The Psychological Solution (5 page)

"Search me," replied Captain Atwood. "He got through with us three months ago. Said he was going on a vacation. Likely as not he went down to Surinam."

So, once again, the mystery seemed as deep as ever. Dr. Thane insisted the body was that of Underdunk, while the detective declared that there was just as good proof that it was not. And. incredible as it may seem, though the police used every effort to locate friends or acquaintances of the ex-sailor from Surinam, and found a number of them, yet, like the two sea captains, some vowed it was, and others insisted it was not Underdunk, whose body reposed in the morgue. The presence of the unusual mole appeared to be the only positive means of identification, and that, if it had existed on the dead man, had been utterly destroyed by the blow which had killed him.

Thus matters stood when Dr. Thane was once more summoned by Detective Haley.

As the scientist entered the detective's office, a man who stood with his back toward the door, turned.

And at sight of his face, Dr. Thane, matter-of-fact scientist though he was, felt a strange sensation, a psychological condition absolutely new to him.

There, alive and apparently in excellent health, sat the counterpart of the dead man in the morgue.

"Don't wonder you got a jolt. Doctor," grinned the detective. "I did myself when Mr. Underdunk walked in here."

"Then—then—" stammered the scientist.

"Yep," interrupted the detective. "Captain Scarsdale was wrong. This is the missing Peter Underdunk. He has just arrived from a visit to his native land. Quite alive, as you see. If you doubt his identity he will gladly show you the dumb-bell-shaped mole that Captain Atwood mentioned."

But Dr. Thane did not question the matter. His first surprise over, he realized that after all the living Peter Underdunk was not the perfect double of the dead man. His features, eyes, build and general appearance were the same, and no doubt a few years previously the resemblance would have been more striking. No one could blame Captain Scarsdale for swearing to the identity of the corpse. He had been correct even in his description of the teeth, although Underdunk remarked, as he opened his mouth for the scientist's inspection, there was not much similarity at the time. And Dr. Thane agreed that there was not, for Underdunk's missing molars had been replaced by artificial teeth.

Rather dejected, for all of his assumptions had been utterly knocked to bits by Underdunk's appearance on the scene. Dr. Thane betook himself to his study, almost ready to abandon his fascinating investigations of criminals' psychology.

Science Triumphant

Several weeks had passed since Peter Underdunk had so unexpectedly arrived to prove he was not dead, and, incidentally, knock Dr. Thane's carefully built-up report into bits. The corpse, whose identity still remained a secret, had been buried, and the case, as far as the police were concerned, had been relegated to the files of unsolved murders of the great city. Even Dr. Thane had, ostensibly, abandoned his efforts to unravel the mystery, and had turned his attention to other and more strictly scientific matters. But often his mind reverted to the case, and his thoughts were far from pleasant at memory of his failure to prove his pet theories and the good-natured ragging he had received from his friend, Haley.

Several times, in fact, he found himself mentally reviewing all the incidents, features and, details of the ash-can murder, and striving to find flaws in his reasoning. Of course there was the pre-eminent fact that he had built up his case on the supposition that the corpse had been that of Peter Underdunk; but the scientist could not convince himself that he had tripped up there. He was morally certain that, who ever the murdered man might have been, the crime was Latin-American, as in so many ways it had agreed so perfectly with his hypothetical case. Like most scientific men, he hated to admit that either his theories or his reasoning could be at variance with incontrovertible facts.

His subconscious mind was more or less occupied with such thoughts, although he was apparently giving all his attention to a most interesting collection of specimens from New Guinea, when he was interrupted by the bell of his desk telephone. Somewhat impatient at this interference with his studies, he lifted the receiver from its hook, and instantly was all attention as he recognized the voice of his friend, the detective.

"If you're not too busy. I'd like to have you run over here," said Captain Haley. "And." he added, "even if you arebusy, I think you'll find it worth your while to drop what you're doing and come over. No," as Dr. Thane attempted to interrogate him, "I'm not giving you any tips over the phone. You'll have to come over to find out."

