Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 84, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 April 1916 — Average Jones [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Average Jones

By Samuel Hopkins Adams

Red Dot

Mr.' A. V. R. E. Jones—Average Jones, his friends called him—was tired of spending his dead uncle’s millions in New York and doing nothing more and craved to take part Jn the dynamic activities of life. At the suggestion of Waldemar, owner of an Important and decent newspaper, he opened offices in Astor court and went in for following up queer advertisements in the newspapers and tracing down fraudulent advertisers. Business boomed.

From his inner sanctum, Average Jones stared obliquely out upon the whirl of Fifth avenue and mused upon a paragraph which had appeared in all the important New York morning papers of the day before, REWARD—SI,OOO REWARD FOR INformatlon as to slayer of Brindle Bulldog “Rags” killed In office of Malcolm Dorr. Stengel Building, Union Square, March 29. "That’s "too much money for a dog," decided Average Jones. Slipping on his coat he walked briskly down the avenue, and entered a gloomy old office building. Stepping from the elevator at the seventh floor, he paused 'underneath this sign: MALCOLM DORR, Analytical and Consulting Chemist. Hours 10 to 4. Entering, Average Jones found a fat young man, with mild blue eyes, sitting at a desk. "Mr. Dorr, I km an expert on advertising, and —i want that one thousand dollars reward.” The chemist pushed his chair back and stared at him in silence. “You are very fond of dogs, Mr. Dorr?" "Eh? Oh, yes. Yes, certainly,” said the other mechanically. Average Jones smiled with almost affectionate admiration at the crease along the kneeof his carefully pressed trouserß. “Mr. Dorr,” he drawled, “who—er — owned your—er —dog?” "Why, I—l did,” said the startled chemist. "Who gave him to you?” “A friend.” "Quite so. Was it that —er —friend who —er —offered the reward?” "What makes you think that?” “This, to be frank: The minute you answered my question as to whether you cared for dogs, I knew you didn’t. Mr. Dorr, who —er—has been —er — threatening your life?” The chemist swung around in his chair. { “What do you know?” he demanded. “Nothing. I’m guessing. It’s a fair guess that a reasonably valuable brindle bull isn’t presented to a man who cares nothing for dogs without some reason. The most likely reason is protection. Is it in your case?” "Yes, it is,” replied the other, after some hesitation. "And now the protection is gone. Don’t you think you’d better let me in on this?” “Let me speak to my—my legal adviser first." He called up a downtown number on the telephone and asked to be connected with Judge Elverson. "If that Is United States District Attorney Roger Elverson, tell him that it is A. V. R. Jones Who wants to know.” Almost immediately Average Jones was called back from the hallway, whither he had gone. “Elverson says to tell you the whole thing,” said the chemist—“in confidence, of course." "Understood. Now, who is it that wants to get rid of you?” “The Paragon Pressed Meat company.” Average Jones became vitally concerned in removing an infinitesimal speck from his left cuff. “Ah,” he commented, "the Canned Meat Trust. What have you been doing to them?” “Sold them a preparation of my invention for deodorizing certain byproducts used for manufacturing purposes. Several months ago I found they were using it on canned meats that bad gone bad, and then selling the stuff." "Would the meat so treated be poisonous?” — l — —* —-— “Well—dangerous to any one eating it habitually. I wrote, warning them that they must stop.” “DlJthey~repTyf r "~ ~ T *A man came to see me and told me I was mistaken. He hinted that if 1 thought my invention was worth more than I’d received, his principals would be glad to take the matter up with ■- • c • • . , 'f

me. Shortly after I heard that the Federal authorities were going after the Trust, so I called on Mr. Elverson.” “Mistake Number One. Elverson la straight, but his office is fuller of leaks than a sieve.” “That’s probably why I found my private laboratory reeking of cyanide fumes a fortnight later," remarked Dorr dryly. “I got to the outer air alive, but not much more.” “Where Is this laboratory?”

