
Rogan's voice growling out arguments to prove it
was possible.
Ann Fletcher's death did make one thing clear. It
explained the attack made upon him at the boat-
house. Just how long he had been in the slip he did
not know; perhaps not much over forty-five minutes.
Had he not fallen victim to the attack made upon
him he might have been able to prevent the woman's
going down the steps. Deep down in his heart, all


POISON UNKNOWN 177
the while, he knew this thought was false. He would
not, in any case, have stayed forty-five minutes on
the shore.
He thought of Tollen. The man had been hiding
by the side of the veranda, with a revolver. But
somehow he could not fit Tollen into the crimes. One
thing made it seem impossible: the shoe clerk could
not have planned and executed a murder so shrewdly
thought-out as the first one had been. He might have
been able to plan the second; but he would have no
motive for the woman's death.
No motive? The man was crazed with jealousy.
Women can do that to a man—whip him into a rag-
ing fury, make him incapable of thinking of the con-
sequences of an action. An unbalanced mind might
have struck at Fletcher through his wife. But Tollen
was not unbalanced. He was simply a very emo-
tional, low-grade person, and he did not seem the
type Manners was seeking.
Motive? Until that was discovered, it would be
difficult to find the criminal. He thought of the usual
reasons for murder. Most of them would not fit.
Fear? That was behind most murders: fear of ex-
posure, fear of a hundred things. Revenge? Only if
he was able to believe Tollen guilty could he assign
revenge as the motive. Revenge, he knew, was the
motive the chief would speak of. Yet somehow he
could not picture the shoe clerk as committing the
first crime. Its technique would be beyond him.
If there had been but one death one might hazard
a theory as to the motive. Fletcher had his cheap
amours: the wives of clerks, shop girls, emotionally


POISON UNKNOWN
stead he watched two blue-jays flickering through
the trees; studied the gay-colored flowers in his gar-
den; wondered a little why a mass of red roses
climbing over a house should be so beautiful. Then
at last he looked at his watch, and saw to his sur-
prise that it was almost one o'clock.
At exactly a quarter-past one his blue roadster
came to a stop before the chemistry building of the
University. With a pat on the brown head of his
dog, he hastened from the machine and into the
building. He found Hoff's door open, and as he en-
tered the laboratory the toxicologist carefully placed
a test-tube in a rack and turned to glare at the in-
terruption. One look and, with a little cry, the man
slid off the stool and came across the floor.
"Harley—" burst out the shrill voice— "Harley,
what did you bring me last night? Broken bits of
glass and a green stain. And almost all night have I
worked with that. And what did I find? Nothing.
Nothing at all."
"So you haven't found anything of value?"
For a moment Hoff threw him a disgusted look.
Then hastening to his table he pawed over a mass
of pamphlets, discovering under an inverted bowl
the crushed package of cigarettes he was seeking.
Climbing back on the stool, he applied the match
and blew a long curve of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Harley," he said gravely, "you have had me up
in the air all night. I was able to make stains, and
even get a faint solution from what was on those bits
of glass. But to save my life I don't know what it is.
It's an alkaloid of some sort; and in a crystalline


i8o
POISON UNKNOWN
stage had been made soluble by pure alcohol. But
what it is I do not know. Think of that!"
"So it's not poison," was the grave retort.
Hoff slid off the stool. "Of course it's poison. But
what kind of poison—that's the thing I can't an-
swer. It's my idea the solution if injected into the
blood stream kills in a moment. But think of it, Har-
ley: you bring me a poison I know nothing about;
one that's not in any book on toxicology! That's
why I'm upset. And there is another thing: I only
got a slight trace of the stuff from those bits of
glass—my solution was very weak; but when I
touched my lips and tongue with it I got the same
reaction one obtains from aconitine. Know what I
am getting at?"
Manners returned Hoff's shrewd stare: "You
mean—" he began.
"I mean this, Harley. You remember in Lang-
don's case we got the reactions of both aconitine and
strychnine. Yet because some of the symptoms were
missing we decided it could not have been either of
those poisons: decided that it must be something
that resembled them both, yet varied in some of its
reactions. Well, whatever was in that glass is the
poison. That's what killed Langdon."
Came another shrug of the shoulders, and he con-
tinued: "You see, the oddest thing of all to me is to
find a poison I know nothing of. That makes it seem
certain Langdon's death was carefully planned."
"But Rogan claims he was killed by mistake, you
know," was Manners' rejoinder. "Claims that Flet-
cher was to have been the victim."


182 POISON UNKNOWN
tolerant man, Stone had served as police commis-
sioner for five years. His wealthy friends joked at
times over his office; but the lawyer smiled and went
on allowing Rogan to run the department without
interference. They had never had a real disagree-
ment.
"Harley," began the commissioner, "I am glad
you are here. I have been looking at this case
through Tim's eyes. God knows, Rogan insists that
the death last night was an accident. Says it was her
husband they were after. What do you think?"
Manners told him what he thought. Also he men-
tioned to Stone the maid's statement: that the voice
over the wire had first asked for Fletcher, then for
his wife. This led the commissioner to comment:
"If Fletcher had been home at the time, he would
have been the one to go down the steps. That's just
what Rogan's been telling me."
It was just what Rogan proceeded to tell them
both. Roughly, and somewhat profanely, the chief
insisted that it was Fletcher the murderer was after,
not his wife. His voice was hoarse, and Manners
could see he was in sad need of sleep. There were
dark rings under his eyes, and his temper was far
from even. When he stopped, Manners asked a
question:
"You say they were after Fletcher. But why was
it they asked for his wife when it was discovered he
was out? Why did that woman leave the house and
cross that dark lawn at midnight? Why was she hur-
rying to the shore? Do you think the murderer did


i84 POISON UNKNOWN
the teeth of the saw, and the particles found on the
second step, are the same wood. That's the saw used
to cut away that step. Murder it was. We think
there is a fingerprint on the saw, but it's pretty much
blurred."
Rogan pushed back his chair as he rose to his feet.
If he could only see the connection between the two
deaths! They were connected; of that he was posi-
tive. But how? And above all, why? By the window
he paused, then whirled suddenly around.
"Oh, Fletcher was in here about ten, Harley. He
is pretty well broken up. But he agrees with me.
They were after him, not his wife. He says he has no
idea why anyone should be after him. Can't explain
the letters."
"Where was he last night?" Manners asked.
Rogan smiled. "Canada," he answered. "Went
over for some liquor. I checked it all today. He was
over at Long Point. Stayed at the Lodge there until
about five this morning. It's only about a twenty-
five-minute run in his speed boat."
He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. "It's just
as well for him he was over there. If that telephone
call had not pulled him out to his death, it's my idea
Tollen would have used his gun."
Tollen: Manners had heard nothing more about
the shoe clerk. He knew the police would put the
man through a vigorous third degree; wondered
what they had got out of him. Evidently not much,
or Rogan would have said something. But he felt im-
pelled to ask.
The chief replied that the man had stuck to his


POISON UNKNOWN 185
original story. He had admitted writing several
anonymous letters to Fletcher, hoping to scare him
away from his wife. But Rogan sadly shook his
head, as he admitted that the typewriter in the man's
store, upon which he said he had written the letters,
could not have been the machine used to type the
letters Fletcher had shown the police. As for killing
Langdon, Tollen had denied ever having been on
Fletcher's grounds before last night.
They discussed him for a while. Rogan insisted
that at least he had a motive for killing Fletcher.
Reminded that Langdon had been the victim, he re-
torted that the doctor had been sitting in his host's
seat and might have been killed by mistake. At this
Stone reminded him that a detective had been di-
rectly under the window at the time the doctor died.
Rogan's retort was to mention the footprint that
could not be identified as Rice's. Then the commis-
sioner commented:
"Let's admit the man might have a motive for
killing Fletcher. But we have no proof he was on the
grounds the night Langdon died. In fact, if we be-
lieve your detective, he could not have been. We
have no reason to think he would have attempted to
kill Mrs. Fletcher. Of course he is in a bad position;
the fact he was hiding by the veranda will go against
him. But somehow I just can't see that man using
poison." »
Manners agreed with him. He turned to Rogan.
"You do not think anyone at that table poisoned
Langdon?"
The chief shook his head. "I know little about


186 POISON UNKNOWN
poison. Both you and Bell said the stuff was injected
into his body. No one at the table had a chance to do
it. And what's more, no one outside had a chance. I
can't see any sense to it, unless we think he killed
himself. And you say he would never have done
that."
Manners shook his head. Langdon would never
have committed suicide. But he had some informa-
tion to give the chief. He told of Hoff's discovery;
added that the poison was unknown; admitted they
had no idea how it might act, though they believed
that in order to kill quickly it had to reach the blood
stream.
The look he received was a mixture of disgust
and dismay. "So now you're telling me that neither
you nor Hoff know the poison that killed the doctor,
or anything about it. If you don't, then why might
he not have swallowed it? In that case someone at
the table could have given it to him. And—"
Here the door opened suddenly. They turned to
see Kent. The inspector was excited, and his face
was red as though he had been running. Halfway
across the floor he began to talk. His words were
hurried, eager:
"Bringing you a guest, Chief," he grinned.
"Who?"
Kent smiled—a broad smile which took them all
in. "Got that young man who vanished the night of
Fletcher's party. When you hear the story Hardy
will spill—" he paused to shake his head—"well,
you're going to be surprised."


CHAPTER XII
Just before the police commissioner entered the of-
fice, Rogan had been recalling—with an ironical
smile upon his lips—a statement made by his
superior. It roused no happy memories. The words
had been spoken two days ago, on the occasion of
the dinner given in his honor. The city had been told
that no police department in the country had more
scientific equipment than their own; that every aid
science had invented for the detection of criminals
was at their disposal.
He recalled the statement again as Manners told
of Hoff's remarks concerning the poison. The toxi-
cologist could not name the poison that had killed
Langdon. What was more, he had no idea how it
had been given. Not much help in science, was
Rogan's thought. He had been going on the theory
that the first murder was an outside job. It ap-
peared now that neither Manners nor Hoff was able
to assure him that someone at the table could not
have committed the crime. They were again at the
point from which they had started. They knew no
more than when they first saw the still figure
sprawled over the table.
Science! He shrugged his shoulders. Every
needed bit of apparatus was in the laboratories. Ma-
chines for taking pictures, for beating rugs and car-
pets, for analyzing blood-stains, paper, fabric:
187


188 POISON UNKNOWN
everything he needed was at his command. What
good had these things done him? None. Even the
few facts they had brought forth were of little
value. Out of long experience he knew there were
two things he must know first of all: why were the
crimes committed? and were they connected? Dis-
cover these two and he could make progress.
It was out of such thoughts that his mind leaped
excitedly towards the words which fell from Kent's
lips. Something practical was coming at last. A man
had talked. From the satisfied expression upon the
inspector's face, he must have talked plenty. In every
case there came the time when there was a break—
perhaps the moment had arrived. As his eyes met
Kent's he decided it had.
There was no time for a question. A young man
was coming into the room, unwillingly. A heavy-set
detective, whose hand gripped the young man's
shoulder firmly, was responsible for his advance
across the floor. Nor was the detective at all gentle
in his urging.
A quick glance was all Manners needed to see that
the youth was badly frightened. His light blond hair
was stringy from perspiration, and the thin, weak
lips were trembling. The eyes, which stared wildly
at the sight of the police chief, were a washed-out
blue. His gray suit was of extreme cut, the material
a bit loud, and evidently just pressed. An effeminate
type of young man, was Manners' mental summary,
without any high degree of intelligence, and above
all a youth who was frightened.
At a gesture of command from Rogan, Kent


POISON UNKNOWN 189
hastened to place a chair directly in front of the win-
dows. With a nod of his head the detective took a
firmer grip on the gray shoulder, as he shoved him
over to the chair, and with a half-push forced him to
be seated. Then with a satisfied smile on his face the
officer stepped back to lean against the wall.
Rogan rose slowly to his feet. So this was the
young man who had climbed out of the window; who
had disobeyed his order that no one should leave
Fletcher's. As he walked across the floor his lips shut
tight. Why had he done that? A poor sort of stick.
Not much above his ears. What was he afraid of?
For he was afraid. He could see the faded blue eyes
open wide with terror as he approached the chair.
Ought not to be much trouble getting him to talk.
As he thought this his hand went slamming down on
the youth's shoulder.
"So you're the person who decided not to stay at
Fletcher's. Suppose you tell us why you skipped."
There was no reply. Twisting his shoulder out of
Rogan's grip the young man slumped far down in
the chair. His face had grown very white, his eyes
stared wildly around the room. Came the chief's
voice, rough, demanding:
"You heard what I said? What's your name?"
"Hardy—William Hardy," was the low reply.
Rogan glared at him. "Come across, now I Tell us
why you skipped out of that house. You knew I had
left orders no one could leave."
Again the young man's eyes searched the room.
If he was looking for sympathy, he saw none in the
faces of the men who watched him. His nervous


POISON UNKNOWN
fingers shut—opened—then closed again. At last he
spoke, slowly, hesitatingly:
"Why, I was afraid."
It was apparent he had intended to say more, but
his lips suddenly closed. The chief gave him one
look, then slowly walked around the chair to come
to a halt directly in front of Hardy. For a second
the gray eyes narrowed. Then his arm shot out. The
demanding fingers clutched the youth's shoulder,
and with a pull he was jerked to his feet. Holding
him at arm's length, Rogan spoke. His voice was
icy, cruel, threatening.
"You're going to talk, and damned quick. And
you're going to tell me everything I ask. Get that?
Everything."
"What do you want to know?" was the stammer-
ing question.
Rogan's lips were a straight line. For a second the
cold gray eyes bored into the faded blue ones of his
victim. "You know," he growled. Violently he
pushed Hardy down in the chair. "Talk!" he com-
manded.
Silence crept over the office. From the street there
drifted the sharp blast of a whistle—evidently from
the traffic officer two blocks up the street. At the
sound Hardy threw a startled glance towards the
window. They saw his face flush. Then in a sudden
torrent the words came:
"I was afraid. I had not done anything. But—"
he made a helpless gesture—"you see we were sur-
prised when we discovered Dr. Langdon was to be
at the dinner. He did not go round with our crowd.


