The Silent Bullet
A Mystery Story
by Arthur B. Reeve
"Detectives in fiction nearly always make a great mistake," said
Kennedy one evening after a conversation on crime and science. "They
almost invariably antagonize the regular detective force. Now in real
life that's impossible—it's fatal."
"Yes," I agreed, looking up from reading an account of the failure
of a large Wall Street brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the
peculiar suicide of Kerr Parker. "Yes, it's impossible, just as it is
impossible for the regular detectives to antagonize the newspapers.
Scotland Yard found that out in the Crippen case."
"My idea of the thing, Jameson," continued Kennedy, "is that the
professor of criminal science ought to work with, not against, the
regular detectives. They're all right. They're indispensable, of
course. Half the secret of success nowadays is organization. The
professor of criminal science should be merely what the professor in
a technical school often is—a sort of consulting engineer. For
instance, I believe that organization plus science would go far toward
clearing up that Wall Street case I see you are reading."
I expressed some doubt as to whether the regular police were
enlightened enough to take that view of it.
"Some of them are," he replied. "Yesterday the chief of Police in a
Western city sent a man East to see me about the Price murder—you
know the case?"
Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town had been murdered on the
road to the golf club, no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had
proved fruitless, and the list of suspects was itself so long and so
impossible as to seem most discouraging.
"He sent me a piece of a torn handkerchief with a deep blood-stain
on it," pursued Kennedy. "He said it clearly didn't belong to the
murdered man, that it indicated that the murderer had himself been
wounded in the tussle, but as yet it had proved utterly valueless as a
clue. Would I see what I could make of it?
"After his man had told me the story I had a feeling that the murder
was committed by either a Sicilian laborer on the links or a negro
waiter at the club. Well, to make a short story shorter, I decided to
test the blood-stain. Probably you didn't know it, but the Carnegie
Institution has just published a minute, careful, and dry study of the
blood of human beings and of animals. In fact, they have been able to
reclassify the whole animal kingdom on this basis, and have made some
most surprising additions to our knowledge of evolution. Now I don't
propose to bore you with the details of the tests, but one of the
things they showed was that the blood of a certain branch of the
human race gives a reaction much like the blood of a certain group of
monkeys, the chimpanzees, while the blood of another branch gives a
reaction like that of the gorilla. Of course there's lots more to it,
but this is all that need concern us now.
"I tried the tests. The blood on the handkerchief conformed strictly
to the latter test. Now the gorilla was, of course, out of the
question—this was no Rue Morgue murder. Therefore it was the negro
"But," I interrupted, "the negro offered a perfect alibi at the start,
"No buts, Walter. Here's a telegram I received at dinner:
'Congratulations. Confronted Jackson your evidence as wired.
"Well, Craig, I take off my hat to you," I exclaimed. "Next you'll be
solving this Kerr Parker case for sure."
"I would take a hand in it if they'd let me," said he simply.
That night, without saying anything, I sauntered down to the imposing
new police building amid the squalor of Center Street. They were very
busy at headquarters, but having once had that assignment for the
Star, I had no trouble in getting in. Inspector Barney O'Connor of
the Central Office carefully shifted a cigar from corner to corner of
his mouth as I poured forth my suggestion to him.
"Well, Jameson," he said at length, "do you think this professor
fellow is the goods?"
I didn't mince matters in my opinion of Kennedy. I told him of the
Price case and showed him a copy of the telegram. That settled it.
"Can you bring him down here to-night?" he asked quickly.
I reached for the telephone, found Craig in his laboratory finally,
and in less than an hour he was in the office.
