Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 151: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ae” SR I stared mystified at the sheet between my fingers. It was an ordinary, white, letter size sheet of paper, perfectly blank, with nothing so far as I could note to dis- tinguish it from thousands of other such sheets that I had seen. I held it up against the window; the water mark was that of a well-known brand. “There is nothing wrong with it, so far as I can see,” I at length confessed. Mrs. Zea smiled and handed mea second sheet. “ Fit the two together,” she directed. I did so and at once saw that one of the edges of the first sheet had been cut on a bias—a thin bias, to be sure, yet sufficient to destroy the evenness of its parallelogram. I held it up alone, and now perceived that there was a quite discernible variation from the regular in its outline. My perception had been clearly at fault. Chagrined, I laid the papers down on the desk. “ Let us try another.” My strange employer handed me a lead pencil. ‘‘ How, if at all, does this pencil differ from the common article as you see it every day?” It was, apparently, a common, yellow, hexagon pencil, new and unsharpened, I turned it carefully between my fingers. I was determined that this time I would not fail. Yet, I had almost reached the point of giving up in despair before an impression did make a faint stir in my brain. “Why,” I said hesitantly, “it seems a bit short for a new pencil.” Mrs. Zea nodded approvingly in the brisk manner that I was to learn was characteris- tic of her. “ Correct,” she answered. “ It is short. But there is yet a second point of dis- tinction.” Again I applied myself to the problem, but after some minutes I was obliged to confess defeat. The woman leaned forward and pointed to the gold stamping of the manufacturer’s name and the grade of lead. “This stamping,” she said, “is at the point end. In a normal pencil it is at the eraser end. I transferred the brass eraser holder to the wrong end, then cut off the 301 end close to the stamping, so as to remove the marks of the holder and also to shorten the pencil.” Of course, the .moment she called my attention to it, it was perfectly apparent; it seemed unbelievable that I had been stupid enough to overlook such an obvious thing. ‘““One last experiment,” Mrs. Zea an- nounced. ‘‘ Coming into this room and ex- amining it, what would strike you as odd and to what conclusion as to my profession would it lead you?” I stared about the room. feet awkwardly and wandered aimlessly about. My hopes of this strange job went glimmering. I stepped to the bookcases and stared at the backs of the volumes within. An Encyclopaedia Britannica, a big atlas, and then volume after volume on toxicology, ranging from the most profound, medical treatises to popular household pamphlets on poisons and their antidotes. My interest aroused, I moved along. Books on crimin- ology came next, and books on every con- ceivable phase of criminal activity. Famous historical crimes, ancient and modern; a shelf of criminal insanity; complete, bound copies of police reports of the larger cities of America and Europe; and row after row of big, canvas scrap books, filled, I found on looking into them, with newspaper clip- pings of sensational crimes and mysteries. There was a fair representation of psych- ology and sociology, of penology, and con- siderable history; but the collection of criminal literature stood forth as surely the most astounding library every collected. And suddenly the answer to the test struck my consciousness. I turned to Mrs. Zea. ? “There,” I declared, pointing at the bookcases, ‘‘ is what I would class the most peculiar item about this room. And as to your occupation—” [ grinned; “‘ you must be either a professional murderess or—or 2 detective.” The woman laughed, but I noted the gleam of approval that shot into her eye. “Good,” she approved. ‘ Your guess is correct—I am an investigator of mysteries, criminal and otherwise—private detective, COmicloooks I rose to my (C@