Average Jones

by Samuel Hopkins Adams

  CHAPTER II. RED DOT

  From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon thewhirl of Fifth Avenue, warming itself under a late March sun.

  In the outer offices a line of anxious applicants was being disposed ofby his trained assistants. To the advertising expert's offices had comethat day but three cases difficult enough to be referred to the Ad-Visorhimself. Two were rather intricate financial lures which Average Joneswas able to dispose of by a mere "Don't." The third was a Spiritualistannouncement behind which lurked a shrewd plot to entrap a senilemillionaire into a marriage with the medium. These having been settled,the expert was free to muse upon a paragraph which had appeared in allthe important New York morning papers of the day before.

  REWARD-$1,000 reward for information as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog "Rags" killed in office of Malcolm Dorr, Stengel Building, Union Square, March 29.

  "That's too much money for a dog," decided Average Jones. "Particularlyone that hasn't any bench record. I'll just have a glance into thething."

  Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and crossingover to Union Square, entered the gloomy old building which is the solesurvival of the days when the Stengel estate foresaw the upward trendof business toward Fourteenth Street. Stepping from the elevator at theseventh floor, he paused underneath this sign:

  MALCOLM DORR ANALYTICAL AND CONSULTING CHEMIST Hours 10 to 4

  Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes,sitting at a desk.

  "Mr. Dorr?" he asked.

  "Yes," replied the fat young man nervously, "but if you are a reporter,I must--"

  "I am not," interrupted the other. "I am an expert on advertising, and Iwant that one thousand dollars reward."

  The chemist pushed his chair back and rubbed his forehead.

  "You mean you have--have found out something?"

  "Not yet. But I intend to."

  Dorr stared at him in silence.

  "You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?"

  "Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly," said the other mechanically.

  Average Jones shot a sudden glance of surprise at him, then lookeddreamily at his own finger-nails.

  "I can sympathize with you. I have exhibited for some years. Your dogwas perhaps a green ribboner?"

  "Er--oh--yes; I believe so."

  "Ah! Several of mine have been. One in particular, took medal aftermedal; a beautiful glossy brown bulldog, with long silky ears, and theslender splayed-out legs that are so highly prized but so seldom seennowadays. His tail, too, had the truly Willoughby curve, from his dam,who was a famous courser."

  Mr. Dorr looked puzzled. "I didn't know they used that kind of dog forcoursing," he said vaguely.

  Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the creasealong the knee of his carefully pressed trousers. His tone, when next hespoke, was that of a youth bored with life. Any of his intimates wouldhave recognized in it, however, the characteristic evidence that hismind was ranging swift and far to a conclusion.

  "Mr. Dorr," he drawled, "who--er--owned your--er--dog?"

  "Why, I--I did," said the startled chemist.

  "Who gave him to you?"

  "A friend."

  "Quite so. Was it that--er--friend who--er--offered the reward?"

  "What makes you think that?"

  "This, to be frank. A man who doesn't know a bulldog from a bed-springisn't likely to be offering a thousand dollars to avenge the death ofone. And the minute you answered my question as to whether you caredfor dogs, I knew you didn't. When you fell for a green ribbon, anda splay-legged, curly-tailed medal-winner in the brindle bull class(there's no such class, by the way), I knew you were bluffing. Mr. Dorr,who--er--has been--er--threatening your life?"

  The chemist swung around in his chair.

  "What do you know?" he demanded.

  "Nothing. I'm guessing. It's a fair guess that a reasonably valuablebrindle bull isn't presented to a man who cares nothing for dogs withoutsome reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is it in your case?"

  "Yes, it is," replied the other, after some hesitation.

  "And now the protection is gone. Don't you think you'd better let me inon this?"

  "Let me speak to my--my legal adviser first."

  He called up a down-town number on the telephone and asked to beconnected with Judge Elverson. "I may have to ask you to leave theoffice for a moment," he said to his caller.

  "Very well. But if that is United States District Attorney RogerElverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones who wants to know, andremind him of the missing letter opium advertisement."

  Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway,whither he had gone.

  "Elverson says to tell you the whole thing," said the chemist, "inconfidence, of course."

  "Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?"

  "The Paragon Pressed Meat Company."

  Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimalspeck from his left cuff. "Ah," he commented, "the Canned Meat Trust.What have you been doing to them?"

  "Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certainby-products used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I foundthey were using it on canned meats that had gone bad, and then sellingthe stuff."

  "Would the meat so treated be poisonous?"

  "Well--dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning themthat they must stop."

  "Did they reply?"

  "A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if Ithought my invention was worth more than I'd received, his principals,would be glad to take the matter up with me. Shortly after I heard thatthe Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr.Elverson."

  "Mistake Number One. Elverson is straight, but his office is fuller ofleaks than a sieve."

  "That's probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanidefumes a fortnight later," remarked Dorr dryly. "I got to the outer airalive, but not much more. A week later there was an explosion in thelaboratory. I didn't happen to be there at the time. The odd feature ofthe explosion was that I hadn't any explosive drugs in the place."

  "Where is this laboratory?"

  "Over in Flatbush, where I live--or did live. Within a month after that,a friendly neighbor took a pot-shot at a man who was sneaking up behindme as I was going home late one night. The man shot, too, but missed me.I reported it to the police, and they told me to be sure and not let thenewspapers know. Then they forgot it."

  Average Jones laughed. "Of course they did. Some day New York will findout that 'the finest police force in the world' is the biggest shamoutside the dime museum. Except in the case of crimes by the regular,advertised criminals, they're as helpless as babies. Didn't you take anyother precautions?"

  "Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He sent a secretservice man over to live with me. Then I got a commission out in Denver.When I came back, about a month ago, Judge Elverson gave me the twodogs."

  "Two?"

  "Yes. Rags and Tatters."

  "Where's Tatters?"

  "Dead. By the same road as Rags."

  "Killed at your place in Flatbush?"

  "No. Right here in this room."

  Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the second buttonof his coat. Having satisfied himself of its stability, he drawled,"Er--both of--er--them?"

  "Yes. Ten days apart."

  "Where were you?"

  "On the spot. That is, I was here when Tatters got his death. I had goneto the wash-room at the farther end of the hall when Rags was poisoned."

  "Why do you say poisoned?"

  "What else could it have been? There was no wound on either of thedogs."

  "Was there evidence of poison?"

  "Pathological only. In Tatters case it was very marked. He was dozing ina corner near the radiator when I heard
him yelp and saw him snapping athis belly. He ran across the room, lay down and began licking himself.Within fifteen minutes he began to whine. Then he stiffened out in asort of a spasm. It was like strychnine poisoning. Before could get aveterinary here he was dead."

  "Did you make any examination?"

  "I analyzed the contents of his stomach, but did not obtain positiveresults."

  "What about the other dog?"

  "Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over fromFlatbush and Razs was nosing around in the corner--"

  "Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?"

  "Yes, near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in something therewhen I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes."

  "Lock the door after you?"

  "It has a special spring lock which I had put on it."

  Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then hisglance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new fastening."You didn't use that larger lock?"

  "No. I haven't for months. The key is lost, I think."

  Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from the radiator,and shook his head.

  "It's not in range," he said. "Go on."

  "As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. You may believeI got to him quickly. He was pawing wildly at his nose. I called upthe nearest veterinary. Within ten minutes the convulsions came on. Theveterinary was here when Rags died, which was within fifteen minutes ofthe first spasm. He didn't believe it was strychnine. Said the attackswere different. Whatever it was, I couldn't find any trace of it in thestomach. The veterinary took the body away and made a complete autopsy."

  "Did he discover anything?"

  "Yes. The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found a circleof small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probably swallowed somethingthat was left in my office, though I don't see how it could have gotthere."

  "That won't do," returned Average Jones positively. "A dog doesn't cryout when he swallows poison, unless it's some corrosive."

  "It was no corrosive. I examined the mouth."