Curious to know why the detective had summoned him, and knowing Haley would not have called him up unless something highly important was afoot, Dr. Thane put aside his specimens and hurried to the detective's office.

Talking with the detective was a young man, fair-skinned, light-haired, tall and athletic in build, and with face burned red by sun and wind.

Dr. Thane's trained eyes took in every detail of the stranger's appearance at a glance, and, in his preeminently scientific mind, instantly identified, classified and labeled the young man as "Pure Nordic."

"I want you to meet Mr. Robert Hayden," exclaimed the detective, as the two turned at the scientist's entrance. "Draw up a chair, Dr. Thane, and let Mr. Hayden clear up the ash-can murder mystery for your benefit."

Dr. Thane gasped. What new development was this and who, he wondered, was this clean-looking young Hayden fellow.

The young man flushed under his sunburn, starting a bit nervously and confused, as if he did not know just how to begin. "Why," he said, "I have just been telling Captain Haley about it, and he wanted you to hear it, too. Of course I realize now I was foolish and shouldn't have gone off as I did. I ought to have told the police as soon as André was killed, and—"

"Pardon me," interrupted the scientist. "You speak of an André. Do you mean that the body found on Eighty-fifth Street was that of a man named André?"

"Yes, André Mission," replied Hayden. "He had some valuable mining properties, placers, and got me interested in them. I—"

"Pardon me for again breaking into your story," said Dr. Thane. "Where were these placer mines situated?”

"In Panama," replied the other.

Dr. Thane, seeing that whatever the solution of the mystery might be, it always pointed toward Latin-America, nodded and smiled.

“I was interested, as I said,” continued Hayden, "and I took an option from André. Of course, I wouldn't put much money into the proposition until I'd seen the properties, and I didn't really know anything about him. So—"

"Another question or two, if you do not mind," put in the scientist. "'Was this André Mission a native of Panama?"

"No," declared Hayden. "He had lived there; but he came originally from Madagascar. I remember that particularly, because I'd never met anyone from there, and it interested me. You see I'd always thought of Madagascans as negroes, and André was white. He was a queer fellow, too. He used to boast that he was a descendant of some old pirate named Mission, who once established a settlement out there and married a native. He seemed to be rather proud of it."

Dr. Thane was now fairly beaming. No wonder, he thought, the racial status of the dead man had proved so baffling; a mixture of Madagascan and Caucasian, with probably a bit of Arab and Moorish blood in addition. Well, he must make a mental note of that, and, later, endeavor to secure specimens of pure-blooded Madagascans' hair and blood. It would form material for an instructive monograph.

But young Hayden was continuing with his story, and the scientist gave all his attention to it.

“I had the documents." he was saying, "and to celebrate the deal, we started for the Greenfield Inn in my car. It's a roadster, or rather a racer, low and without doors, you know. No." as Dr. Thane started to frame another question. "We were neither of us drunk; hadn't taken a drop. I never drink and André was not a heavy drinker anyway. Well, as we reached that sharp hair-pin curve near Stanwich—perhaps you know the place—where a steep bank slopes to the river and they'd been clearing off the woods, we were talking of the mines and something was said that made André want to show me some new samples he had just received. They were in a paper in his pocket, and he half rose to reach them. Just at that instant a big collie dog jumped into the road, and, without stopping to think, I jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him. And—God! I hate to think of it. André lost his balance and went hurtling from the car down the bank.

"When I reached him he was lying face down, with his head downhill toward the river, and," Hayden shuddered at the memory, "he was dead. He'd struck the sharp stub of a sapling and it had gone deep into his shoulder. I was so horrified and frightened and upset that I didn't know what to do. My first thought was to get André into the car and drive like mad and notify the police. Then I thought of the position I was in. I had been alone with André. I had an option that had not been paid for in my pocket. And he had been killed by a wound like a stab in the shoulder. Would the police believe my story? Wouldn't it look to them like murder? There was the motive—André's mines; there was no way to prove my story, and, even if I proved it, there would be rumors, suspicions, and I would be mixed up with a police case, and might be held.