POISON UNKNOWN 191
He high-hatted us; thought we were not good
enough for him. It was Mrs. Fletcher who invited
him."
Manners saw Rogan's astonished eyes; knew
what he was thinking. There was resentment in
Hardy's voice as he named the doctor. Hardy had
not given the dinner. It was not his business to show
feeling over the guests. He had been but a guest him-
self. Yet there had been feeling in his voice. Man-
ners knew Rogan had noticed the same thing.
"Will you kindly tell me," came the sarcastic ques-
tion, "what business it was of yours who the Flet-
chers invited to their dinner?"
The young man flushed. "I don't mean that. We
were surprised. Of course Mrs. Fletcher and the
doctor were friends. But we were surprised he was
invited. You see, Tommy Davidson was there, and
he once had a run-in with Dr. Langdon. We talked
about it before sitting down to the table."
Rogan's gruff voice broke in on him. It was evi-
dent the chief was impatient, that he thought the
youth had said nothing of importance. Once again
he reminded him he wanted to know why he had left
the house.
"I am going to tell you," was the quick retort.
"Tommy Davidson asked the doctor, when they
were in the library, 'what in hell he was doing at the
dinner?' The doctor told him his invitation came
from a member of the Fletcher family who, if she
had her way, would not have invited the rest of us.
And then when the doctor left the room Davidson
put a proposition up to me."


i92 POISON UNKNOWN
As he paused Manners heard the commissioner
shift uneasily in his chair. Something was coming.
Another name had been mentioned; and they had
learned that all had not been well at the dinner.
Rogan broke the silence:
"What proposition?"
Hardy's face went white. He started to speak,
only to hesitate and throw a pleading glance at the
chief. The sight of the red, scowling face made him
find his tongue.
"Why, Davidson said we ought to play a joke on
the doctor—get even with him. So he gave me five
little pills. Said that during the dinner, if the chance
came, either he or I would drop one in Langdon's
wine or food. Told me they would make him feel
pretty bad, as if he were seasick. Said it would be a
good joke on the doctor—disgrace him before us
all."
As the shrill voice died away, the room grew very
still. All were thinking the same thought. What
Hardy had just said seemed incredible. Yet Man-
ners knew it was just the sort of thing that would
appeal to Davidson. Could it be that the pills had
contained the fatal poison? One look at Rogan's
tense, set features, and he realized his thought was
the same.
"Five pills—" came the slow voice of the chief.
"And did you drop any of them in the doctor's food
or drink?"
Half-rising from his chair, Hardy screamed out
that he had not; and his voice was hysterical in its
piercing tones. Davidson had given him the pills.


POISON UNKNOWN
193
Tiny things they were, not much larger than a bead.
But he had not sat near the doctor. There had been
no opportunity of doing what had been suggested.
Again and again he wildly protested that the tablets
had remained in his pocket during the meal.
There came the voice of Stone-low, cold, ear-
nest: “And where are those pills now?”.
"I threw them away," was the half-whispered ad-
mission.
“And why did you leave the house when everyone
had been asked to remain ?"
Hardy gave a shudder. “Because because when
not to leave the house, I was afraid. I remembered I
had those things in my pocket. I was afraid that,”
With a leap Rogan was by the chair. His hand
roughly jerked the young man upright. His voice
was cold and even: “And you were afraid you might
be suspected of poisoning him!”
"No! No!" was the shrill protest. It was halted
by Rogan whirling him about. As the chief released
his grip Hardy fell into the chair. Again he spoke:
"I knew I had done nothing wrong. But I was
afraid. I wondered if Davidson had dropped some
of them into something Dr. Langdon had eaten or
drunk. Wondered if he'd made a mistake-if the
stuff instead of making him ill had killed him. So I
got out of the window, and just rushed away.”
For a moment Rogan glared down at the shrink-
ing figure. Then to Manners' surprise, turning to
the plain-clothes man, he gestured toward the chair.
"Take him down below and lock him up. Give him


194
POISON UNKNOWN
a good dark cell—one in which he can do some
thinking. I will see him later."
Protesting wildly, Hardy was shoved out of the
room. As the door shut Rogan turned to Kent. "Is
that what he told you?"
Kent assured him it was the same story; then went
on to tell where they had found Hardy: in his own
apartment—and he surprised them by adding that
Hardy had admitted sleeping in Fletcher's boat-
house on the night of the murder. At this, Rogan
broke into a question—only to be answered by the
inspector's next words. He stated that Hardy main-
tained he had spent only one night in the boat-house.
He believed this, for he had checked the statement:
at the apartment house the elevator man had taken
him to his room the morning after the doctor died,
and had not seen him leave the building since.
Leaning against the wall, Rogan listened. His
face was grim and expressionless. The story he had
just heard seemed improbable. But the young man
had climbed out of the window, and there must have
been a reason for his action. He had been afraid, he
said. Five pills . . . Perhaps they were the poison.
If the story were true, then Davidson could have
dropped one in the doctor's food. If so, it might ex-
plain the crime. Anyway, one fact had come to light:
there had been discord and hatred at that dinner.
They would soon know what had caused it. He
turned to shout across the room:
"Kent! Get out of here and hunt up Davidson.
Bring him down to the station. Don't let him have
any idea why we want him. If he refuses to come


POISON UNKNOWN
grab him by the neck and drag him down. We will
see what he has to say."
Crossing the floor he dropped down in his chair
as the inspector left the room. A stogie was taken
from a box in the first drawer, and carefully lighted.
Behind the smoke he stole a glance at the two men
sitting a few feet away; observed Manners' face was
very grave, his lips set in a tight line; noticed the
commissioner was gazing at the ceiling, his brow
knit as if thinking. He asked a question.
It was Manners who replied. He declared he be-
lieved Hardy had told the truth. How much truth
he had told was of course another question. Without
a doubt Davidson had given him something to put in
Langdon's food. Hardy claimed he had had no op-
portunity to do this. Yet it was evident that when
he knew Langdon was dead, and heard the police or-
der for all to remain in the house, his conscience
had made him flee. As for Davidson—Manners
shrugged his shoulders.
There came Stone's low, questioning voice. "Do
you think Davidson would do a trick like that?"
Manners retorted he thought he would. He did
not know the man socially, but had heard stories
about him. A thoughtless, selfish man he was re-
puted to be; one whose unbalanced emotional nature
would nurse a grudge; a man perfectly willing to
injure anyone if he could escape the consequences of
his action. But as for his committing a murder—
Manners paused to light a cigarette.
"It's like this, Stone: as I see it, Hardy told the
truth; Davidson did give him something. But what


196 POISON UNKNOWN
Rogan must decide is a very tricky question: did
Davidson intend to kill Langdon? If so, then I
might as well say now that it seems very doubtful to
me that what killed the doctor was anything David-
son dropped in his food. If Hoff is right it could not
have been."
Rogan made a violent gesture of disgust. "Oh,
hell! You, Bell and Hoff make me tired. First you
say the poison that killed Langdon was not swal-
lowed. Next you say you don't know what the poison
was. Then you insist that though you don't know
what it was yet it must have been injected into the
blood stream. I can't see how you can say that when
you tell us Hoff has no idea what the poison is. You
may be right—maybe those pills could not have
killed him. But fatal or not, I am going to find out
what they were."
There was little to be said in reply. Rogan was
right. Until they were certain about the poison there
was no use in being dogmatic as to how it had been
given. Yet it seemed absurd to think that Davidson
could have procured a poison that was unknown to
Hoff. The toxicologist had been very positive that
whatever killed Langdon had been injected directly
into the blood stream. Until Hoff changed his mind
he, Manners, would keep his own blank.
A suggestion came to Manners. It occurred to him
he knew one person who might be able to explain
the feeling against Langdon. As the thought came
to him, he scowled for a second: the feeling against
the doctor must have existed long before the dinner.
If Davidson had given Hardy five tablets he had


POISON UNKNOWN
197
come to Fletcher's with them in his pocket. The plot
had been thought out before entering the house.
Thinking this, he rose to his feet, and despite
Rogan's insistence that he remain, said good-by and
hastened out to his waiting car.
The dog, who had been stretched at full length
upon the seat, sleepily sat upright as his master
climbed into the machine. But though he inserted the
key in the switch Manners did not at once turn on
the ignition. For a moment his eyes searched the sky,
blue and cloudless; next he glanced at the white sur-
face of the new police-station. Then he sat motion-
less, thinking over the story he had just heard.
If Hardy had told the truth—and he thought he
had—Rogan was at this moment a much perplexed
man. His idea that the anonymous letters were be-
hind the crime would have to be given up. His
theory that the doctor had been killed by mistake
would no longer be tenable. If Davidson's pills
turned out to be poison, then Langdon's death had
been a deliberate crime: no mistake at all.
Manners went no further than this. A little scowl
was upon his face as he turned on the switch. When
the engine spoke he slowly shook his head. If only it
were possible to turn a switch in one's memory,
make that something back in his subconscious spring
into being! But as he drove away from the curb he
had one assurance. Sooner or later the unexpected
fact would flash before him. Until it did there was
no use in trying to force his memory.
The apartment house he stopped before faced a
small park. There were children playing upojfc the


POISON UNKNOWN
He made some reply, then sank down on a sofa.
As he did so a telephone rang, and she excused her-
self. His eyes took in the room. Too much furniture,
he thought, though it was all costly. Periods were a
bit mingled, and the draperies were a mixture of red
and black. Plenty of books: late novels mostly, sexy,
exotic novels; for he could read the titles of those
that stood on the small table beside the sofa. It was
a room that expressed the restless spirit of the
woman: no peace or rest anywhere.
She returned, to seat herself in a low chair only a
few feet from the sofa. Her dark eyes studied him.
As their glances met, he spoke:
"It's a long time since we talked, Mary."
She shrugged her shoulders, inserting a fresh
cigarette into the ebony holder. Not until it was
lighted did she retort—and he thought her voice
was curiously mild.
"It is, Harley, and I have lived here a long time.
Since we were children you have become a world
famous expert, while I—" She paused, then waved
her hand toward the window. Suddenly she bent
forward. "Harley, what fate is pursuing the Flet-
chers? When I think of Ann—" her voice hesitated
for a second. "Poor Ann. The best of us all."
He shook his head. "I don't know, Mary. We are
trying to find out. What I want to know about is the
dinner."
Leaning back in her chair she threw him a long,
calculating look. She was nervous. The hand holding
the cigarette trembled as the holder was lifted to
her lips. The rouge hid the whiteness of her cheeks.


POISON UNKNOWN
He decided she had not slept for some time. The
slow shake of her head stopped further analysis.
"I don't know, Harley, that there was anything
wrong about the dinner. Perhaps we were surprised
a little by the doctor's being there."
"Why?"
"Maybe not surprised—" she countered. "For he
was a special friend of Ann's. But he never mixed
in our crowd. We were not his type." A hard edge
came into her voice. "We drank too much, smoked
too much, knew too little for him. Ann he adored.
But us—" she shrugged her shoulders.
"Did anyone quarrel with him that night?"
He received a long, thoughtful glance. "I don't
really know. Tommy Davidson raved a bit about
Langdon's spoiling the whole evening. That was be-
fore the doctor came. But Tommy's an ugly beast
with his tongue. No one thinks much of what he
says."
She knew nothing. There was no doubt in Man-
ners' mind about her frankness. He made a sudden
decision: decided to take her into his confidence.
Some little act she had observed during the dinner
might have slipped her mind.
"I am going to tell you a secret, Mary—some-
thing known only to the police."
There was a little sarcasm in her retort: "You
honor me."
He repeated the story told by Hardy in the police-
station, watching her face as he talked. Save for a
slight inclination of one eyebrow there was no
change of expression. She seemed neither surprised


POISON UNKNOWN
nor shocked. When he ended she rose slowly to her
feet.
"Billy Hardy, of course, is not of very much ac-
count. But I can assure you of this, Harley: it would
have been very difficult for anyone at that table to
put a tablet in the food or wine served the doctor—
that is, anyone but the servants. Mrs. Davidson sat
next to the doctor; Davidson himself had no chance
to do it. No doubt Billy told the truth. I cannot see
how it could have been done. Excuse me a moment."
While she was absent he decided she had nothing
of value to tell him. Davidson had shown some feel-
ing over the presence of the doctor at the dinner. It
was like the man to have done this. But if Mary
Moorhead had not seen anything amiss during the
meal, it was difficult to think anything had been so.
Her eyes were keen; little escaped her notice.
She was coming back into the room. In her hands
was a tray, with three bottles and two tall glasses.
As she walked across the floor he heard the pleasant
tinkle of ice in the glasses. Placing the tray upon the
table her hand reached out for a bottle.
"Scotch, I suppose, Harley? Tell me when."
Taking the drink from her hand he watched her
fill her own glass. The yellow liquid poured for her-
self was twice the quantity in his glass. Nor did she
use any soda. Not until the glasses were placed on
the tray did she speak.
"It's going to be hard for John Fletcher," she
said quietly. "It was Ann who gave him his social
standing. By himself he had none at all. He is going
to miss her. It will make a good deal of difference


POISON UNKNOWN
in his life. He is rather broken up."
He made some casual remark. Somehow, he did
not feel like discussing Ann Fletcher. Yet she must
have liked Mary Moorhead. Despite her nervous,
sketchy way of speaking, her vicious remarks about
those she knew, there was something likable about
the woman sitting across from him. As he thought
this she spoke again.
"Of course some time Ann would have been
forced to divorce him."
He was startled into speech: "She would?"
Gravely nodding, she continued: "It was certain
to come some time. Ann could not have stood for-
ever John's cheap loves. Sooner or later she would
have divorced him."
He made no reply. There seemed nothing to say.
The woman opposite him was also thoughtful. The
ebony holder had been replaced on an ash-tray. Her
hand reached forth for the bottle, and at her ques-
tioning look he shook his head. He watched her pour
herself another drink. Before lifting the glass to her
lips she turned to him:
"John never knew what he had in Ann. Of course
she had more money than he did. I suppose it comes
to him now; she had no relatives. But money means
little. What he will miss is the social background she
gave him. Without her he will have none. Ann was
a rather fine person."
After this the conversation died away. Something
had caused the nervous, tense lines to vanish from
Mary Moorhead's tired face. It could be the Scotch,
he thought; it might also be memories within her


POISON UNKNOWN 203
mind. As he stood at the door to say good-by she
suddenly threw back her head; her hand touched his.
"Come and see me some time, Harley. I am not
very happy."
He drove slowly home. The call had been of little
value. That is, he had received scarcely any new in-
formation about Fletcher's dinner. But he was glad
he had called. He would have to see more of Mary
Moorhead in the future. His psychological knowl-
edge might enable him to do a great deal for her.
Something ought to be done, and that quickly.
His garage was some distance from the house. Be-
cause the sun was beating down upon the driveway
he drove up on the grass, to park the machine in the
shadow of the stone building. The dog leaped from
the seat as soon as the car stopped, and was soon
running in wild circles over the grass. As he stepped
within the house the telephone rang. He had only to
reach out his hand to lift the receiver.
It was Hoff's voice that came over the wire. It
was always an eager voice; now he heard a touch of
anger in the tone:
"Harley, I am still working on that poison. Not
much better off than when I last talked to you."
As he paused, Manners asked a question: "Do
you think the poison could have been put into Lang-
don's food, Hoff, or in anything he had to drink?"
The reply was forceful in its certainty: "I do not.
I know, now, where it entered his body. It was not
swallowed. It went into his blood. It entered a little
above his collar."
"His what?"


POISON UNKNOWN
"His collar—collar! What you wear round your
neck. I don't know how they got it into him; but they
did. In the back of his neck, just above his collar, I
found the little mark on his body—" The voice hesi-
tated a second, then went on. "Well, I've discovered
for you where the poison entered his body. Now it's
up to you to find out how it was injected."
With that he rang off.


