Dr. Poggioli: Criminologist (The Lost Classics Book 14)

by T. S. Stribling

  “Maybe the Emperor was pifflicated when he put up this post; that’s why he put in too little dye and too much cement.” Poggioli shook his head.

  “If he had been under the influence of alcohol he wouldn’t have gone to work at hard manual labor.”

  “I am sure he wasn’t drinking,” agreed the daughter, “but if he left out the pink color he must have been tremendously excited about something. Why, color was the main thing with papa about the colonnade.”

  Poggioli shook his head in thoughtful negation.

  “No, Mr. Maddelow wasn’t excited. Excitement is something that demands thought, but Maddelow used this pergola as something to deaden his memories of his financial losses. If he were excited about something else, he never would have worked on the pergola in the first place. Therefore he didn’t leave out his dye through excitement.”

  “Look here,” said Sandley acridly, “you seem to be able to prove our theories untrue—why don’t you try one of your own and see how that comes out?”

  Mr. Lambert broke into this incipient acrimony—

  “Oh, Mr. Poggioli, I happened to think of something. Will you step in the library for a moment?”

  Sandley looked at Lambert. “What’s in the library?”

  “Something Mr. Poggioli ought to see,” evaded Lambert with a trace of embarrassment.

  With this Lambert stepped through a French window that gave on the pergola, and the scientist followed. A moment later Poggioli found himself in a long sunlit room with cases of books on two sides. Lambert walked quickly to a picture that was hung low against the wall. He beckoned silently to Laura Maddelow, who stood looking at them through the window.

  “Let us in here, Laura,” he requested in a low tone.

  The girl approached, rather at sea.

  “Why, Lawrence, you know papa’s not in there!”

  Lambert shook his head at her for silence, then drew aside the picture and displayed a small door masked by wallpaper. He pushed back the panel and displayed the steel door of a safe.

  “You know the combination, Laura; open it for us, please.”

  “But there’s nothing left in here that’s valuable,” protested Miss Maddelow, and began turning the combination, presently swinging open the small, heavy door.

  The vault contained an orderly collection of account books and private papers. Lambert opened a small drawer and took out a linen envelope. With a glance at the French window, he handed this to the scientist and whispered—

  “There you are, Mr. Poggioli; that’s why they killed him.”

  “Who killed him?” frowned the criminologist, puzzled. “Why, Lynch and Sandley,” whispered the fellow.

  “Lawrence Lambert, what are you saying!” exclaimed Miss Maddelow in horror.

  “Look at it! Read it!” pressed Lambert in hushed excitement. The scientist drew out a crackling enclosure.

  “Read a life insurance policy?” he asked blankly. “Certainly—read the amount.”

  Poggioli caught his breath.

  “What—a million, two hundred and fifty—”

  “That’s right,” hurried Lambert. “Biggest policy ever issued in Miami up to the time he bought it. Now look when the premium’s due.”

  The psychologist followed Mr. Lambert’s finger with quickening interest. “Why, it’s tomorrow,” he exclaimed.

  “Of course it is. Just happened to think of it. My heaven, don’t see why it didn’t occur to me the minute we found that Brompton Maddelow was mur—”

  “Who was the million and a quarter made to?” queried the psychologist. “His estate—to protect his creditors. When I sold Mr. Maddelow that insurance I told him he was doing the best thing in the world for his business, stabilizing it. My Lord, I didn’t dream if he went broke his creditors would kill him to make him solvent again.”

  “So you think his creditors have done away with him?”

  “Of course they have. Every debt against him is worth a hundred cents on the dollar now.”

  “But Sandley and Lynch—did he owe them anything?”

  “No, he didn’t. But he sold Lynch a ten per cent interest in this villa for four hundred dollars; later he sold Sandley another ten per cent for two-fifty. He was honest with ’em. He explained there were mortgages against the place and very likely they wouldn’t get anything out of it except their room rent up to the time of foreclosure. But now, by murdering him, these rats have paid off all the mortgages and they’ve got ten per cent interest in holdings worth a cool million.”

