Murder Breaks Trail by Eunice Mays Boyd

Author:Eunice Mays Boyd [Elizabeth Reed Aden/Eunice Mays Boyd]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2024-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Inside the Senator’s cabin everything was dark. The blankets still hanging at the windows, as they had hung in the statesman’s life, shut out the fading daylight. In spite of the musty odor that had returned since its recent brief occupation, in spite of the weight of snow now pressing against its walls, F. Millard was carried back a month and a half. It might have been the last few days of September, with the Senator sitting up in bed playing mumblety-peg with the Mayor, or Mick, or Hope, or Red. F. Millard might have been coming in to take Guy’s place at the board. Or it might have been September 30th, with the room full of people and the Senator doubled across the board he had played on, the knife he had played with plunged deep into his neck.

The little grocer shuddered, longing for a switch beside the door to flood the room with light and lay the ghosts. He fumbled for a match. One of his overcoat pockets held the automatic; he gave its sinister shape a friendly pat. Through the heavy cloth his hand grazed Flatfoot’s bulge. This he patted too, a sop to Flannagan whose help he badly needed. At last he found the pocket with the matches. Selecting one from the jumble, he felt something else—the sharp edge, the smooth texture of paper—something small and folded. His heart landed with a thud against his stomach. It couldn’t, surely it couldn’t be another note!

His hands shook so he could hardly strike the match. Its flame showed him the lamp still hanging by its chain from the ceiling. His fourth match ignited the wick. One glance assured him that the Senator’s bunk was empty, as it had been for a month and a half. His hand went back to the pocket with the matches.

The ghosts in the cabin might not be real, but the note in his pocket was. Once more the mottled paper leered with evil eyes.

Ask Kilkenny Lee what she knows about the handkerchief that was found on her father’s floor.

Kilkenny—the handkerchief—someone else had found out! Her perfume rose again to F. Millard’s nostrils. Once more the month and a half rolled back, and the room was packed with horror.

The little man shook himself. Now wasn’t the time to think about this new note and its implications. Now was the time for his experiment.

The blankets had been folded at the foot of the bunk. He wouldn’t put them back on the bed; he didn’t have to make things so realistic for himself, and he’d avoid the hazard of tangling. The handkerchief wasn’t necessary either, but a watch—he couldn’t use his own. There was no jeweler to fix it if it was broken too. The Senator’s, stopped at 9:24, was in the other cabin.

He looked around the room. On the flat top of the Yukon stove, he saw the thick saucer the Senator had used for an ashtray. Would that take the place of a watch? F.

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