"Of course, now I realize how I lost my head and how foolishly I acted. I could have led the police to the stub with André's blood on it, or I might have left him where he was until I called the police. And I had plenty of friends who could testify to my character and temperament. But I couldn't see anything but a charge of murder and a lot of suspicious circumstances at the time.

"Anyway, I carried André's body to my car and started on, not knowing what to do. Then I saw a house and barn beside the road and drove in, thinking I might find a phone or might do something— really I don't know exactly what was on my mind. But there was no one there. Then I saw a piece of burlap, and with that I covered André's body so no one could see him when I drove into town, for by then I'd made up my mind to face the matter. But each minute, as I neared the city and thought of the incredible story I'd have to tell, I grew more and more nervous and frightened. Then, as I was passing through a side street, I saw a man come from a basement door and dump a big bundle into an ash can. I don't know why it should have given me the idea, but it did, and rolling André's body in the burlap. I stopped and put him in a can and drove away. The next morning I was nearly crazy. I realized I had made the case against myself so strong that I was hopelessly lost, and I took the boat that was sailing that day for Colon.

"But I couldn't rest easily. I was haunted, haunted by André's death, and haunted still more for fear some innocent person might be charged with the crime. I watched every paper with fear and trembling, always expecting to see my name, for I felt sure that somebody who knew I had been dealing with André would come forward and tell the police, and I couldn't understand why no one had identified him. I didn't even dare go to the mines and so, when the case quieted down and I realized what a fool I'd been—well, I came back to tell all I knew and to face the music. And here I am."

"And I guess that rather knocks out all your theories, eh. Doctor?" grinned the detective. "Not much like the crime you had doped out."

The scientist, utterly dumbfounded at Hayden's revelations and the totally unexpected yet simple solution of the mystery, sat staring, blinking through his glasses.

Then a smile crossed his features. "In some respects, yes," he admitted. "But I was correct in several details. The man Mission was killed by a blunt instrument, and the stroke was not premeditated. Moreover, the dead man's companion fled to South America, as I foresaw, and, as I stated would be the case, he returned and told his story of his own free will. Just read the first few paragraphs of my report, Haley."

The latter drew the document from a pigeon-hole and spread it before him.

"Here it is," he announced. " 'The crime was not premeditated,'" he read. " 'The fatal blow was as unexpected and as unforeseen by the deceased's companion as by himself. There was no real motive for the crime—at least not enough to warrant homicide. Fear of what had occurred drove the responsible party to seek refuge in flight—probably to Latin-America. In all probability he was at sea before the body was discovered. In my opinion, he will return— '"

"Yes, yes," exclaimed the detective. "I guess I'll have to take back a little of what I said just now. You seem to have hit the nail on the head in a good many ways. But you're a long way off in some respects, just the same. If you got your ideas by reasoning from the psychology of men, how the devil did you get this so near right when you say here the dead man's companion was a Latin-American? How do you square things up? It gets me how you doped this out by working on a basis of Latin-American temperament when, all along, Mr. Hayden was the fellow's companion."

Hayden, who had been listening in amazement as the detective read the report, now spoke. "Doctor Thane was right," he announced. ''I'm beginning to believe in this psychological stuff myself. You see my mother was a Chilean."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" ejaculated Captain Haley.

"Now who wins?" cried Dr. Thane. "Science, sir, is an exact thing. Though it may err slightly at times, Haley, it is always ultimately triumphant."

"Maybe you're right," somewhat grudgingly admitted the other, as he replaced the scientist's report. "But where did those dog's hairs and that chromite sand come in?"

Doctor Thane snorted. "Did not Mr. Hayden state that a dog crossed the road?" he demanded. "No doubt he left hairs on the ground which stuck to Mission's hand as he fell. And as for the auriferous gravel, he was reaching for a sample in his pocket when he was thrown from the car. That sample, Sir, was gold-bearing or in other words, auriferous gravel, and was unquestionably chromitic. It was, no doubt, clutched spasmodically in Mission's hand and was ground into the skin when he struck the earth." "