"This is a most baffling case, Professor Kennedy, this case of Kerr
Parker," said the inspector, launching at once into his subject. "Here
is a broker heavily interested in Mexican rubber. It looks like a good
thing—plantations right in the same territory as those of the Rubber
Trust. Now in addition to that he is branching out into coastwise
steamship lines; another man associated with him is heavily engaged in
a railway scheme for the United States down into Mexico. Altogether
the steamships and railroads are tapping rubber, oil, copper, and
I don't know what other regions. Here in New York they have been
pyramiding stocks, borrowing money from two trust companies which they
control. It's a lovely scheme—you've read about it, I suppose. Also
you've read that it comes into competition with a certain group of
capitalists whom we will call 'the System.'
"Well, this depression in the market comes along. At once rumors are
spread about the weakness of the trust companies; runs start on both
of them. The System—you know them—make a great show of supporting
the market. Yet the runs continue. God knows whether they will spread
or the trust companies stand up under it to-morrow after what happened
to-day. It was a good thing the market was closed when it happened.
"Kerr Parker was surrounded by a group of people who were in his
schemes with him. They are holding a council of war in the directors'
room. Suddenly Parker rises, staggers toward the window, falls, and is
dead before a doctor can get to him. Every effort is made to keep the
thing quiet. It is given out that he committed suicide. The papers
don't seem to accept the suicide theory, however. Neither do we. The
coroner, who is working with us, has kept his month shut so far, and
will say nothing till the inquest. For, Professor Kennedy, my first
man on the spot found that—Kerr—Parker—was—murdered.
"Now here comes the amazing part of the story. The doors to the
offices on both sides were open at the time. There were lots of people
in each office. There was the usual click of typewriters, and the buzz
of the ticker, and the hum of conversation. We have any number of
witnesses of the whole affair, but as far as any of them knows no shot
was fired, no smoke was seen, no noise was heard, nor was any weapon
found. Yet here on my desk is a thirty-two calibre bullet. The
coroner's physician probed it out of Parker's neck this afternoon and
turned it over to us."
Kennedy reached for the bullet, and turned it thoughtfully in his
fingers for a moment. One side of it had apparently struck a bone in
the neck of the murdered man, and was flattened. The other side was
still perfectly smooth. With his inevitable magnifying-glass he
scrutinized the bullet on every side. I watched his face anxiously,
and I could see that he was very intent and very excited.
"Extraordinary, most extraordinary," he said to himself as he turned
it over and over. "Where did you say this bullet struck?"
"In the fleshy part of the neck, quite a little back of and below his
ear and just above his collar. There wasn't much bleeding. I think it
must have struck the base of his brain."
"It didn't strike his collar or hair?"
"No," replied the inspector.
"Inspector, I think we shall be able to put our hand on the
murderer—I think we can get a conviction, sir, on the evidence that I
shall get from this bullet in my laboratory."
"That's pretty much like a story-book," drawled the inspector
incredulously, shaking his head.
"Perhaps," smiled Kennedy. "But there will still be plenty of work for
the police to do, too. I've only got a clue to the murderer. It
will tax the whole organization to follow it up, believe me. Now,
Inspector, can you spare the time to go down to Parker's office and
take me over the ground? No doubt we can develop something else
"Sure," answered O'Connor, and within five minutes we were hurrying
down town in one of the department automobiles.
We found the office under guard of one of the Central Office men,
while in the outside office Parker's confidential clerk and a few
assistants were still at work in a subdued and awed manner. Men were
working in many other Wall Street offices that night during the panic,
but in none was there more reason for it than here. Later I learned
that it was the quiet tenacity of this confidential clerk that saved
even as much of Parker's estate as was saved for his widow—little
enough it was, too. What he saved for the clients of the firm no one
will ever know. Somehow or other I liked John Downey, the clerk, from
the moment I was introduced to him. He seemed to me, at least, to be
the typical confidential clerk who would carry a secret worth millions
and keep it.
The officer in charge touched his hat to the inspector, and Downey
hastened to put himself at our service. It was plain that the murder
had completely mystified him, and that he was as anxious as we were to
get at the bottom of it.
"Mr. Downey," began Kennedy, "I understand you were present when this
sad event took place."
