The Matilda Hunter Murder by Harry Stephen Keeler

Author:Harry Stephen Keeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, detective, sleuth, murder, classic
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2017-03-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XXXI

At Gordon Smith’s

The establishment of Gordon Smith’s on busy South Michigan Avenue near 22nd Street, before which Trotter’s ancient car wheezed to a stop fifteen minutes later, was the typical undertaking shop, made just a little more dignified and impressive than most such by a few simple touches. The entire front of the low building, no doubt once of plebeian red “South-Side” bricks, had been stuccoed with a rough greenish-grey plaster which despite the rugosities in it, gave to the facade the appearance of a rich monotone rug. Its unornamented expanse was broken only by a narrow arched door of stained green polished wood, running to a point at its top, and two long panel-like windows composed of segments of leaded colored glass, also pointed ecclesiastically at their tops, and in each of which a single section of pure glass had been placed, back of which section stood in full view a single graceful stone urn, suggesting in its shape Egypt, in its size, human ashes, and in its general appearance, peace, stability—and perpetuity! A hammered copper plate whose hammered letters were in relief, and whose surfaces only were polished, placed to one side of the monastic looking door, said simply: Gordon Smith, Mortuarian. In violent contrast to this dignified portal to a nether world, stood a small telegraph office one door to the south of it, and Trotter, turning to his companion, as he maneuvered his car to a stop, spoke embarrassedly.

“Youngster,” he said, “do you—er—happen to have—let’s see—yes, $1.50 about you? I want to send a wire, and I can return it to you later when I make out an expense memo which Chief Callahan, at the detective bureau, will O.K. You see, I—”

“Quite,” responded Jerry, fishing down in his pocket. He brought up a two-dollar bill and a one. “Here’s three, Mr. Trotter. That will insure your getting a paid reply sent to wherever you want it sent.”

Trotter shook his head, as he pocketed only the two-dollar bill. “No. There will be no reply to these twenty or so words. Unless the recipients care to make one at their own expense.” He clambered out. “Just wait in the machine.”

He hobbled across the sidewalk and into the telegraph office, and Jerry, from the car, saw him writing out his “twenty-or-so” words and counting them carefully up, and scratching out a few unnecessary ones as though he were not at all certain that his $1.50 item would be O.K.’d by the detective bureau. And curiously Jerry reflected as to the destination of that wire. At the rate of 60 cents per 10 words to New York, or about 90 cents for twenty words, $1.50 for twenty words would mean at least San Francisco. But presently his reflections were brought to a close as Trotter reappeared, motioned him with his head from the car, and thrusting a silver 50-cent piece back into his reluctant hand, led the way inside Gordon Smith’s establishment.

Once inside the tiny reception room, which consisted

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