POISON UNKNOWN
face. Standing across from Rogan's chair he had
profanely threatened the police chief with every evil
he could think of: words that only caused Rogan's
lips to become firmer, and his voice a little harsher.
Davidson: what was he going to do with him? He
had admitted all that Hardy had stated; he had
laughed at the idea that the pills he had suggested
should be placed in Langdon's food contained poi-
son. Rogan recalled what he had said the tablets
contained: something very harmless—apomorphine
—which would only have made the doctor tempora-
rily ill. But when he asked Davidson to produce them
he had been told they were no longer in existence.
The man had destroyed them.
He could give no reason, either for what he had
intended to do at the dinner, or for the destruction
of the pills. He had simply repeated, sullenly, that
he threw the tablets away before he knew that Lang-
don had died from poison. Where he had thrown
them he could not say—somewhere along the high-
way as he drove home from Fletcher's. But just where
he did not know. It had been dark, and he had paid no
attention.
The whole incident looked suspicious to Rogan.
The first murder had been committed with poison.
Davidson had tried to put something in the doctor's
food, then had thrown away the tablets. Why? If
only he could answer the question! Against his better
judgment the commissioner had persuaded him to
allow Davidson to go home. He had been told that
he had nothing upon which to throw him into a cell:
that Davidson's lawyer would only have him out


POISON UNKNOWN
still in the dark as to both motive and murderer?
As he thought this over he admitted one thing: so
far they had not discovered the slightest hint of a
motive for either one of the deaths—that is, unless
jealousy and hatred Davidson had borne Langdon
were a motive. But if it were, it could have no con-
nection with Ann Fletcher's death.
He had thought all along that both deaths had
been accidental. That is, although murder had been
committed, he had persisted in thinking that the
wrong persons had been the victims. He still thought
so—though for what reason he could not tell. That
telephone call had been for Fletcher. If he had been
home his foot would have stepped upon the broken
board. It was just an accident that his wife answered
the call and went out of the house. As he applied a
match to his pipe, he maintained his point stoutly to
himself. He still believed the woman's death was a
mistake.
But how about the doctor? He wavered a little
when he thought of him. At first it had been his idea
that Fletcher had been the intended victim. Suppose
Davidson had not told all the truth: suppose his pills
had contained poison: suppose they had been
dropped in the food. Then it would be a deliberate
crime. But as he thought of Davidson he became a
bit uneasy. The man was a blustering bit of egotism.
He doubted whether he would have courage to poi-
son a man when eight persons were sitting around a
table.
He looked again at the clock. Ten now. He had
promised Manners to run up to his house. The


POISON UNKNOWN 211
sank down in the chair. Nor did he refuse the drink
that was handed to him a moment later. As he took
his first sip of the smoky-flavored liquor his eyes re-
turned to the dog.
The animal was lying between the chairs of the
two men. But his head was held upright; and his eyes
appeared to be fixed on the bay windows. There was
an odd gleam in his eyes, one that made the chief
grateful that the animal knew him. As he looked he
saw the skin go snarling back from the long, white
teeth, as there came a vicious growl from the ani-
mal's throat.
There was a command from Manners. "I don't
know what's got into Satan tonight," he said. "He
has been acting like that for the last hour. Every
little while he throws back his head and growls. It's
not like him."
Rogan made some comment. He liked dogs, knew
that the huge animal at his feet was perhaps the most
intelligent one he had ever known. But he had al-
ways felt a little distrust of his friend's Airedale. It
might have been his size, half-again as large as the
ordinary breed; or perhaps it was the fact that the
dog barely deigned to notice him. If ever there was
a one-man dog it was Harley Manners' Satan.
The chief took another sip of his drink. It must
be true, that remark attributed to Manners' father:
"When I pass out, my son will at least be able to
drink good Scotch all his life." There must have been
a great deal of it. . . . His attention returned to
the dog. That animal is nervous, was his thought.
Harley has often said the brute has no nerves. Some-


212 POISON UNKNOWN
thing bothers him now. If his master had not told
him to be still he would be growling his head off.
Perhaps he sees a ghost. The last idea made Rogan
drain the glass, and then pour two more fingers from
the bottle. Manners' voice stole in on his thoughts:
"Rogan, I want to tell you that Hoff says he now
knows how and where the poison entered Langdon's
body."
The glass was hastily placed on the desk. "He
does! Why didn't you let me know before?"
Manners said that he had thought it might be best
to keep the information back for a while. There was
really little of importance, save that their theory as
to how the doctor had been killed seemed to have
been corroborated.
"It entered his body just above the collar he
wore—at the back of his head."
Doubtful was the look that was thrown at him.
For a moment the chief did not speak. Instead his
hand reached for the glass, and he took two small
sips of the liquor. Then carefully placing the glass
back in the very spot from which it had been lifted,
he slowly shook his head. \
"That may all be so, Harley. But tell me this. You
still have no idea what the poison was. How, then,
can you be so certain where it entered his body?"
With a touch of impatience in his voice Manners
reminded him that Hoff was one of the great toxi-
cologists of the country. If he said the poison had en-
tered Langdon's body at a particular spot it might
be better to agree with him. The irony did not bother
Rogan, though a thought that came to him did.


POISON UNKNOWN 213
"Harley," he said, "the doctor was sitting directly
in the center of that middle window."
"Yes, Rogan, and that window—it so happens—
was open."
Instead of a reply there came a sharp glance from
the cold gray eyes. Rogan's big hand reached up to
run heavy fingers through his snow-white hair. Then
he reached for his glass and drained the drink in a
gulp.
"It was. I had forgotten all about that. But what's
funny about having a window open on a warm night?
It would have been odd if it had been closed."
"But what I mean," Manners explained carefully,
"is this. Those windows swing open; you do not have
to lift them up, and the screens swing with the win-
dows. Now that window directly behind Langdon
was swung back. See what I mean? The others were
raised to admit the air. But the center window was
swung back, and the screen was swung back with it—
yet it was a warm night, with all sorts of insects out-
side."
Rogan saw what he meant. A very disagreeable
idea had entered his mind. He was not at all startled
when Manners put it into words.
"You see, Rogan, it looks very much as if the poi-
son came from outside the house."
He had to make some protest. "How could it?"
he asked.
Manners had a qualm of conscience. It would be
the first time Rogan had heard a mention of the
crushed glass he had found behind Langdon's chair.
That any evidence had been kept from the knowl-


2i4 POISON UNKNOWN
edge of the police would not be to the chiePs liking.
But—he might as well divulge it at once: very briefly
he told of the incident, only to see the round face
grow a little red. What the flush might portend he
did not discover; for to his surprise there was no
immediate retort.
Continuing, therefore, he said: "What I think,
Rogan, is this. The poison was in a glass capsule and
was shot through the window."
Rogan gave a start. It might be so. They used tear
gas in pistols now: tiny glass capsules filled with gas.
It would be just as easy to use poison. All that one
would need was a sharp point on the glass receptacle,
which would break after entering the skin. But he
remembered that under the window there had been
one of his own detectives. No one would have been
able to come close enough to that window to use a
gun. Vehemently he expressed this thought.
"I know, Rogan; that's the difficulty," was the
comment. "And of course we are not certain the
glass capsule that contained the poison came through
the window. All we have accomplished is one more
step in this affair. Logically we are now certain how
the poison entered his body. But it could have been
given inside the house."
"How?"
"Suppose Hardy or Davidson did not tell the
truth. Suppose one of those tablets was introduced
into the doctor's food. Suppose that instead of mak-
ing him ill it caused him to faint. There would be
confusion when his head fell on the table. Someone
must have lifted it back to look at his face. It would
■


POISON UNKNOWN 215
have been possible, under cover of aiding him, to use
the poison, then drop the capsule on the floor. I say
'possible'—I am not saying that is the way it was
done."
Rogan threw a long, thoughtful glance at the
squatty bottle. It was good Scotch, and he could
stand another drink. It had been a hard day, and his
mind was in a whirl. But perhaps he'd better not take
any more. He shrugged his shoulders—and reached
out for the bottle. As he poured an inch of the yellow
liquor into the glass he remembered he had not told
Manners of his interview with Davidson. Placing
the bottle back on the desk, he swept into the story.
When he had finished his friend made no reply. In
fact, Manners was hearing only part of the words
that fell from Rogan's lips. He had told the chief it
might have been possible for someone within the
room to poison the doctor. He suddenly realized
that though it might have been possible he did not in
the least believe it was the explanation. That poison
had come from outside the house. A glass capsule
had been shot from a gun. Again he was caught up
in his theory, however: a difficulty was immediately
presented: for there had been a detective under that
window. He had seen no one, swore no one had been
on the grounds. How then could the poison have
been shot into the room?
Rogan's voice interrupted his thoughts. In a plain-
tive tone, mingled with perplexity and weariness, he
wanted to know if Manners thought Langdon had
been mistaken for Fletcher. The chief reminded him
that if anyone had looked through the window all


218
POISON UNKNOWN
took me back home.”
Manners rose, to smile at the weary man before
would take him back at once. But before starting for
the hall he felt compelled to speak again.
“What I really mean is this. There are no new
we been doing? First we become excited over anony-
mous letters; then we talk about people being killed
by mistake; next we allow Davidson's attempted joke
to throw us off. I am going to go back to the very be-
ginning and start again. I shall look for just two
things: the psychological type that would commit
such murders, and the possible motive.”
Rogan followed him out into the hall, though he
said nothing until they had opened the door. The
dog was the first one to leave the house, vanishing
with a loud defiant bark. As they reached the grass
the chief made his protest.
"After all, Harley, I had a right to talk about
those letters. Fletcher did ask me to send two men
to his house. His wife was afraid, you know. Good
thing I did. And that reminds me. He is scared him-
self now. Asked me tonight to guard his place for a
few days. What do you think of that? Don't blame
him, though, for feeling a bit uneasy."
Evidently Manners thought nothing of it-he
made no reply. They were going down the gravel
walk. Ahead was the dim shadow of the garage, but
they had to walk round to the other side to find the
car. It lay close to the stone building, just where
Manners had left it early in the afternoon. Silently
thing I did, His wife ud ask me


POISON UNKNOWN
219
they climbed in, and he turned on the lights.
He did not throw in the clutch until the engine had
been running for several minutes. In fact Rogan
thought he would never start. When he did, he ap-
peared to be still a little absent-minded. For he
started towards the road at a much faster rate than
was his custom. And—just before reaching the open-
It was a stupid rabbit. Dazed, evidently, by the
bright glare of the headlights it stopped directly in
front of them. If he wished to avoid hitting the
frightened animal there was but one thing to do.
Turn to his left he could not, for he would have
ruined a long row of rose bushes. He gave the wheel
a violent jerk to the right.
For a second the car started to turn. Then there
came a little shudder, followed by a horrible crash-
ing sound, and with a sickening plunge the machine
went down on its side. So sudden was the accident
that Rogan went smashing up against the wind-
shield. Only the fact that it was unbreakable glass
saved him from a nasty cut. As for Manners, when
the car crashed he slid far down in the seat.
They were out of the machine in a second. And
Manners' first action was to reach down and turn off
the engine. Then he walked around the car and,
standing beside Rogan, looked at his broken wheel.
From what he could make out in the darkness the
right front wheel was entirely off the machine.
There was a flash-light in the pocket of the car,
the article he slid back the catch. A long ray of llame


220
POISON UNKNOWN
broke the darkness. He played it over the front of
the machine. Yes, the wheel had come entirely off,
and was lying half under the car. As he noticed this
Rogan spoke:
“It's a darned good thing it came off here, Harley,
instead of on those curves on the hill. But why the
devil don't you make sure your machine is in good
order ?”
Silence for a moment. Then out of the dark-
ness came Manners' voice-curiously grave, Rogan
thought, and yet with an undercurrent of excitement.
“Rogan, that car came back from the garage three
days ago. And those wheels—there are only five of
these machines in the city—the wheels have an odd
locking arrangement. Once they are on, you cannot
unlock them to take them off the axle, without a
special tool. No ordinary wrench will do the trick.
That wheel was tampered with. I thank our stars for
that rabbit!”
There leaped into Rogan's mind a vision of the
long, steep hill they would have been going down by
now: a hill two miles long, with wide, sweeping
curves, and deep ditches on either side of the road.
Manners always drove at around fifty miles an hour
(more than once as they had swept round curves
Rogan had wished the speed less), and if that wheel
had come off on the hill . . . As though reading his
thoughts, Manners spoke:
"If it had not been for the rabbit the wheel would
not have had a violent wrench until I started round
that wide curve a half-mile down the hill. We should
have been going about fifty then. It's that right-hand


226 POISON UNKNOWN
would fit the murders. Instead of sitting up and
whipping his theory into shape, he had gone to sleep.
Rest was what he had needed, and in the morning he
had expected to hurry through breakfast, then rush
to the police-station and consult the chief.
But when he rose from the table and went back to
his library he knew it would be some hours before
he would be willing to put into words the suspicion
that was taking shape in his mind. He would sit
down by his desk, smoke a long pipe, and indulge
in a little sober thinking. That over, he would run
into the city. For there was work to be done there.
Slowly patting the tobacco into the worn bowl he
looked regretfully at the table standing close to the
window. The typewriter was there, flanked by a
stack of manuscript. On the floor, piled in much dis-
order, were the books that he had been consulting
only a few days ago. Through the open windows
came the warm sunlight, and he could hear the birds
singing upon the lawn. As he applied the match he
knew that he had much rather be working at the
typewriter.
Settling down, however, to his thoughts he dwelt
for a moment on the accident to his own car. It had
been a deliberate attempt to take his life. That wheel
could not have come off by itself. What was more,
someone had had to have a special tool in order to
tamper with the bolts. If he had not swung sharply
to escape the frightened rabbit the wheel would
have come off on the hill. That would have meant—
death, no doubt.
There had been two attempts upon his life. The


POISON UNKNOWN 227
first was not difficult to explain. Without a doubt he
had struck his match to look within the boat-house
just after the murderer of Ann Fletcher had re-
turned the saw. The person might not even have
known who he was. But knowing the woman was on
her way to the shore, that there was danger to his
plans, the necessity of getting him out of the way
became paramount, and the criminal had simply
thrust him into the boat slip.
But the tampering with the wheel of his car was
another matter. The criminal had known positively,
in the latter case, who he was—not only known him,
but feared him. Why should the murderer be afraid
of him? What knowledge did he possess that the
man did not wish known ? For he had reached, within
his own mind, the conclusion that a man was back of
both crimes.
He stopped thinking about the car, to debate
whether the theory that had come to him at mid-
night would appear sane in the light of day. It was
just a theory—based wholly upon one remark which
he had heard. But this remark had been glaringly
inconsistent with the facts known to both Rogan and
himself. From it he had built up a theory of the
crime: one which at first sight appeared absurd, but
which when coldly examined presented the only sane
solution of the murders.
Manners had once remarked to the chief that the
most difficult of all crimes to solve was the simple
one. The odd, bizarre, exotic crime, by its very odd-
ity, soon brought a solution. Proceeding on the the-
ory that the killing of both Langdon and Ann Flet-


POISON UNKNOWN 229
He drew up in front of the tallest office building
in the city. It had not been his original intention to
make this stop. But as he neared the building it had
occurred to him that he wished once again to visit
Fletcher's estate. The man had an office in the build-
ing, and it would be only courtesy to ask him if he
had any objections. So he parked the car and entered
the lobby.
Fletcher's office was on the top floor of the build-
ing. It occupied the tower: two rooms, which Man-
ners doubted were used often. The door bore the
name "Fletcher Estate," and after knocking he
opened it to walk into a small office. Behind a desk,
reading the morning paper and chewing gum as rap-
idly as was humanly possible sat the blondest blond
he had ever seen: one whose weak blue eyes gave
him a surprised stare as he entered.
To his question she replied that Mr. Fletcher was
not in, nor did she have any idea when he would be.
It appeared she was not overworked, nor did she
seem to know much about the movements of her em-
ployer. If she did not know, neither did she appear
to care greatly. Her blue eyes had dropped down to
the paper. Thanking her, he started for the door—
then suddenly paused, as a thought came to him.
"Have you any objection to my writing a note to
Mr. Fletcher and leaving it on his desk?" he in-
quired.
She gave a languid shake of her blonde head, mo-
tioning rather aimlessly to a half-open door at the
other side of the room. Crossing the floor he entered
a second office. It was a place of many windows,