  "What about the radiator?" asked Average Jones, getting down on hisknees beside that antiquated contrivance. "It seems to have been thecenter of disturbance."

  "If you're thinking of fumes," replied the chemist. "I tested for that.It isn't possible."

  "No; I suppose not. And yet, there's the curious feature that the fatalinfluence seems to have emanated from the corner which is the mostremote from both windows and door. Are your windows left open at night?"

  "The windows, sometimes. The transom is kept double-bolted."

  "Do they face any other windows near by?"

  "You can see for yourself that they don't."

  "There's no fire-escape and it's too far up for anything to come in fromthe street." Average examined the walls with attention and returned tothe big keyhole, through which he peeped.

  "Do you ever chew gum?" he asked suddenly.

  The Chemist stared at him. "It isn't a habit of mine to," he said.

  "But you wouldn't have any objection to my sending for some, insatisfaction of a sudden irresistible craving?"

  "Any particular brand? I'll phone the corner drug store."

  "Any sort will suit, thank you."

  When the gum arrived, Average Jones, after politely offering some tohis host, chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out toan extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the unusedkeyhole, which it completely though thinly, veiled.

  "Now, what's that for?" inquired the chemist, eying the improvisedclosure with some contempt.

  "Don't know, exactly, yet," replied the deviser, cheerfully. "But whenqueer and fatal things happen in a room and there's only one opening,it's just as well to keep your eye on that, no matter how small it is.Better still, perhaps, if you'd shift your office."

  The fat young chemist pushed his hair back, looked out of the window,and then turned to Average Jones. The rather flabby lines of his facehad abruptly hardened over the firm contour below.

  "No. I'm hanged if I will," he said simply.

  An amiable grin overspread Average Jones' face.

  "You've got more nerve than prudence," he observed. "But I don't say youaren't right. Since you're going to stick to the ship, keep your eye onthat gum. If it lets go its hold, wire me."

  "All right," agreed young Mr. Dorr. "Whatever your little game is, I'llplay it. Give me your address in case you leave town."

  "As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on specialorder to dig through the files of the local and neighboring citynewspapers for recent items concerning dog-poisoning cases. If ourunknown has devised a new method of canicide, it's quite possible he mayhave worked it somewhere else, too. Good-by, and if you can't be wise,be careful."

  Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular pastimein and around New York, judging from the succession of news items whichpoured in upon him from the clipping bureau. Several days were exhaustedby false clues. Then one morning there arrived, among other data, anarticle from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator which caused the Ad-Visorto sit up with a jerk. It detailed the poisoning of several dogsunder peculiar circumstances. Three hours later he was in the bustlingConnecticut city. There he took carriage for the house of Mr. CurtisFleming, whose valuable Great Dane dog had been the last victim.

  Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly, gentleman all grownto a point: pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of irasciblegleam, and a most pointed manner of speech.

  "Who are you?" he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was ushered in.

  Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal withit.

  "Jones!" he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the monosyllablefairly exploded in the other's face.

  "Well, well, well," said the elder man, his aspect suddenly mollified."Don't bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what do you want ofme?"

  "Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to now about your dog."

  "Reporter?"

  "No."

  "Glad of it. They're no good. Had my reporters on this case. Foundnothing."

  "Your reporters?"

  "I own the Bridgeport Delineator."

  "What about the dog?"

  "Good boy!" approved the old martinet. "Sticks to his point. Dog wasout walking with me day before yesterday. Crossing a vacant lot onnext square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber. Dog nosedaround. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm. Died in fifteenminutes. And hang me, sir," cried the old man, bringing his fist downon Average Jones' knee, "if I see how the poison got him, for he wasmuzzled to the snout, sir!"

  "Muzzled? Then--er--why do, you--er--suggest poison?" drawled the youngman.

  "Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week."

  "All in this locality?"

  "Yes, all on Golden Hill."

  "Any suspicions?"

  "Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this."

  Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his host extended,and read:

  "WARNING-Residents of the Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestlycautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles oroutbuildings until further notice. Danger!"

  "When was this published?"

