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Philo Gubb, Correspondence-School Detective

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<h2>THE MISSING MR. MASTER</h2> That evening Mr. Gubb received a short note from Mr. Medderbrook that was in the form of a bill or statement. It read: “Due from P. Gubb to J. Medderbrook, $11,900. Please remit,”—so he put on his hat and walked to Mr. Medderbrook’s elegant home. “I want you to hurry up with what you owe me,” said Mr. Medderbrook, when Mr. Gubb explained that he could pay nothing on the Utterly Hopeless Gold-Mine stock at the moment, “because I know you are soft on Syrilla, and from a telegram I got from her to-day it looks as if it would be no time at all before she reduced her weight down to seven hundred pounds and Mr. Dorgan of the side-show broke his contract with her. And if you want to read the telegram you can do so by paying half what it cost me, which was three dollars.” Mr. Gubb paid Mr. Medderbrook one dollar and a half, as any lover would, and read the telegram from Syrilla. It said:— <div class="blockquot">Love is triumphing. Have given up all cereal diet. Have given up oatmeal, rice, farina, puffed wheat, corn flakes, hominy, shredded wheat, force, cream of wheat, grapenuts, boiled barley, popcorn, flour paste, and rice powder. Weigh now only nine hundred and twenty-five pounds. Soft thoughts to dearest Gubby. </div> Mr. Gubb hesitated a moment and then said:— “Far be it from me to say aught or anything, Mr. Medderbrook, but I would wish the cost of telegrams would reduce themselves down a little. This one is marked onto its upper corner ‘PAID’—” “Yes, the telegraph boy said that was a mistake,” said Mr. Medderbrook hastily. “And very likely so,” said Mr. Gubb, “but for a reduction of five pounds one dollar fifty is a highish price to pay. Thirty cents a pound is too much.” “Well,” said Mr. Medderbrook, “I don’t want to have any quarrel with you, so I’ll do this for you: I will make you a flat price of twenty-five cents per pound.” “Which is a fair and reasonable price for glad tidings to a fond heart,” said Mr. Gubb, and this matter having been amicably settled, he returned to his office. That evening he sat on the edge of his cot bed minus his coat, vest, and trousers, with his bare feet comfortably extended. At his back a pillow made a back-rest, and a bundle of wall-paper served as a rather lofty footstool. He was deeply immersed in Lesson Eleven, his bird-like face screwed into tensity. From time to time he wiggled one toe or another as a fly alighted on it. Sometimes, when more than one fly alighted on his toes at once, he wiggled all ten toes simultaneously. A trunk, a varnished oak washstand and a cot showed that the room was not only a decorator’s shop, but a living-place; and that this was the office of Philo Gubb, detective, was shown by a row of hooks from which hung various disguises used by the celebrated detective, by a portrait of William J. Burns, cut from a magazine and pasted on the wall, and by a placard which read, “P. Gubb, Graduate and Diploma-ist of the Rising Sun Detective Agency’s Correspondence School of Detecting. Detecting done by the Day or Job. Terms on Application.” On the cot at Philo Gubb’s side lay a copy of that day’s morning Chicago paper, with a two-column spread headline reading, “Wife Offers $5000 Reward,” and it was this that had driven Philo Gubb, the paper-hanger detective, to renewed study of Lesson Eleven—“Procedure in Abduction and Missing Men Cases.” Mr. Custer Master, of Chicago, had mysteriously disappeared. One paragraph in the article had caught Mr. Gubb’s particular attention:— <div class="blockquot">Mrs. Master feels that her husband is still alive, and insists that Mr. Master will be found in one of the Iowa towns on the Mississippi River. The police of these towns have been notified, and detectives have gone to investigate. The Masters stand high in South-Side society. Mr. Master, it is understood, recently inherited $450,000 from a maternal uncle. At the time the will was probated considerable interest was aroused by the fact that the legacy was to go to Mr. Master only on condition that he carried out certain provisions contained in a sealed envelope, to be read only by the executors and Mr. Master. </div> And so on. The paper pointed out that Mr. Master had been a sufferer from dyspepsia for