“Over in Flatbush, where I live—or did live. Within a month after that a man sneaked up behind me and shot at me. The police told me to be sure and not let the newspapers know. Then they forgot it.” Average Jones laughed. “Of course they did. Didn’t you take any other precautions?” “Oh, yes. I reported the attempt to Judge Elverson. He gave me the two dogs.” ‘Two?” “Yes. Rags and Tatters. Both killed right here in this room.” Average Jones became suddenly very much worried about the second button of his coat. “Er —where were you?” he drawled. “I was here when Tatters got his death. I had gone to thojfashroom at the farther end of the hall when Rags was poisoned.” “Was there evidence of poison?” “Pathological only. In Tatters’ case it was very marked. He was dozing in a corner near the radiator when I heard him yelp and saw him snapping at his belly. It was like strychnine poisoning. Before I could get a veterinary here he was dead." “What about the other dog?” “Rags? That was the day before yesterday. We had just come over from Flatbush and Rags was nosing around in the corner —” “Was it the same corner where Tatters was attacked?”

“Yes; near the radiator. He seemed to be interested in something there when I left the room. I was gone not more than two minutes.” “Lock the door after you?” “It has a special spring lock which I had put on myself.” Average Jones crossed over and looked at the contrivance. Then his glance fell to a huge, old-fashioned keyhole below the new fastening. “You didn’t use that larger lock?” “No. I haven’t for months. The key is lost, I think.” Retracing his steps the investigator sighted the hole from the radiator, and shook his head. “It’s not in range, he said. “Go on.” “As I reached the door on my return, I heard Rags yelp. He was pawing wildly at his nose. The veterinary didn’t believe it was strychnine. Said the attacks were different. Whatever it was, I couldn’t find any trace of it in the stomach. The veterinary took the body away and made a complete autopsy.” __ “Did he discover anything?” “Yes, The blood was coagulated and on the upper lip he found a circle of small pustules. He agreed that both dogs probably swallowed something that was left in my office, though I don’t see how it could have got there." “That won’t do,” returned Average Jones positively. "A dog doesn’t cry out when he swallows poison, unless it’s some eorrosive.” “It was no corrosive. I examined the mouth." “What about the radiator?” asked Average Jones, getting down on his knees beside that antiquated contrivance. “It seems to have been the center of disturbance.” “If you’re thinking of fumes,” replied the chemist, “I tested for that. It isn’t possible.”

"No; I suppose not. And yet, there’s the curious feature that the fatal influence seems to have emanated from the corner which is the most remote from both windows and door. There’s no fire-escape and it’s too far up for anything to come in from the street.” Average Jones 'examined the walls with attention and returned to the big keyhole, through which he peeped. After politely offering some chewing gum to his host, fye chewed up a single stick thoroughly. This he rolled out to an extremely tenuous consistency and spread it deftly across the unused keyhole, which it completely though thinly veiled. "Now, what’s that for?” inquired the chemist, eying the improvised closure with some contempt. "Don’t know, exactly yet,” replied the deviser cheerfully. “All right,” agreed young Mr. Dorr. “Whatever your little game is, I’ll play it. Give me your address in case you leave town.”

“As I may do. I am going to hire a press-clipping bureau on special order to dig through the files of the local and neighboring city newspapers for recent itemß concerning dog-pois-oning cases." Dog-poisoning seemed to Average Jones to have become a popular pastime, judging from the news items from the clipping bureau. Several days were exhausted by false clues. Then one morning there arrived an article from the Bridgeport Morning Delineator detailing the poisoning of several dogs under peculiar circumstances. Three hour# later he was in the bustling Connecticut city. There he took carriage for the house of Mr. Curtis Fleming, whose valuable Great Dane dog had been the last victim. Mr. Curtis Fleming revealed himself as an elderly gentleman all grown to a point: Pointed white nose, eyes that were pin-points of irascible gleam, and a most pointed manner of speech. "Who aro you?” he demanded rancidly, as his visitor was usnered in. Average Jones recognized the type. He knew of but one way to deal with

