Evening Star Newspaper, April 27, 1930, Page 86

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, APRIL 27, 1930. The Sting of the Wasp By Richard Connell., A Murder Mystery in Which the Life of a Man Literally Hangs Upon a Thread. Matthew Kelton Solves a Real Puzzle. HAT night Matthew Kelton was work- ing over a new puzzle, a cryptogram —a most difficult one. He had given himself till 5 in the morning to solve it. Then he would brew himself a cup of tea and go to bed. There was a smile on his face, which was rather like a ripe crab apple. He was getting the key to the cipher. But then he usually did. Matthew Kelton had one passion—puzzles. Having made a neat fortune for himself by inventing some new chemicals, he was able in middle age to retire and devote his life to his favorite pastime. Any sort of riddle held a fascination for him; but what interested him most was the deepest, strangest riddle of all— the riddle of human behavior. The clock in the corner of his prim old- fashioned study struck midnight. He bent his white head over the maze of symbols and hieroglyphics that made up the cryptogram. Then his telephone rang. With a certain mild * impatience he went to answer it. “This is Evan Turner,” said the voice at the other end of the wire. “Hello, Evan. Something wrong? Your i wolce is tense.” “Can you come to the house of Guy Oakley «—that big, ugly place on Dark River road— at once?” A “I'm rather busy. What for?” “Because,” said Turner, “they’ve just found the body of Lewis Cope there—and he’s been murdered—shot.” “Any idea who did it?” The man at the other end of the wire hesi- tated. Before Turner could answer Matthew Kelton said: “They're accusing Guy Oakley. Isn't that the situation?” “yes.” “Does he admit it?” “No.” “Has he an alibi?” Again Turner hesitated. *“No. clusive one, anyhow.” 5 “Doesn’t sound like Oakley,” said Matthew Kelton. “Still, you never can tell. Repressed men explode sometimes. Well, what do you want me to do?” “Drive over here immediately.” “But why, Evan? I'm deep in a real puszle. I see no puzzle in the killing of Cope. The bitter hate of Oakley for Cope, and Cope for Oakley, has become a classic, like the friend- ship of Damon and Pythias. When twbd strong men hate like that, something is bound to happen. Apparently, now it has."” “My duty is to do everything I possibly can to save Guy Oakley,” said Turner. “That's why I'm turning to you. You might see some- thing the police would miss. You'd be doing me a great favor, Matthew, to come over.” - “Simple, vulgar murders fail to interest me much. It's worse than stupid—it’s in bad taste,” said Matthew Kelton. He thought a moment. “You say that Guy Oakley has no real alibi?” “I'll be frank with you, Matthew. He hasn‘t. A jury would laugh at his story, and hang him without leaving the box.” “H-mm. Now that is interesting. In fact, I scent the elements of a puzzle. Il be right over!” Not a eon- Tll‘l residence of Guy Oakley, the banker, * was a vast and gloomy mid-Victorian house on the edge of an extensive pine wood. Matthew Kelton was shown into a large somber drawing room, full of black walnut furniture. A group of men had gathered there—Oakley, Evan Turner, Police Capt. Lamotte, Dr. Ussher. They bowed toward Matthew Kelton as he came in. “Evening, Mr, Kelton,” the police captain said. “A bad business, I'm afraid.” . “Crime always is, captain. Well?” “Come into the library with me, Matthew. Tl give you the facts,” Evan Turner said. . Matthew Kelton foiiowed the lawyer into an austere, book-lined room. “Oakley is my client,” said the lawyer. “I don’t dodge the fact that the evidence is dead against him. He hated Cope, and Cope hated him. It's an old story, and not a pretty one.” “A woman?” “Yes.” “Go on.” “They were sworn enemies. Their hatred was almost a religion with them. I'm not going to keep any important fact from you, Matthew.” “Quite right.” “Only a week ago I had dinner with Guy Oakley in this very house. I've been his at- torney for years, but I've never been a close friend. I doubt if he has any.” “Strong, silent men are