Black Cat Weekly #1

AUROVIA’S FAMOUS LODGE CASE, by Frank Lowell Nelson-1

AUROVIA’S FAMOUS LODGE CASE,

by Frank Lowell NelsonEvery man who has been a newspaper reporter and survived has one case which he gives the post of honor in memory. This is the story of the assignment I like best to remember, not only because it resulted in the solution of one of the most mysterious cases that ever arose in Illinois, but rather for the reason that it marked my first meeting with Carlton Clarke, a meeting destined to develop into our joint excursions into hitherto untrodden pathways in the study of crime which have since made Clarke’a name famous on two continents.

It was in the summer of 1896 that the word came to the office of the Chicago morning paper with which I was then connected that the police of the little city of Aurovia were struggling with a case which seemed destined to prove one of the greatest mysteries of the day. As I had met with considerable success in criminal cases, the managing editor lost no time in hustling me off by the first train to the scene of action.

The brief account in the first paper I picked up, stripped of its glaring headlines, was as follows:

Early this morning a very mysterious tragedy occurred in the hall of the Ancient Order of Persian Knights, a local secret society, which resulted in the almost instant death of Dr. Arthur W. Williams, a prominent physician of this city. The initiation of Dr. Williams was in progress at the time. In one portion of the ceremony, the candidate, having been condemned to death for invading the sacred domain of the shah, is ordered to load an old-fashioned dueling pistol with powder and ball which are furnished him. He is then placed against the wall by a member of the lodge, holding the office of royal executioner. The powder provided the candidate has always been a clever counterfeit made of pulverized anthracite coal, and the only climax to the thrilling ceremony, heretofore, has been the fizzle of the percussion cap and the shouts of laughter of the lodge members.

Dr. Williams was an old hand at lodge work. As a consequence, none of the efforts of the Persian Knights to break down his nerve or self-possession had been successful. When he had loaded the pistol, he faced Dr. Homer Smith, whose duty it was to fire the shot, and gazed into his eyes without a visible tremor. Suddenly the members of the lodge, about 300 of whom were present, were startled by a loud explosion. Dr. Williams fell forward with blood gushing from a wound in his forehead. Among the first to reach the stricken man was Dr. Smith, who had fired the fatal shot. He tried to stanch the blood, but the bullet had penetrated the brain, and Dr. Williams died in his arms without speaking.

Chief of Police Darling, who is a prominent member of the order, holding the office of royal astrologer, at once thought to secure the cup from which the powder had beer poured. A few grains remained. He tasted them. It was unmistakably black gunpowder.

No arrests have been made, and no one seems willing in take the responsibility of saying that the tragedy was anything more than accident due to the carelessness of someone in getting the counterfelt powder mixed with the real article.

“Oh, those country correspondents!” I fairly groaned. There was so much I wanted to know. Who had handled the supposed counterfeit powder? What was the customary source from which the Order of Persian Knights procured it? What were the relations of the two physicians toward each other?

I turned to the other papers. One or two gave further details of the character of the lodge, the name of which was strange to me, and something of the personalities of the principals.

The two physicians were prominent in the professional and social life of the city. Dr. Williams had settled in Aurovia two years before. Dr. Smith had been born and reared there. Dr. Williams left a widow, but no children. Dr. Smith was unmarried and made his home with a maiden aunt.

“It all depends upon the history of the powder,” I said to myself as I stuffed the papers into my pocket.

“You are right, sir. It all depends upon the history of the powder.”

I turned around half in anger at this unlooked-for interruption to my train of thought. Whatever emotion I may have felt was instantly lost in interest in the face before mine. It was a face I should have singled out among a thousand. Clean shaven, the firmly molded chin showed by its slight tinge of blue that the beard, had it been allowed to grow, would have been black. The nose was aquiline and of perfect proportions. The intelligent eyes were dark almost to blackness. The complexion was swarthy, but suffused with the glow of health. The hair was of that distingué combination of colors, black, shading almost to white on the temples and over the forehead. An American, evidently, but inheriting through several generations of new world ancestors the markings of southern Europe. His height I should have estimated at six feet. Carlton Clarke really lacks three-quarters of an inch of the mark.

“You were saying that it all depends upon the history of the powder, and I agreed that you had estimated the case correctly,” repeated my neighbor.

“I have no recollection of saying anything of the kind, although I admit I was thinking it,” I replied. “May I ask how you defined my thoughts so readily?”

“Oh, I noticed that you were studying the case from the papers. It took no second sight to see that you were not satisfied with the information you gained. I am going down on the case myself, and doubtless I followed your chain of ideas which I am sure came to the only logical conclusion. I trust there is nothing uncanny about it. But permit me to share your seat with you. It is hard to converse over one of these high backs.”

“Whom do you represent at Aurovia?” I asked when the change had been executed.

“No one. I am unofficial and am solely upon my own hook.”

“Then you are a sort of Sherlock Holmes?” I ventured.

