LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XXIII

      The Vacuum Bottle

       Table of Contents

      Fortunately, Dean Allison was at the Club, as we hoped, having just arrived by the train that left New York at the close of the banking day. Someone told us, however, that Wyndham had probably decided to remain in town over night.

      Allison was perhaps a little older than I had imagined, rather a grave young man who seemed to take his club responsibilities on the Council very seriously.

      "I'd like to talk to you about this Evans case," began Craig when we had been introduced.

      "Glad to tell you all I know," he responded cordially. "It isn't much, I'm afraid. It's terrible—terrible. We don't know what to think. My sister is all broken up by it, poor girl."

      He led the way over to a corner, in a sort of bow window, and we sat down on the hard leather cushions.

      "No, there isn't much I can say," he resumed. "You see, one of the recreations of the younger set at the Club is boxing—that's about all there was to it—not the amateurish thing one usually sees, but real scientific boxing.

      "Fraser had adopted the so-called Fitzsimmons shift—you know, the right foot forward, while the left hand shoots out from somewhere near the hip, plunging at close range into the pit of the stomach."

      Allison rose to illustrate it. "Irving, on the other hand, had been advocating the Jeffries crouch as the only safeguard to meet it,—like that."

      He threw himself into position and went on, "The bout had been arranged, accordingly, and it was some bout, too. Most of us here are fond of boxing to keep fit.

      "Well, at last Fraser got under his guard, I suppose you'd call it. He landed. For an instant, Irving stood up straight, his hands helplessly extended. Most of us thought he was fooling and Fraser jumped back, laughing at the way his contention had worked out. Then, slowly, struggling as if against the inevitable, Irving bent forward and toppled over on his face.

      "That's where we woke up. We rushed forward and picked him up, apparently unconscious, and carried him to the locker-room. There was a good deal of excitement. Someone telephoned for a doctor, but couldn't seem to find one at home."

      "Did you see anything peculiar take place in the locker-room?" asked Kennedy, following keenly.

      "Anything peculiar?"

      "Yes—anyone near him, perhaps—another blow—while he was unconscious."

      "No—and I think I would have seen anything that was out of the way. I was there almost all the time—until someone told me my sister was upstairs and suggested that I was the best one to break the news to her."

      "I'd like to look over the gymnasium and locker-room," suggested Craig.

      Dean Allison led the way downstairs quickly. Craig did not spend more than a minute in the gymnasium, but the locker-room he examined carefully.

      It was a long room. Each locker bore the name of its owner and he hastily ran his eye over them, getting their location.

      I don't know that even he had, yet, any idea that he would find anything, but it was just his habit to go over the ground of a tragedy, in hope of picking up some clew.

      He looked over the floor very carefully, now and then bending down as if to discover spots. Once he paused a moment, then continued his measured tread down the long row of lockers until he came to a door at the other end of the room. We went out and Kennedy looked about closely.

      "Oh,—about Benson, the steward," he said, looking up quickly and stroking his chin as if an idea had occurred to him. "Is there anyone here who might know something about him—his habits, associates,—that sort of thing?"

      "Why—yes," considered Allison slowly, "the chef might know. Wait, I'll call him."

      As Allison disappeared in the direction of what was evidently the kitchen, we stood outside by the door, waiting.

      Kennedy's eye traveled back and forth about us and finally fell on a row of rubbish barrels a few feet away. He moved over to them.

      He had half turned away, retracing his steps back to me thoughtfully, when his eye must have been attracted by something gleaming. He turned back and poked at it with his stick. Peeping from the rubbish was a dented thermos bottle, the lining of which was cracked and broken.

      He was about to turn away again when his eye fell on something else. It was the top of the bottle, the little metal cap that screws over it, or rather it was what was left of the cap.

      "That's strange," he muttered to himself, picking it up.

      The cap, which might have been used as a cup, was broken in the most peculiar manner, in spite of the fact that it was metal. If it had been of glass I should have said that someone had dropped it.

      Kennedy frowned and dropped the pieces into his pocket, turning to wait for Allison to return with the chef.

      "I can't seem to find him," reported Allison a moment later. "But he'll be here soon. He'll have to be—or lose his job. How would after dinner do? I'll have him and all the other employés, then."

      "Good!" agreed Kennedy. "That will give me time to go into the town first and get back."

      "I'd be glad to have you dine with me," invited Allison.

      "Thank you," smiled Kennedy. "I'm afraid I won't have time for dining tonight. I'll be back after dinner, though."

      Mrs. Ferris's car had returned and Craig's next step was to go on into the town of Briar Lake.

      On the way he decided first to stop at the Evans house, which took us only a little bit out of our way. There he made a minute examination of the body of the young man.

      Irving Evans had been a handsome fellow and the tragedy of his death had been a sad blow to his family. However, I shall not dwell on that, as it is no part of my story.

      Kennedy was eager to see the red spot in the pit of the stomach of the dead man of which everyone had spoken.

      He looked at it closely, as I did also, although I could make nothing of it. Evans had complained of a burning, stinging sensation, during his moments of consciousness and the mark had had a flushed, angry look. It seemed as though a sort of crust had formed over it, which now was ashen white.

      Craig did not spend as long as I had anticipated at the Evans house, but, although he said nothing, I could tell by the expression of his face that he was satisfied with the conclusions which he drew from the examination. Yet I could not see that the combination of circumstances looked much better for Fraser Ferris.

      We went on now to the town and there we had no trouble in meeting the authorities and getting them to talk. In fact, they seemed quite eager to justify themselves.

      As we passed down the main street, Mrs. Ferris's chauffeur mentioned the fact that a local physician, Dr. Welch, was also the Coroner of the county. Kennedy asked him to stop at the doctor's

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