"Yes, sir, sitting right here at the directors' table," he replied,
taking a chair, "like this."
"Now can you recollect just how Mr. Parker acted when he was shot?
Could you—er—could you take his place and show us just how it
"Yes, sir," said Downey. "He was sitting here at the head of the
table. Mr. Bruce, who is the 'Co.' of the firm, had been sitting here
at his right; I was at the left. The inspector has a list of all the
others present. That door to the right was open, and Mrs. Parker and
some other ladies were in the room—"
"Mrs. Parker?" broke in Kennedy.
"Yes. Like a good many brokerage firms we have a ladies' room. Many
ladies are among our clients. We make a point of catering to them. At
that time I recollect the door was open—all the doors were open. It
was not a secret meeting. Mr. Bruce had just gone into the ladies'
department, I think to ask some of them to stand by the firm—he was
an artist at smoothing over the fears of customers, particularly
women. Just before he went in I had seen the ladies go in a group
toward the far end of the room—to look down at the line of depositors
on the street, which reached around the corner from one of the trust
companies, I thought. I was making a note of an order to send into the
outside office there on the left, and had just pushed this button
here under the table to call a boy to carry it. Mr. Parker had just
received a letter by special delivery, and seemed considerably puzzled
over it. No, I don't know what it was about. Of a sudden I saw him
start in his chair, rise up unsteadily, clap his hand on the back of
his head, stagger across the floor—like this—and fall here."
"Then what happened?"
"Why, I rushed to pick him up. Everything was confusion. I recall
someone behind me saying, 'Here, boy, take all these papers off the
table and carry them into my office before they get lost in the
excitement.' I think it was Bruce's voice. The next moment I heard
someone say, 'Stand back, Mrs. Parker has fainted.' But I didn't pay
much attention, for I was calling to someone not to get a doctor over
the telephone, but to go down to the fifth floor where one has an
office. I made Mr. Parker as comfortable as I could. There wasn't much
I could do. He seemed to want to say something to me, but he couldn't
talk. He was paralyzed, at least his throat was. But I did manage to
make out finally what sounded to me like, 'Tell her I don't believe
the scandal, I don't believe it.' But before he could say whom to tell
he had again become unconscious, and by the time the doctor arrived he
was dead. I guess you know everything else as well as I do."
"You didn't hear the shot fired from any particular direction?" asked
"Well, where do you think it came from?"
"That's what puzzles me, sir. The only thing I can figure out is that
it was fired from the outside office—perhaps by some customer who had
lost money and sought revenge. But no one out there heard it either,
any more than, they did in the directors' room or the ladies'
"About that message," asked Kennedy, ignoring what to me seemed to
be the most important feature of the case, the mystery of the silent
bullet. "Didn't you see it after all was over?"
"No, sir; in fact I had forgotten about it till this moment when you
asked me to reconstruct the circumstances exactly. No, sir, I don't
know a thing about it. I can't say it impressed itself on my mind at
the time, either."
"What did Mrs. Parker do when she came to?"
"Oh, she cried as I have never seen a woman cry before. He was dead by
that time, of course. Mr. Bruce and I saw her down in the elevator to
her car. In fact, the doctor, who had arrived, said that the sooner
she was taken home the better she would be. She was quite hysterical."
"Did she say anything that you remember?"
"Out with it, Downey," said the inspector. "What did she say as she
was going down in the elevator?"
"Tell us. I'll arrest you if you don't."
"Nothing about the murder, on my honor," protested Downey.
Kennedy leaned over suddenly and shot a remark at him, "Then it was
about the note."
Downey was surprised, but not quickly enough. Still he seemed to be
considering something, and in a moment he said:
"I don't know what it was about, but I feel it is my duty, after all,
to tell you. I heard her say, 'I wonder if he knew.'"
"What happened after you came back?"