It and retain self-respect. “Jonesl” he retorted with such astounding emphasis that the monosyllable fairly exploded in the other's face. “Well, well, well," said tl6e elder man, his aspect suddenly mollified. “Don’t bite me. What kind of a Jones are you, and what do you want of me?” “Ordinary variety of Jones. I want to know about your dog." “Had my reporters on this case. Found nothing. I own the Bridgeport Delineator.” “What about the dog?” “Good boy!” approved the old martinet. “Sticks to his point. Dog was with me crossing a vacant lot on next square. Chased a rat. Rat ran into a heap of old timber. Dog nosed around. Gave a yelp and came back to me. Had spasm. Died in fifteen minutes. Fourth dog to go the same way in the last week. All on Golden Hill.” “Any suspicions?” “Suspicions? Certainly, young man, certainly. Look at this.” Average Jones took the smutted newspaper proof which his host extended, and read: WARNING RESIDENTS OF THE Golden Hill neighborhood are earnestly cautioned against unguarded handling of timber about woodpiles or outbuildings until further notice. Danger! “Who offered it?” “Professor Moseley. Tenant of mine. Frame house on the next corner with old-fashioned conservatory. Acted half-crazy when he brought it to the oflice, so the business manager said. Wouldn’t sign his name to the thing. Wouldn’t say anything about it. Begged the manager to'let him

have the weather reports in advance, every day. The manager put the advertisement in type, decided not to run it, and returned the money.” “Weather reports, eh?” Average Jones mused for a moment. “How long was the ad to run?” "Until the first hard frost.” "Has there —er —been a —er —frost since?” drawled Average Jones. "No.” “Who is this Moseley?” "Don’t know much about him. Scientific experimenter of some kind. I believe. Very exclusive,” added Mr. Curtis Fleming, with a grin. “Never as r sociated with any of us neighbors. Rent on the nail, though. Insane, too, I think. Writes letters to himself with nothing in them.” “How’s that?" inquired Average Jones. The other took an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. —"It got inclosed by mistake with the copy for the advertisement. The handwriting on the envelope Is his own. Look inside.” A glance had shown Average Jones that the letter had been mailed in New York on March 25. He took out the inclosure. It was a small slip of paper. The date was Btamped on with a rubber stamp. There was no writing of any kind. Near the center of the sheet were three dots. They seemed to have been made with red ink.

“What’s your interest in all this, my mysterious young friend?" “Two dogs in New York poisoned in something the same way as yours.” “Well, I’ve got my man. He confessed.” “Confessed?” echoed Average Jones. "Practically. I’ve kept' the point of the story to the last. Professor Moseley cut his throat about nine o’clock this morning,” pursued the other. “Dead when they found him.” "Do you mind not talking to me for a minute?” said Average Jones curtly. "Told to hold my tongue in my own house by an uninvited stripling,” cackled the other, “you’re a singular young man, Have .lt .yQHr..Q-WJL way.” After a five minutes’ silence the visitor turned from the window and spoke. “There has been a deadly danger loose about here for which Professor Moseley felt himself responsi-

ble. He had killed himself. Why?" “Because I was on his trail,” declared Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Afraid to face me.” “Nonsense. I believe some human being has been killed by this thing, whatever it may be, and that the horror of it drove Moseley to suicide.” "Prove it.” “Give me a morning paper.” His host handed him the current issue of the Delineator. Average Jones studied the local page. “Where’s Galvin’s Alley?” he asked presently. “In the Golden Hill section?” “Yes.” "Read that.” Mr. Curtis Fleming took the paper. His eyes were directed to a paragraph telling of the death of an Italian child living in Galvin’s Alley. Cause, convulsions. : ------ "By Jove!” said he, somewhat awed. “You can reason, young man.” “I’ve got to reason a lot further, if I’m to get anywhere in this affair,” said Average Jones with conviction. “Do you care to come to Galvin’s Alley with me?” Together they went down the hill to a poor little house, marked by white crepe. The occupants were Italians who spoke some English. The dead child’s father said a strange gentleman had come that morning; a queer, bent little gentlfman, very bald and with big eyeglasses, who was kind, and wept with them and gave them money to bury the “bambino.” “Moseley, by the Lord Harry!” exclaimed Mr. Curtis Fleming. “But what was the death agent?” Average Jones shook his head. “Too early to do more than guess.

