Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 3, August 1973

Introduction by Sam Moskowitz

Regarded by many as the greatest writer of dog stories who ever lived, the name of Albert Payson Terhune became a household word after his novel Lad: A Dog appeared in 1919. He loved dogs — particularly Collies — and bred them at his Pompton Lakes, N.J. home. Few men seemed to enjoy a finer insight into the psychology and motivation of dogs and his love for the animals created an immense following for his books — Bruce, Buff: A Collie, Further Adventures of Lad, His Dog, Black Ceasar’s Clan, The Heart of a Dog and many others which followed in annual procession.

Because of the association of his name with dogs, few are aware that he had been a successful novelist and fiction writer for twenty-three years before his dog stories captivated the reading public and was a worldly man capable of writing excellent western, war, love or detective stories. So capable was Terhune, that between 1906 and 1916, his income fluctuated between $12,000 and $30,000 a year, during an era when annual incomes for laborers for a six-day week were as low as $600 a year and, incredibly, $1,500 a year was definitely a good wage for the middle-class.

A novel of his titled “Dad” which ran in four installments in ALL-STORY CAVALIER WEEKLY, July 4th to 25th, 1914 was unusual inasmuch as two chapters in that novel of the human side of the Civil War were completely written by later Nobel Prize winner Sinclair Lewis, who also received twenty-five percent of the check for his contribution.

Terhune may have come by his writing ability genetically, because his mother Mary Virginia Terhune was a novelist who achieved considerable fame under the name of Marion Harland. Terhune’s first book was Syria From the Saddle, written after his return to America from traveling abroad and published in 1896. Another trip to the Holy Land with his mother resulted in their collaborating on a novel Dr. Dale in 1900, which received a considerable amount of notice because it was done by a mother and son collaboration.

Terhune had worked on newspapers including THE NEW YORK WORLD. It was his job as a crime reporter to cover many of the murders that occurred and also to follow the fascinating detective work as police cracked many a difficult case. It seemed to him, from his vantage point, that a newspaper man, with all information funneling into his media, would be in a good position to play the part of detective. That is what we have in The Spindle Clue, a fine mystery murder with the newsman as the detective.

It first appeared in Frank A. Munsey’s scarcely remembered magazine THE QUAKER for May, 1889. THE QUAKER was a companion to the all-fiction magazine THE ARGOSY, printed half on pulp paper and half on coated stock. It had started out as THE PURITAN aimed at competition with the LADIES HOME COMPANION and THE WOMAN’S HOME JOURNAL.

But the publisher, Frank A. Munsey seemed to have a better instinct for what pleased men than what pleased women. THE QUAKER, when Terhune appeared in it, was a 192 page, pulp-sized magazine whose slogan was: “A magazine to entertain. It has no other mission.” For 10 cents it featured “Good easy reading for the people — no frills, no fine finishes, no hair splitting niceties, but action, action, always action.” This scarcely seemed in keeping with the title THE QUAKER. But as a harbinger of the kind of writer Terhune would someday be, the issue also featured a handsomely illustrated article titled: Dogs: Their Way and Friendships.

The Spindle Clue was one of a number of detective stories that Terhune wrote during the early years of his writing career, and he displayed a sure feel for the elements that go into a “Whodunit.”

The Spindle Clue

The paper had gone to press. It was 2:30 A.M., and all the staff except two “emergency men” and a copy reader and an office boy, had gone home.

One of the emergency reporters had stretched himself out on a long table, his head on a dictionary, and was sleeping as only a seasoned reporter could on so uncomfortable a bed.

Elkins, the other reporter, was shooting craps with the copy reader; and the office boy, after writing his own name with quaint flourishes seventy nine times on a sheet of copy paper, was nodding in his chair.

The lights burned drearily under their green shades, leaving much of the great city room in gloom. The roar of the city had died away, so that the clang of an occasional cable car or the rattle of a market truck on the Park Row pavements jarred noisily.

“Eight’s your point, Brewer,” said Elkins, as the copy reader again sent the dice rattling along the yellow table.

Brewer nodded. “Come eight!” he coaxed, after the absurd fashion of crap shooters. “Come an eight! Come a little eight! — Pshaw!”

He had thrown a seven, which gave both dice and shakes to Elkins.