apt not to.” “Well, the cocktails warmed up Oakley, made him communicative—for him. We were talking along about nothing in particular, when sud- denly he burst out, “That cur, Cope! I saw him today, looking at me with those evil green eyes of his. Tl never be happy—or safe— while he’s in the world, I'd kill him, if I thought I could get away with it!” ““I told Oakley he was a fool to talk like that—to me, or anybody. He calmed down, and said he didn’t mean it. But he did, Matthew.” “No doubt. Well, what then?” “Here is what happened tonight: Oakley had dinner alone. He had four cocktalls, a half bottle of sauterne and a highball. 8o Reeves, his butler, testified. Liquor, as I know, always made him sullen, even savage. He was in a decidedly bad humor, Reeves says, when he went into his library immediately after dinner. “At half-past 9, Lewis Cope came to the house. He was in dinner clothes, and he seemed to be in a high state of excitement, Reeves, who let him in, says. He pushed past Reeves, and went into the library. Reeves heard the sound of angry voices, as if Oakley and Cope were having a violent row. Reeves went down to look at the furnace fire, and was there possibly eight or nine minutes. “When he came upstairs, no sounds could be heard in the library. Somewhat alarmed, Reeves tapped at the door and, getting no an- swer, went in. Oakley was sprawling in a chair, apparently in a drunken stupor, for there was a half bottle of rye and a glass on the table, ‘Cope had gone. Reeves helped Oakley upstairs and put him to bed. It seems that Reeves was rather used to that sort of thing.” “Solitary drinker, eh?” “yes.” “Bad,” said Matthew Kelton. “Bad.” “At twenty minutes past 11,” continued Turner, “Oakley’s chauffeur and his wife, and the gardener and his wife returned from town. They'd been in to see a movie. As they came up the main drive, the car's headlights picked up something white by the roadside on the lawn about 25 yards from the house. It was Cope’s shirt front. He had been shot through the heart. Slight powder marks were on the shirt, as if he had been shot from a distance of two or three feet. “Without stopping to make any sort @ examination, the chauffeur and the others dr: §: down Dark River road about a quarter of ‘a mile, to where a state.trooper is stationed, regu- lating traffic. Sergt. Lester, a keen young offi- cer, came back with them, and with his flash- light made a thorough examination of the body and the ground around it. He found no weapon. He phoned for Capt. Lamotte, who arrived shortly with Police Surgeon Ussher. . "DR. USSHER said Cope had been dead about an hour. They went into the house, and woke up Oakley. He appeared to be groggy from the drink, but the shock of see- ing Cope’s body sobered him completely. He kept a tight grip on himself, however. Said nothing. Merely stared at Cope. “Capt. Lamotte, who was watching him closely, says that he read in Oakley’s face a flerce hate for Cope, even in death. Capt. Lamotte is a man of action. He said to Oakley, ‘Did you do this?’ . ... ‘I didn't,; said Oakley. ‘I wish I had! “I arrived just then and shut up Oakley. Also, I persuaded Capt. Lamotte not to arrest him formally until you had a chance to look things over. Bankers can't afford to be arrested, even if they are entirely innocent.” “And it’s even worse, if they're guilty, I sup- pose,” said Matthew Kelton. “Evan, I don’t see much hope for Oakley. I grant that Lewis Cope was no ornament to society—a viclous, ill-natured fellow, I've always heard. Even so, it was mad of Oakley to kill him, especially like this.” “Drink-crazed,” muttered Turner, more to himself than to Matthew Kelton. h“neglnnlng to work out your line of defense, eh?” 2 “Looks as if I'll need to.” “What about self-defense?” The lawyer shook his head. “Not much chance. There was no sign of a struggle, as Sergt. Lester will testify. Oakley denies emphatically that he had any sort of physical fight with Cope.” “Suppose you ask Mr. Oakley to step in here a moment. I'm not the sort of man who can tell a guilty person from an innocent