POISON UNKNOWN
commanding a view of the entire city. A large desk
was in the center of the floor, its surface clean, spot-
less. A typewriter stood upon a stand, close to a
water bottle.
He had to open a drawer to find the paper for his
note. Discovering what he sought he took a pen
from his pocket—then changed his mind. The type-
writer might be better. Pulling a chair up to the ma-
chine he inserted a piece of paper and began to write.
The action seemed hard after his own machine, and
he had to use several sheets of paper before the note
suited him. When it was completed to his satisfac-
tion he walked to the desk, then going out into the
other room thanked the secretary and departed. A
few moments later he was again in his car.
His next stop was at a big garage and salesroom,
where the proprietor was glad to see him, in spite
of the fact that he knew it would be impossible to
sell him a car, since he had already done that only a
few weeks ago. Here Manners was able to obtain
an answer to his question: how many machines were
there in the city of the make of his blue roadster?
Five, he was told, and was given the names of the
owners. Asking that a man be sent to his house at
once to repair his car, Manners walked out into the
street.
He did not start his coupe for a moment. A little
perplexed line was between his eyebrows. He had
been given five names. They were all those of well-
known residents of the city, people of means; for
the car was a costly one. It would be absurd on the
face of it to think any one of those five had had any-


POISON UNKNOWN
thing to do with the accident. Yet the key that had
unlocked the bolts on his machine had come from
the tool-box of one of those cars.
It was ten minutes later that he came to a stop be-
fore the apartment house in which Mary Moorhead
lived. As he went up the steps he pictured her sur-
prise when she opened the door and saw him again
standing in the hallway—two calls in twenty-four
hours, and yesterday the first time in years he had
entered her house. But he had to see her again. She
alone could tell him what he was seeking.
He pressed the door bell, wondering, as he waited
for a response, whether she would be up. It was only
a little after ten, very early for a call. But even as
he wondered there came the sound of a hand fum-
bling on the knob. A second later the door was pulled
back. Standing in the opening, clad in a black and
gold neglige, Mary Moorhead looked with aston-
ished eyes upon her visitor.
"So soon!" she said with a little shake of her
head, then stood aside for him to enter.
He apologized for the early call. With a slight
smile she waved him to a sofa, taking the same chair
in which she had sat the previous afternoon. The
thin face appeared more rested, nor had she put on
much make-up. With her eyes gravely fixed upon his
face she reached to a little stand for a cigarette. He
decided to waste no time.
"I presume you have a good picture of Ann Flet-
cher?"
As she simply nodded, he continued: "Would you
let me have it for a few days?"


232 POISON UNKNOWN
For a moment there was no reply. Gravely the
woman studied him, her eyes searching his face. At
last she spoke, the voice very low, questioning:
"It's an odd request, Harley."
He made a gesture. "It is, Mary. But I suppose
you want her murderer brought to justice."
The cigarette was flung down on a tray. Into the
woman's cheek crept a spot of color. Throwing back
her head she set the rather thin lips grimly.
"More than anything else in the world."
He considered her for a moment. Slowly rising to
his feet he walked round to her chair and stood look-
ing down at the black and gold robe.
"Mary, I cannot tell you why I want that picture.
But I need it; and it may aid materially in the dis-
covery of the criminal. I can assure you Ann Flet-
cher's death was a cruel, heartless act."
He might have said more. But she rose to her
feet and without a word hurried from the room. He
could hear the sound of drawers being opened, of
objects thrown either on a chair or on the floor.
Then the noise died away and she was back at his
side. In her hand was a photograph, which she
handed to him without speaking.
It was a beautiful picture: a full-face photograph
of Mrs. Fletcher. He studied it for a time: a fine
face, with sensitive lips, clear, honest eyes; perhaps
not an extremely beautiful woman, but an intelligent
one, a woman with warm sympathies and keen under-
standing. Deeply moved he walked to the sofa.
"Mary," he began, "I was wondering last night
—is there any little thing, any happening at that din-


POISON UNKNOWN 233
ner that you think was important—some little act
that you overlooked at the time?"
She shook her head; so he tried something else.
"Do you know the exact time the doctor died?"
"It must have been about nine," came the slow
response. "Somebody mentioned the fight. It was on
the air at nine. Mr. Fletcher got up and went into
the other room to fool with the radio. I know it was
some moments before the fight announcer came on.
And it was after that that the doctor gave his little
cry, and a bit later—as I thought then—fainted."
"Did anyone have much to drink during the din-
ner?"
She smiled. "No, Harley. A cocktail and some
white wine were served during the dinner. No one
was feeling the little amount we had to drink."
"And no one left the table?"
There was no doubt that the question puzzled her.
"No," she insisted. "Mr. Fletcher went into the
other room. He suggested that the doctor might like
to talk to Clara Underwood. But no one else even
moved."
He excused himself after that. As the woman
said good-by he could tell from the expression upon
her face that she was curious about his visit. He
gave another glance at the picture as he went down
the steps. It was a beautiful photograph, worthy of
the woman whom it limned. It was his hope that it
would prove to be what he needed.
The next stop was on the outskirts of the college
campus. Hidden under a mass of red roses was a
small, white studio. Roses were everywhere, climb-


POISON UNKNOWN
ing even over the slanted roof of the little building.
They hid the windows, covered the wire fence that
set off the small plot of ground in which the cottage
stood. And here he did not have to knock—for the
door was open.
The room he entered was the only one in the
building. Pictures, masks, terra-cotta statues were
everywhere. At the further end was a large bench,
in a very much cluttered condition, before which sat
a man. The latter turned, to throw a glance toward
the door, as Manners entered, and after one swift
glance of recognition started across the floor on a
half-run.
Henri Maurras had come to the city shortly after
the war. In the last five years the masks that he had
made for various theaters and museums had won for
him a world-wide reputation. Out of his knowledge
of the ritualistic and religious masks of the ancients
he had created all the shades of comedy, tragedy and
burlesque. Maurras had recaptured an old and prim-
itive art, and because he had great imagination and
ability had become famous.
He was a slight little Frenchman, given to strong
likes and dislikes. Of all the professors at the Uni-
versity Manners was his closest friend, and they had
spent many hours together, both in his little studio
and in the big library of Manners' house. Maurras'
face was slender, with tense, nervous lines about the
lips. But the mop of white hair made him look like a
gnome.
"Well, Harley," he beamed. "You have not been
in for one, two weeks. Come, let me show you what


POISON UNKNOWN
I am making for the Metropolitan. It's beautiful."
His hand urged his friend over towards the bench.
"Henri," came the quick admission, "I shall have
to see your work another time. I am in a terrific
hurry. I want to ask a favor of you. Can you make
me a mask from this picture? Can you have it ready
this evening?"
Ann Fletcher's likeness was placed in the artist's
hand. His sharp eyes studied the face, while his lips
twisted a little. Then he raised his head, and the
sharp eyes looked into Manners'.
"Fine face, Harley. But you don't make masks in
a few hours. You work days: work to catch all the
impression of beauty, terror and awe. You ask of me
the impossible."
"I know, Henri. But what I want is a mask that
will bear a close resemblance to that face: one which
if seen some distance away, say in a faint light,
might be taken for that woman. Could you not make
me that at once? It's rather necessary."
The artist's glance dropped to the picture in his
hand. It was held at arm's length for a time, in first
one position and then another. At last he spoke:
"A good mask should always be made of wood,
Harley," he said regretfully. "The most beautiful
and realistic of them are carved from wood. To do
a piece of work of which you will be proud takes
many days, many weeks. Now of course I can use
paper, glued in layers, and covered with varnish and
paint. Only, for the varnish to dry properly it takes
time—and—" He paused, then threw out his arms.
"All right, I will do it for you."


236 POISON UNKNOWN
Grateful, Manners told Maurras that if the mask
could be ready by eight o'clock it would be a great
favor; and, refusing the artist's invitation to re-
main, hurried from the studio. The police-station
was to be the next stop; and he was hoping to find
Rogan in. As he drove through the crowded streets
he was considering his morning. Four calls he had
made; and they had brought little result. Yet if the
theory playing through his mind were correct, all
the calls had been necessary.
He did not go directly to Rogan's office upon en-
tering the police-station. Instead he walked down a
long hall, to pass through the door which bore the
words "Homicide Squad." Behind a desk, coat off, a
corncob pipe in his mouth, sat Kent. The long face
was solemn and there were deep circles beneath the
eyes. It was evident he had not had much sleep the
last few nights. He waved his visitor to a chair, but
as Manners intended to remain only a few moments
he walked to the desk instead.
"Know anything new?" he queried.
There came a half-grin. "We got a nut locked up,
who tried to tell us he committed the murders. But
he knows no more about them than I do. And that's
darned little."
Kent's eyes strayed down to the desk, and he
picked up a sheet of paper. "This will interest you.
We found out what Davidson's pills were—apomor-
phine, one-fifth of a grain. He got them off his doc-
tor. The doc checks us on that. And Bell says they
would make a man sick as a dog. So that part of
Davidson's story seems to fit."


238 POISON UNKNOWN
slammed down on the desk as he watched Manners
enter. For a second he sat motionless watching his
friend cross the floor, then twisted uneasily in his
chair. If the growl he barked out was intended for a
welcome, it sounded far more like a defiant protest.
Manners chuckled at the greeting. The chief was
edgy. No doubt he had just got to bed when the
sailor's confession brought him back to the station.
There had been little sleep for Rogan the past few
nights—little sleep and a deal of worry. So far the
papers had been rather mild in their comments; but
they would soon become rabid. Always they followed
public opinion, and it would take very little to turn
the city against the police. It had happened in the
past, it would happen again.
"You're going to take a ride with me," Manners
said pleasantly.
Vigorous and ironic was the retort. Rogan was
going to take a ride with no one. He remarked, with
heavy sarcasm, that if he did ride with anyone it
would be with somebody whose car had its wheels se-
curely fastened. Ride, he snorted, he would not. Be-
sides, there was work to do, and a lot of it. Rather
profanely he queried further—did Manners think
he had nothing to do but ride round the city?
Until the rage was spent Manners listened. Then
he said calmly: "I'm going out to Fletcher's. I think
you'd best go with me, Rogan."
The chief's big hand went searching through the
papers on the desk. Documents were tossed to one
side, picked up and tossed down again. At last he


POISON UNKNOWN
found what he was seeking, and with the words—
"Read that!"—handed a paper to Manners.
It was a small four-page sheet, printed on poor
paper, from type that was badly worn. Across the
top of the first page was spelled out—"the town
gossip." He did not need to see the heading to know
what he held in his hand. Everyone in the city knew
the sheet, and many feared it. Twice a month it was
published. Just who was behind it was not known,
though there were, of course, many conjectures. A
vulgar, gossipy sheet, it printed the vilest innuen-
does, gossip and slander about the community.
Around a small paragraph upon the front page of
the lastest issue was drawn a black line:
"It is rumored a divorce will soon occur in one of the
families of the younger social set. The bride will be
remembered for a round-the-world honeymoon trip
three years ago. The couple have not clicked, rumor
having it that the husband likes the blonds, while the
wife is interested in someone else."
His lips tightened as he read the hinted slander.
Before he could speak, Rogan commented:
"That's the Fletchers. They had a honeymoon
trip round the world. I called Fletcher in—in fact
you just missed him. It was not the item in the scan-
dal sheet I was interested in—something else.
Wanted to know if they had tried to blackmail him.
They do, you know. It's all a great scheme—you
are asked to buy stock in their worthless paper, and
if you refuse, why, your name gets printed plenty.


POISON UNKNOWN
I thought maybe they had approached him, been
turned down, and then had written him those anony-
mous letters. But the answers Fletcher made to my
questions surprised me."
The chief leaned back in his chair—and sighed.
"We watch that sheet, of course, every two weeks.
The District Attorney has been trying to close it up.
But unless the people they try to blackmail kick we
can do nothing. Well, I saw the item, and sent for
Fletcher. He informs me that he and his wife were
on the verge of a divorce several months ago, but
they patched it all up. Admitted he was approached
to buy stock in the concern, but said he refused. Said
the paper could not harm him, and laughed at my
idea that they wrote him the letters." At this point
the chief paused to ask suspiciously: "What do you
want me to go out to his place for?"
He was reminded that after all the solution of
the two murders must be found in a clear conception
of their setting. Manners had not revisited the estate
since the woman's death. Seeing his friend's grave
expression, the chief growled out that he would go,
but that it would be fifteen minutes before he could
leave the station. Content, Manners asked if he
still had the anonymous letters Fletcher had re-
ceived. He was told they were filed away, but that
he could see them.
Rogan had them brought into the office at once.
And while the chief scowled over some document on
his desk, Manners picked up a large magnifying
glass and carefully examined the two letters. The
paper could not be mistaken; they had been written


242 POISON UNKNOWN
psychology is based upon the idea that we are all
afraid of the unknown. This person we are seeking
is far from happy. If he is a drinking man he is
drinking a good deal to keep up his courage. If he
is one who uses drugs he is whipping up his nerves
with those. All murderers are emotionally unbal-
anced. Normal people do not commit crime. So our
unknown man is going round with his mind a tangle
of fears. He wonders and he is afraid. Let's play on
his fear."
"How?"
"Rogan, how much has been published in the
papers about that saw I noted in Fletcher's boat-
house?"
"Nothing at all. We were trying to find a finger-
print. There was one, but it was so blurred that it's
of no value."
"Fine I" came the retort. "Now suppose we use
the saw as a bait for the murderer. First we put it
back in the boat-house; then we spread the news
that the police have overlooked searching it for
fingerprints, and that it is to be brought to the sta-
tion. Suppose the murderer hears this. He will rush
to get it before we do—at least he will wish to make
certain that it is wiped clean. And we shall be there
waiting for him. You can be very certain that no
one but the guilty person will be interested in that
saw."
Rogan's face twisted into thought. It might work
—though, after all, it was hardly evidence of the
type that could be used in a court of law. But it was
his idea that Manners had far more in mind than he


POISON UNKNOWN
had put in words. It was a happy chance that noth-
ing had yet been given the papers about the saw. Sud-
denly Rogan remembered something that made him
exclaim:
"Harley! It's even better than you think. The
night you found Mrs. Fletcher I put a man on guard
at that boat-house. I thought maybe the person
might come back. Next morning Fletcher sailed in
early, with some cases of liquor, and I got the key
to the place and locked it up. No one's been in it
since that night. It's my idea nothing's known about
the saw at all. You see, it was my thought that if
we got a case against anyone the Grand Jury would
wish to inspect the place. And I wanted to make
certain nothing in the boat-house was touched. Your
idea isn't bad; but—even if something comes of it
—I can't see that you'll have any legal evidence."
Manners admitted the last charge. But he went
on to say that what the chief had just told him was
even better than he had hoped for in the way of
favorable circumstances. He added that he had
another plan. What it was he refused to say. He
mystified Rogan further by remarking calmly that it
was quite possible that they might discover legal
evidence which the guilty person would be unable
to break down.
The quiet confidence in Manners' voice rather
disturbed Rogan. He seems pretty sure of himself,
he thought. Wonder what he has up his sleeve? We
have been working together most of the case. I
know all he knows, perhaps more. Yet he seems per-
fectly confident. Rogan was moved to irony:


