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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 11, Issue 6 (September 1, 1936)

TheThirteenth Clue or — The Story Of The Signal Cabin Mystery — Chapter III

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TheThirteenth Clue or
The Story Of The Signal Cabin Mystery
Chapter III.

These incidents are complete in themselves, but the characters are all related.

“Hi, chief!” shouted Gill, his cumbersome form disappearing through the hotel door after the great investigator, “You haven't finished your beer!”

But Impskill Lloyd made no reply; in fact it is doubtful if he even heard, for his slight figure was already disappearing round the corner of the block.

“Must be something serious,” thought Gill to himself, and after dashing back into the hotel to finish his own and have a couple more, set out on a heavy jog trot to catch up with his employer. The latter was well ahead and Gill could see he was following his usual practice of saving time by alternately running and walking between successive pairs of lamp posts.

With a muttered oath Gill increased his speed, but even so it was some time before he caught up with the master sleuth.

“What's up, chief?” he panted, as he finally berthed alongside.

Still Imp. made no reply. He was heading back to the signal cabin at an amazing speed.

“Pretty quick case that was, chief,” panted Gill admiringly, knowing full well that flattery was the surest way of thawing the icy reserve with which Imp. was at times wont to surround himself.

The famous detective slackened his pace in astonishment.

“Was?” he echoed. “You don't mean to say you were taken in, too?”

“Not for a moment,” replied Gill quickly, lying with an easy facility born of long practice, “I never believe a thing I hear inside bars and places where they drink. All the same—” he paused doubtfully; the workings of the master mind were often a little obscure to a simple soul like himself. “It seemed to add up all right,” he said at last.

“Pshaw!” said Impskill contemptuously.

He pronounced it with the P silent, and Gillespie knew at once that speed was the chief consideration of the moment. What Lloyd really meant was “By George!” but hadn't time to say it. Sometimes he shortened it to “B'George” or “George B,” but when really pressed for time he always said “Pshaw!” just like that, but with the P silent. It meant the same thing.

By this time they had reached the signal cabin again, and Lloyd was jumping up the steps three and fiveeighths at a time.

Once inside he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

“Now we can get to business,” he said; and Gillespie, falling in with his master's mood, quickly undid the despatch case and laid out on the floor for easy access the great investigator's tools of trade: a magnifying glass, two false beards, a water pistol, a pair of handcuffs, and a conductor's baton. The baton was principally for effect, having been presented to him by the boy scout's mouth organ band some years previous. It was very rarely used, although on one occasion it had come in particularly handy in dealing with an irritating blowfly. The stains were still clearly discernible.

“You mean,” said Gill with a flash of real insight, as he polished the magnifying glass industriously, “you haven't solved it yet?”

“I have not yet,” replied Imp., “been able to give it serious consideration. That blundering policeman, and that equally incompetent doctor, had to be disposed of first. They very nearly mucked up the clues.”

“But the poison?” asked Gill, pausing a moment from combing out the false beards, “in the stomach. The doctor said so. Can't get away from that.”

“Not a grain,” said Imp. “The doctor was under auto-hypnotic-suggestive-control. I told him to find it there. He found it.”

“And the stiletto by the fence?”

“I placed it there.”

“And the rest of the story?”

“My own,” said Imp., and if he said it a trifle proudly who shall blame him.

“You're smart, chief!” said Gill admiringly, “By heck, you're smart!”

“On! Gillespie,” commanded Lloyd, “to work. We have already wasted twenty-five minutes three and threefifths seconds in disposing of village yokels, yobs, or oafs. Fortunately, as the newly-formed Murderers’ Union is bound by a forty-hour week that wastage is not so important, as the murderer, by law, is not allowed to commence laying false trails until nine page 15 a. m. That gives us nearly three hours to find him.”

“What's the first job, chief?”

“Read aloud the twelve possible causes of death while I search for clues.”

As Gillespie fished in the despatch case for the list Lloyd rolled up his trousers to the knees and knelt down with the magnifying glass stretched out protectively at arm's length before
“P. C. Fanning, attired only in a striped towel, confronted them.”

“P. C. Fanning, attired only in a striped towel, confronted them.”

him. A murder had been committed. There was danger here; Impskill Lloyd knew that full well. And it speaks much for his courage and devotion to duty that only thus armed should he crawl around in the dark places of the signal cabin when possibly any moment a frenzied killer might confront him. But Lloyd came of yeoman stock, and danger such as this was but an added spice to life.

