“Any signature to that note?” Big Jim Grood asked.
“No, it was just a typewritten note the police found near the body.”
Jax Bowman stared at his efficient secretary in frowning concentration.
“What we are interested in,” he said, “are crimes that show a common motive, a modus operandi, which indicates them to be the work of one or more criminals following a common purpose. Just how do you figure there is any relationship between these two crimes?”
Miss Marchand’s * voice was as smoothly efficient as the voice of a nurse in an operating room. “You see,” she explained, “there were facsimiles of the typewritten statements published in the newspapers in both instances. I happened to check them over and noticed that both were written on the same typewriter. See where the ‘e’ is turned slightly to one side and the ‘r’ has a dent in the bottom? Then the ‘s’ has a peculiar tilt. The ‘a’ is out of alignment. Here are facsimiles of both notes.”
Jax Bowman gave a low whistle. “By George,” he exclaimed, “you’re right!”
Big Jim Grood said impatiently, “Aw, forget it. That handwriting expert stuff doesn’t get you anywhere.”
“It does in this instance,” Jax Bowman said. “Typewriting is even more distinctive than handwriting, and where a machine has been used for some time and the type is out of alignment, it’s readily possible to make a positive identification of different specimens of writing turned out by them. Those two notes were written on the same machine.”
“Well,” Grood said, “what if they were?”
Jax Bowman’s face was alive with interest. His eyes were like those of a cat watching a bird. It was at such moments that the latent talent of the man was brought out. The challenge of crime detection aroused his interest, speeded up his mental processes.
Rhoda Marchand, recognizing the symptoms, reached for her pen.
“Make a file for this case,” Bowman said, his words quick and incisive “Make general notes on crime motivation as follows: Statement prepared on identical typewriter found on bodies widely separated; therefore, statements must either have been prepared in advance, or typewriter must have been moved from place to place — probably the latter theory is correct. Therefore, typewriter is a portable — typewritten statement left on supposed suicide is not the general type of statement a suicide would leave. There is no explanation for his act — no apology to the world — no attempt to enlist sympathy — both statements have this in common: they take extraordinary precautions to ascertain that the body of the deceased will be identified. The object of this is not to secure a proper burial, because in the one instance it proves the deceased to have been a felon and in the other instance the girl, who left no relatives, is branded with the stigma of having been a dance hall girl.”
Bowman hesitated a moment, then said, “That’s all to put on that statement at present.”
He turned to Grood and asked, “Jim, do you know any crook who pilots an airplane?”
Grood said thoughtfully, “Yes — three or four of them who are out of stir and one or two who are in.”
“Make a list of them,” Bowman said, “and we’ll have private detective agencies check up on their present locations and where they’ve been for the past few weeks.”
He turned to Rhoda Marchand and said, “Rhoda, get a force of men at work tracing the family connections of these two people. Also collect newspaper advertisements asking for missing heirs of various estates. Cover all the principal cities.”
Jim Grood frowned and said, “What makes you think this is something in connection with an estate, chief?”
“Simply this,” Bowman replied. “There have been extraordinary pains taken to show the authorities the real identities of the dead persons. I can’t understand why that should have been done, unless there are some legal rights affected by it. You’ll notice that the murderer seemed greatly interested in enabling authorities to make an absolute identification of the bodies of his victims. I can’t help but think that the motive is tied up with that identification.”
Jim Grood nodded slow acquiescence. “There may be something to that,” he admitted.
“If it should turn out that these persons are remotely related to each other, there’ll be a lot to it,” Bowman answered grimly.
“In which event,” Grood said, grinning, “we’ll be beating the police to it.”
“Anything else?” Rhoda Marchand asked with crisp efficiency.
“Yes,” Bowman told her. “If it should turn out that these people were related, no matter how distantly, I want you to find the common ancestor and then trace every other relative. I don’t care how much money we have to spend. Put a hundred research workers on it, if necessary.”
She nodded and left the office.
Jax Bowman, grinning, walked across the room to a wall safe. He thumbed the combination, opened the steel door and, with a solemnity which made something of a ritual of it, took out a brace of .45 automatics, and two black masks with round holes cut for the eyes and white rings painted around the holes, giving to the masks a hideous appearance of unwinking vigilance.
“This,” he said, “beats jiggling a line in the water, waiting for swordfish to strike.”
Chapter II
Next Victim
The mysterious offices occupied by Jax Bowman and Big Jim Grood clattered with feverish activity. Messages streamed in and out over the wires. Private detective agencies in different cities flung all available men into hurried investigation. And it was significant of this organization which Bowman had worked out, that, so far as the detective agencies knew, no two of them were working for the same client.
Rhoda Marchand worked frantically, tabulating and classifying the various information received.
Within twenty-four hours she was able to assemble a complete report and then the wires flashed messages to the various detective agencies, instructing them to cease work.
It was the type of service which only a multi-millionaire could have commanded. Within a space of hours, trained investigators had covered the entire country with swift activity. From information which they had been able to furnish, cablegrams had been sent to foreign countries. In some instances, there had even been transoceanic telephone conversations. Then, as suddenly as this had started, the investigation had ceased, its cessation brought about partially because Bowman feared to alarm the men whom he sought, should the search be too long continued, and partially because, from the information which had been received, Bowman was able to make several logical deductions.
With Rhoda Marchand’s report in his hands, Bowman sought out Big Jim Grood.
“The hunch was right,” he said. “We traced back the families of the victims, and find they had one common ancestor, George Cutler Proctor. Proctor died in England. He left a large estate. It’s been tied up in administration, while counselors were looking for Sidney Proctor, who was on an exploring trip into the upper Amazon.
“Some three weeks ago, a man who claimed he was the sole survivor of the expedition appeared in Manaos. He told a story of incredible hardships, of gold, of hostile natives, of a surprise attack and a massacre.”
Jim Grood knitted his eyebrows in puzzled thought, as he wrestled with the mental problem. “Let’s see if I get this straight,” he said. “Old man Proctor left a lot of money and the money went to Sidney.”
“That’s right.”
“Then if Sidney dies, why doesn’t it go to Sidney’s heirs?”