"We entered the ladies' department. No one was there. A woman's
automobile-coat was thrown over a chair in a heap. Mr. Bruce picked it
up. 'It's Mrs. Parker's,' he said. He wrapped it up hastily, and rang
for a messenger."
"Where did he send it?"
"To Mrs. Parker, I suppose. I didn't hear the address."
We next went over the whole suite of offices, conducted by Mr. Downey.
I noted how carefully Kennedy looked into the directors' room through
the open door from the ladies' department. He stood at such an angle
that had he been the assassin he could scarcely have been seen except
by those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker at the directors' table.
The street windows were directly in front of him, and back of him was
the chair on which the motor-coat had been found.
In Parker's own office we spent some time, as well as in Bruce's.
Kennedy made a search for the note, but finding nothing in either
office, turned out the contents of Bruce's scrap-basket. There didn't
seem to be anything in it to interest him, however, even after he had
pieced several torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, and
he was about to turn the papers back again, when he noticed something
sticking to the side of the basket. It looked like a mass of wet
paper, and that was precisely what it was.
"That's queer," said Kennedy, picking it loose. Then he wrapped it up
carefully and put it in his pocket. "Inspector, can you lend me one
of your men for a couple of days?" he asked, as we were preparing
to leave. "I shall want to send him out of town to-night, and shall
probably need his services when he gets back."
"Very well. Riley will be just the fellow. We'll go back to
headquarters, and I'll put him under your orders."
It was not until late in the following day that I saw Kennedy again.
It had been a busy day on the Star. We had gone to work that morning
expecting to see the financial heavens fall. But just about five
minutes to ten, before the Stock Exchange opened, the news came in
over the wire from our financial man on Broad Street: "The System has
forced James Bruce, partner of Kerr Parker, the dead banker, to sell
his railroad, steamship, and rubber holdings to it. On this condition
it promises unlimited support to the market."
"Forced!" muttered the managing editor, as he waited on the office
'phone to get the, composing-room, so as to hurry up the few lines in
red ink on the first page and beat our rivals on the streets with the
first extras. "Why, he's been working to bring that about for the past
two weeks. What that System doesn't control isn't worth having—it
edits the news before our men get it, and as for grist for the divorce
courts, and tragedies, well—Hello, Jenkins, yes, a special extra.
Change the big heads—copy is on the way up—rush it."
"So you think this Parker case is a mess?" I asked.
"I know it. That's a pretty swift bunch of females that have been
speculating at Kerr Parker & Co.'s. I understand there's one
Titian-haired young lady—who, by the way, has at least one husband
who hasn't yet been divorced—who is a sort of ringleader, though she
rarely goes personally to her brokers' office. She's one of those
uptown plungers, and the story is that she has a whole string of
scalps of alleged Sunday-school superintendents at her belt. She
can make Bruce do pretty nearly anything, they say. He's the latest
conquest. I got the story on pretty good authority, but until I
verified the names, dates and places, of course I wouldn't dare print
a line of it. The story goes that her husband is a hanger-on of the
System, and that she's been working in their interest, too. That was
why he was so complacent over the whole affair. They put her up to
capturing Bruce, and after she had acquired an influence over him they
worked it so that she made him make love to Mrs. Parker. It's a long
story, but that isn't all of it. The point was, you see, that by
this devious route they hoped to worm out of Mrs. Parker some inside
information about Parker's rubber schemes, which he hadn't divulged
even to his partners in business. It was a deep and carefully planned
plot, and some of the conspirators were pretty deeply in the mire,
I guess. I wish I'd had all the facts about who this red-haired
Machiavelli was—what a piece of muckraking it would have made! Oh,
here comes the rest of the news story over the wire. By Jove, it is
said on good authority that Bruce will be taken in as one of the board
of directors. What do you think of that?"
So that was how the wind lay—Bruce making love to Mrs. Parker and she
presumably betraying her husband's secrets. I thought I saw it all:
the note from somebody exposing the scheme, Parker's incredulity,
Bruce sitting by him and catching sight of the note, his hurrying out
into the ladies' department, and then the shot. But who fired it?