  "Wasn't published. Delineator refused it. Thought it was a case ofinsanity."

  "Who offered it?"

  "Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner withold-fashioned conservatory."

  "How long ago?"

  "About a week."

  "All the dogs you speak of died since then?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he give any explanation of the advertisement?"

  "No. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the office, the businessmanager said. Wouldn't sign his name to the thing. Wouldn't say anythingabout it. Begged the manager to let him have the weather reports inadvance
, every day. The manager put the advertisement in type, decidednot to it, and returned the money."

  "'Weather reports, eh?" Average Jones mused a moment. "How long was thead to run?"

  "Until the first hard frost."

  "Has there--er--been a--er--frost since?" drawled Average Jones.

  "No."

  "Who is this Moseley?"

  "Don't know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind, Ibelieve. Very exclusive," added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. "Neversociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane,too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them."

  "How's that?" inquired Average Jones.

  The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "It gotenclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The handwritingon the envelope is his own. Look inside."

  A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter, had been mailed in NewYork on March twenty-fifth. He took out the enclosure. It was a smallslip of paper. The date was stamped on with a rubber stamp. There was nowriting of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three dots. Theyseemed to have been made with red ink.

  "You're sure the address is in Professor Moseley's writing?"

  "I'd swear to it."

  "It doesn't follow that he mailed it to himself. In fact, I should judgethat it was sent by someone who was particularly anxious not to have anyspecimen of his handwriting lying about for identification.

  "Perhaps. What's your interest in all this, anyway my mysterious youngfriend?"

  "Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours."

  "Well, I've got my man. He confessed."

  "Confessed?" echoed Average Jones.

  "Practically. I've kept the point of the story to the last. ProfessorMoseley committed suicide this morning."

  If Mr. Curtis Fleming had designed to make an impression on his visitor,his ambition was fulfilled. Average Jones got to his feet slowly, walkedover to the window, returned, picked up the strange proof with itsmessage of suggested peril, studied it, returned to the window, andstared out into the day.

  "Cut his throat about nine o'clock this morning," pursued the other."Dead when they found him."

  "Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?" said Average Jones curtly.

  "Told to hold my tongue in my own house by uninvited stripling," cackledthe other. "You' re a singular young man. Have it your own way."

  After a five minutes' silence the visitor turned from the window andspoke. "There has been a deadly danger loose about here for whichProfessor Moseley felt himself responsible. He has killed himself. Why?"

  "Because I was on his trail," declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Afraid toface me."

  "Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing,whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to suicide."

  "Prove it."

  "Give me a morning paper."

  His host handed him the current issue of the Delineator.

  Average Jones studied the local page.

  "Where's Galvin's Alley?" he asked presently.

  "Two short blocks from here."

  "In the Golden Hill section?"

  "Yes."

  "Read that."

  Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a paragraphtelling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin's Alley.Cause, convulsions.

  "By Jove!" said he, somewhat awed. "You can reason, young man."

  "I've got to, reason a lot further, if I'm to get anywhere in thisaffair," said Average Jones with conviction. "Do you care, to come toGalvin's Alley with me?"

  Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by whitecrepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. They saidthat four-year-old Pietro had been playing around a woodpile theafternoon before, when he was taken sick and came home, staggering. Thedoctor could do nothing. The little one passed from spasm into spasm,and died in an hour.

  "Was there a mark like a ring anywhere on the hand or face?" askedAverage Jones.

  The dead child's father looked surprised. That, he said, was what thestrange gentleman who had come that very morning asked, a queer, bentlittle gentlemen, very bald and with big eye-glasses, who was kind, andwept with them and gave them money to bury the "bambino."

  "Moseley, by the Lord Harry!" exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. "But whatwas the death-agent?"

  Average Jones shook his head. "Too early to do more than guess. Will youtake me to Professor Moseley's place?"

  The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory on onewing. In the front room they found the recluse's body decently disposed,with an undertaker's assistant in charge. From the greenhouse came asubdued hissing.

  "What's that?" asked Jones.