As Gillespie's sonorous voice droned out the litany of causes Lloyd paused in his examination of a dead cockroach, and the chauffeur saw out of the corner of his eye that the master sleuth was already busy working out his famous theory of inverse ratio on the back of an old postage stamp.

“Time elapsed,” muttered Imp., the stub of his pencil flashing at lightning speed over the back of the king's head, “is seven hours. Squared, forty-nine. Four and nine are thirteen. One and three make four. Square root is two.” He looked up. “Number two. What is the second possible cause of death, Gillespie?”

“Burning, Chief,” replied his henchman.

“As I thought!” muttered Lloyd triumphantly. “The smell of smoke over the telephone was not imagined, after all.” He looked up again, and Gill could see that the steely glitter in his eye gave further proof to the old adage that all that glitters is not gold. “That is the theory we must follow. Death from burns!”

He rose to his feet and examined the body once more.

“Gill,” he said suddenly, “do you notice anything strange about the clothing?” There was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice.

The chauffeur stepped forward and examined the sartorial equipment of the dead man with interest. Much of it, particularly over the shoulders, was badly scorched. The suit, once a natty lavender shade with green checks, had lost much of its former magnificence. The shirt and vest, Gillespie could see, would have to be written off as a total loss, but the tie, that of the Matamata Borstal Old Boys, he thought he might use at a pinch. He said as much.

Impskill imparted an improvised imprecation, impulsively implying an impatient employer. “How do you keep your trousers up?” he enquired enquiringly.

Gillespie blushed. It was a delicate adjustment of nails and aerial wire, but he hesitated to reveal, even to his employer, what should remain a strictly private matter. Instead he lied manfully, with that facility of which we are aware.

“Braces,” he said, pronouncing the unaccustomed word with difficulty.

“Exactly,” retorted Impskill, and pointed to the body—or corpse—again. “Where are they?”

Gillespie looked again. It was an undoubted fact. The braces were missing.

“Blimey, chief,” he said, and scratched his head in amazement, “what do you make of that?”

“Simple,” replied Impskill. “The dead man was a crooner. That fact has been established. Not only was he a crooner, but he was a good crooner. He could, I am told, manage a doodly-laddy-da on a top G, no mean accomplishment for the best of crooners. And crooners—follow this closely, Gillespie—crooners are particularly addicted to celluloid braces. If you will refer to the New Zealand Year Book, section one hundred and twenty-eight, sub-section nineteen, paragraph five—Lloyd's card index mind produced the reference with no effort at all—you will discover that ninety-nine point seven three per cent. of New Zealand crooners wear celluloid braces. Celluloid braces will burn, and will burn with sufficient ferocity to cause death. The case is almost childish in its simplicity.”

There was a brilliance in his reasoning that even the slow-witted Gill could not fail to appreciate.

“You're smart, chief,” he said, for the second time that morning, “By heck, you're smart!”

“Granted,” replied Imp., not without justifiable pride, “granted.”

“Say, chief,” said Gillespie, imbued with a sudden thought, “what about the bloke Marris, whose cabin we're in? He might be able to tell us something.”

“There are moments, Gillespie, when I am almost proud of you. A similar thought has been agitating me for some time. Marris must be found.”

Gillespie, perplexed, began to roll the ubiquitous cigarette. “Bit of a job, Guv'nor. How about a nip first? It's a cold morning.”

Lloyd ignored the suggestion. An idea had just struck him with such force that he was still reeling under the blow.

“The second telephone call, Gillespiè!” he shouted, “has it occurred to you where it came from?”

“Of course,” replied Gill cautiously, “where else?”

“Exactly,” agreed Lloyd. “You remember the connection was switched through to the police station for the night. That was how we summoned the police constable in the first place. Therefore, any incoming calls to the
“He crooned for a while, Including a rather good yoddly-doodle-do on F sharp.

“He crooned for a while, Including a rather good yoddly-doodle-do on F sharp.

signal cabin must come from the police station. Am I right, or am I?”

“You are,” agreed Gill, his voice quivering with uncontrolled admiration.

“Therefore, at the risk of enlisting the aid of that blundering constable again, we must return to the station.”

(Continued on p. 49.)

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