After all, I had only picked up another clue.
Kennedy was not at the apartment at dinner, and an inquiry at the
laboratory was fruitless also. So I sat down to fidget for a while.
Pretty soon the buzzer on the door sounded, and I opened it to find a
messenger-boy with a large brown paper parcel.
"Is Mr. Bruce here?" he asked.
"Why, no, he doesn't—" then I checked myself and added: "He will be
here presently. You can leave the bundle."
"Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for. His valet told me to
tell him that they had a hard time to find it but he guesses it's all
right. The charges are forty cents. Sign here."
I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the boy departed. What it
all meant I could not guess.
Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Kennedy came in.
"Is your name Bruce?" I asked.
"Why?" he replied eagerly. "Has anything come?"
I pointed to the package. Kennedy made a dive for it and unwrapped it.
It was a woman's pongee automobile-coat. He held it up to the light.
The pocket on the right-hand side was scorched and burned, and a hole
was torn clean through it. I gasped when the full significance of it
dawned on me.
"How did you get it?" I exclaimed at last in surprise.
"That's where organization comes in," said Kennedy. "The police at
my request went over every messenger call from Parker's office that
afternoon, and traced every one of them up. At last they found one
that led to Bruce's apartment. None of them led to Mrs. Parker's home.
The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily accounted for. I
reasoned that this was the one that involved the disappearance of the
automobile-coat. It was a chance worth taking, so I got Downey to call
up Bruce's valet. The valet of course recognized Downey's voice and
suspected nothing. Downey assumed to know all about the coat in the
package received yesterday. He asked to have it sent up here. I see
the scheme worked."
"But, Kennedy, do you think she—" I stopped, speechless, looking at
the scorched coat.
"Nothing to say—yet," he replied laconically. "But if you could tell
me anything about that note Parker received I'd thank you."
I related what our managing editor had said that morning. Kennedy only
raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.
"I had guessed something of that sort," he said merely. "I'm glad to
find it confirmed even by hearsay evidence. This red-haired young lady
interests me. Not a very definite description, but better than nothing
at all. I wonder who she is. Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll
down the White Way before I go to my laboratory? I'd like a breath of
air to relax my mind."
We had got no further than the first theatre when Kennedy slapped me
on the back. "By George, Jameson, she's an actress, of course."
"Who is? What's the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?"
"The red-haired person—she must be an actress. Don't you remember the
auburn-haired leading lady in the Follies'—the girl who sings that
song about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? Her stage name, you know, is
Phoebe La Neige. Well, if it's she who is concerned in this case
I don't think she'll be playing to-night. Let's inquire at the
She wasn't playing, but just what it had to do with anything in
particular I couldn't see, and I said as much.
"Why, Walter, you'd never do as a detective. You lack intuition.
Sometimes I think I haven't quite enough of it, either. Why didn't
I think of that sooner? Don't you know she is the wife of Adolphus
Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had
only to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me
in an instant. Isn't it a good hypothesis that she is the red haired
woman in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so
heavily involved? I'll have to add her to my list of suspects."
"Why, you don't think she did the shooting?" I asked, half hoping, I
must admit, for an assenting nod from him.
"Well," he answered dryly, "one shouldn't let any preconceived
hypothesis stand between him and the truth. I've made a guess at the
whole thing already. It may or it may not be right. Anyhow she will
fit into it. And if it's not right, I've got to be prepared to make a
new guess, that's all."
When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector's man
Riley was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.
"What luck?" asked Kennedy.
"I've got a list of purchasers of that kind of revolver," he said. "We
have been to every sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which
bought them from the factory, and I could lay my hands on pretty
nearly every one of the weapons in twenty-four hours—provided, of
course, they haven't been secreted or destroyed."