  "Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the bodyinsisting on its being done. 'For safety,' it said, so I ordered itlooked to."

  "You're in charge, then?"

  "It's my house. And there are no relatives so far as I know. Come andlook at his papers. You won't find much."

  In the old-fashioned desk was a heap of undecipherable matter,interspersed with dates, apparently bearing upon scientific experiments;a package of letters from the Denny Research Laboratories of St. Louis,mentioning enclosure of checks; and three self-addressed envelopesbearing New York postmarks, of dates respectively, March 12, March 14and March 20. Each contained a date-stamped sheet of paper, similar tothat which Mr. Curtis Fleming had shown to Average Jones. The one ofearliest date bore two red dots; the second, three red dots, and thethird, two. All the envelopes were endorsed in Professor Moseley'shandwriting; the first with the one word "Filled." The second writingwas "Held for warmer weather." The last was inscribed "One in poorcondition."

  Of these Average Jones made careful note, as well as of the laboratoryaddress. By this time the hissing of the fumigating apparatus hadceased. The two men went to the conservatory and gazed in upon a ruin oflimp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by the powerful gases. Suddenly,with an exclamation of astonishment, the investigator stooped and liftedfrom the floor a marvel of ermine body and pale green wings. The moth,spreading nearly a foot, was quite dead.

  "Here's the mate, sir," said the fumigating expert, handing him anotherspecimen, a trifle smaller. "The place was crowded with all kinds ofpretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now."

  Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them and laidthem carefully away in a drawer.

  "The rest must wait," he said. "I have to send a telegram."

  With the interested Mr. Curtis Fleming in attendance, he went to thetelegraph office, where he wrote out a dispatch.

  "Mr. A. V. R. Jones?" said the operator. "There's a message here foryou."

  Average Jones took the leaflet and read:

  "Found gum on floor this morning when I arrived. MALCOLM DORR."

  Then he recalled his own blank, tore it up, and substituted thefollowing, which he ordered "rushed":

  MALCOLM DORR, STENGEL BUILDING, NEW YORY CITY:

  "Leave office immediately. Do not return until it has been fumigatedthoroughly. Imperative. A. V. R. JONES."

  "And now," said Average Jones to Mr. Fleming, "I'm going back to NewYork. If any collectors come chasing to you for luna moths, don't dealwith them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card."

  "Your orders shall be obeyed," said the older man, his beady eyestwinkling. "But why, in the name of all that's unheard of, shouldcollectors come bothering me about luna moths?"

  "Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the nextnumber of the National Science Weekly, and in coming issues of the NewYork Evening Register."

  He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement:

  "For Sale--Two largest known specimens of Tropaea luna, unmounted; respectively 10 and 11 inches spread. Also various other specimens from collection of late Gerald Moseley, of Conn. Write for part
iculars. Jones, Room 222 Astor Court Temple, New York."

  "What about further danger here?" inquired Mr. Fleming, as Average Jonesbade him good-by. "Would we better run that warning of poor Moseley's,after all?"

  For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late season whirl of snowenveloped the streets.

  "I see," said the old man. "The frost. Well Mr. Mysterious Jones, Idon't know what you're up to, but you've given me an interesting day.Let me know what comes of it."

  On the train back to New York, Average Jones Wrote two letters. Onewas to the Denny Research Laboratories in St. Louis, the other to theDepartment of Agriculture at Washington. On the following morning hewent to Dorr's office. That young chemist was in a recalcitrant frame ofmind.

  "I've done about ten dollars' worth of fumigating and a hundred dollars'worth of damage," he said, "and now, I'd like to have a Missouri sign.In other words, I want to be shown. What did some skunk want to kill mydogs for?"

  "He didn't."

  "But they're dead, aren't they?"

  "Accident."

  "What kind of an accident?"

  "The kind in which the innocent bystander gets the worst of it. You'rethe one it was meant for."

  "Me?"

  "Certainly. You'd probably have got it if the dog hadn't."