one by feeling his pulse, but I'd like to ask a few questions.” The lawyer went into the other room and returned with Guy Oakley. The banker was a big man, 50, perhaps, with the lined and seamed face of a man who has known much worry and sorrow in his life. “Have a cigar, Mr. Oakley,” Matthew Kelton greeted him. He offered Oakley his case. The banker took a cigar, lit it. His fingers, Kelton noted, were steady. “Now, Mr. Oakley, please tell me, briefly, what happened tonight,” Matthew Kelton said, as casually as if he were asking for a descrip- tion of a card game. “I didn’t kill Cope,” said Oakley. He sank into a chair, as if he were very tired. “That’s what Turner and I will have to prove,” said Matthew Kelton. “Help us by telling us exactly what occurred.” “I've been on the ragged edge, late,” the banker said. “Nerves alk jangled. Business worries—and Cope. I think he hated me on sight. I know I took a strong dislike to him when I first met him, some seven years ago. That happens sometimes, you know. “Then—four years ago—we got into that mess. We both behaved pretty badly, I guess. It was a nasty snarl of treachery, deceit, lies all ‘round. 1It's all over now. She—she’s dead. But our hate lived. Cope I knew to be vin- dictive—and subtle. I've seen him watching me with the eyes of a snake, waiting to strike. I waited. It was harrowing.” “Naturally,” said Matthew Kelton. Then?” “Tonight 1 drank too much at dinnes. I've been doing that lately. An escape, ysu see. Afterward, I went into my library, with a bottle of rye. Prankly, my idea was to drink myself unconscious. I was well on the way when sud- denly Cope came into the room. I thought at first- it was some ghastly vision my disordered senses had conjured up. “Then Cope began to talk. ‘You're afraid of me, Oakley,” he said. ‘You have reason to be.’ I thought he had come to kill me.” “Were you armed?” Matthew Kelton asked. “No.” “You own a gun, though. Where was it?” “I have several. Two. One was in a drawer in the dresser of my bed room.” The banker hesitated. “And the other?” “In the pocket of the suit I took off when dressed for dinner.” “I see. Go on.” “Cope stood there looking at me. He smiled, a terrible smile. Then, very quietly he said, ‘I've good news for you, Oakley. A doctor examined me today. You'll be delighted to know that my lungs are bad. Il be lucky to live out the year.” “He stood there looking at me with his green eyes. I burst out, ‘Get out of here!’ He dropped his quiet manner. ‘Why don’t you kill me!” he shouted. ‘I will’ I said, and started to struggle to my feet. Because of the drink my body was not under good control. To my astonishment he did not attack me. Instead, he backed away, smiling that terrible smile. “‘Not tonight,’ he said, and laughed. I'll hear that laugh in my dreams. ‘No,’ he said, like a man talking to himself. ‘I'll not kill you tonight. And you can’t kill me, Oakley, be- cause I've been dead for years. “‘But some day I will kill you, Oakley. You can look forward to that. Yours will not be a pleasant death. Good night!’ “Hn turned and went quickly out of the room. I stood there a moment or so, dazed. Then I sank down on a chair, pretty thoroughly knocked out. The next thing I knew Reeves was putting me to bed. That is the absolute truth!” “You heard no shot?” “No.” “You did not follow Cope out of the house?” “No.” “Mr. Oakley,” said Matthew Kelton, unex- pectedly, “why do you wear only one stud in your evening shirt?” The banker glanced down at his shirt front. It had two buttonholes. The top one held a black pearl stud, sey in platinum. The bottom hole was empty. “Couldn’t find the other one,” the banker said. “Maybe the burglars took it.” “What burglars?” “My house was burglarized a couple of months ago, while I was away. They made off with some plate and jewelry. Nothing very valuabie!” “That’s all for the present, Mr. Oakley,” said Matthew Kelton. The banker joined the others in the drawing room. . Matthew Kelton gravely puffed at his cigar, “I don’t envy you your job, Evan,” he said. “I've seldom listened to a clumsier