POISON UNKNOWN
est idea. There was no one in the house except the
cook and another maid. But she had no doubt it
would be all right if they came in and examined the
dining-room. And she stood aside for them to enter
the hallway.
Clearly she wished to remain within hearing dis-
tance of whatever they might say. With a brusque
command Manners sent her back to her tasks. When
the door at the end of the long hallway had closed he
passed through the living-room into the dining-room.
Just inside the door he paused. It was a larger room
than he remembered. The table stood in the same po-
sition as on the night of the doctor's death. Taking a
chair from against the wall, he placed it at the head
of the table. It stood—as it had stood that night—in
the very center of the middle window, which, though
raised now, was not swung back. Stepping a few feet
away he studied both window and chair.
Yes, that was correct. He turned to Regan. "Sit
in that chair for a moment, will you?"
Carefully the chief let his heavy weight down
into the chair. Soberly Manners studied him. The
chief was not quite so tall as Langdon had been; the
doctor's head would have been at least three inches
higher. But Rogan was sitting in the exact position
the doctor had sat in, and his back was to the middle
window. Walking to the window Manners swung it
out against the house. Then he looked back at the
table.
Rogan had impatiently turned in his direction. He
was asked to whirl around and sit with his back to
the window. When he obeyed, Manners studied the


i48 POISON UNKNOWN
white head, glancing outside several times. Yes,
Langdon had been sitting in the very center of the
middle window; and from outside, the lighted room
would have been a brilliant mass of light and color.
"Rogan," came his voice, "suppose you go outside
and look in through this window. The chair is in the
same position as when Langdon occupied it the night
of his death. I want you to get the general layout
well fixed in your mind."
With a nod Rogan rose to leave the room. He was
glad to get out in the open air—there one could light
a stogie. He stood on the lawn as directed, looking
in through the open window; though he was not
much impressed by what he saw. The chair was very
plain, however, and he had only to exercise his imagi-
nation to picture Langdon sitting there. Nor was it
difficult to picture also the wild confusion when the
doctor's body slumped suddenly down on the table.
After- Rogan's departure from the dining-room
Manners stood quiet, thinking intently. In a moment
there came to him a new thought; he hurried through
the living-room, across the hallway, and into the small
library. Apparently it had not been disturbed since
the evening he had called the police from there. The
same magazines were on the table, and the chairs
were in the same positions as before. He noted this
as he walked over to the book-case.
It was an old-fashioned book-case, with a desk at-
tachment and leaded glass to shield the books. Dis-
covering that the doors were not locked he flung
them open. His eyes traveled over the contents of
the shelves: books mostly in brown and black bind-


POISON UNKNOWN 251
line with the center window. As a thing of beauty it
was far from a success; with only a few branches, it
stood perhaps twenty feet high. On its trunk, facing
the window, was a bird house.
Rogan watched Manners walk around the tree,
stop, lean against the slight trunk and look towards
the dining-room windows. Then he saw his eyes go
questioning towards the bird house. He wondered
why he should be interested in the latter, and coming
to his side threw back his head to look also.
The bird house was large, and—so far as he could
tell—was not occupied; though he would have
thought almost any of the birds on the grounds
would welcome the shelter. It was in the form of a
cottage, with a slanting roof and even a little piazza
before the round entrance, which was large, and
directly in line with the window.
When he turned his eyes away he discovered to his
surprise that Manners was not in sight. Before he
had chance to wonder what had happened to him he
came in sight around the side of the house. There
was a stepladder under his arm, and the chief won-
dered what he planned to do with it. Manners al-
ways surprised him—so he said nothing when the
ladder was placed under the tree. Then he watched
the professor climb and peer into the bird house.
Manners, as he stood on the ladder, his eyes on a
level with the roof of the miniature cottage, took
note that the roof was not nailed down. Reaching
out his hand, he lifted it from the walls. Climbing
another step he was able to look into the interior of
the bird house. It had not been used—though there


POISON UNKNOWN 255
the boat without any apparent desire to examine the
building further. As they came out into the bright
sunshine he told the chief he might lock the door. At
this the man, who had glued himself to their side,
appeared to remember that he had work to do. Leav-
ing them, he started back up the beach to his tasks.
Not until they had climbed the steps, and again
stood on the edge of the bluff, did Manners speak;
and before saying a word he led Rogan over to a
little wooden bench under a nearby tree and per-
suaded him to sit down. Slowly, then, he lighted a
cigarette, even turning for a moment to glance back
at the lake. It stretched away to lose itself in what a
stranger might have mistaken for a long, faint cloud.
Manners knew that the sketchy line was the Ca-
nadian shore. Not often did they see it: only on days
when the air was very clear. Today it was a darker
blue than the lake, a line that seemed to waver under
the bright sun. For a moment he gazed at the calm
beauty, then quietly turned to the chief.
"Rogan," he said gravely, "listen while I tell you
of the plan I have in mind."
For some time the serious voice continued; and
over the chief's face, as he listened, there passed
conflicting expressions. What was Manners trying
to tell him! Why, the idea was impossible, and what
lay back of it incredible. Yet as he thought this, he
hesitated. Manners was shrewd. Once he had read
in a paper that he was the best-known professor in
America of—yes, that was it—abnormal psychology.
Just what it all might mean Rogan did not know.
Something very deep and mysterious, without a


POISON UNKNOWN 259
on it. Now you have at least something to work on."
The toxicologist was torn between two emotions:
on the one hand he wanted to rush to his work bench
and study the fine print of the pamphlet; there were
the experiments to make, a cablegram to send. On
the other hand he was curious: Manners had in some
unknown way discovered the identity of the poison
that had killed Langdon. How or where he had
found the unknown poison he did not know. But he
wished to know. For it was the first time that any-
one had ever come into his laboratory and named him
a drug of which he had never heard.
But his friend refused either to satisfy his curi-
osity or to remain with him. So excited was Hoff that
he did, then, something unprecedented. He followed
his visitor down the stairs and even went out to the
side of his car. But at the very moment the machine
started to move he was off again back into the chem-
istry building. He did not care to lose even a min-
ute of the work which lay ahead.
It was almost six when Manners drove into his
yard; and the first object his eyes rested upon was
the blue roadster. Its wheel had been repaired, and
the car was standing in front of the garage. The next
thing he saw was the dog, rushing in a wild frenzy
to greet him. Speaking a word of welcome to the
animal he brought the car to a stop; then leaned
wearily against the seat.
Though twilight was still several hours away, the
sun was sinking low. A calm had come over the
lawn; and there was not the slightest movement of
the air. All that he could see was peaceful and beau-


POISON UNKNOWN 261
floated into his memory. It was Ann Fletcher's
slender body—sprawled in grotesque and pitiful posi-
tion at the foot of the steps. And his face grew once
more stern.
It was almost nine when he drove back to the city.
Darkness had fallen, and there was a slight breeze
in the air. As he went curving his way down the hill
he could see far below him the lights of the city:
lights everywhere, their flame reflected against a
dark sky. He took his time in reaching the police-
station; for he was in a somber mood, and dreaded
the hours that were ahead. Nor did he leave the blue
car at the curb. Instead it came to rest in the police
garage.
He entered the chief's office to find it filled with
people. There had been eight persons at the table the
night Langdon was killed. Only six of them were in
the office. The other two could not come—they would
never be able to come. Behind the big desk sat Rogan,
and his face lightened perceptibly when Manners en-
tered the room. Standing about the room were sev-
eral plain-clothes men.
It was an uneasy group of people. They formed a
little half-circle before the chief's desk; and when
Manners came into the room cast an anxious look at
the door. He saw Mary Moorhead, her head held
high, but with a tiny flush upon her cheeks. As he
passed her chair he smiled a little greeting. Beside
her, unconcerned, though his small eyes kept darting
around the room, was Fletcher. The little mustache
was carefully waxed, the hair smoothly parted. Be-
side him sat Davidson and his wife; and of the two


POISON UNKNOWN 263
of my men will take you into the other room now.
And if you recognize the man, or the photographs, a
stenographer will take down your affidavit."
He made a gesture, at which the two officers
stepped to the center of the room. As the chairs were
being pushed back and the six people rose to their
feet, Rogan spoke again:
"Oh—Mr. Fletcher," he said, "I want to ask a
favor of you. Do you mind if some time late this
evening, or early tomorrow morning, we search your
boat-house? Of course I could get out a search war-
rant; but it seems hardly necessary."
The slight figure stared in astonishment at the
chief of police. Before he could reply, Rogan smiled
and added:
"You see, we are not getting very far in this case.
It may be that your identifications will help. But we
have overlooked one thing: I heard today that there
is a saw in your boat-house. It may be the instrument
used to cut away that step. A fingerprint may be on
it. We overlooked it. It seems hardly necessary to
get out a search warrant for such a simple errand."
There was no response in words: the man half-
smiled and nodded his consent. With a word of com-
mand the detectives were directed to lead the com-
pany towards a door. They were all talking in low
voices, and apparently seemed to think it an adven-
ture. Mary Moorhead was last; lingering a little
after the others had passed through the door, she
threw a look at Manners. Her face was white, the
eyes anxious. Before he could smile at her she had
vanished.


POISON UNKNOWN 265
long, low boat was waiting for them. As he stumbled
into the stern Manners saw the dimly outlined figure
of the police commissioner, and heard a short word
of greeting. Settling into the seat he watched Rogan
take his place at the bow, and heard his word of
command.
Like the explosion of a cannon the engine leaped
into action. They were moving away from the dock.
Ahead lay darkness, broken by the tiny light of some
boat far in the distance. The speed began to increase.
In a moment the shore was but a dim outline behind
them. Turning, Manners raised his head and looked.
Above and behind him were the glittering lights of
the city. But when he looked once more ahead, all
was but darkness and gloom.


CHAPTER XVI
After coming through the long narrow entrance of
the harbor, the boat rose on the first gentle swell of
the lake. It was a calm night, with scarcely a breath
of air stirring. Pointing in the direction of Canada,
the power fully turned on, the engine settled to a
steady roar, the fast boat sped over the calm of the
lake. Under the rushing prow the water was thrown
aside in a torrent of spray, dropping behind in a
mass of foam.
A mile from the shore, and the direction was
changed; they turned in a half-circle to skirt the
curving shoreline. Though it could not be seen dis-
tinctly it was yet not difficult to follow. On the lake
road was a never-ending line of cars, their headlights
a steady, moving stream of flame. Along the shore
lights were intermittently observed, those in one cot-
tage window vanishing as they picked up the gleam
from another. Far down the shore was the light-
house, its top faintly revealed in the steady flare of
its fixed beacon.
Though the engine roared loudly in his ears, yet
to Manners there was a calmness about the night
that was appealing. Above his head millions of stars
sparkled against a black sky. There was the swift
motion of the rushing water, the sound of dashing
spray. Under ordinary circumstances these would
have been all he needed to feel at peace with the
world. Even now, he was conscious of the charm and
266


POISON UNKNOWN 267
mystery of the night—though he could not forget
why they were rushing through the water.
The commissioner was by his side, but Stone did
not speak. In the bow of the boat sat Rogan, his
figure a mere outlined shadow. For once he had no
stogie between his lips, and he sat unmoving.
Crouched over the engine, his thin face thrown into
relief by a sheltered light, sat the mechanic, who
never allowed his eyes to lift from the machinery.
Save for the water thrown aside by their onward
rush, and the steady roar of the engine, there was no
sound.
The shore could now be only dimly perceived,
though once in a while they had a passing glimpse
of a lighted pier. They were very low on the water;
and Manners thought this might account for their
seeing the lights of no other boats. Had it not been
for the lights in the houses upon the shore, he might
have fancied that they were alone in a vast universe:
a universe in which they were rushing on to some
undetermined goal. Ahead lay darkness.
They had gone perhaps five miles down the lake
before the boat began to curve towards the shore.
The engine was cut at the moment they turned; and
its heavy, explosive bark became a soft purr as the
speed slackened. They could see the land now: could
make out the vague blackness of the high bluff tower-
ing above the shore. It resembled a great thick
blanket of gloom, rising upwards in the air: a blanket
that had height and depth—and only those.
Closer and closer to the shore the boat drifted.
Suddenly for a fraction of a second a light broke the


268 POISON UNKNOWN
darkness. Once, twice, three times came a quick flash.
A signal, Manners decided; and knew in a moment
he was right. The boat had turned again, and was
now running directly towards the shore. The engine
was suddenly cut off. Noiselessly the boat drifted
towards the beach. There came a slight shock as its
bow struck the sand.
Out of the darkness rushed a dim figure. Bending
down, the man took the rope Rogan handed him, and
with it pulled the boat up on the beach. The chief
was the first one out, followed by Manners and
Stone. Instinctively they came close together, as they
walked a few feet up on the shore. It was Rogan's
uneasy, whispering voice that broke the silence:
"The boat-house is only a little way ahead of us.
We will go there and wait. I have men up and down
the beach. There is to be no shooting. And I told
the men to make no noise."
Pebbles and stones covered the shore: stones that
slipped and moved under their feet. Even close to
the water's edge the walking was not good. It was
too dark to see the lake, though it was only a few
feet away. High above their heads the bank rose,
forming a deep pit of gloom which their eyes could
not penetrate. The only sounds were the crunching
of pebbles beneath their feet and the faint murmur
of a motor-boat far down the lake.
They walked perhaps two hundred yards before
the outline of the boat-house loomed in front of
them. As they came up against the veranda which ran
to the front of the building, instinctively they gripped
the wooden railing for support. Pulling themselves


270 POISON UNKNOWN
into space. Looking upward, he noted the stars, pin-
points of light in the sky; and to pass the time he
tried to recall the names of those he recognized.
Rogan was by his side. But Rogan was not looking
at the stars; so far as he was concerned he could
not have told whether they were shining. The chief
was feeling gloomy. Sinister warnings seemed to fill
the darkness folded around him. He heard Stone
shift his weight once, and once thought the commis-
sioner sighed. A fish jumped out of the water, to fall
back with a heavy splash. The sound made Rogan
start. He was nervous; he wondered again if he had
been wise to agree to Manners' plan. True, Manners
seemed certain that someone would come to the boat-
house for the saw. What was more, he had one par-
ticular person in mind. But who it was Rogan did
not know; he would have felt more at ease if he had.
Everything that Manners had asked had been done.
Men from headquarters were scattered up and down
the shore. They had received instructions to allow
the person to enter the boat-house, then try to force
him to ascend the steps leading to the bluff.
Somewhere far up along the bluff an owl hooted,
and the mournful cry made Rogan shiver. Then
miles down the beach he saw the red blaze of a beach
fire. The warm color, though it was far away, gave
him a feeling of comfort; and he watched it till it
died out. There remained nothing to do but study
the water at his feet. He had given up thinking, and
though he tried to listen, he could hear nothing.
How long he sat there on the edge of the plat-
form, with his legs dangling over the water, Man-


POISON UNKNOWN 271
ners never knew. But long before he rose to his feet
the waiting had become monotonous. To drop asleep
would have been very easy; and once he did close his
eyes for a moment. As the slow minutes slipped away
there came the time when it seemed he had been
sitting on the platform for ages. Time had become
an empty thing.
Then—all at once—he heard a faint sound. For
a second he was tense; then pulling himself upright,
he stealthily crept to the edge of the boat-house.
Peering around its side he looked up the beach. Be-
hind him crowded both Rogan and Stone. Like his
own their eyes were trying to pierce the darkness.
But nothing was visible. Far away, miles up the
shore, sparkled a small cluster of lights—those of a
beach resort close to the city; but in front of them
were only the gloom of the bluff and the same dim
blackness of the beach.
With ears straining, they listened again. For the
second time, a noise drifted faintly over the shore.
They began to hear it intermittently; it would cease,
only to return. Then the sound changed; and sud-
denly they knew what it was. Someone was walking
over the beach. They could identify the crunch of the
stones one against the other. Then they heard the
newcomer slip, and there came a muffled oath as he
recovered his balance. He was approaching the boat-
house, arid seemed to know exactly where he was
going.
Rogan's hand gripped Manners' shoulder. Feeling
the pressure, the latter listened to the chief creeping
softly over the boards. He was going down the side


POISON UNKNOWN
of the boat-house, to be close to one of the door*.
For a moment Manners thought of following him,
but gave up the idea because the man was now close
to the building.
They heard a hand fumbling with the door. There
was the sound of a key scraping against a lock, fol-
lowed by the creaking sound of a door hastily
opened. Then silence. But though they were unable
to hear anything, they knew that the man had en-
tered the building, and Manners knew he was in the
slip in which he himself had narrowly escaped drown-
ing.
He had to stifle back an impulse that swept over
him: it would be very easy to creep along the side of
the boat-house, rush to the door, and then slam it
shut. The man would then be a prisoner. It would be
very easy to capture him. He had to fight back the
idea. The plan he had formulated depended upon
the man's coming out of the boat-house and ascend-
ing the flight of steps. Yet he barely mastered the
impulse to rush to the front of the building and-^ang
the door.
No sounds came from within the boat-house. Turn-
ing, Manners crept back along the veranda until he
thought he was directly outside the slip. Above his
head was a window, though it was too high to look
through. But as he glanced upwards the glass was
suddenly illuminated. A light had been shown, though
only for a monrint. Moving ahead he crept along
the other side of the building until he stood by the
chief. At the moment he reached his side there came
a sound at the front of the building.


