Bunched Knuckles

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?”

“Because Sidney didn’t leave any wife, children, brothers or sisters.”

“Any more of Proctor’s heirs besides the two who got bumped?” Jim Grood inquired.

“Two. One is named Phyllis Proctor. She lives in the Brentwood Apartments in San Francisco. Then there another chap named Harry Cutting. He’s an older man, somewhere in the late forties. He was in business in Cleveland. The business failed and Cutting went through bankruptcy. The creditors claimed a fraud had been practised, but they were never able to prove anything. Cutting vanished. No one knows what became of him.”

“He may be dead,” Grood suggested.

“Perhaps,” Bowman agreed, “but let’s figure this thing from a business viewpoint. If those two murders were committed because someone wanted two of the Proctor heirs out of the way, the murderer must have been some person who would profit by the death. That person probably isn’t Phyllis Proctor, since she would have shared equally with the two who were killed. Harry Cutting, on the other hand, wouldn’t have shared in the estate at all while any of the other three were alive.”

“But look here,” Grood objected. “Suppose Cutting is back of this thing. When he comes to claim his inheritance, lawyers are going to start chasing down the records to find out what happened to the other heirs. If it turns out that three of them got bumped off within a few weeks of each other, and all under similar circumstances, it’s going to put Cutting’s neck in a noose.”

Bowman nodded. “That,” he said, “is true, except that you must remember there’s no similarity whatever in the circumstances except for the typewritten notes. Within a few weeks the typewritten note left by Arthur Brecton will have been forgotten. Remember, his death looked like a suicide, rather than a murder.”

“Then how about Phyllis?”

“If Phyllis should die, it will doubtless be by some entirely different means. She may die in an automobile accident, or something of that sort.”

“But how about a typewritten note in her case?”

“There may not be any,” Bowman said. “Phyllis Proctor is going under her right name. She’s living in San Francisco and working as a stenographer — that is, she had been working up until a few weeks ago. Apparently she’s out of a job at present. If she should die, there would be no difficulty whatever establishing her identity. The other two were, for various reasons, using assumed names.”

Grood nodded slowly.

“Moreover,” Bowman said, “the murderer undoubtedly intends to dispose of the other heirs and then sit tight until he’s either discovered by professional searchers, or feels that the time is ripe to make a disclosure. The estate’s on ice.”

“Then Phyllis is the next on the list of victims?”

“If my theory is correct,” Bowman said.

“Could we go to San Francisco and just stick around to protect her?” Grood asked dubiously.

“That might make complications,” Jax Bowman pointed out, “which we would do well to avoid!”

“How about simply finding Harry Cutting and beating him to the punch?”

“That’s even more difficult. In the first place Cutting probably is working through some clever crook. He may be keeping in the background where he can have an alibi for each one of the murders. He’ll be under cover in any event.”

Jim Grood doubled his right hand, squeezed it with his left hand until he cracked the knuckles, one by one, a habit which he had when he was thinking.

“Well,” he said, “what’s the dope? We can’t sit back here and fool around.”

Bowman nodded. “How’d you like to be an impostor?” he asked.

“A what?”

“An impostor.”

“What would I do?”

“You would, for the moment, become Sidney Proctor.”

“You mean the guy who was killed up the Amazon?”

“That’s right.”

“What would that do?”

“It would put the murderers on the spot. With Sidney Proctor alive, Harry Cutting would stand no chance whatever of inheriting, so he’d be desperate enough to try and kill Sidney Proctor.”

“You mean I’m to pose as Sidney Proctor and this guy will try to bump me?”

Bowman nodded.

Big Jim Grood shifted his left knuckles through the palm of his right hand, cracked them slowly, one by one, and grinned. “Aw, hell,” he said, “you’re so goo-o-o-o-d to me.”

Bowman chuckled.

“How are we going to arrange it so I don’t get arrested for being an impostor before we smoke cutting out into the open?”

“I think I can arrange it,” Bowman said. “It happens that I have a friend who is returning from a cruise to the South Sea Islands in a yacht. You might be aboard that yacht when it docks.”

“Do I swim?” Grood asked.

“Not while there are hydroplanes we can charter,” Bowman said.

Big Jim sighed. “Listen,” he said, “can’t you be Sidney Proctor instead of me?”

“Not very well,” Bowman said, frowning. “I’m too well known. Remember the newspapers will be publishing pictures of the lost explorer who has returned to life. What’s the matter, Jim, you aren’t getting cold feet, are you?”

Big Jim Grood lurched from the chair to his feet.

“Cold feet,” he said belligerently. “Say, what the hell are you talking about? Do you think I’m getting yellow because I’m going to bait a death trap?”

“Well, then, what is the matter?” Bowman demanded.

Grood grinned sheepishly, looked for the moment like a schoolboy trying to keep from making a confession. “Aw, I hate to tell you, chief,” he said.

There was anxiety in Bowman’s voice. “What is it, Jim?”

Big Jim Grood sighed. “It’s that damned yacht business,” he said. “I always get seasick.”

Big Jim Grood made one last attempt to change Bowman’s mind as he watched the engines of a big amphibian warming up.

Banks of fog were just breaking up and the sunlight was gleaming through, sparkling upon the waters of the bay. To the west was the Golden Gate of San Francisco, beyond which lay the broad expanse of the Pacific. The towers of the new bridge construction thrust themselves up from the bay like giant red fingers clutching at the dispersing fog.

“There’s two things I don’t like to travel in,” Big Jim Grood grumbled. “One of them’s an airplane and the other’s a boat.”