The latter stopped to light another cigarette before picking up the dice.

“Hereward’s dead to the world,” Elkins commented, nodding his head toward the sleeping reporter on the adjacent table.

“He was out working on the Schenck murder case all last night and yesterday,” said Brewer, “and he’s worn out.”

“That’s just like the tender consideration of the chief,” grumbled Elkins, blowing out the match and tossing it down on the paper strewn floor. “It’s just like him to put a tired out man on emergency duty.”

He picked up the dice and jerked them across the table. “Six is my point,” he said, lowering his voice so as not to wake the sleeper. “Come a little easy six! Come a four and a two!”

A five and a two came instead and he rolled the dice across to Brewer.

“I’m sorry for Hereward,” said the copy reader. “He isn’t getting a fair show here.”

“Neither is any one for that matter,” growled Elkins.

It is an unwritten rule among newspaper men to grumble at those in authority, and to bemoan their own hard luck — a peculiarity which they share with three fourths of the world’s working population.

“Hereward’s a first rate reporter,” went on Brewer, “but he’s had bad luck on nearly every assignment since the new managing editor’s been here. So he’s in bad with the chief. If he gets thrown down on this Schenck murder case I’m afraid they’ll send in his resignation.”

The Schenck murder case had attracted a great deal of attention. Otto Schenck, a rich Wall Street broker, had lived with his aged parents on Madison Avenue. He had been found lying huddled in a heap, in the vestibule of his home, one morning ten days earlier. Outer and inner front door of the house were wide open, and valuable plate was missing from the diningroom.

The motive for the murder, said the police, was quite clear. A thief, or thieves, had entered and robbed the Schenck house, and on departing had met the young man coming in the front door. Otto had showed fight and was killed.

Thus far the case seemed Simple enough. But there was another, more inexplicable element in it. The only mark of violence on the victim was a tiny reddish spot over the heart. Around this spot were one or two minute flakes of dark brown dust.

The spot was too tiny to be caused by even a stiletto blow. Yet an autopsy proved the heart to have been pierced by a weapon of some sort, the point of which had entered at the right ventricle. Some wiseacre had showed that such a blow, delivered in such a fashion, must have been dealt with the left hand.

And there the police knowledge stopped short. They were scouring the city for a left handed thief. Pawnshops had been ransacked in vain for traces of the stolen silver. The Schenck servants, and Otto’s father and mother, testified that they had slept peacefully through the whole tragedy.

Old Mrs. Schenck was prostrated by the blow. Her husband bore himself with stem fortitude, but he had aged ten years during the past fortnight.

And this was the helpless case to which Jack Hereward, of the Morning Planet, had been assigned. Like other reporters he had written columns of uninteresting detail and conjecture and had elaborated each police theory to three times the space it was worth.

He had done his best, but ill luck dogged his steps; and, as Brewer said, if he didn’t make a hit of some sort on the case, there was every chance of his being discharged.

“Three o’clock! Sure glad we can get out of this!” cried Elkins, dropping the dice into his drawer. “Wake up, Hereward, and go home.”

“Eh! What?” muttered Hereward, sitting up. “Time to go home?” he went on, clambering down from the table. His head was heavy with sleep, and he staggered as he tried to stand. He threw out one arm to save himself from falling, and brought down his left hand heavily on the copy desk.

A cry of pain followed his action, echoed by exclamations of horror from Brewer and Elkins.

Hereward, in his effort to preserve his balance, had thrown his full weight on the hand that fell on the copy desk. The hand had come down with terrible force on a spindle that held half a dozen sheets of yellow “flimsy.”

This spindle was like others of its sort used for the filing of papers. It consisted of an upright steel wire, sharpened to a fine point, and attached to a round wooden base.

The spindle had run clean through the reporter’s hand.

“Come down to the drug store,” cried Brewer, “and get the wound disinfected, or you may get an infection.”

But Hereward, having drawn out the spindle with a groan of pain, was staring open mouthed at his hand. He gazed at it with an eager intensity, that for a moment drove all memory of pain from his mind.

“What are you waiting for?” said Elkins, holding open the door for him.