many years, but this had not had a permanently depressing effect on his mind. His home relations were most satisfactory. His own business—he was a dealer in laundry supplies and laundry machinery—was doing well, and no trace of outside troubles could be discovered. On the morning of his disappearance, Mr. Master had shown some signs of mental eccentricity. A neighbor, happening to be at her window, saw Mr. Master come hurriedly from the door of his house. An hour later a friend passed him as he was standing on a corner six blocks from home. Mr. Master seemed greatly distressed. “I can’t do it! It kills me; I can’t do it!” he was muttering to himself. “I never could do it. I said so.” The next news of Mr. Master was gained from the keeper of a bath-house and swimming-pool known as the Imperial Natatorium. About ten o’clock, Mr. Master entered the Natatorium hurriedly, asked the price of baths, and chose to pay for a plunge in the big swimming-pool. He paid in advance, removed his garments in one of the small dressing-rooms, put on a swimming-suit and went to the edge of the big pool. Here he grasped the rail and extended one foot until his toes touched the cold water, when he uttered a cry, rushed to the dressing-room, and, as soon as he had thrown on his clothes, dashed from the building. That was the last seen of Mr. Master. Philo Gubb, having finished reading Lesson Eleven for the third time, had picked up the Chicago paper when the silence of the Opera House Building was disturbed by the sound of feet ascending the brass-clad stairs. The nocturnal visitors seemed unacquainted with the building, for, after two or three steps had been taken, one lighted a match. It was evident to the detective that these visitors were reading the names on the doors as they progressed along the corridor, and he was about to extinguish his lamp and prepare for the worst, when the two men stopped again, struck a match, and, after an instant’s hesitation, rapped sharply upon his door. “Come in!” called Philo Gubb, at the same time drawing his bed-sheet over his scantily clad legs. He knotted the sheet behind, like an apron, and arose to greet the comers. They were two. One of them Mr. Gubb recognized at once; he was Billy Gribble, proprietor of the Gold Star Hand Laundry, just across the way on Main Street. The other man was a stranger. Under his arm, Billy Gribble carried a long, cylindrical parcel enclosed in heavy wrapping paper. The parcel was about six feet long and nearly as large around as Billy himself. Under his other arm, Billy carried a second parcel. This was about three feet square. The trained eye of Detective Gubb noted all this at a glance. Billy Gribble dropped the two parcels on the floor. “Gubby, old sport!” he said in his noisy way, “this is—” “Now, now!” said the stranger irritably. “Now, wait! I said I would talk to him, didn’t I? What do you mean by—if you’ll please let—you are Detective Gubb, are you not?” he asked. Philo Gubb gazed at the man. The man was tall and thin, taller and thinner than Mr. Gubb himself. He was clean-shaven and his face showed deep lines about the mouth and nose. His hair was closely clipped, making his head seem pea-like in its smallness. But Mr. Gubb was not gazing at these things. His bird-like eyes were fastened on the end of the suitcase the stranger still held in his hand. On the end of the case were painted in black the letters “C. M.” and the word “Chicago.” The stranger glanced down at the suitcase and put it on the floor with a suddenness that brought forth a thumping sound. “Clue!” he said, and he kicked the suitcase. “I presume the honor of this call at this late hour of time,” said Philo Gubb, shifting his sheet a little, “is on a matter of business. If it is of a social, society sort, I’ll have to ask to be kindly excused whilst I assume my pants.” “Business call, business call entirely, Mr. Gubb,” said the tall stranger. “Don’t put anything on. If—if you feel embarrassed I’ll take some off. My name is—is—” “Phineas Burke,” said Billy Gribble, in a loud whisper. “Can’t you keep still?” asked the stranger crossly. “Don’t you think I know my own name? Phineas—that’s my name, and I know it as well as you do. Phineas Burns.” “Burke, not Burns,” whispered Billy Gribble. The stranger turned red with exasperation. “Look here! Don’t I know my own name?” he asked angrily. “My name is Phineas