“You’ll like this yacht,” Bowman said: “it’s a beauty.”

Big Jim Grood frowned at the placid waters of the bay, looked over at the big amphibian and spat contemptuously.

“Suppose you can’t locate this yacht?” he asked.

“Nothing to it,” Bowman said. “I’ve been in touch with them by radio. They know we’re coming. They’re laying off the Farallons in a position that’s been accurately checked and radioed. We can fly right to them.”

Grood continued his grumbling protest. “Now listen, chief, it’s the wrong way to go about this. This ain’t the kind of a mystery where we don’t know who’s back of it. This is a cinch. All we’ve got to do is to tip off Phyllis Proctor, locate Harry Cutting and start checking up on this aviator I’ve been telling you about.”

“You mean the ex-convict?” Bowman asked.

“Yeah — this Howard Ashe. You can gamble a hundred to one that he’s mixed up in the thing. Two months ago he was just an ex-con hanging around on the fringes, looking for a chance to break in. Thirty days ago he shows up with his pockets full of dough and buys an airplane. Hell, there’s nothing to it. We can bust this case wide open by using the good old police methods.”

Bowman shook his head decisively. “I’m not a policeman,” he said; “I’m an adventurer.”

“You want to get results, don’t you?”

“Certainly I want to get results, but I want to get them so there’s some adventure in it. It’s like fishing for swordfish; you could use a gun, a harpoon, a big line and a winch, but it’s more fun to use light tackle.”

Jim Grood nodded emphatically. “Yeah,” he said, “more fun because you’re taking a chance on the fish getting away. That’s just what’s likely to happen in this case — the fish are going to get away.”

The mechanic nodded his head to Bowman. Bowman laughed, tucked his fingers under Jim Grood’s arm and said, “In we go, Jim; it’ll soon be over.”

“Yeah,” Grood remarked dryly, “that’s what I’m afraid of.”

He braced himself against the current of wind thrown back by the propellers, wormed his way through the open door of the cabin. Bowman followed him, took his place at the control. The mechanic slammed the door shut.

“How much flying experience did you say you’d had?” Grood shouted above the roar of the motors.

Jax Bowman grinned. “Enough to get you there and get myself hack,” he remarked, as he gunned the right motor, then throttled back, gunned the left and waved his hand to the mechanics.

The mechanics jerked the blocks out from under the wheels. Bowman opened the throttles. The big plane roared down the runway and slanted into a smooth take-off. When the ship was well out over the bay, Bowman worked the mechanism which drew up the landing wheels and converted the ship into a hydroplane. The motors roared a smooth song of power. San Francisco stretched out below them, glistening buildings reflecting the sunlight which filtered through the fog. Ahead of them lay the dark forest of the Presidio; over to the left the long narrow stretch of Golden Gate Park. Out by the Cliff House and Sutro Baths, where the surf was thundering against the rocks on which sea lions basked, there was a thick wall of fog.

Bowman tilted the plane to climb above the fog. Jim Grood, the safety belt strapped across his thighs, gripped the sides of his chair until the skin showed white over his big, battered knuckles.

The plane roared higher. Suddenly, as it swept over the area where the fog was disintegrating, it struck an air bump. For a moment everything seemed to stop, while the plane settled — then suddenly it bounded up into the air, wobbled drunkenly, then continued on its course, only to strike another air bump.

Bowman, at the controls, keeping the ship as nearly on an even keel as possible, turned to grin reassuringly at Big Jim Grood.

The big ex-cop had his eyes closed — his lips were tightly clenched.

A moment more and they were over the bumpy area. Fog reached out and closed about them, shutting out the light. Moisture misted the windows of the enclosed cabin; then, as though it had been a projectile shot from a gun, the plane zoomed up above the fog and into bright sunlight.

It was smooth flying here. Jim Grood ventured to open his eyes, saw the clear blue of the sky, looked down a couple of hundred feet to the top of the fog bank, a brilliant, dazzling white under the rays of the sun. The shadow cast by the big plane scudded over the uneven floor of white clouds like some huge bird.

The plane flew steadily until the fog became patches of isolated white clouds, below which could be seen the blue ocean, looking almost dead-black. Bowman carefully calculated his position, swung the plane in a wide circle, then throttled down the motors. The nose of the plane tilted sharply downward as it swept toward the ocean in a long circle. Big Jim Grood, looking down the slanting wing of the plane, saw a tiny speck of white resting upon the dark surface of the ocean.

Once more he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his lips a thin, straight line.

The plane spiraled down to the ocean, straightened out, to skim over the water like a flying gull; then, with a splash of spray, it struck the top of a wave, plowed for a moment through water, and came to a stop. A small boat put out from the yacht.

Bowman opened the cabin door, slapped Big Jim Grood reassuringly on the back, lowered Grood’s bag to the men in the boat. A moment later Grood himself was seated in the bobbing skiff. Jax Bowman shouted greetings to the yachtsman, then pointed to the yacht which had ceased to be merely a white speck upon the ocean, but now showed as a trim, serviceable craft, looming against the skyline.

“This will beat the old police methods, Jim,” he said. “Take a look at her. Isn’t she a beauty?”

Jim Grood, looking rather green around the gills, turned to look and nodded his head mechanically. There was no enthusiasm in his eyes.

Bowman waved farewells, gunned the motors into revolution, made a smooth take-off, spiraled up into the air and, as he made his first turn, looked down at the skiff. Something that he saw made him reach for his binoculars and adjust them to his eyes.

Big Jim Grood, his head over the side of the small boat, was being violently ill.