  Mr. Poggioli listened in astonishment to this extraordinary theory.

  “Then the vanishing of the speedboat has nothing to do with Mr. Maddelow’s disappearance?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it would be necessary to Lynch and Sandley’s plans that the body should be found. His death would have to be proved to set up the insurance.”

  Lambert thought a moment, then stretched his theory to fit the conditions. “They have probably killed him and moored the boat somewhere where it can be found.”

  At this point the girl behind them caught her breath and gasped:

  “Oh, Mr. Poggioli. I—I know what’s happened to papa! He did it himself!” And with this Laura Maddelow leaned against the door of the vault and began weeping outright.

  The psychologist was shocked.

  “Miss Maddelow, why do you say such a thing?”

  “Because his policy was about to run out. He had been trying every way lately to get up some money. He had advertised his speedboat for five hundred dollars. Once he thought he had sold it to a Captain Greer on board the Arequipa—”

  “But he didn’t make the sale?”

  “I don’t think so. Then he saw the time was out on his policy—he—he couldn’t make the next premium in—in any way at all, so he—he—” Laura Maddelow began weeping miserably.

  The two men looked at each other at this tragic theory.

  “He could have done that, Mr. Poggioli,” assented Lambert in a gray tone. “Brompton Maddelow had a keen sense of honor; he felt his responsibility toward his creditors. You see, he was a poor man once.”

  “As a rule,” pointed out the psychologist more hopefully, “millionaires recover from any dangerous overscrupulousness by the time they have accumulated their fortunes. I can imagine a wealthy man killing himself if his debts were about to be collected, but not in order to pay his debts.”

  Mr. Lambert suddenly brightened.

  “Look here, I wonder if it’s possible. I’ll bet it is.”

  “What is it?” asked the girl.

  “Laura, do you know this Captain Greer didn’t buy your father’s boat?”

  “I’m not sure. I heard papa talking to him over the telephone. I understood the captain wouldn’t take the boat.”

  “Good gracious, that explains everything!” cried Lambert. “Your father was a

  salesman. He never took no for an answer. I’ll bet he’s down there right now demonstrating his boat to the captain. Here, what’s the captain’s number?”

  The ex-insurance agent started for the telephone.

  “He hasn’t any number. You call for the Arequipa at the docks. But why would papa call to me for help, Lawrence, if he was going to deliver a speedboat?”

  “Oh, you didn’t hear anything. That was a dream.” He put the receiver to his ear. “Operator! Operator! I want the steamship Arequipa of the Fruit Lines— now, now, don’t argue with me, I want the steamship Arequipa—” He put his palm over the transmitter to say, “These simp operators always trying to explain something—”

  The French window opened and Lynch and Sandley entered the library protesting in chorus—

  “Look, will you, the Emperor has been trying to double-cross us!”

  “What do you think you’ve found?” asked the girl indignantly.

  “Why look at this note! He’s paid off a mere personal note of hand—not a mortgage at all—paid it off without saying howdy to anybody!�
��

  Even Mr. Lambert lowered the telephone to stare at the idea of Brompton Maddelow paying off a note.

  “That explains why he was yelling for help,” suggested Lynch sardonically. “Why shouldn’t he have paid it off?” demanded the girl.

  “Because every cent he spent on outside debts weakened our mortgage on the villa,” returned Sandley warmly.

  “Who’s the note made to?” asked Lambert. “Who in the world came here in the middle of the night and collected a note from Brompton Maddelow!” Lynch put together two pieces of a torn note.

  “Tom Snodgrass,” he read. “It’s for five hundred and sixty dollars.”

  Poggioli reached for the paper, adjusted the two ends and read the word “paid”

  scrawled across the face in lead pencil. “Where did you find this?”

  “Out there by the vat. The Emperor evidently paid it, then tore it in two and threw it away.”

  “That’s an odd thing, for a systematic man like him to throw away a canceled note—” Poggioli stood studying the paper. “How did he get five hundred and sixty dollars at three in the morning? Did he have that much money in his pockets?”