"Pretty nearly all isn't good enough," said Kennedy. "It will have to
be all, unless—"
"That name is in the list," whispered Riley hoarsely.
"Oh, then it's all right," answered Kennedy, brightening up. "Riley, I
will say that you're a wonder at using the organization in ferreting
out such things. There's just one more thing I want you to do. I want
a sample of the notepaper in the private desks of every one of these
people." He handed the policeman a list of his "suspects," as he
called them. It included nearly every one mentioned in the case.
Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"That's a hard one, Mr. Kennedy, sir. You see, it means getting into
so many different houses and apartments. Now you don't want to do it
by means of a warrant, do you, sir? Of course not. Well, then, how can
we get in?"
"You're a pretty good-looking chap yourself, Riley," said Kennedy. "I
should think you could jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you
can get the fellow on the beat to do it—if he isn't already to
be found in the kitchen. Why, I see a dozen ways of getting the
"Oh, it's me that's the lady-killer, sir," grinned Riley. "I'm a
regular Blarney stone when I'm out on a job of that sort. Sure, I'll
have some of them for you in the morning.'
"Bring me what you get, the first thing in the morning, even if
you've landed only a few samples," said Kennedy, as Riley departed,
straightening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve.
"And now, Walter, you too must excuse me to-night," said Craig "I've
got a lot to do, and sha'n't be up to our apartment till very late—or
early. But I feel sure I've got a strangle-hold on this mystery. If I
get those papers from Riley in good time to-morrow I shall invite you
and several others to a grand demonstration here to-morrow night.
Don't forget. Keep the whole evening free. It will be a big story."
Kennedy's laboratory was brightly lighted when I arrived early the
next evening. One by one his "guests" dropped in. It was evident that
they had little liking for the visit, but the coroner had sent out the
"invitations," and they had nothing to do but accept. Each one was
politely welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, much as he
would have done with a group of students. The inspector and the
coroner sat back a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce,
myself, and Miss La Neige sat in that order in the very narrow and
uncomfortable little armchairs used by the students during lectures.
At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took his position behind the
long, flat-topped table which he used for his demonstrations before
his classes. "I realize, ladies and gentlemen," he began formally,
"that I am about to do a very unusual thing; but, as you all know, the
police and the coroner have been completely baffled by this terrible
mystery and have requested me to attempt to clear up at least certain
points in it. I will begin what I have to say by remarking that the
tracing out of a crime like this differs in nothing, except as regards
the subject-matter, from the search for a scientific truth. The
forcing of man's secrets is like the forcing of nature's secrets. Both
are pieces of detective work. The methods employed in the detection
of crime are, or rather should be, like the methods employed in the
process of discovering scientific truth. In a crime of this sort, two
kinds of evidence need to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must
first be marshalled, and then a motive must be found. I have been
gathering facts. But to omit motives and rest contented with mere
facts would be inconclusive. It would never convince anybody or
convict anybody. In other words, circumstantial evidence must
first lead to a suspect, and then this suspect must prove equal
to accounting for the facts. It is my hope that each of you may
contribute something that will he of service in arriving at the truth
of this unfortunate incident."
The tension was not relieved even when Kennedy stopped speaking and
began to fuss with a little upright target which he set up at one end
of his table. We seemed to be seated over a powder-magazine which
threatened to explode at any moment. I, at least, felt the tension so
greatly that it was only after he had started speaking again that
I noticed that the target was composed of a thick layer of some
Holding a thirty-two-calibre pistol in his right hand and aiming it at
the target, Kennedy picked up a large piece of coarse homespun from
the table and held it loosely over the muzzle of the gun. Then he
fired. The bullet tore through the cloth, sped through the air, and
buried itself in the target. With a knife he pried it out.
"I doubt if even the inspector himself could have told us that when an
ordinary leaden bullet is shot through a woven fabric the weave of the
fabric is in the majority of cases impressed on the bullet, sometimes
clearly, sometimes faintly."