Burns.” “All right! All right!” said Billy Gribble. “Have it your own way. You ought to know. Only—you said Burke over at my place.” Mr. Burke-Burns glared at Billy Gribble. “Now! There, now!” he cried. “Just for that I’ll tell you you don’t know anything about it. My name isn’t Burke, and it isn’t Burns. It’s—it’s Charles Augustus Witzel. Mr. Gubb, my name is Charles Augustus Witzel.” “Glad to know your acquaintance, sir,” said Philo Gubb. “Won’t you be seated upon one of them bundles of wall-paper?” “I’m a detective,” said Mr. Charles Augustus Witzel. “Tell him about me, Gribble.” “Well, he—whatever his name is, but Burke was what he told me—is a Chicago detective,” said Billy Gribble. “Yes, sir, Mr. Gubb, Mr.—ah, what is it?” “Witzel,” said Mr. Witzel. “Mr. Witzel is one of the celebratedest Chicago detectives,” said Mr. Gribble, “and he’s come over here to hunt up this man Master that’s disappeared. See? So when he strikes town he comes straight to me. That’s how it is, ain’t it?” “Ex-act-ly!” said Mr. Witzel. “Yes, sir,” said Billy Gribble. “So he comes to my laundry, and I’m in the washroom—” “You ain’t!” said Mr. Witzel. “You’re out, and you know you’re out!” “And I’m out,” said Billy Gribble. “Maybe I was in the washroom and went out the back way. Anyway, I’m out. Say,” he said, as Mr. Witzel squirmed, “if you don’t like the way I’m telling this, tell it yourself.” “I entered Mr. Gribble’s laundry,” said Mr. Witzel. “You’ll understand, being a detective, Mr. Gubb. I entered the laundry. Here is the counter. I walked up to the counter. I leaned over and spoke to the girl there. ‘My dear young lady,’ I said, ‘is Mr. Gribble in?’ ‘Out,’ she says. Naturally, I looked down. A detective observes everything. My toe has hit a suitcase. On the end of the suitcase are the initials ‘C. M.’ and ‘Chicago.’ In other words, ‘Custer Master, Chicago,’—the man I’m looking for.” “And did you get him?” asked Philo Gubb tensely. “Gone! Gone like a bird!” said Mr. Witzel. “I waited for Gribble. I questioned Gribble. I asked him if Mr. Master had been there—” “Hold on!” said Mr. Gribble, and then, “Oh, all right!” “And he said, ‘No,’” said Mr. Witzel, frowning. “‘Very well,’ I said to Gribble, ‘he’ll be back. He’ll come back after the suitcase.’ So Gribble hid me in his private office. I waited.” “And he came back?” asked Detective Gubb eagerly. “He did not,” said Mr. Witzel. Philo Gubb sighed with relief. “Then I’ve got a chance at an opportunity to get that five thousand dollars,” he said. “Mr. Gubb,” said Mr. Witzel, “you have a chance to get twenty-five hundred. It was to offer you the chance to get twenty-five hundred that I came here. What did I say to you, Gribble?” “You go ahead and tell it, if you want it told,” said Gribble. “You don’t like the way I tell things. Tell ’em yourself.” “I said to Gribble,” said Mr. Witzel slowly, “‘Gribble, is this the town where a detective by the name of Grubb lives?’” “Gubb is the name,” said Mr. Gubb. “Gubb. That’s what I said,” said Mr. Witzel. “That made me think a bit. ‘Gribble,’ I says, ‘by to-morrow there will be forty Chicago detectives in his town, all looking for Master. And I don’t care a whoop for any of them,’ I says. ‘I’m the leader of them all, as anybody who has read the exploits of—of George Augustus Wechsler—.’” “Charles Augustus Witzel,” said Gribble, correctingly. “I have so many aliases I forget them,” said Mr. Witzel to Mr. Gubb. “You’ll understand that perfectly. You are a detective, and I’m a detective, Witzel or Wotzel or Wutzel—who cares? We understand each other. Don’t we?” “I presume to suppose we will do so in the course of time,” said Philo Gubb politely. “Pre-cise-ly!” said Mr. Witzel. “So I said to Gribble, ‘I’m afraid of Gubb! He’s the man who will find Master, if I don’t. But I’ve got an advantage. I’ve got the clue.’” He pointed to the suitcase. “So Gribble says to me,” said Mr. Witzel, “‘Why don’t you and Gubb combine?’ ‘Great idea!’ I says, and—here I am. How about it, Mr. Gobb?” “Gubb is the name I adhere to when not deteckating,” said Mr. Gubb kindly. “And as to how about it, I wouldn’t want to enter into a combination shutting me out from using the ability taught to me in Chapters One to Twelve inclusive, of the Correspondence course. For the twenty-five hundred which would fall to my share, I should expect to detect to some considerable extent.” “Quite right! Quite right!” said Mr. Witzel promptly. “That meets my plans entirely. I make my headquarters here, I give you a free hand. I am a—an inductive detective.” “Yes, sir. A Sherlock Holmes deteckative,” said Philo Gubb. “Ex-act-ly!” said Mr. Witzel. “I think things out. But you go out. You shadow and snoop and trail. I remain here. For you see,” he added, “I’m so well known that if Master saw me he would disappear instantly. Instantly!” “I’m willing to transact it as a business bargain onto them terms,” said Philo Gubb, and it was agreed. Mr. Gribble immediately cut the cords that bound the two bundles, and released a canvas cot and a bundle of bedding. Then he said good-night and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Mr. Gubb waited until he heard Mr. Gribble’s footsteps on the brass-clad stairs. “That Gribble man ain’t what I’d term by name of a—of a—” He hesitated. “He’s not known as a strictly reliable citizen in any respect,” he ended. “I wouldn’t trust him any more than need be necessary.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Witzel, who was already removing his garments. “I don’t mean to. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire. Let’s see if Mr. Master has a night-shirt in his suitcase. I think it helps the inductive mind to sleep in the night-shirt of the man it is hunting.” He opened the suitcase, using—oddly enough a key from his own bunch of keys. He found a night-shirt and put it on. To his surprise it fitted him exactly, which was odd, for Mr. Witzel was an unusually tall and thin man. Without wasting time, he climbed into the cot and closed his eyes. Mr. Gubb also retired. Philo Gubb, from his cot, watched Mr. Witzel until he was sure he was thoroughly asleep. Then the Correspondence School detective slipped out of bed and knelt over the suitcase. The suitcase contained linen all plainly marked. The name “C. Master” was written in indelible ink on each piece. An extra suit of outer garments was marked with Mr. Master’s name. There were silver-backed toilet articles, engraved with Mr. Master’s name, and these Mr. Gubb examined closely, but what caught and held his interest most was a folded document, covered in light-blue paper and endorsed, “Last Will and Testament of Orlando J. Higgins. Copy.” The will began with the usual preamble, but the clause that caught Philo Gubb’s bird-like eye, and held it, was the next. “To my nephew, Custer Master,” this clause said, “I give and bequeath $450,000; but, be it understood, my said nephew, Custer Master, shall benefit by this clause only in case he faithfully carries out the instructions contained in the sealed envelope attached hereto, the contents of said envelope to be read by my hereinafter named Executors, and the said Custer Master, and not by any other persons whatsoever; the said Executors are to be the sole judges of whether the said Custer Master has carried out the instructions therein contained.” This document was worn at the corners of the folds, and slightly soiled, as if Mr. Master had carried it in his pocket some time before dropping it in his suitcase. With the same caution, and following closely Lesson Three and its directions for “Searching Occupied Apartments, Etc.,” Mr. Gubb examined the articles of dress the Chicago detective had cast aside. All were marked “C. Master” or “C. M.” or with a monogram composed of the letters “C. M.” interwoven. As cautiously as he could, Philo Gubb crossed to his trunk and took from the left-hand compartment of the tray his trusty pistol. It was a large and deadly looking pistol, about a foot and a half long, with a small ramrod beneath the barrel. It was a muzzle-loader of the crop of 1854, and carried a bullet the size of a well-matured cherry. It was as heavy as a vitrified paving-brick. Its efficiency as a firearm was unknown, as Mr. Gubb had never discharged it, but it looked dangerous. A man, facing Philo Gubb’s trusty weapon, felt that if the gun went off he would be utterly and disastrously blown to flinders. Mr. Gubb pointed it at the sleeping Mr. Witzel, using both hands, and sighting along the barrel. “Wake up!” he exclaimed sternly. Mr. Witzel sat straight up on the cot. For an instant he was still dazed with sleep and did not seem to know where he was; then a look of joy spread over his face and he jumped from the cot and, with both hands extended, moved toward