Hereward glanced again at the tiny, almost bloodless spot on his palm, and at the little flakes of rust left by the spindle. He answered briefly:

“I’m not waiting for anything. Come on.”

In the hallway that led to the drug store were one or two other newspaper men. Elkins and Brewer shouldered their way past them and gained the door of the shop.

“Where’s Hereward?” asked Brewer as they paused.

He had vanished.

Slipping through the outer door, Hereward had gained the street. His hand throbbed and ached furiously, but the reporter wrapped a handkerchief about the wound and set his teeth to keep down the pain.

Two minutes later he was speeding up town as fast as a Third Avenue “L” train could carry him.

It was 3:30 A.M. when the father of Otto Schenck, lying awake in his silent, death desolated house, heard a quick step at the front door, followed by the sharp burr-r-r of the electric bell.

Hastily donning a dressing gown, and putting on a pair of slippers, the old man groped his way down stairs and opened the front door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Here ward — Planet reporter,” was the response. “I have a clue that may be of interest and I came here before notifying the police. Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but you’ve offered five thousand dollars reward for the murderer’s arrest and I thought you ought to be the first to hear of any clue.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” replied the old man. “Come into my study and tell me about it.”

The tall, dressing gowned figure led the way into a back room, found the electric key and flooded the room with light.

“Now, then, Mr. Hereward—” he began. Then he broke off in surprise: “Why, you’re white as a sheet, man! and you’re trembling. What’s the matter?”

“I had an accident,” answered the reporter briefly, pointing to his bandaged hand. The pain was intolerable, but he choked it back and tried to speak calmly.

“A glass of whiskey will brace you up,” said Mr. Schenck. “Wait a moment and I’ll get you some.”

The old man turned to a Japanned cupboard on the wall. Hereward’s gaze swept the book lined walls, resting at last on the littered study table. There his eyes contracted and he remained looking fixedly among the pile of letters and papers that strewed the table. He had been in this room several times before, but never had anything in it interested him to such an extent.

Meantime Mr. Schenck had brought from the cupboard a huge decanter nearly full of whiskey and two glasses. Placing them on the table he sat down opposite Hereward.

The reporter raised his eyes from the table and looked keenly at the old man.

“You’ll feel better for a drink,” said Schenck. “Then you can tell me about this new clue of yours.”

As he spoke Mr. Schenck lifted the heavy decanter easily, and turning it, filled both glasses.

“He’s strong in the wrists for such an old man; but why doesn’t he let me fill my own glass?” wondered Hereward, who was an adept in all points of etiquette governing drinking bouts.

Then he noticed something peculiar in the host’s method of handling the decanter. A second glance showed him that Schenck was manipulating it with his left hand.

Hereward leaned forward as if to pick up his glass. He picked up, instead, a long spindle from the table. He turned this over once or twice, noticing its massive base of carved silver and the flecks of rust on the long wire.

“You killed him with this, didn’t you, Mr. Schenck?” he asked gently, holding up the spindle.

The old man sprang to his feet and flashed a startled, indignant glance at the reporter.

Hereward returned his stare with utter indifference. In the silence that followed, the two could hear the distant roar of a Third Avenue “L” train, and the muffled snores of some one sleeping in the upper part of the house.

“That was the clue I had,” said Hereward at last. “This is the sort of a wound a spindle makes,” unwinding the bandage from his hand. “This spot is like the one over your son’s heart. You see there’s no use denying anything. We have all the proof we need,” he ended, marveling at his own daring lie.

There was a crash as the decanter slipped from Schenck’s stiff fingers and rolled gurgling about the floor.

The old man sank back in his chair, his stem fortitude all gone.

He buried his face in his trembling hands and shook from head to foot.

The gray old figure in the padded worn gown moved Hereward to a momentary pity. Then the reporter asked with mild curiosity’

“Why did you do it?”

“He was drunk,” moaned the old man from behind his hands. “He was drunk — I heard him shambling up the street and climbing the steps— It wasn’t the first time I’d lain awake for him. I let him in. He came in here and I followed him— He was drunk — and... and he said terrible things to me. He said we were living here on his charity, and he was sick of listening to my lectures on drink and sick of seeing his mother and me pottering ’round.