  The speaker examined the keyhole, then walked over to the radiatorand looked over, under and through it minutely. "Nothing there,"he observed; and, after extending his examination to the windows,book-shelf and desk, added:

  "I guess we might have spared the fumigation. However, the safest sideis the best."

  "What is it? Some new game in projective germs?" demanded the chemist.

  "Oh, disinfectants will kill other things besides germs," returnedAverage Jones. "Luna moths, for instance. Wait a few days and I'll havesome mail to show you on that subject. In the meantime, have a plumbersolder up that keyhole so tight that nothing short of dynamite can getthrough it."

  Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of lunamoths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came inby, every mail, responding variously with fervor, suspicion, yearningeagerness, and bitter skepticism to Average Jones' advertisement. Allof these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And eachday he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with thedirectory of occupants of the Stengel Building. Less than a week afterthe luna moth advertisement appeared, Average Jones walked into MalcolmDorr's office with a twinkle in his eye.

  "Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?" he asked the chemist.

  "Never heard of him."

  "Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the restof the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater Apartments,where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building.Likewise he works frequently at night. Finally, he is one of theconfidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat Company. Do you see?"

  "I begin," replied young Mr. Dorr.

  "It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above,to stop at this door on his way, down-stairs after quitting work lateat night when the elevator had stopped running and--let us say--peepthrough the keyhole."

  Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean linesof his face suddenly stood out again under the creasy flesh.

  "I don't know what you're going to do to Mr. Ross," he said, "but I wantto see him first."

  "I'm not going to do anything to him," returned Average Jones, "because,in the first place, I suspect that he is far, far away, having noted,doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of the nerves. It'sstrange how nervous your scientific murderer is. Anyway, Ross is only anagent. I'm going to aim higher."

  "As how?"

  "Well, I expect to do three things. First, I expect to scare a peacefulbut murderous trust multimillionaire almost out of his senses; second,I expect to dispatch a costly yacht to unknown seas; and third, I expectto raise the street selling price of the evening 'yellow' journals,temporarily, about one thousand per cent. What's the answer? The answeris 'Buy to-night's papers.'"

  New York, that afternoon, saw something new in advertising. That itreally was advertising was shown by the "Adv." sign, large and plain, inboth the papers which carried it. The favored journals were the onlytwo which indulged in "fudge" editions; that is, editions with glaringred-typed inserts of "special" news. On the front page of each,stretching narrowly across three columns, was a device showing a tinymapped outline in black marked Bridgeport, Conn., and a large skeletondraft of Manhattan Island showing the principal streets. From theConnecticut city downward ran a line of dots in red. The dots enteredNew York from the north, passed down Fourth Avenue to the south sideof Union Square, turned west and terminated. Beneath this map was thelegend, also in red:

  WATCH THE LINE ADVANCE IN LATER EDITIONS

  It was the first time in the records of journalism that the "fudge"device had been used in advertising.

  Great was the rejoicing of the "newsies" when public curiosity made a"run" upon these papers. Greater it grew when the "afternoon edition"appeared, and with their keen business instinct, the urchins saw thatthey could run the price upward, which they promptly did, in some caseseven to a nickel. This edition carried the same "fudge" advertisement,but now the red dots crossed over to Fifth Avenue and turned northwardas far as Twenty-third Street. The inscription was:

  UPWARD AND ONWARD SEE NEXT EXTRA

  For the "Night Extra" people paid five, ten, even fifteen cents. Rumorran wild. Other papers, even, look the matter up as news, and commentedupon the meaning of the extraordinary advertisement. This time, thered-dotted line went as far up Fifth Ave title as Fiftieth Street. Andthe legend was ominous:

  WHEN I TURN, I STRIKE

  That was all that evening. The dotted line did not turn.

  Keen as newspaper conjecture is, it failed to connect the "red-linemaps," with the fame of which the city was raging, with an item ofshipping news printed in the evening papers of the following day:

  CLEARED--For South American Ports, steam yacht Electra, New York. Owner John M. Colwell.