Will you take me to Professor Moseley’s place?” The old house stood four-square, with a patched-up conservatory wing. In the front room they found the recluse’s body decently disposed, with an undertaker’s assistant in charge. From the greenhouse came a subdued hissing. "What’s that?” asked Jones. “Fumigating the conservatory. There was a note found near the body insisting on its being done. ‘For safety,’ it said, so I ordered it looked to. Come and look at his papers. You won’t find much.” In the old-fashioned desk, among a heap of undecipherable matter, apparently bearing upon scientific experiments, were three self-addressed envelopes bearing New York postmarks, of dates respectively, March 12, March 14 and March 20. Each contained a date-stamped sheet of paper, similar to that which Mr. Curtis Fleming had shown to Average Jones. The one of earliest date bore two red dots; the second, three red dots, and the third* two. All the envelopes were indorsed in Professor Moseley’s handwriting; the first with the one word “Filled.” The second writing was “Held for warmer weather.” The last was inscribed “One in poor condition.”

Of these Average Jones made careful note. The two men went to the conservatory and gazed in upon a ruin of limp leaves and flaccid petals, killed by the powerful gases. Suddenly, with an exclamation of astonishment, the investigator stooped and lifted from the floor a marvel of ermine body and pale-green wings. The moth, speading nearly a foot, was quite dead. f‘Here’s the mate, sir,” said the fumigating expert, handing him another specimen, a trifle smaller. “The place was crowded with all kinds of pretty ones. All gone where the good bugs go now." Average Jones took the pair of moths to the desk, measured them and laid them carefully away in a drawer. Mr. Fleming, “I’m going back to New York. If any collectors come chasing to you, for luna moths, don’t deal with them. Refer them to me, please. Here is my card." “Your orders shall be obeyed,” said

the older man. hi* beady eye* twinkling. “But why, In the name of all ’that’s unheard of, should collector* come bothering me about luna moths?” “Because of an announcement to this effect which will appear in the next number of the National Science / Weekly, and in coraing; Issues of the New York Evening Register.” He handed out a rough draft of this advertisement: FOR SALEVTWO LARGEST KNOWN specimens of Tropaea luna. unmounted; respectively 10 and Also various other specimens from collection of late Gerald Moseley of Bridgeport. Conn. Write for particulars. Jones, Room 222, Astor Court Temple, New York. “What about further danger here?” inquired Mr. Fleming, as Average Jones bade him good-by. “Would we better run that warning of poor Mob«ley’s, after all?” — — —-t■•• For reply Jones pointed out the window. A late-season whirl of snow enveloped the street. “I see,” said the old man. “The frost. Well, Mr. Mysterious Jones, I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’ve given me an interesting day. Let me know what comes of it” Collectors of lepidoptera rose in shoals to the printed offer of - luna moths measuring ten and eleven inches across the wings. Letters came in by every mail. All of these he put aside, except such as bore a New York postmark. And each day he compared the new names signed to the New York letters with the directory of occupants of the Stengel building. Less than a week after the luna moth advertisement appeared. Average Jones walked into Malcolm Dorr’s office with a twinkling eye. “Do you know a man named Marcus L. Ross?” he asked the chemist. “Never heard of him.” “Marcus L. Ross is interested, not only in luna moths, but in the rest of the Moseley collection. He writes from the Delamater apartments, where he lives, to tell me so. Also he has an office in this building. Likewise he works frequently at night Finally, he is one of the confidential lobbyists of the Paragon Pressed Meat company. Do you see?” “I begin,” replied young Mr. Dorr. , “It would be very easy for Mr. Ross, whose office is on the floor above, to stop at this door on his way downstairs after quftting work late at night when the elevator had stopped running and —let us say—peep through the keyhole.”