POISON UNKNOWN
The man was coming out. And he was not very
careful, for he stumbled down a step, and then swore.
They heard the door being closed, a key rattling in
the lock. At the sound Rogan stepped back until he
was behind Manners. There was the faint sound of a
match being struck, and for a second a tiny flame
lighted the cupped circle of Rogan's hands. It was a
signal for the men up the beach.
The man had locked the door and was now retrac-
ing his steps. Suddenly the stillness was broken by
the short, sharp report of a gun, far up the shore*
As he looked around the side of the building Man-
ners saw the man stop short at the sound of the gun,
then frantically begin to run. At the sight he leaped
from the veranda to the beach and started after him.
Behind him came Rogan's heavy, running footsteps.
The vague figure was perhaps fifty yards in front
of them. Bent forward, head down, the man was
running. He was very close to the water, no doubt
because the footing was better there than higher on
the beach. Though it was dark they were able dimly
to make out the flying outline; that of a man running
as though he were desperately afraid: a slight figure,
whose speed was faster than their own.
Manners calculated there were but two things the
fugitive could do. To climb the seventy-foot bluff
was impossible. Either he must try to escape by run-
ning up the beach, or he must climb the steep steps
that led to the top of the bluff. For a moment Man-
ners wondered which of these alternatives he would
choose. Only one offered any possibility of escape.
There was no sound but the rattling pebbles struck


POISON UNKNOWN
out by their flying feet. Manners could hear Rogan
blundering along behind him, heard him slip as he
stumbled. But no one spoke; nor was there any com-
mand for the flying figure ahead to halt. They knew
that such a command would be useless. The man was
running as though his very life depended upon his
escape.
He had turned away now from the water; Man-
ners could make out just ahead the dark line of the
steps. They towered upwards, vanishing against the
dark shadow of the bluff. The man was far up on the
stones, running towards the steps. He was not going
to attempt escape by the beach. Instead, if he could
reach the top of the bluff, there was little doubt that
he planned to lose himself in the vastness of Fletch-
er's grounds.
They were only thirty feet behind him when he
leaped wildly for the first step. His hand clutched
the rail as he started to climb upwards; and the
sound of his feet hitting against the wood came to
their ears. Just as they reached the bottom of the
stairway, a long, shrill whistle broke the stillness.
The notes pierced the darkness like the wailing cry
of a lost soul. Rogan had blown his police whistle.
They stood crowded together at the bottom of the *
steps, looking upwards. Above their heads the dark,
climbing figure was leaping from step to step. Ahead
of him was the etched line of the edge of the bluff;
beyond it lay darkness. And as they watched the
climbing figure, suddenly the deep blackness was
broken by a faint, indistinct light.
It was only a tiny light, rising and falling in the


276 POISON UNKNOWN
knew: a face filled with sadness, mingled with the
calm of restful peace. It was Ann Fletcher's face,
aglow with flame as it floated towards the figure
crouching on the steps.
There was no body below the face, not the faintest
semblance of a body. Just the features could be seen:
calm, beautiful, but plainly discernible. Gently it
floated in the air, rising and falling with a wavering
motion as it drifted downwards. And the downward
motion was like that of a person slowly descending
a long flight of stairs. On every side was darkness.
Only on the steps was there any light.
For a second the face, kindly, sad and beautiful,
seemed to pause. Then rapidly it began to descend
towards the crouching figure. The man rose—and
threw back his head. They saw his arms reach forth
in a wild appeal. Suddenly the silence was broken by
a scream. It was the voice of a man deathly afraid,
crying out wildly for mercy. They saw him turn—
and start frantically down the steps. Then suddenly
he stumbled. For a second—vainly—he tried to
catch his balance; but the effort failed. With a loud
cry, he went hurtling down the length of the steps
to the shore. And as he plunged downwards the face
above him suddenly vanished. Where it had been
was utter darkness.
The man had gone rolling over the rocky shore,
and lay motionless close to the water's edge. It was
Rogan who first reached his side, who took a flash-
light from his pocket and played it over the still
figure. As they crouched around the man Manners


POISON UNKNOWN
thought for a moment he was dead. Then there came
a faint moan. He was just about to drop to his knees
when the police doctor rushed out of the darkness.
With Rogan's flash-light playing over the crumpled
figure, Bell made a quick examination. The man was
lying on his side, his arms and legs sprawled out in a
sinister attitude. Manners noticed that the doctor
made no effort to change his position: that the ex-
amination was hasty. When it was over he suddenly
lifted his head and, looking at Rogan, nodded. As
he did so, the man tried to speak.
What he was struggling to say Manners could not
tell. The voice was very low: the stammered words
disconnected. But at a look from Bell, both the com-
missioner and the chief bent down to put their heads
close to the whispering lips. What he was gasping
out Manners could not hear; and he did not care to
kneel down and listen.
Darkness was on every side. The only light was
the flame of the flash-light, resting upon the motion-
less figure. Manners could hear the waves, and the
broken, gasping, indistinct words from the lips of the
man at his feet. And then all at once he heard noth-
ing but the waves breaking on the shore. The lips
had become silent. As he quickly looked down, both
Rogan and the commissioner rose softly to their feet.
"He's gone," was Rogan's low comment. "Ad-
mitted both murders. Look!"
Taking Manners' arm he walked him to the other
side of the siltfht figure. At his gesture of command
Bell threw the light over the still face. Strange to say


278 POISON UNKNOWN
the hair was still nicely parted, though the little
mustache was sadly disarranged. There on the rocky
shore, his features twisted into a frightened, be-
wildered stare, lay John Fletcher.


CHAPTER XVII
Above Rogan's head hung a single electric light bulb.
Its flame fell directly upon the faces of the three men
seated around the desk. Silent, sober men they were,
whose grave countenances offered studies in varying
expression. Each was thinking, and the same thought
moved them all. They were glad they were not alone.
Behind the cluttered desk, with a long stogie stuck
at a rakish angle between his lips, sat the chief. Ever
since he had seen that glowing face floating down
the stairway he had been troubled. The unexpected
shock of Fletcher's death had not removed his feel-
ing of distrust. Fletcher was dead—he had confessed
to the murders. But there would still be a great deal
of explaining to do to a startled city. What was he
going to tell the public? Taking the stogie from his
lips he threw a long, puzzled look towards Manners:
a look that contained both admiration and perplexity.
"You will have to tell us all about it, Harley. I
am getting to be an old man, and can't stand many
more shocks like tonight. You gave me a hint as to
what you were going to do. But that face! Never
will I forget that thing floating down the steps. And
then to discover that the man was Fletcher! It's al-
most my worst try at solving crime: I hadn't a thing
to go on, and all my theories were wrong."
"You were right from the beginning, Rogan."
279


POISON UNKNOWN 281
The police commissioner took his pipe from his
mouth, as he cast a doubtful look at the professor.
Stone was the best lawyer in the city. He had heard
Fletcher confess. But deep down in his heart he
failed to see that there was any evidence against him.
With a shake of his head he protested:
"How can you be certain of what you are say-
ing?';
"Simply this, Stone: Fletcher wrote the letters
himself; like most criminals he made one bad mis-
take : he used the wrong sort of paper. Those letters
were written on the most expensive rag paper that is
made. When I first saw them I thought that some of
his wealthy friends might be playing a joke on him.
If not, I knew with certainty that no one was black-
mailing him. The type of people who write blackmail
letters are not able to lay their hands on the most
expensive paper made. At first I went no further
than that thought: the letters had been written by
some so-called friend. Later I made a discovery—I
found the paper in his desk. I went into his office—
ostensibly to write a note, really to get a chance at
his typewriter. I got the chance—and I used paper
found in his desk. It was identical with that in the
notes Rogan has: same worn type in the letters, same
paper. No doubt at all—he wrote them."
Rogan still wanted to know why. If Manners said
the letters had been written upon a typewriter and
with paper found in Fletcher's office, then it was so.
But what a silly thing after all—something that had
no relation to the crimes! Instead of an answer Ro-
gan received a question in return:


282 POISON UNKNOWN
"What did Fletcher say when he brought the first
letter to your office, Rogan?"
"That he wanted two men to patrol his grounds
because he was giving a dinner."
"Yes, but what reason did he give for bringing
in the letters?"
The chief thought for a moment. Then he half-
smiled: "Oh yes—said his wife had seen them, and
was afraid."
"His wife knew nothing about the letters," was
the grave rejoinder. "Do you remember, Rogan, the
afternoon we told her the doctor had been poisoned?
She remarked that after Langdon died a policeman
had come running into the dining-room, and how
surprised she had been to see him. Now if she had
begged her husband to bring the letters to you, if she
wished police protection during the dinner, would she
have been surprised to see a policeman? She didn't
even know the police were on the grounds. If not—
it's quite evident she knew nothing about the letters.
Yet FletcherTsaid it was his wife who asked him to
come to the police-station."
Rogan gave a disgusted growl. She had said that.
It was the afternoon when, after hearing that Lang-
don had been poisoned, she had suddenly keeled over.
She had said she had been startled by his detective's
rushing into the dining-room. Manners was right on
that point.
"That was the first inconsistency in the case,"
Manners continued. "And it seemed a big one to me.
Either Fletcher told the truth when he said his wife
had been frightened by the letters, and desired police


POISON UNKNOWN 283
protection; or he lied. If he lied, why did he? True,
he might have been afraid, afraid of the supposedly
unknown writer of the letters; and like many men,
wishing to save his own pride, shifted the fear to his
wife. But then, he mentioned there had been other
letters, which he had not brought into the station.
Why should he suddenly have wished protection the
night of the dinner? He was riding round town in his
car, going to the golf club, running here and there
for days preceding. That did not show fear. I de-
cided on the basis of Mrs. Fletcher's remark that he
had lied to the chief. His wife knew nothing about
the letters. It was Fletcher who wanted the police
to be on his grounds during the dinner. He needed
an alibi."
He paused to dig a cigarette from his pocket; then
continued: "That brought up the real problem. If
he had lied, why had he done so? Then I began to
puzzle over a second thing: had anyone sent him
anonymous letters? I was about to conclude no—
that he wrote them himself—when Tollen suddenly
complicated all my thinking."
He paused again for a moment. "But Tollen com-
plicated the theory I was forming only till it became
evident he could never have written the letters Rogan
had seen. First, he could never have procured the
paper they were written on; second, there was his
denial that he had written them. I was back again
to my real question: why had Fletcher lied? The an-
swer I reached was simple, though it led to another
question. The letters were to be used in order that
the police might be on the grounds during the dinner.


POISON UNKNOWN 285
"There was one suspicious thing in that dining-
room. We were very lucky to be there shortly after
the crime. Fletcher's idea turned out to be a boom-
erang. If the police had not been on the grounds he
might have got by. On the other hand, if Rogan had
not been worried about the old police superstition
none of us would even have gone to the house."
The chief yanked the stogie from his lips to utter
a violent protest. "Superstition!" he snorted. "You
say it was a darned good thing I was 'superstitious.'
That saying is true! But what was suspicious in the
dining-room?"
"There was one very odd thing. The table was so
placed that its head was just in line with the central
window. There are five windows: four of them were
raised; but the central one—the one directly back of
the head of the table—was thrown entirely back
against the house, screen and all. It was a warm
night; there were insects on the lawn; the lights
within the room would attract them. Yet one window
was swung entirely open. It looked suspicious."
Rogan gave only a grunt at this. Stone was think-
ing rapidly. So far it was all good reasoning; but it
was still not legal evidence. Yet he knew Fletcher had
been guilty; he had heard the broken, faltering words
from his dying lips; and he was still shaken by the
experience. He bent forward as Manners went on.
"When we heard the account of the dinner from
the guests, there was one fact that stood out for me:
Langdon had not at first been sitting in the chair that
was in a direct line with the center window. Yet it
was intended he should sit there. See what happened.


288 POISON UNKNOWN
switch. It would take several moments for the ex-
posed wire to burn through the cord. When it does
burn through, the gun will go off. One of these meth-
ods was used. If you will look in that bird house you
will find nails there—nails fixed to hold some object
in a firm position. And you will find also a hole—
a hole through which a wire has passed.
"It has been established that Fletcher bought a gas
pistol some time ago. Kent dug that up this after-
noon. Any glass capsule, made of thin glass, with a
sharp point, would have done the trick. As the poison
was in a capsule, as no human hand fired the shot,
it may be presumed to have come out of a gun. An
air pistol makes no report. It would have had, of
course, to be concealed. The bird house was the ideal
possibility. No bird had been allowed to build a nest
in the house: it was clean. Either some clock arrange-
ment was used to fire the pistol, or—better still—the
radio gives us the explanation. A radio fight program
was used as an excuse to have Langdon move his seat
to the head of the table. There was no important
fight on the air that night."
Silence fell for a while. Rogan was willing to agree
with what had been said; so was Stone—up to a
certain point. His keen legal mind was still looking
for evidence that could be used in a court room. The
finding of the paper in Fletcher's office would be
legal evidence that he had written the letters. Man-
ners' statement that Kent had discovered Fletcher's
purchase of the gas pistol would also be evidence.
But neither would prove murder. Yet even as he
thought this, he knew Manners' theory was sound.