Detective Gubb. “Superb!” he exclaimed. “A perfect specimen! Wonderfully preserved!” “Go back!” said Philo Gubb sternly. “This article is a loaded pistol gun, prepared for momentary explosion at any time at all. Go back!” “Remarkable!” cried Mr. Witzel joyously. “A superb specimen. Let me see it. Let me look at it.” He walked up to the gun and peered into its muzzle with one eye. He bent his head to read the engraving on the top of the barrel. “A real Briggs & Bolton 53½ caliber, muzzle-loading, 1854!” he exclaimed rapturously. Mr. Gubb pushed him away with one hand. “Go back there into range,” he said sternly. “In shooting I aim to kill, but not to blow into particles of pieces.” “But, my dear sir!” exclaimed Mr. Witzel. “Do you know what you have there?” “It’s a pistol gun,” said Philo Gubb. “If you don’t stand back, I’ll shoot you anyway.” “It’s a Briggs & Bolton,” said Mr. Witzel. “That’s what it is. It is the only well-preserved specimen of Briggs & Bolton I ever saw.” Mr. Gubb shook off the hand that clasped his arm. “I don’t care what it is,” said Mr. Gubb. “It’s a pistol gun, and it’s bung full of powder and bullet, and when I point it at you I mean that if you make a move I’m a-going to shoot.” “And I don’t care what you mean,” said Mr. Witzel. “It’s a Briggs & Bolton, and I warn you that you have that gun so full of powder that if you pull that trigger you’ll blow it to bits and ruin the only perfect specimen of that gun I ever saw!” “And I tell you,” said Philo Gubb sternly, “that I can’t shoot you whilst you’re rubbing your nose right into this gun. Go back there where I can shoot you.” “I won’t!” said Mr. Witzel angrily. Philo Gubb was slow to anger, but he was sorely pressed now, and his temper failed him. “Look here,” he said to Mr. Witzel. “If you don’t go back where I can get a shot at you, I’ll—I’ll smack you on the face.” “If you shoot off that gun, and bust it,” said Mr. Witzel, with equal anger, “I’ll—I’ll hit you on the head.” “Go back!” cried Philo Gubb menacingly. “One!” “I’ll give you fifty dollars for that gun, just as she is,” said Mr. Witzel. “Two!” said Mr. Gubb. “Sixty dollars!” said Mr. Witzel. “Th—” said the paper-hanger detective, stepping backward to get room to sight along the long barrel. Unfortunately the trunk was just behind him and as he stepped back he tripped over it and fell backward, doubling up like a jack-knife. But he kept his presence of mind. The long barrel of the Briggs & Bolton protruded from between the soles of Philo Gubb’s feet in Mr. Witzel’s direction. “Hands up!” he said. Instantly Mr. Witzel raised his hands in the air. “I’ll give you seventy dollars,” he said. “Make it seventy-five,” said Mr. Gubb, “and as soon as I’m done with it, you can have it.” “It’s a bargain!” said Mr. Witzel happily. “It’s my pistol. Now, what’s all this nonsense about shooting me?” “Nonsense is an insufficient word to use in relation to this here case,” said Philo Gubb grimly. “It won’t be nonsense for you when you get through with it. What did you do with the corpse?” “With the—with the what?” cried Mr. Witzel. “The remains,” said Mr. Gubb. “What did you do with them?” “The remains of what?” asked Mr. Witzel. “Of Mister Custer Master,” said Philo Gubb, easing himself a little by shifting one waving foot. “There is no need to pretend to play innocent. Where is the body?” “My dear Mr. Detective Gubb!” exclaimed Mr. Witzel. “I know nothing about any body. I am George Augustus Wetzler—” “Maybe you are,” said Philo Gubb. “Maybe so. But your clothes ain’t. Your clothes are the clothes of Mister Custer Master. The question is, ‘Did you murder him alone, or did you and William Gribble murder him together?’” Mr. Witzel-Wetzel-Wetzler’s mouth fell open. “Murder him!” he exclaimed aghast. “But—but—” “In the name of the law,” said Philo Gubb, “I take you into custody for the murder and disappearing bodyliness of Mister Custer Master. Turn your back and keep your hands up until I get from behind this trunk, and I’ll put handcuffs on you in proper shape and manner. Turn!” Mr. Witzel turned—all but his head. He kept his face toward the priceless (or, more properly) seventy-five-dollar Briggs & Bolton. “Mr. Gubb,” he said, “you are making a serious mistake. I am a detective.” “You ain’t!” said Philo Gubb. “I searched all your things and you ain’t got a silver badge nor a false mustache nowhere. I’m going