Malcolm Dorr got up and stretched himself slowly. The sharp, clean lines of his face suddenly stood out again un<f6r the creasy flesh. “I don’t know what you’re going to do to Mr. Ross," he said, “but I want to see him first.” “I’m not going to do anything to him,” returned Average Jones, “because, in the flrßt place, I suspect that he is far, far away, having noted, doubtless, the plugged keyhole and suffered a crisis of the nerves. It’s strange how nervous your scientific murderer is. Anyway, Itoss is only an agent. I’m going to aim higher." New York, that afternoon,* saw something new in advertising. That it really was advertising was shown by the “Adv.” sign, large and plain, in both the papers which carried it. On the front page of each, stretching narrowly across three columns, was a device showing a tiny mapped outline in black marked Bridgeport, Conn., and a large skeleton draft of Manhattan island showing the principal streets. From the Connecticut city downward ran a line of dots in red. The dots entered New York from the north, passed down Fourth avenue to the south side of Union square, turned west and terminated. Beneath this map was the legend, also in red:

WATCH THE LINE ADVANCE IN LATER EDITIONS. It was the first time in the records of journalism that the “fudge” device had been used in advertising. Great was the rejoicing of the “news” when public curiosity made a “run” upon these papers. Greater it grew when the “afternoon edition” ap* peared. This edition carried the same “fudge” advertisement, but now the red dots crossed over to Fifth avenue and turned northward as far as Twen-ty-third street. The inscription was: UPWARD AND ONWARD SEE NEXT EXTRA. For the “Night Extra” people paid five, ten, even fifteen cents. Rumor ran wild. Othefr papers, even, took the matter up as news, and commented upon the meaning of the extraordinary advertisement. This time, the red-dotted line went as far up Fifth avenue as Fiftieth street And the legend was ominous: WHEN I TURN, I STRIKE. That was all that evening. The dotted line did -not turn. Keen as newspaper conjecture is, it failed to connect the “red-line maps," with the fame of which the city was ‘raging, with an item of shipping news printed in the evening papers of the following day: . . ~ .• o t.< -. •■. • • CLEARED—FOR SOUTH AMERICAN ports, steam yacht Electra, New York. Owner John M. Colwell. And not until the following-morning did the papers announce that President Colwell, of the Canned Meat trust, having been ordered by his physician on a long sea voyage to refurbish his depleted nerves, after closing his house on West Fifty-first street, ‘had sailed in his own yacht. President Colwell -sailed- -to far eeas. and Mr. Curtis Fleming came to New York, keen for explanations, tor he, too, had seen the "fudge" and marveled. Hence, Average Jones had him, together with young Mi . Dorr, at a private room luncheon at the Cosmic I .