“He said he’d turn us out next day and leave us to starve. He often talked that way when he was drunk. But this time he seemed to mean it. And then... then he ordered me out of the room and threatened to beat me if I didn’t go. Me — his own father. I am an old man, sir, and I’m not the man I used to be. I suppose courage goes when strength goes.”

He paused and a fresh shudder convulsed his crouching gray form. Throughout his broken, half whispered speech Schenck had never removed his hands from his face.

Hereward said nothing, but eyed him intently.

“He staggered toward me,” mumbled Schenck at last, taking up the thread of his story. “My son is — my son was — a strong man, sir, and very violent sometimes. I saw he meant to strike me and — and I was afraid. He was a violent man. Mr. Hereward.”

“Well?” queried the reporter.

“And I picked up the first thing that came to hand to defend myself with. And the next thing I knew there he lay on the rug by the table all tumbled together. It was horrible!”

“So you pulled him into the vestibule and then hid the silver to make it appear that thieves killed him!” said Hereward with scarcely a note of inquiry in his voice.

“Yes... yes, sir. Though I can’t see how you learned about it so soon. It is hard thing for an old man to be tried for his life and perhaps electrocuted. It is... it’s a hard thing, sir. And after all,” he pleaded, “I hadn’t meant to harm him. It was self defence, your honor — I mean Mr. Hereward.”

The stately dignity with which Mr. Schenck had so favorably impressed all the reporters was gone. The shrivelled old man crouched on the floor at Hereward’s feet.

“I... I fancied no one could find out, Mr. Hereward,” Schenck muttered at last. “If I sign a confession do you think the law will deal more gently with me?”

The reporter did not reply, but the old man was evidently impressed by his own idea. Scrambling to his chair again he wrote a few shaky sentences on a blank sheet, signed the confession, and shoved it across to Hereward.

The sight of the written words awoke all the sleeping news gathering instinct in the reporter.

Every newspaper man knows how infinitely stronger is this instinct than any other earthly craving.

“Take it,” entreated Schenck. “If I confess they may let me off easy.”

Snatching the confession in one hand and the long, shining spindle in the other, Hereward made for the front door; never stopping for so much as a backward glance at the quivering gray figure, so pitiably old and shrunken under the glare of the light.

The managing editor of the New York Morning Planet lived half a mile from the Schenck house. Five minutes later a panting, dishevelled reporter was gasping out to him a story that caused that half clad dignitary to gallop madly to the nearest telephone.

Dawn was breaking as a group of hastily summoned compositors and pressroom hands gathered together after their hour of hard work, to talk over the “Extra” that had just gone to press.

“This’ll make the Globe and the rest of ’em look like thirty cents,” said one. “It’s the biggest beat that ever happened.”

“That feller Hereward’s really something,” chuckled a second. “To think of his gettin’ the whole story when every other reporter in town failed!”

“An’ th’ next edition’s goin’ to have a facsimile of the confession an’ a photo of the spindle that did the murder,” said a third. “Oh, it’s the biggest beat that ever happened!”

“Yes, Hereward’s terrific!” reiterated the second man. “He’s gone back to old Schenck’s again. I’ll bet he’ll get another good column or two out of it.”

At that moment Hereward, without stopping to take off his hat or coat, was entering the managing editor’s office.

The chief was looking with delight over his hastily constructed “Extra,” whose first page bore a four column scare head, reading:

As Hereward stepped into the sanctum the managing editor looked up with a smile.

“Anything new?” he asked. “Is he arrested yet?”

“He won’t be arrested,” said Hereward. “He hanged himself in his study just after I left the first time. He was quite dead before his body was found.”

The managing editor leaped to his feet.

“Oh, I wrote that end of the story on the way down,” said Hereward wearily, answering his chief’s unasked question. “I’ve just turned it in to the city editor.”

“Hereward!” cried the managing editor, grasping the young man’s cold, unresponsive hand, “you’ve done some great work! You were clever to follow up that spindle clue and then to notice the old man was left handed. Do you know that it means a raise of pay for you?”

Through his wonder at the chief’s actually volunteering a raise of pay to any one, there slowly crept into Jack Hereward’s memory the picture of a gray, withered figure crouching at his feet.

“I’m very tired, sir,” said the reporter, “and my hand hurts. I think I’d like a day off if you don’t mind.”