to turn you right over to the police to-morrow morning.” “To the police!” exclaimed Mr. Witzel. “Don’t do that! Whatever you do, don’t do that!” And suddenly, like a nervous dyspeptic suddenly overwrought, Mr. Witzel broke down and, falling on the cot, began to sob. Philo Gubb looked at him a moment with amazement. Then he dug a pair of handcuffs out of his trunk and, walking to where Mr. Witzel lay, prodded him in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. Mr. Witzel turned quickly, rolling over like an eel. “Stop it! You’re tickling me. I can’t stand tickling!” he cried. “I—I can’t stand lots of things. I’m—I’m the most sensitive man in the world. I—I can’t stand cold water at all.” “Well, nobody is cold-watering you,” said Philo Gubb. “Handcuffs ain’t cold water.” “But cold water is,” said Mr. Witzel. “Cold water kills me! It makes me shiver, and turn blue, and goose-fleshy, and gives me cramps in the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I—listen: my doctor says cold baths will kill me. The shock of ’em. Bad heart, you understand.” Philo Gubb’s eyes blinked. “I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Witzel, grasping Mr. Gubb’s hand. “I can’t stand cold baths. They’d kill me, you understand. It would be suicide! So—so I knew Billy Gribble. Didn’t I set him up in business here, to get rid of him? Don’t he owe me a good turn?” “Does he?” asked Philo Gubb. “Hasn’t he two bathrooms in connection with his laundry. ‘Hot and Cold Baths, All hours. Ladies Tuesdays and Wednesdays Only?’” asked Mr. Witzel. “Mr. Gubb, I will be frank. I am Custer Master!” <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i219.jpg" class="ispace" width-obs="500" height-obs="232" alt="THE MISSING MR. MASTER" title="" /> THE MISSING MR. MASTER</div> “The reward for who—for who the reward,” said Philo Gubb, seeking a grammatical form that would sound right, “for information as to which five thousand dollars reward is offered!” “Exactly!” said Mr. Master. “And I will make it six thousand if you do not give information. I admit I am Master. I am Custer Master. Here, read this!” He reached for his vest and from the pocket took a slip of paper. It was typewritten and headed “Secret Stipulation Regarding Custer Master Clause of Orlando J. Higgins Will. Copy”:— <div class="blockquot">Being a firm believer in the efficacy of cold baths for the cure of dyspepsia and having been laughed at for same by my nephew, Custer Master, and feeling that a course of ice-cold baths would cure him, I make it a part of my will and testament that the sum or sums bequeathed to him shall be given to him only after he has faithfully, and upon the sworn testimony of an eye-witness, bathed for twelve minutes, every morning for one month of thirty days, in ice-cold water. </div> “Cleanliness may be next to godliness,” said Mr. Master, “but ice-water baths are my shortest road to a future state, and I’m not ready for that yet. Still, I did not like to give up $450,000. To Billy Gribble,” he added, with a meaning smile, “all baths are cold baths. I hold a mortgage on his laundry machinery.” “And so you came up here to my office to hide whilst bathing in so-called ice-water at Mister Gribble’s?” said Philo Gubb. “Exactly!” said Mr. Master. “If you ain’t got six thousand and seventy-five dollars by you,” said Philo Gubb simply, “you can give me a check for the whole amount in the morning, but if you go to take the bullet out of this pistol you’ll have to get an auger. I made the bullet myself and it was too big, and I had to pound it into the gun with a hammer and screw-driver. It’s in good and safe.” “And you would have dared to pull the trigger?” asked Mr. Master. “I would have dared so to do,” said Mr. Gubb. “It would have blown the pistol to atoms!” exclaimed Mr. Master. “It would so have done,” said Mr. Gubb, “except for the time I loaded it being the first beginning time I ever loaded a pistol. In loading a Briggs & Bolton, I have since subsequently learned, the powder ought to go into it first, and the bullet second. I put the bullet in first.” “Well, bless my stars!” exclaimed Mr. Master. “Bless my stars! If that is the case—if that is the case, I’m going to bed again. I have to get up before daylight to take a bath.” <hr class="large" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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