Erl Gardner - The Cross-Stitch Killer

Paul Pry polished the razor-keen blade of his sword cane with the same attentive care a stone polisher might take in putting just the right lustre upon a fine piece of onyx.

Mugs Magoo sat slumped in a big overstuffed chair in the corner. He held a whiskey glass in his left hand. His right arm was off at the shoulder.

Eva Bentley sat in a small, glass-enclosed booth and listened to a radio which was tuned in on the wave length of the police broadcasting station. From time to time she took swift notes in competent shorthand, occasionally rattled out a few paragraphs on a portable typewriter which was on a desk at her elbow.

Mugs Magoo rolled his glassy eyes in the direction of Paul Pry. Some day, he said, some crook is going to grab the blade of that sword cane and bust it in two. Why dont you pack a big gun and forget that sword cane business? The blade aint big enough to cut off a plug of chewing tobacco.

Paul Pry smiled. The efficacy of this sword cane, Mugs, lies in its lightness and speed. Its like a clever boxer who flashes in, lands a telling blow, and jumps out again before a heavier adversary can even get set to deliver a punch.

Mugs Magoo nodded his head slowly and lugubriously. Now, he said, I know why you like that weaponthats the way you like to play game, jumping in ahead of the police, side-stepping the crooks, ducking out before anyone knows whats happened, and leaving a hell of a mess behind.

Paul Prys smile broadened into a grin, and the grin became a chuckle. Well, Mugs, he said, theres just a chance there may be something in that.

At that moment, Eva Bentley jumped to her feet, picked up her shorthand notebook and opened the door of the glass-enclosed compartment. Instantly, the sound of the police radio became audible.

What is it, Eva? asked Paul Pry. Something important?

Yes, she said, theres just been another corpse found, with his lips sewed together. Like the other one, hes a millionaireCharles B. Darwin is the victim this time. His murder is almost identical with that of the murder of Harry Travers. Both men were stabbed to death; both men had been receiving threatening letters through the mail; both men were found dead, with their lips sewed together with a peculiar cross-stitch.

Mugs Magoo poured himself a glass of whiskey. Thank God I aint no millionaire! he said.

Paul Pry finished polishing the blade of the sword cane, and inserted it in the cunningly disguised scabbard. His eyes were level-lidded in concentration, and his voice was quick and sharp.

I presume the police are making quite a commotion about it, he said.

Ill say they are, Eva Bentley told him. Theyve broadcast a general alarm telling all cars to drop everything and concentrate on finding this mysterious murderer. It seems to be a question of money. In fact, the police are certain of it. Evidently they have some information which has not been given to the press. However, its common knowledge that both men received letters demanding that they place a certain sum of money in an envelope and mail it to a certain person at a certain address. Both men disregarded the request and turned the letter over to the police.

Any information about any other men who have received similar letters? asked Paul Pry.

None. The police are simply giving instructions to the cars. Theyre assigning cars to the district in which the body was found.

Where was itin a house?

No, it was found in an automobile. The man had evidently been driving an automobile and had pulled in to the curb and stopped. He was killed seated at the wheel. The officers place the death as having taken place at about three oclock this morning. They are inclined to believe there was some woman companion in the automobile with him, and theyre trying to find her. They think that she knows something of the crime, or can at least give some clue to the murderer.

Anything else? asked Paul Pry.

Thats about all of it, she said. You dont want the detailed instructions which are being given the automobiles, do you?

No, he told her, not now. But make notes of everything that goes over the radio in connection with this crime.

She returned to the booth, where she closed the door and once more started her pencil flying over the pages of the shorthand notebook.

Paul Pry turned to Mugs Magoo. His face was fixed in an expression of keen concentration. All right, Mugs, he said, snap out of it and tell me what you know about the millionaires.

Mugs Magoo groaned. Aint it enough for me to know about the crooks? he asked, without having to spill all the dope on the millionaires?

Paul Pry laughed. I know what youre trying to do, Mugs, he said. Youre trying to keep me from taking an interest in this case because youre afraid of it. But Im going to take an interest in it just the same.

Mugs Magoo tilted the bottle of whiskey over the tumbler, drained the last drop from the tumbler, smacked his lips, then turned his glassy eyes toward Paul Pry.

Those were remarkable eyes. They protruded slightly and seemed dead and expressionless, as though covered with some thin, white film. But they were eyes that saw much and forgot nothing.

Mugs Magoo could give the name, antecedents, connection and criminal record of almost every known crook in the United States. Moreover, he had but to look at a face once in order to remember that man indefinitely. All gossip, all information which ever reached his ears; all occurrences which took place within the range of his vision, remained indelibly impressed upon his memory.

At one time he had been camera-eye man for the metropolitan police. A political shake-up had thrown him out of work, and an unfortunate accident had taken off his right arm at the shoulder. Feeling that he could never return to the police force he had indulged his desire for liquor, until, when Paul Pry found the man, he had been but a sodden wreck, begging a mere pittance as a cripple, by selling pencils on a street corner. Paul Pry had cultivated the man, gradually learned something of his history and the remarkable gift which had made him so valuable to the police. He had given him food, clothes, money, and an allowance of whiskey, which served to satisfy the keen craving of the mans insatiable appetite. From time to time, he used such information as Mugs Magoo could impart by drawing upon his encyclopedic knowledge of the underworld.

Mugs, said Paul Pry, what do you know about Charles Darwin?

Mugs Magoo shook his head. Keep out of it, chief, he said. Please keep out of it. Youre mixing with dynamite. This isnt the sort of a case where youre up against some cheap crook; youre dealing with a homicidal maniac here.

Paul Pry waited for a moment, then said again with slow emphasis: Mugs, what do you know about Charles Darwin?

Mugs Magoo sighed. To begin with, hes a millionaire who made his money out of the stock market when the stock market was going up, and didnt lose his money when the stock market went down. That means that hes got brains or is lucky.

He married one of those cold-blooded, society-type women, and the marriage didnt take. He got to playing around. Mrs. Darwin never played in her life; she didnt know what play was. Life was a serious proposition with her, a question of just who she should invite to the next tea, and what sort of a bid she should make when she picked up her bridge hand.

Darwin wanted a divorce. She wouldnt give him one. She hired detectives to trail him around, so that she could get enough on him so that he couldnt get one. He could never get anything on her, because there was never anything to get.

How do you know all this, Mugs? asked Paul Pry curiously.