Here Kennedy took up a piece of fine batiste and fired another bullet
"Every leaden bullet, as I have said, which has struck such a fabric
bears an impression of the threads which is recognizable even when the
bullet has penetrated deeply into the body. It is only obliterated
partially or entirely when the bullet has been flattened by striking a
bone or other hard object. Even then, as in this case, if only a part
of the bullet is flattened the remainder may still show the marks of
the fabric. A heavy warp, say of cotton velvet, or as I have here,
homespun, will be imprinted well on the bullet, but even a fine
batiste, containing one hundred threads to the inch, will show marks.
Even layers of goods such as a coat, shirt, and undershirt may each,
leave their marks, but that does not concern us in this case. Now I
have here a piece of pongee silk, cut from a woman's automobile-coat.
I discharge the bullet through it—so. I compare the bullet now with
the others and with the one probed from the neck of Mr. Parker. I find
that the marks on that fatal bullet correspond precisely with those on
the bullet fired through the pongee coat."
Startling as was this revelation, Kennedy paused only an instant
before the next.
"Now I have another demonstration. A certain note figures in this
case. Mr. Parker was reading it, or perhaps re-reading it, at the time
he was shot. I have not been able to obtain that note—at least not in
a form such as I could use in discovering what were its contents. But
in a certain wastebasket I found a mass of wet and pulp-like paper. It
had been cut up, macerated, perhaps chewed; perhaps it had been also
soaked with water. There was a wash-basin with running water in this
room. The ink had run, and of course was illegible. The thing was so
unusual that I at once assumed that this was the remains of the
note in question. Under ordinary circumstances it would be utterly
valueless as a clue to anything. But to-day science is not ready to
let anything pass as valueless.
"I found on microscopic examination that it was an uncommon linen bond
paper, and I have taken a large number of microphotographs of the
fibres in it. They are all similar. I have here also about a hundred
microphotographs of the fibres in other kinds of paper, many of them
bonds. These I have accumulated from time to time in my study of the
subject. None of them, as you see, shows fibres resembling this one in
question, so we may conclude that it is of uncommon quality. Through
an agent of the police I have secured samples of the notepaper of
every one who could be concerned, as far as I could see, with this
case. Here are the photographs of the fibres of these various
notepapers, and among them all is just one that corresponds to the
fibres in the wet mass of paper I discovered in the scrap-basket. Now
lest anyone should question the accuracy of this method I might cite a
case where a man had been arrested in Germany charged with stealing a
government bond. He was not searched till later. There was no evidence
save that after the arrest a large number of spitballs were found
around the courtyard under his cell window. This method of comparing
the fibres with those of the regular government paper was used, and by
it the man was convicted of stealing the bond. I think it is almost
unnecessary to add that in the present case we know precisely who—"
At this point the tension was so great that it snapped. Miss La Neige,
who was sitting beside me, had been leaning forward involuntarily.
Almost as if the words were wrung from her she whispered hoarsely:
"They put me up to doing it; I didn't want to. But the affair had gone
too far. I couldn't see him lost before my very eyes. I didn't want
her to get him. The quickest way out was to tell the whole story to
Mr. Parker and stop it. It was the only way I could think to stop this
thing between another man's wife and the man I loved better than my
own husband. God knows, Professor Kennedy, that was all—"
"Calm yourself, madame," interrupted Kennedy soothingly. "Calm
yourself. What's done is done. The truth must come out. Be calm. Now,"
he continued, after the first storm of remorse had spent itself and we
were all outwardly composed again, "we have said nothing whatever of
the most mysterious feature of the case, the firing of the shot. The
murderer could have thrust the weapon into the pocket or the folds of
this coat"—here he drew forth the automobile coat and held it aloft,
displaying the bullet hole—"and he or she (I will not say which)
could have discharged the pistol unseen. By removing and secreting
the weapon afterward one very important piece of evidence would be
suppressed. This person could have used such a cartridge as I have
here, made with smokeless powder, and the coat would have concealed
the flash of the shot very effectively. There would have been no
smoke. But neither this coat nor even a heavy blanket would have
deadened the report of the shot.