and less plausible story.” “It might be true.” “That’s what you’ll have to convince a hard- headed jury. But, Evan, bear-this in mind: there are times when nothing is more un- believable than the truth. I'd like to see Cope’s body.” Matthew Kelton, together with Turner, Capt. Lamotte, Dr. Ussher and Oakley, went out to the spot where Cope’s body, covered with a blanket, lay, awaiting the arrival of the coroner. Sergt. Lester was on guard. With a powerful electric torch, Matthew Kel- ton made a brief examination of the body. “Found anything new, sergeant?” he asked. “I've got the bullet, Mr. Kelton. Dug it out “But some day 1 will kill you, Oakley. You can look forward to that. Yours will not be a pleas- ant death. Good- night.” of the ground. It went clean through him.* “Let me see it, please.” 9 The sergeant dropped a small lead pellet into Matthew Kelton’s palm. Kelton examined i$: closely. “What do you make of it, captain?” “I know a bit about guns. Hobby of mine”® the police captain said. “But this bullet is something unusual. Steel nose. Very long. Like a small nail, almost. Too big for a .22 caliber. Too small for a .32. I can’t tell what sort of gun fired it. I'd say, though, that it was fired J close range and by a steady hand.” “Obvious.y,” said Matthew Kelton, studying the bullet. “Guns are a hobby of mine, too, captain. Now, it’s my opinion—an opinion merely, you understand—that this bullet was fired from a Skomak pistol.” “Never heard of one,” said the police captain, “Not many people in America have,” said Matthew Kelton, looking, not at the captain, but at Guy Oakley. “And that's fortunate, too. I doubt if there are a dozen weapons of this particular sort in the entire country. They are the invention of a German and are, or rather were, made in Czechoslovakia. The police prohibited their manufacture after about a hundred had been placed on the mar- ket. They are tiny, single-shot pistols of .25 caliber, so small they can easily be carried in a vest pocket. “The inventor, who had a Macabre sense of humor, called his pistol ‘the murderess,’ bee cause it was so convenient for homicidally ine clined ladies to carry in a handbag. It looks like a toy—but it was with such a toy that poor Cope was killed.” Abruptly Matthew Kelton said to Oakley. “Do you own a Skomak pistol?” ‘The banker’s jaw tightened. “I do.” “Where is it?” “In the top drawer of my dresser.” “Loaded?” “Yes; I keep it loaded.” “Did you have it tonight?” “I did not.” “When did you last see it?” “I don’t remember—exactly. I got it from a New York importing firm several months ago. I practiced target shooting with it on several occasions. It was rather inaccurate at more than about twenty feet. I loaded it, and put it in & small drawer of my dresser, and have had no occasion to take it out since then.” “Then it should be there now.” “Yes,” “Loaded?” “I'm certain of that.” “What about your other pistol?” “That is an ordinary five-shot automatic of a well known American make. It is in the hip pocket of the gray suit hanging in my closet.” “Sergt. Lester,” said Matthew Kelton, “will you please go up to Mr. Oakley’s room and bring back both guns?” “Yes, Mr. Kelton.” “Let’s see, now,” said Matthew Kelton, “was armed?” “No,” said Police Capt. Lamotte. “Here is a list of the contents of his pockets: A gold watch and chain, to one end of which is ate tacked a cigarette lighter. A leather wallet containing nothing but some visiting cards and $42 in bills. A white silk handkerchief, with his initials, L. C, on it. A flat pigskin cigarette case, containing four cigarettes. A small paper bag, contafning what appears to be raw beefe steak cut into cubes about the size of lumps of sugar——" “Well, I'm dashed!” exclaimed Matthew Kele ton, his eyes brightening. “There’s some puzzle ‘here. Let me look at this odd exhibit. _ He peered into the paper bag. “Now, why,” he said, “should Cope carry & bag of bits' of meat in the pocket of his dinner coat?” “You've got me there,” said the police captain, “Anything else in his pockets?” “No. Wait a bit. Sergt. Lester did pick wp