“Sherlock Holmes is an impossibility. With all due respect to his literary progenitor, Dr. Doyle, I have very little respect for his methods, although I admit I employ them at times. Crime is psychological and must be approached psychologically regarding both its prevention and its detection. It must be combatted by the study of men, not by the analysis of cigar ashes. It may be prevented by employing the breed of human beings rather than that of bloodhounds. But I tire you, perhaps.”

“No, no, go on; I beg of you.”

“There is scarcely time for further discussion, for if I am not mistaken we are nearing Aurovia. By the way, you doubtless can procure me an interview with Dr. Homer Smith in the jail, as you have the backing of a big newspaper.”

“But Dr. Smith has not been arrested, according to the papers. I had the very latest editions.”

“He had not when we left Chicago, but unless I am greatly mistaken, he is now behind bars and with a pretty black case against him.”

“You certainly have information on the case which the newspapers have not been able to obtain,” I replied, rather nettled.

“No, I know no more about the case than you. Perhaps I merely jump to the conclusion as the finality of a theory which my mind suggested. I may be mistaken.”

Further conversation was interrupted by our arrival before the little artificial stone building which serves for a railway station at Aurovia. As we stepped onto the platform, the evident topic of conversation on all sides was the tragedy of the night before.

I scorned unofficial information until I had exhausted the official. However, I could not resist turning to one of the groups on the platform and asking: “What is the latest in the Williams case?”

“Doc Smith gave himself up about two hours ago,” was the answer.

“So my theory was correct,” murmured my companion.

“Yes, and the mystery knocked out of another good story. But let’s see what the police have to say.”

* * * *

When we reached police headquarters, we found Chief Darling in his office and at leisure. As we entered, my companion slipped me his card with an apology for having omitted the formality on the train. The name I read was “Mr. Carlton Clarke.”

Chief Darling was willing to talk, but protested that he had no knowledge which was not already public property in the city. He had arrested Dr. Smith upon his own request and after a conference with the state’s attorney. The most damaging evidence against him, aside from the known details of the tragedy, was a powerful motive. The prisoner had every reason in the world to be the enemy of the dead physician, although there had never been an open rupture, and they met as friends in society and lodge work. When Dr. Williams came to Aurovia, Dr. Smith had a flourishing practice. Within two years, his practice had dwindled to practically nothing, with most of his wealthiest patients having fallen under the spell of Dr. Williams’ engaging personality.

But it was over an affair of the heart that the most serious clash in their fortunes had occurred. Dr. Smith for years had been “keeping company” with pretty Lucile Burton. Everybody in the city believed them to be tacitly engaged. The society sensation, therefore, was sprung when the cards came out about a year before announcing the marriage of Dr. Williams and Lucile Burton.

“Has their married life been happy?” asked Carlton Clarke, the first words he had spoken during the interview.

“Well, yes, as far as anybody knows. Dr. Williams was a hard drinker at times—what you might call a periodical drinker—but few people knew it, as he always went home and locked himself in the house for three or four days, and it was given out that he was sick. But my men have taken him home many a time just before one of those ‘sick spells.’”

“What is Dr. Smith’s bearing?”

“That’s just what puzzles me. He will make no confession, and yet he wants to be locked up. I said to him, ‘Look here, Doc, you’re not guilty of this thing, are you?’ and he said. ‘Technically I am,’ and not another word could I get out of him. But l shouldn’t be surprised if he makes a full confession at the inquest tomorrow.”

“Now, Chief,” continued Clarke, “you have, of course, investigated fully the history of the powder?”

“That was the first move I made, and that’s one thing that makes it look bad for Doc. The fake stuff never left his hands from the time it was ground until the shot was fired. The lodge has been getting its imitation made at Burpee’s drug store, where a clerk by the name of Wilbur Paget, who is a member of the lodge, grinds it up on the quiet as we need it. On the afternoon of the initiation he had made up a quantity. Doc Smith dropped into the store about 5:30, and Paget gave him the powder wrapped up in a brown paper package. As far as I can find out, nobody but Paget and Doc handled it or saw it.”

“Have you inquired whether Dr. Smith has purchased any gunpowder lately?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be necessary for him to do that. All the doctors here hunt a good deal, and Doc Smith always has plenty of ammunition in his house. If he wanted to do away with Doc Williams, it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to have changed the powders and then said it was accident. But if that’s the case, I can’t understand why he wants to give himself up.”

“Don’t you suppose the clandestine meeting he had with Mrs. Williams this morning had something to do with it?”

“Now look here, who has leaked?” Darling exclaimed. “I was sure no one knew of that but myself and one of my men who happened to see them together.”

“You have leaked, my dear Mr. Darling,” answered Clarke. “It was a chance cast, and I’m surprised that an old hand like you should have taken the bait. But you may rely upon our discretion, and I trust you will pardon my lucky stroke and give us your full confidence.”