  And not until the following morning did the papers announce thatPresident Colwell, of the Canned Meat Trust, having been ordered by hisphysician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves, afterclosing his house on West Fifty-first Street, had sailed in his ownyacht. The same issue carried a few lines about the "freak ads." whichhad so sensationally blazed and so suddenly waned from the "yellows."The opinion was offered that they represented the exploitation ofsome new brand of whisky which would announce itself later. But thatannouncement never came, and President Colwell sailed to far seas, andMr. Curtis Fleming came to New York, keen for explanations, for he,too, had seen the "fudge" and marveled. Hence, Average Jones had him,together with young Mr. Dorr, at a private room luncheon at the CosmicClub, where he offered an explanation and elucidation.

  "The whole affair," he said, "was a problem in the connecting up ofloose ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in the office ofa man with powerful and subtle enemies, that office being practicallysealed against intrusion except for a very large keyhole. Some deadlything is introduced through that keyhole; so much is practically provenby the breaking out of the chewing gum with which I coated it. Probablythe scheme was carried out in the evening when the building was nearlydeserted. The killing influence reaches a corner far out of the directline of the keyhole. Being near the radiator, that corner represents theattraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was some sentientcreature."

  Dorr shuddered. "Some kind of venomous snake," he surmised.

  "Not a bad guess. But a snake, however small, would have been instantlynoticed by the dogs. Now, let's look at the Bridgeport end. Here, again,we have a deadly influence loosed; this time by accident. A scientificexperimentalist is the innocent cause of the disaster. Here, too, theperil is somewhat dependent upon warmth, since we know, from ProfessorMos
eley's agonized eagerness for a frost, that cold weather would haveput an end to it. The cold weather fails to come. Dogs are killed.Finally a child falls victim, and on that child is found a circularmark, similar to the mark on Mr. Dorr's dog's lip. You see the strikingpoints of analogy?"

  "Do you mean us to believe poor old Moseley a cold-blooded murderer?"demanded Mr. Curtis Fleming.

  "Far from it. At worst an unhappy victim of his own carelessness inloosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You're forgetting a connectinglink; the secretive red-dot communications from New York City addressedby Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer who ordered simply bya code of ink dots. He was the man I had to find. The giant luna mothshelped to do it."

  "I don't see where they come in at all," declared Dorr bluntly. "A motha foot wide couldn't crawl through a keyhole."

  "No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is as harmless as itis lovely. In this case the moths weren't active agents. They wereimportant only as clues--and bait. Their enormous size showed ProfessorMoseley's line of work; the selective breeding of certain forms oflife to two or three times the normal proportions. Very well; I hadto ascertain some creature which, if magnified several times, would bedeadly, and which would still be capable of entering a large keyhole.Having determined that--"

  "You found what it was?" cried Dorr.

  "One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touch withProfessor Moseley's mysterious New York correspondent. I figured that hemust be interested in Professor Moseley's particular branch of researchor he never could have devised his murderous scheme. So I constructedthe luna moth advertisement to draw him, and when I got a reply from Mr.Ross, who is a fellow-tenant of Mr. Dorr's, the chain was complete. Now,you see where the luna moths were useful. If I had advertised, insteadof them, the lathrodectus, he might have suspected and refrained fromanswering."

  "What's the lathrodectus?" demanded both the hearers at once.

  For answer Average Jones took a letter from his pocket and read:

  BUREAU OF ENTOMOLOGY, U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE, WASHINGTON, D.C., April 7

  MR. A. V. R. JONES,

  Astor Court Temple, New York City.

  DEAR Sir,

  Replying to your letter of inquiry, the only insect answering yourspecifications is a small spider Lathrodectus mactans, sometimespopularly called the Red Dot, from a bright red mark upon the back. Rarecases are known where death has been caused by the bite of this insect.Fortunately its fangs are so weak that they can penetrate only verytender skin, otherwise death from its bite would be more common, as thevenom, drop for drop, is perhaps the most virulent known to science.