29o POISON UNKNOWN
made from the bark of a tree found in the northern
parts of the Island. Though the natives knew of its
violent properties and how to produce it, they knew
little else. Today very little is known about it. It
kills in a moment or so if introduced into the body.
The reactions are similar to those of aconitine, and
also to those of strychnine. Only one tree in the
world produces this poison, the bark of the Pukatea.
From this it takes its name."
"But," came the startled voice of Stone, "you say
it's unknown. How did you ever discover what was
used?"
Manners turned to the commissioner. His face
was grave, his eyes thoughtful:
"Stone, you and I are like all men of our type.
We rarely question whether there be such a thing as
fate behind life. A man goes out to kill. His plan is
perfect, well thought out. But some little forgotten
thing trips him up, and fate steps in and brings dis-
aster. So in this case. Fletcher knew nothing of the
superstition about a new police-station. There was
not a chance in a thousand to suspect that a murder
had been committed. But the murderer had to battle
against one thing he could not foresee: his own
psychological weakness, his own personality. Mur-
ders are committed not by supermen, but by emo-
tionally unbalanced persons. Fletcher's scheme was
perfect—except for one little overlooked thing. And
this brought disaster. Again and again it has hap-
pened in murder cases. The murderer made one mis-
take, a simple one."
"What?" growled the chief.


POISON UNKNOWN
illuminated dial showed twelve. A day had ended;
another was beginning. With a sigh he climbed into
the machine.
As his hand went searching for the ignition there
came a weary grunt from his side. Rogan spoke. The
tone was that of a man who questions whether he
will ever again find rest.
"Harley," he said slowly, "God knows I am tired.
It's going to be a long time before I forget that face
on the steps. And never—never—do I want to hear a
doctor say it again I"
"Say what?"
The reply was so long in coming that Manners
turned on the switch. There came the sound of the
engine springing into life, and following it the plain-
tive voice at his side:
"Poison unknown."
The End


The greatest pleasure in life is
that of reading. Why not then
own the books of great novelists
when the price is so small
1$ Of all the amusements which can possibly
T>e imagined for a hard-working man, after
his daily toil, or in its intervals, there is
nothing like reading an entertaining book.
It calls for no bodily exertion. It transports
him into a livelier, and gayer, and more di-
versified and interesting scene, and while lie
enjoys himself there he may forget the evils
of the present moment. Nay, it accompanies
him to his next day's work, and gives him
something to think of besides the mere
mechanical drudgery of his every-day occu-
pation—something he can enjoy while absent,
and look forward with pleasure to return to.
Ask your dealer for a list of the titles
in Burt's Popular Priced Fiction
In buying the books bearing the
A. L. Burt Company imprint
you are assured of wholesome, en-
tertaining and instructive reading


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Adventures of Jimmie Dale. Frank L. Packard.
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle.
Adventures of the D. C. I. Major C. E. Russell.
Affair in Duplex 9B, The. William Johnston.
Affair at the Chateau, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Affinities and Other Stories. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
After House, The. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
After Noon. Susan Ertz.
Ah, the Delicate Passion. Elizabeth Hall Yates.
Ailsa Page. Robert W. Chambers.
Alcatraz. Max Brand.
All at Sea. Carolyn Wells.
All the Way by Water. Elizabeth Stancy Payne.
Altar of Friendship, The. Blanche Upright.
Amateur Gentleman. Jeffery Farnol.
Amateur Inn, The. Albert Payson Terhune.
Anabel at Sea. Samuel Merwin.
An Accidental Accomplice. William Johnston.
Ancestor Jorico. William J. Locke.
And They Lived Happily Ever After. Meredith Nicholson.
Angel Esquire. Edgar Wallace.
Angel of Terror. Edgar Wallace.
Anne of the Island. L. M. Montgomery.
Anne's House of Dreams. L. M. Montgomery.
Annihilation. Isabel Ostrander.
Ann's Crime. R. T. M. Scott.
An Ordeal of Honor. Anthony Pryde.
Anything But the Truth. Carolyn Wells.
April and Sally June. Margaret Piper Chalmers.
Are All Men Alike, and The Lost Titan. Arthur Stringer.
Aristocratic Miss Brewster, The. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Around Old Chester. Margaret Deland.
Arrant Rover, The. Berta Ruck.
As a Thief in the Night. R. Austin Freeman.
A Self-Made Thief. Hulbert Footner.
Astounding Crime on Torrington Road, The. William G1H<
At Sight of Gold. Cynthia Lombardi.
At the Foot of the Rainbow. James B. Hendryx.
At the Mercy of Tiberius. Augusta Evans Wilson.
At the South Gate. Grace S. Richmond.
Auction Block, The. Rex Beach.
Aunt Jane of Kentucky. Eliza C. Hall.
Aurelius Smith—Detective. R. T. M. Scott.
Autocrat, The. Pearl Doles Bell.
Aw Hell! Clarke Venable.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Bab: a Sub-Deb. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Babe Ruth's Own Book of Baseball. George Herman Ruth.
Backwoods Princess, A. Hulbert Footner.
Bad One, The. John Farrow.
"Barabbas." Marie Corelli.
Barberry Bush. Kathleen Norris.
Barrier, The. Rex Beach.
Bars of Iron, The. Ethel M. Dell.
Bartenstein Mystery, The. J. S. Fletcher.
Bar-20. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar-20 Days. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar 20 Rides Again, The. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar-20 Three. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bat Wing. Sax Rohmer.
Beauty and the Beast. Kathleen Norris.
Beauty Mask, The. H. M. Clamp.
Beginners, The. Henry Kitchell Webster.
Beg Pardon Sir! Reginald Wright Kauffman.
Bella Donna. Robert Hichens.
Bellamy Trial, The. Frances Noyes Hart.
Belonging. Olive Wadsley.
Beloved Pawn, The. Harold Titus.
Beloved Rajah, The. A. E. R. Craig.
Beloved Traitor, The. Frank L. Packard.
Beloved Vagabond, The. William J. Locke.
Beloved Woman, The. Kathleen Norris.
Beltane the Smith. Jeffery Farnol.
Benson Murder Case, The. S. S. Van Dine.
Best Ghost Stories, The. Edited by Bohun Lynch.
Beyond the Frontier. Randall Parrish.
Bigamist, The. John Jay Chichester.
Big Brother. Rex Beach.
Big Mogul, The. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Big Shot, The. Frank L. Packard.
Big Timber. Bertrand W. Sinclair.
Bill the Conqueror. P. Q. Wodehouse.
Bill—The Sheik. A. M. Williamson.
Bird of Freedom. Hugh Pendexter.
Black Abbot, The. Edgar Wallace.
Black Bartlemy's Treasure. Jeffery Farnol.
Black Bull, The. H. Bedford-Jones.
Black Buttes. Clarence E. Mulford.
Black Company, The. W. B. M. Ferguson.
Black Flemings, The. Kathleen Norris.
Black Butterflies. Elizabeth Jordan.
Black Glove, The. J. G. Sarasin.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Black Ivory. Polan Banks.'
Black Magician, The. R. T. M. Scott.
Black Oxen. Gertrude Atherton.
Black Stamp, The. Will Scott.
Black Turret, The. Patrick Wynnton.
Blades. George Barr McCutcheon.
Blair's Attic. Joseph C. Lincoln and Freeman Lincoln.
Blatchington Tangle, The. G. D. H. and Margaret Cole.
Bleston Mystery, The. Robert Milward Kennedy.
Bloody Ground. Oscar J. Friend.
Blue Blood. Owen Johnson.
Blue Car Mystery, The. Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Blue Castle, The. L. M. Montgomery.
Blue Hand. Edgar Wallace.
Blue Jay, The. Max Brand.
Bob, Son of Battle. Alfred Ollivant.
Bondwoman, The. G. U. Ellis.
Born Rich. Hughes Cornell.
Borrowed Shield, The. Richard E. Enright.
Boss of Eagle's Nest, The. William West Winter.
Boss of the Diamond A. Robert Ames Bennet.
Boss of the Tumbling H. Frank C. Robertson.
Box With Broken Seals. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Branded. Robert Ames Bennet.
Brass. Charles G. Norris.
Brass Bowl. Louis Joseph Vance.
Bravo Jim. W. D. Hoffman.
Bread. Charles G. Norris.
Bread and Jam. Nalbro Bartley.
Break-Up, The. Esther Birdsall Darling.
Breaking Point, The. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Bride's Progress, The. Harold Weston.
Bright Shawl, The. Joseph Hergesheimer.
Bring Me His Ears. Clarence E. Mulford.
Broad Highway, The. Jeffery Farnol.
Broken Barriers. Meredith Nicholson.
Broken Waters. Frank L. Packard.
Bronze Hand, The. Carolyn Wells.
Brood of the Witch Queen. Sax Rohmer.
Brook Evans. Susan Glaspell.
Brown Study, The. Grace S. Richmond.
Buck Peters, Ranchman. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bullet Eater. Oscar J. Friend.
Burned Evidence. Mrs. Wilson Woodrow.
Bush Rancher, The. Harold Bindloss.
Bush That Burned, A. Marjorie Barclay McClure,


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Buster, The. William Patterson White.
Butterfly. Kathleen Norris.
Cabbages and Kings. O. Henry.
Cabin at the Trail's End. Sheba Hargreaves
Callahans and the Murphys. Kathleen Norris.
Calling of Dan Matthews. Harold Bell Wright.
Can Women Forget? Florence Riddell.
Cape Cod Stories. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Captain Brand of the Schooner "Centipede." Lieut. Henry A. Wise.
Cap'n Dan's Daughter. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cap'n Eri. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cap'n Jonah's Fortune. James A. Cooper.
Captains of Souls. Edgar Wallace.
Cap'n Sue. Hulbert Footner.
Cap'n Warren's Wards. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cardigan. Robert W. Chambers.
Caxib Gold. Ellery H. Clark.
Carnac's Folly. Sir Gilbert Parker.
Carry On, Jeeves! P. G. Wodehouse.
Case and the Girl. Randall Parrish.
Case Book of Sherlock Holmes, The. A. Conan Doyle.
Cask, The. Freeman Wills Crofts.
Cat-O'Mountain. Arthur O. Friel.
Cat's Eye, The. R. Austin Freeman.
Catspaw, The. Terry Shannon.
Cattle. Winifred Eaton Reeve.
Cattle Baron, The. Robert Ames Bennet.
Cavalier of Tennessee. Meredith Nicholson.
Celestial City, The. Baroness Orczy.
Certain Dr. Thorndyke, A. R. Austin Freeman.
Certain People of Importance. Kathleen Norris.
Chaffee of Roaring Horse. Ernest Haycox.
Chance—and the Woman. Ellis Middleton.
Charteris Mystery. A. Fielding.
Cherry Square. Grace S. Richmond.
Cheyne Mystery, The. Freeman Wills Crofts.
Child of the North. Ridgwell Cullum.
Child of the Wild. Edison Marshall.
Children of Divorce. Owen Johnson.
Chronicles of Avonlea. L. M. Montgomery.
Cinema Murder, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
City of Lilies, The. Anthony Pryde and R. K. Weeks.
City of Peril, The. Arthur Stringer.
City of the Sun, The. Edwin L. Sabin.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Clair De Lune. Anthony Pryde.
Clever One, The. Edgar Wallace.
Click of Triangle T. Oscar J. Friend.
Clifford Affair, The. A. Fielding.
Clock Strikes Two, The. Henry Kitchell Webster.
Clouded Pearl, The. Berta Ruck.
Cloudy in the West. William Patterson White.
Club of Masks, The. Allen Upward.
Clue of the New Pin, The. Edgar Wallace.
Que of the Twisted Candle. Edgar Wallace.
Coast of Enchantment. Burton E. Stevenson.
Cock's Feather. Katherine Newlin Burt.
Cold Harbour. Francis Brett Young.
Colorado Jim. George Goodchild.
Come Home. Stella G. S. Perry.
Coming of Cassidy, The. Clarence E. Mulford.
Coming of Cosgrove, The. Laurie Y. Erskine.
Coming of the Law, The. Charles A. Selzer.
Communicating Door, The. Wadsworth Camp.
Concerning Him. Introduced by the writer of "To M. L. G."
Confidence Man, The. Laurie Y. Erskine.
Conquest of Canaan, The. Booth Tarkington.
Conquering Lover, The. Pamela Wynne.
Conqueror Passes, A. Larry Barretto.
Constant Nymph, The. Margaret Kennedy.
Contraband. Clarence Budington Kelland.
Copper Moon. Edwin Bateman Morris.
Corbin Necklace, The. Henry Kitchell Webster.
Corsican Justice. J. G. Sarasin.
Corson of the J. C. Clarence E. Mulford.
Cottonwood Gulch. Clarence E. Mulford.
Court of Inquiry, A. Grace S. Richmond.
Cow Woman, The. George Gilbert.
Crime at Red Towers. Chester K. Steele.
Crime in the Crypt, The. Carolyn Wells.
Crimson Circle, 'Ihe. Edgar Wallace.
Crooked. Maximilian Foster.
Crooked Cross, The. Charles J. Dutton.
Crook's Shadow, The. J. Jefferson Farjeon.
Cross Trails. Harold Bindloss.
Cruel Fellowship. Cyril Hume.
Cryder of the Big Woods. George C. Shedd.
Cry in the Wilderness, A. Mary E. Waller.
Crystal Cup, The. Gertrude Atherton.
Cup_ of Fury, The. Rupert Hughes.
Curious Quest, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Cursed Be the Treasure. H. B. Drake.
Cytherea. Joseph Hergesheimer.
Cy Whittaker's Place. Joseph C Lincoln,
Daffodil Murder, The. Edgar Wallace.
Dagger, The. Anthony Wynne.
Dalehouse Murder, The. Francis Everton.
Damsel in Distress, A. Pelham G. Wodehouse.
Dan Barry's Daughter. Max Brand.
Dance Magic. Clarence Budington Kelland.
Dancers in the Dark. Dorothy Speare.
Dancing Silhouette, The. Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Dancing Star. Berta Ruck.
Danger. Ernest Poole.
Danger and Other Stories. A. Conan Doyle.
Dangerous Business. Edwin Balmer.
Dark Duel. Marguerite Steen.
Darkest Spot, The. Lee Thayer.
Dark Eyes of London, The. Edgar Wallace.
David Strange. Nelia Gardner White.
Daughter of the House. Carolyn Wells.
Daughter of the Sands, A. Frances Everard.
Daughter Pays, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
David Copperfield. Charles Dickens.
Deadfall, The. Edison Marshall.
Dead Men's Shoes. Lee Thayer.
Dead Ride Hard, The. Louis Joseph Vance.
Dear Pretender, The. Alice Ross Colver.
Death Maker, The. Austin J. Small.
Deeper Scar, The. Sinclair Gluck.
Deep in the Hearts of Men. Mary E. Waller.
Deep Lake Mystery. Carolyn Wells.
Deep Seam, The. Jack Bethea.
Defenders, The. Stella G. S. Perry.
Delight. Mazo de la Roche.
Demon Caravan, The. Georges Surdez.
Depot Master, The. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Desert Dust. Edwin L. Sabin.
Desert Healer. E. M. Hull.
Desire. Gladys Johnson.
Desire of His Life, and Other Stories. Ethel M. Dell.
Destiny. Rupert Hughes.
Devil of Pei-ling, The. Herbert Asbury.
Devil's Mantle, The. Frank L. Packard.
Devil's Paw, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.