club, where he offered an explanation and elucidation. “The whole affair,” he said, “wa* a problem in the connecting up of tooso ends. At the New York terminus we had two deaths in the office of a man with powerful and subtle enemies. Some deadly thing is introduced through that keyhole The killing Influence reaches a corner far out of the direct line of the keyhole. Being near the radiator, that corner represents the attraction of warmth. Therefore, the invading force was some sentient creature. “Now, at the Bridgeport end we have a deadly Influence loosed. Here, too, the peril is somewhat dependent upon warmth, we know, from Professor Moseley’s agonized eagerness for a frost. Dogs are killed. Finally * child falls victim, and on that child is found a circular mark, similar to the mark on Mr. Dorr’s dog’s lip. You see the striking points of analogy?” “Do you mean us to believe* poor old Moseley a cold-blooded murderer?” demanded Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Far from It. At worst an unhappy victim of his own carelessness in loosing a peril upon his neighborhood. You’re forgetting a connecting link; the secretive red-dot communications from New York city addressed by Moseley to himself on behalf of some customer who ordered simply by code of inkdots. He was the man I had to find. The giant luna moths helped to do it’’ “I don’t see where they come in at all,” declared Dorr bluntly. “A moth a foot wide couldn’t crawl through a keyhole.” “No; nor do any damage if it did. The luna is harmless. The moths were important only .as clues —and bait. Their enormous size showed Professor Moseley’s line of work; the selective breeding of certain forms of life to two or three times the normal proportions. Very well; I had to ascertain some creature which, if magnified several times, would be deadly, and which would still be capable of entering a large keyhole. Having determined that —” . “You found what it was?” cried Dorr. “One moment. Having determined that, I had still to get in touch with Professor Moseley’s mysterious New York correspondent. I figured that he must be Interested in Professor Moseley’s particular branch of research or he never could have devised his murderous scheme. So I constructed the luna moth advertisement to draw him, and when I got a reply from Mr. Ross, who is a fellow-ten-ant of Mr. Dorr’s, the chain was complete. Now, you see where the luna moths were useful. If I had adveitised, instead of them, the lathrodeo tus, he might have suspected and r<r trained from answering.” “What’s the lathrodectus?” demand* ed both the hearers at once. For answer Average Jones took it letter from his pocket and read: Bureau of Entomology, U. & Department of Agriculture, Washington, D. C., April 7. Mr. A. V. R. Jones, Astor Court Temple, New York»City. Dear Sir—Replying to your letter of inquiry, the only insect answering your specifications Is a small spider Lathrodectus mactans, sometimes popularly called the Red Dot, from a bright red mark upon the back. Rare cases are known where death has been caused by the bite of this insect. - This bureau knows nothing of any ex periments In breeding the Lathrodectus for size. Your surmise that specimens of two or three times the normal size would be dangerous to life Is undoubtedly correct, and selected breeding to that end should be conducted only under adequate scientific safeguards. A Lathrodectus mactans with fangs large enough to penetrate the skin of the hand, and a double or triple supply of venom, would be, perhaps, more deadly than a cobra. . . . The species is very susceptible to cold, and would hardly survive a severe frost. It frequents woodpiles and outhouses Yours truly, L. O. HOWARD, Chief of Bureau. “Then Ross was sneaking down here at night and putting the spider* which he had got from Professor Moseley through my keyhole, in the hope that sooner or later one of them would get me,” said Dorr.

“A very reasonable expectation, too. Vide, the dogs,” returned Average Jones. “And now,” said Mr. Curtis Fleming, “will someone kindly explain to me what this Ross fiend had against our friend, Mr. Dorr?” “Nothing,” replied Average Jones. “You see Mr. Dorr was Interfering with the machinery of one of our ruling institutions, the Canned Meat Trust.” ', “Nonsense! Socialistic nonsense!” snapped Mr. Curtis Fleming. “Trusts may be unprincipled, but they don’t commit individual crimes.” “Don’t they?” returned Average Jones, smiling amiably at his own boot tip. f "But why so roundabout a method?” asked Dorr skeptically. “Well, they tried the ordinary methods of murder on you through agents. That didn’t work. It was up to the trust to put one of its own confidential men on it. Ross is an amateur entomologist. He devised a means that looked to be pretty safe and, in the lpng run, sure.” “And would have been but for your skill, young Jones,” declared Mr. Curtis Fleming, with emphasis. Average Jones shook his head. “You might give some of the credit to Providence,” he said. “Just one little event would have meant the saving of tho Italian child, and of Professor Moseley, and thedeath or Dorr, Ihstpad oir the other way around.” “And that event?” asked Mr. Curtis 1 Fleming.. - . t—»—~— T "Five degrees of frost in Bridgeport,” replied Average Jones. (Copyright. The Bobbs-MarrUl Company-*

“You Didn't Use That Larger Lock?”