"What are we to think of that? Only one thing. I have often wondered
why the thing wasn't done before. In fact I have been waiting for
it to occur. There is an invention that makes it almost possible to
strike a man down with impunity in broad daylight in any place where
there is sufficient noise to cover up a click, a slight 'Pouf!' and
the whir of the bullet in the air.
"I refer to this little device of a Hartford inventor. I place it
over the muzzle of the thirty-two-calibre revolver I have so far been
using—so. Now, Mr. Jameson, if you will sit at that typewriter over
there and write—anything so long as you keep the keys clicking. The
inspector will start that imitation stock-ticker in the corner. Now we
are ready. I cover the pistol with a cloth. I defy anyone in this room
to tell me the exact moment when I discharged the pistol. I could have
shot any of you, and an outsider not in the secret would never have
thought that I was the culprit. To a certain extent I have reproduced
the conditions under which this shooting occurred.
"At once on being sure of this feature of the case I despatched a man
to Hartford to see this inventor. The man obtained from him a complete
list of all the dealers in New York to whom such devices had been
sold. The man also traced every sale of those dealers. He did not
actually obtain the weapon, but if he is working on schedule-time
according to agreement he is at this moment armed with a
search-warrant and is ransacking every possible place where the person
suspected of this crime could have concealed his weapon. For, one of
the persons intimately connected with this case purchased not long ago
a silencer for a thirty-two-calibre revolver, and I presume that that
person carried the gun and the silencer at the time of the murder of
Kennedy concluded in triumph, his voice high pitched, his eyes
flashing. Yet to all outward appearance not a heart-beat
was quickened. Someone in that room had an amazing store of
self-possession. The fear flitted across my mind that even at the last
Kennedy was baffled.
"I had anticipated some such anti-climax," he continued after a
moment. "I am prepared for it."
He touched a bell, and the door to the next room opened. One of
Kennedy's graduate students stepped in.
"You have the records, Whiting?" he asked.
"I may say," said Kennedy, "that each of your chairs is wired under
the arm in such a way as to betray on an appropriate indicator in the
next room every sudden and undue emotion. Though it may be concealed
from the eye, even of one like me who stand facing you, such emotion
is nevertheless expressed by physical pressure on the arms of
the chair. It is a test that is used frequently with students to
demonstrate various points of psychology. You needn't raise your arms
from the chair, ladies and gentlemen. The tests are all over now.
What did they show, Whiting?"
The student read what he had been noting in the next room. At the
production of the coat during the demonstration of the markings of the
bullet, Mrs. Parker had betrayed great emotion, Mr. Bruce had done
likewise, and nothing more than ordinary emotion had been noted for
the rest of us. Miss La Neige's automatic record during the tracing
out of the sending of the note to Parker had been especially
unfavorable to hear; Mr. Bruce showed almost as much excitement; Mrs.
Parker very little and Downey very little. It was all set forth in
curves drawn by self-recording pens on regular ruled paper. The
student had merely noted what took place in the lecture-room as
corresponding to these curves.
"At the mention of the noiseless gun," said Kennedy, bending over the
record, while the student pointed it out to him and we leaned forward
to catch his words, "I find that the curves of Miss La Neige, Mrs.
Parker, and Mr. Downey are only so far from normal as would be
natural. All of them were witnessing a thing for the first time with
only curiosity and no fear. The curve made by Mr. Bruce shows great
I heard a metallic click at my side and turned hastily. It was
Inspector Barney O'Connor, who had stepped out of the shadow with a
pair of hand-cuffs.
"James Bruce, you are under arrest," he said.
There flashed on my mind, and I think on the minds of some of the
others a picture of another electrically wired chair.