The greatest pleasure in life is
that of reading. Why not then
own the books of great novelists
when the price is so small
vene into a liveliodily exerentertaining here is
g Of all the amusements which can possibly
'be imagined for a hard-working man, after
his daily toil, or in its intervals, there is
nothing like reading an entertaining book.
It calls for no bodily exertion. It transports
him into a livelier, and gayer, and more di-
versified and interesting scene, and while he
enjoys himself there' he may forget the evils
of the present moment. Nay, it accompanies
him to his next day's work, and gives him
something to think of besides the mere
mechanical drudgery of his every-day occu-
pation-something he can enjoy while absent,
and look forward with pleasure to return to.
Ask your dealer for a list of the titles
in Burt's Popular Priced Fiction
In buying the books bearing the
A. L. Burt Company imprint
you are assured of wholesome, en-
tertaining and instructive reading


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Bab: a Sub-Deb. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Babe Ruth's Own Book of Baseball. George Herman Ruth.
Backwoods Princess, A. Hulbert Footner.
Bad One, The.John Farrow.
"Barabbas." Marie Corelli.
Barberry Bush. Kathleen Norris.
Barrier, The. Rex Beach.
Bars of Iron, The. Ethel M. Dell.
Bartenstein Mystery, The. J. S. Fletcher.
Bar-20. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar-20 Days. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar 20 Rides Again, The. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bar-20 Three. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bat Wing. Sax Rohmer.
Beauty and the Beast. Kathleen Norris.
Beauty Mask, The. H. M. Clamp.
Beginners, The. Henry Kitchell Webster.
Beg Pardon Sir! Reginald Wright Kauffman.
Bella Donna. Robert Hichens.
Bellamy Trial, The. Frances Noyes Hart.
Belonging. Olive Wadsley.
Beloved Pawn, The. Harold Titus.
Beloved Rajah, The. A. E. R. Craig.
Beloved Traitor, The. Frank L. Packard.
Beloved Vagabond, The. William J. Locke.
Beloved Woman, The. Kathleen Norris.
Beltane the Smith. Jeffery Farnol.
Benson Murder Case, The. S. S. Van Dine.
Best Ghost Stories, The. Edited by Bohun Lynch.
Beyond the Frontier Randall Parrish.
Bigamist, The. John Jay Chichester.
Big Mogul, The. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Big Shot, The. Frank L. Packard.
Big Timber. Bertrand W. Sinclair.
Bill the Conqueror. P. Q. Wodehouse.
Bill—The Sheik. A. M. Williamson.
Bird of Freedom. Hugh Pendexter.
Black Abbot, The. Edgar Wallace.
Black Bartlemy's Treasure. Jeffery Farnol.
Black Bull, The. H. Bedford-Jones.
Black Buttes. Clarence E. Mulford.
Black Company, The. W. B. M. Ferguson.
Black Butterflies. Elizabeth Jordan.
Black Glove, The. J. G. Sarasin.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Black Ivory. Polan Banks.
Black Magician, The. R. T. M. Scott.
Black Oxen. Gertrude Atherton.
Black Stamp, The. Will Scott.
Black Turret, The. Patrick Wynnton.
Blades. George Barr McCutcheon.
Blair's Attic. Joseph C. Lincoln and Freeman Lincoln.
Blatchington Tangle, The. G. D. H. and Margaret Cole.
Bleston Mystery, The. Robert Milward Kennedy.
Bloody Ground. Oscar J. Friend.
Blue Blood. Owen Johnson.
Blue Castle, The. L. M. Montgomery.
Blue Hand. Edgar Wallace.
Blue Jay, The. Max Brand.
Bob, Son of Battle. Alfred Ollivant.
Bondwoman, The. G. U. Ellis.
Born Rich. Hughes Cornell.
Borrowed Shield, The. Richard E. Enright.
Boss of Eagle's Nest, The. William West Winter.
Boss of the Diamond A. Robert Ames Bennet.
Boss of the Tumbling H. Frank C. Robertson.
Box With Broken Seals. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Branded. Robert Ames Bennet.
Brass. Charles G. Norris.
Brass Bowl. Louis Joseph Vance.
Bravo Jim. W. D. Hoffman.
Bread. Charles G. Norris.
Bread and Jam. Nalbro Bartley.
Break-Up, The. Esther Birdsall Darling.
Breaking Point, The. Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Bride's Progress, The. Harold Weston.
Bright Shawl, The. Joseph Hergesheimer.
Bring Me His Ears. Clarence E. Mulford.
Broad Highway, The. Jeffery Farnol.
Broken Barriers. Meredith Nicholson.
Broken Waters. Frank L. Packard.
Bronze Hand, The. Carolyn Wells.
Brood of the Witch Queen. Sax Rohmer.
Brook Evans. Susan Glaspell.
Brown Study, The. Grace S. Richmond.
Buck Peters, Ranchman. Clarence E. Mulford.
Bullet Eater. Oscar J. Friend.
Burned Evidence. Mrs. Wilson Woodrow.
Bush Rancher, The. Harold Bindloss.
Bush That Burned, A. Marjorie Barclay McClure,


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Buster, The. William Patterson White.
Butterfly. Kathleen Norris.
Cabbages and Kings. O. Henry.
Cabin at the Trail's End. Sheba Hargreaves
Callahans and the Murphys. Kathleen Norris.
Calling of Dan Matthews. Harold Bell Wright.
Can Women Forget? Florence Riddell.
Cape Cod Stories. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Captain Brand of the Schooner “Centipede.” Lieut. Henry A. Wise.
Cap'n Dan's Daughter. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cap'n Eri. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cap'n Jonah's Fortune. James A. Cooper.
Cap'n Sue. Hulbert Footner.
Cap'n Warren's Wards. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Cardigan Robert W. Chambers.
Carib Gold. Ellery H. Clark.
Carnac's Folly. Sir Gilbert Parker.
Carry On, Jeeves! P. G. Wodehouse,
Case and the Girl. Randall Parrish.
Case Book of Sherlock Holmes, The. A. Conan Doyle.
Cask, The Freeman Wills Crofts.
Cat-O'Mountain. Arthur 0. Friel.
Cat's Eye, The. R. Austin Freeman.
Catspaw, The. Terry Shannon.
Cattle. Winifred Eaton Reeve.
Cattle Baron, The. Robert Ames Bennet.
Cavalier of Tennessee. Meredith Nicholson.
Celestial City, The Baroness Orczy.
Certain Dr. Thorndyke, A. R. Austin Freeman.
Certain People of Importance. Kathleen Norris.
Chaffee of Roaring Horse. Ernest Haycox.
Chance and the Woman. Ellis Middleton.
Charteris Mystery. A. Fielding
Cherry Square. Grace S. Richmond.
Cheyne Mystery, The. Freeman Wills Crofts.
Child of the North Ridgwell Cullum.
Child of the Wild. Edison Marshall.
Children of Divorce. Owen Johnson.
Chronicles of Avonlea. L. M. Montgomery.
Cinema Murder, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
City of Lilies, The. Anthony Pryde and R. K. Weeks.
City of Peril, The. Arthur Stringer.
City of the Sun, The. Edwin L. Sabin.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Cytherea. Joseph Hergesheimer.
Cy Whittaker's Place. Joseph C. Lincola.
Daffodil Murder, The. Edgar Wallace.
Dagger, The. Anthony Wynne.
Dalehouse Murder, The. Francis Everton.
Damsel in Distress, A. Pelham G. Wodehouse.
Dan Barry's Daughter. Max Brand.
Dancers in the Dark. Dorothy Speare.
Dancing Silhouette, The. Natalie Sumner Lincola.
Dancing Star. Berta Ruck.
Danger. Ernest Poole.
Danger and Other Stories. A. Conan Doyle.
Dangerous Business. Edwin Balmer.
Dark Duel. Marguerite Steen.
Darkest Spot, The. Lee Thayer.
Dark Eyes of London, The. Edgar Wallace.
David Strange. Nelia Gardner White.
Daughter of the House. Carolyn Wells.
Daughter of the Sands, A. Frances Everard.
Daughter Pays, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
David Copperfield. Charles Dickens.
Deadfall, The. Edison Marshall.
Dead Men's Shoes, Lee Thayer.
Dead Ride Hard, The. Louis Joseph Vance.
Dear Pretender, The. Alice Ross Colver.
Death Maker, The. Austin J. Small.
Deeper Scar, The. Sinclair Gluck.
Deep in the Hearts of Men. Mary E. Waller.
Deep Lake Mystery. Carolyn Wells.
Deep Seam, The. Jack Bethea.
Defenders, The Stella G. S. Perry.
Delight. Mazo de la Roche.
Demon Caravan, The Georges Surdez.
Depot Master, The. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Desert Dust. Edwin L. Sabin.
Desert Healer. E. M. Hull.
Desire. Gladys Johnson.
Desire of His Life, and Other Stories. Ethel M. Dell,
Destiny. Rupert Hughes.
Devil ‘of Pei-ling, The. Herbert Asbury.
Devil's Mantle, The. Frank L. Packard.
Devil's Paw, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Devonshers, The. Honore Willsie Morrow.
Diamond Murders, The. J. S. Fletcher.
Diamond Thieves, The. Arthur Stringer.
Diana at the Bath. Elizabeth Hall Yates.
Diana of Kara-Kara. Edgar Wallace.
Diane's Adventure. Ann Sumner.
Dimmest Dream, The. Alice Ross Colver.
Divine Event. Will N. Harben.
Divots. P. G. Wodehouse.
Dixiana, A Novelization. Winnie Brandon.
Dr. Glazebrook's Revenge. Andrew Cassels Brown.
Dr. Nye. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Doctor S. O. S. Lee Thayer.
Doctor Who Held Hands, The. Hulbert Footner.
Don Careless. Rex Beach.
Door of Dread, The Arthur Stringer.
Doors of the Night. Frank L. Packard.
Door With Seven Locks. Edgar Wallace.
Dope. Sax Rohmer.
Double Chance, The. J. S. Fletcher.
Double House, The. Elizabeth Dejeans.
Double Thirteen, The. Anthony Wynne.
Double Traitor, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Downey of the Mounted. James B. Hendryx.
Draycott Murder Mystery. Molly Thynne.
Dream Detective. Sax Rohmer.
Dream Kiss. Ann Sumner.
Drums of Aulone, The. Robert W. Chambers.
Drums of Doom. Robert Welles Ritchie.
Duke Steps Out, The. Lucian Cary.
Dust. Armine Von Tempski.
Dust of the Desert. Robert Welles Ritchie.
Dust to Dust. Isabel Ostrander.
Eames-Erskine Case. A. Fielding.
Easy. Nina Wilcox Putnam.
Eddy and Edouard. Baroness Von Hutten.
Eight Panes of Glass. Robert Simpson.
Ellerby Case, The. John Rhode.
Emerald Tiger. Edgar Jepson.
Emily Climbs. L. M. Montgomery.
Emily of New Moon. L. M. Montgomery.
Emily's Quest. L. M. Montgomery.
Emperor of America, The. Sax Rohmer.
Empty Hands. Arthur Stringer.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Enchanted Canyon, The. Honore Willsie Morrow.
Enemies of Women. Vicente Blasco Ibanez.
Erskine Dale, Pioneer. John Fox, Jr.
Evil Shepherd, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Exile of the Lariat, The. Honore Willsie Morrow,
Extricating Obadiah. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Eye of Osiris, The. R. Austin Freeman.
Eyes of the World, The, Harold Bell Wright.
Finde Feathers. Masse Rohmarones house. Ward.
Face Cards. Carolyn Wells.
Face in the Night, The. Edgar Wallace.
Fair Game. Olive Wadsley.
Fair Harbor. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Faith of Our Fathers. Dorothy Walworth Carman.
Family. Wayland Wells Williams.
Fantomas Captured. Marcel Allain.
Far Call. Edison Marshall.
Fatal Kiss Mystery, The. Rufus King.
Fathoms Deep. Elizabeth Stancy Payne.
Feast of the Lanterns, The. Louise Jordan Miln.
Fellowship of the Frog, The. Edgar Wallace.
Fidelia. Edwin Balmer.
Fifteen Cells, The. Stuart Martin.
Fight on the Standing Stone. Francis Lynde.
Findings Is Keepings. John Boyd Clarke.
Find the Clock. Harry Stephen Keeler.
Fine Feathers. Margery Lawrence.
Fire Brain. Max Brand.
Fire Tongue. Sax Rohmer.
First Sir Percy, The Baroness Orczy.
Fish Preferred. P. G. Wodehouse.
Flame of Happiness, The. Florence Ward.
Flames of Desire. L. Noel.
Flaming Jewel, The. Robert W. Chambers.
Flamingo. Mary Borden.
Fleur de Lys. J. G. Sarasin.
Flood Tide. Sara Ware Basset.
Flowing Gold. Rex Beach.
Flutes of Shanghai, The. Louise Jordan Mila.
Flying Clues. Charles J. Dutton.
Flying Squad, The. Edgar Wallace.
Fool in the Forest, A. Anthony Pryde.
Foolish Virgin, The. Kathleen Norris.
Footsteps in the Night. G. Fraser-Simpson.
Footsteps That Stopped. A. Fielding.


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Gideon. Inez Haynes Irwin.
Gift in the Gauntlet, The. Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Gift of the Desert. Randall Parrish.
Girl of the Golden West David Belasco.
Girl from the Big Horn Country, The. Mary Ellen Chase.
Girl From Scotland Yard. Edgar Wallace.
Girl Who Cast Out Fear. Dorothy Speare.
Glitter. Katherine Brush.
Glory Rides the Range. Ethel and James Dorrance.
God and the Groceryman. Harold Bell Wright.
God's Country and the Woman. James Oliver Curwood.
Go-Getter Gary. Robert Ames Bennet.
Going Some. Rex Beach.
Gold and the Mounted. James B. Hendryx.
Golden Ballast. H. De Vere Stacpoole.
Golden Beast, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Golden Butterfly. A. M. Williamson.
Golden Centipede, The. Louise Gerard.
Golden Cocoon. Ruth Cross.
Golden Ladder, The. Major Rupert Hughes.
Golden Road, The. L. M. Montgomery.
Golden Scorpion, The. Sax Rohmer.
Golden Spurs, The. J. S. Fletcher.
Golden Woman, The. Ridgwell Cullum.
Gold Tooth, The. John Taine.
Golf Without Tears. P. G. Wodehouse.
Good Red Bricks, The. Mary Synon.
Good References. E. J. Rath.
Goose Woman, The. Rex Beach.
Gordon of the Lost Lagoon. Robert Watson.
Granite and Clay. Sara Ware Basset.
Graven Image. Margaret Widdemer.
Gray Angels, The. Nalbro Bartley.
Gray Magic. Herman Landon.
Gray Phantom, The. Herman Landon.
Gray Phantom's Return. Herman Landon.
Gray Terror. Herman Landon.
Greater Love Hath No Man. Frank L. Packard.
Great Impersonation, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Great Moment, The. Elinor Glyn.
Great Prince Shan, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Green Archer, The. Edgar Wallace.
Green Blot, The. Sinclair Gluck.
Green Dolphin, The. Sara Ware Basset.
Green Dragon, The. J. Jefferson Farjeon.
Green Eyes of Bast, The. Sax Rohmer.


IWO WEL .
WOK


UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

3 9015 06391 6665
Hudson's
BookShop