  “No, nor in his bank either,” said Lynch sharply. Sandley broke into incredulous laughter.

  “I’ve got it, by George! This Captain Greer traded for one of the Emperor’s notes and used it to pay for the boat. No wonder the Emperor was mad as a wet hen!” The speaker laughed heartily.

  “But he couldn’t have done that,” objected the girl. “The advertisement says the buyer must pay cash.” She walked to a table for a paper. “Here is the ad,” she said, coming back, “marked around with a pencil.”

  Poggioli took the paper and looked at the advertisement curiously. It was two lines describing the Sea Maid, forty-six footer, two three hundred H.P. Diesel engines, max. speed 52 M.P.H. Apply private pier Villa Maddelow, terms cash,

  $500.00.

  Poggioli shook his head.

  “This is one of the most puzzling features of this case,” he said slowly. “What—the advertisement?”

  “No, the pencil mark around the advertisement.”

  “Why, what’s puzzling about that?”

  “This is Mr. Maddelow’s paper, isn’t it, delivered to him here in the villa?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Then he sat here in his chair, read it and made this mark around his own advertisement?”

  “Certainly. What’s odd about that?”

  “Simply this; the only reason any one marks something in a newspaper is to refer to it quickly. What reason could Mr. Maddelow have had for a quick reference to his own ad?”

  “I’ve got it,” said Sandley. “He was expecting Greer to offer him a note for the Sea Maid and he wanted to show that his ad said cash.”

  Poggioli punctured the suggestion with another of his impressive and spontaneous observations—

  “But Snodgrass’s endorsement is not on the back of the note.”

  “No-o, but—”

  Poggioli interrupted:

  “Does anybody here know Tom Snodgrass? Who is he?”

  All the listeners stood silent shaking their heads when the telephone bell whirred. Lambert reclapped the receiver to his ear.

  “Hello! Hello! Is this Captain Greer of the Arequipa? Hello, Captain: Lawrence Lambert speaking at the Villa Maddelow . . . say, is Brompton Maddelow aboard your vessel? . . . Well, did he bring the Sea Maid down to demonstrate her to you? . . . don’t know whether he did or not . . . But she was down there? Passed your ship going south . . . I see . . . thanks very much . . . Yes, we were getting uneasy about him. By the way, did you happen to notice if he went to some other vessel at the docks? . . . What docks! Why, the docks down at the docks—the Miami docks . . . What? . . . You don’t mean it.”

  Lambert put down the telephone and stared at his listeners.

  “The Sea Maid passed the Arequipa two hundred miles down the coast. They were both going south!”

  Miss Maddelow suddenly switched from grief over her father’s death to anxiety over his mysterious voyage. The two co-owners were also sharply moved.

  “Look here,” cried Sandley, “if the Emperor has gone into that game we’re sunk!”

  “What game? What do you mean?” demanded the girl.

  “I guess he got desperate and had to do something,” said Lynch.

  “But if he gets caught, his creditors will suck everything up like a sponge!” Laura twisted her fingers together.

  “What are you men talking about! What’s papa doing?”

  The telephone buzzed again. Lambert leaped to it. He listened a moment, then slapped it back up.

  “It’s that confounded careless telephone operator. She gave me wireless connection with the Arequipa and the bill’s six eighty-two.”

  “You ought to be more careful yourself,” reproved Lynch. “You ought to ask if you’ve got wireless or line connections.”

  “Me got wireless connections?” cried Lambert sharply. “I didn’t get any at all. I was phoning for you people.”

  “But you called the Emperor up yourself.”

  “Lawrence—Mr. Lynch, stop quarreling!” cried the daughter in desperation. “What are you men talking about? What do you think papa’s doing?”

  Gary Maddelow, her brother, entered the library from some search of his own. The girl blurted out to him that their father was on the Sea Maid halfway down the coast of Florida and these men wouldn’t tell her what her father was after.

  Lynch took his courage in his hands.

  “Well, Miss Laura, I hate to say it—but we believe your father has—er—

  turned rum runner.” The girl stared.