  This Bureau knows nothing of any experiments in breeding theLathrodectus for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or three timesthe normal size would be dangerous to life is undoubtedly correct, andselected breeding to that end should be conducted only under adequatescientific safeguards. A Lathrodectus mactans with fangs large enough topenetrate the skin of the hand, and a double or triple supply of venom,would be, perhaps, more deadly than a cobra.

  The symptoms of poisoning by this species are spasms, similar to thoseof trismus, and agonizing general pains. There are no local symptoms,except, in some cases, a circle of small pustules about the bitten spot.

  Commercially, the Lathrodectus has value, in that the poison is used incertain affections of the heart. For details, I would refer you to theDenny Laboratories of St. Louis, Mo., which are purchasers of the venom.

  The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive asevere frost. It frequents woodpiles and outhouses. Yours truly,

  L. O. HOWARD, Chief of Bureau.

  "Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spiders whichhe had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the hope thatsooner or later one of them would get me," said Dorr.

  "A very reasonable expectation, too. Vide, the dogs," returned AverageJones.

  "And now," said Mr. Curtis Fleming, "will some one kindly explain to mewhat this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?"

  "Nothing," replied Average Jones.

  "Nothing? Was he coursing with spiders merely for sport?"

  "Oh, no. You see Mr. Dorr was interfering with the machinery of one ofour ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust. He possessed informationwhich would have indicted all the officials. Therefore it wasdesirable--even essential--that he should be removed from the pathway ofprogress."

  "Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!" snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming. "Trustsmay be unprincipled, but they don't commit individual crimes."

  "Don't they?" returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his ownboot-tip. "Did you ever hear of Mr. Adel Meyer's little corset steelwhich he invented to stick in the customs scales and rob the governmentfor the profit of his Syrup Trust? Or of the individual oil refinerieswhich mysteriously disappeared in fire and smoke at a time when theybecame annoying to the Combination Oil Trust? Or of the TractionTrust's two plots to murder Prosecutor Henry in San Francisco? I'm justmentioning a few cases from memory. Why, when a criminal trust facesonly loss it will commit forgery, theft or arson. When it faces jail, itwill commit murder just as determinedly. Self-defense, you know. As forthe case of Mr. Dorr--" and he proceeded to detail the various attemptson the young chemist's life.

  "But why so roundabout a method?" asked Dorr skeptically.

  "Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you throughagents. That didn't work. It was up to the Trust to put one of its ownconfidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised ameans that looked to be pretty safe and, in the long run, sure."

  "And would have been but for your skill, young Jones," declared Mr.Curtis Fleming, with emphasis.

  "Don't forget the fortunate coincidences," replied Average Jonesmodestly. "They're about half of it. In fact, detective work, for allthat is said on the other side, is mostly the ability to recognize andconnect coincidences. The coincidence of the escape of the Red Dots fromProfessor Moseley's breeding cages; the coincidence of the death of thedogs on Golden Hill, followed by the death of the child; the coincidenceof poor Moseley's having left the red dot letters on the desk insteadof destroying them; the coincidence of Dorr's dogs being bitten, when itmight easily have been himself had he gone to turn on the radiator anddisturbed the savage little spider--"'

  "And the chief coincidence of your having become interested in theadvertisement which Judge Elverson had me insert, really more to scareoff further attempts than anything else," put in Dorr. "What became ofthe spiders that were slipped through my keyhole, anyway?"

  "Two of them, as you know, were probably killed by the dogs. The othersmay well have died of cold. At night when the heat was off and thewindows open. The cleaning woman wouldn't have been likely to noticethem when she swept the bodies out. And, sooner or later, if Ross hadcontinued to insert Red Dots through the keyhole one of them would havebitten you, Dorr, and the Canned Meat Trust would have gone on its wayrejoicing."

  "Well, you've certainly saved my life," declared Dorr, "and it's a caseof sheer force of reasoning."

  Average Jones shook his head. "You might give some of the credit toProvidence," he said. "Just one little event would have meant thesaving of the Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and the death ofyourself, instead of the other way around."

  "And that event?" asked Mr. Curtis Fleming.

  "Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport," replied Average Jones.