  “You mean father—Why, you know better than that.”

  “Then what’s he after?” inquired Sandley. “It can’t be a pleasure trip.”

  “Gary, you are not going to stand there and let these men—”

  “Listen, sis, if dad has started any such business, you know it was his very last resort.”

  “You don’t believe any such falsehood, I hope!”

  “Well, I knew it had been proposed to him.” Laura dropped her hands.

  “Gary Maddelow, who in the world proposed such a thing?”

  “Why, James,” said the brother. “He proposed it to me, too.”

  “Of all impudence—our man of all work.”

  “He did it tactfully. I suppose he came at dad the same way.” The two co-proprietors of the villa took up the discussion.

  “Look here, how the Emperor got into this business doesn’t make any difference. He’s in. The question is, how’ll we get him out?”

  “But look here,” put in Lambert. “If Brompton Maddelow goes into this business how do you know he won’t make a big success? He’s a born organizer. We may be all setting jake the first thing you know.”

  “Lawrence,” cried Miss Maddelow, “do you imagine I’d let father do that for all the money in the world? What can we do to stop him? Tell me that.”

  Poggioli interposed to ask if the Sea Maid had a wireless. “She did have one, but dad sold it off of her,” said Gary.

  “Listen here,” put in Sandley, “there’s just one way I see. Get a plane. Lambert, you telephone the aviation field for a flying boat.”

  “Who’s going to pay for this?” demanded Lambert at once. “If you think you are going to stick me for a flying bill on top of a wireless call—”

  “No, no, of course not,” pacified Sandley, “and the bill won’t be so much either. Air taxi business is slow nowadays. They say the aviators will take you up for the price of their gas.”

  Lambert picked up the receiver dubiously.

  Mr. Poggioli moved over to Gary Maddelow with the torn note.

  “Do you know any one by the name of Tom Snodgrass?” he inquired.

  “Sure, Tom Snodgrass is our man of all work. We always called him James. Why?”

  “Your sister didn’t know that.”

  “Si
s,” called the young man in surprise, “what do you mean by not knowing James’s name was Tom Snodgrass?”

  “Why, I did know it. Who said I didn’t?”

  “Mr. Poggioli, when he showed you this note.”

  “Oh, the note. You know that Tom Snodgrass isn’t James. Papa wouldn’t be borrowing five hundred and sixty dollars from the hired man. That’s what I meant when I said I didn’t know any Tom Snodgrass. I meant I didn’t know any other Tom Snodgrass.”

  At this moment Lynch was shouting:

  “Look here, I’ve got the whole thing figured out! James’s note is torn up. Then it’s been paid off in some way or other. He had been trying to persuade somebody to go into the rum running business with him. Very well, he got the Emperor. They’re partners. The Emperor risked his boat and James risked his note.”

  “Yes,” snarled Sandley, “and they’ll both get caught and we’ll all lose this villa.”

  “Everybody hush!” cried Lambert from the telephone. “Is this the flying field? We want a flying boat—a pretty big flying boat . . . Listen, how many here want to go?”

  Came a general clamor and raising of hands.

  “Look here, we’re not chartering the DO-X,” protested Lambert.

  There broke out a swift conversation in undertones to determine who should go and who would have the most influence on Mr. Maddelow to persuade him to change his occupation. It turned out that each person thought he was more influential than the others. Just then Lambert put his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and called out—

  “Listen, how we going to pay for this?”

  “What you want to know for?” grumbled Lynch.

  “The devil, it isn’t me. I already know you can’t pay for it. It’s the airmen.”

  “How much is his fee?” asked Sandley.

  Lambert made motions for them not to shout so loud; then he answered Sandley’s query about the size of the aviator’s fee—

  “I told him how we were shaped up here and he said he would go for his gas and oil.”

  “Now that will be the devil of a note,” said Lynch, “if we lose this air trip just because we can’t furnish the gas and oil.”

  “Wait,” cried Laura Maddelow, flying back to the camouflaged vault. “Wouldn’t papa’s courtesy card do?”