The Mouth Organ

Killer

By
INSPECTOR C. CLARK

*

“Portugee John” Is Found Brutally Murdered in His Cabin Near the Sumas-

Huntington Boundary—Town Marshal Makes First Deductions, and with Chief

Constable Moresby of the B. C. Police the Case Is Relentlessly Unravelled,
and the Man with the Mouth Organ Hears the Law’s Final Word.

A LEADEN sky was delivering a spring
downpour on the straggling little com-
munity of Sumas City, Washington, as
morning dawned on the 20th of April,
1893. Sumas wasn’t exactly a “city”, but
in the boom ninety’s, well, who could help
looking ahead. The international boundary
line dividing Canada from the United States
also separated the adjoining towns of Sumas,
Washington, and Huntingdon, B. C. The
little communities lay in the territory known
as Sumas prairie, a land which in the earlier
days, had been the haunt of the trapper,
later to witness red-shirted bands of miners,
mounted and on foot, make their tortuous
way from California and Oregon to the
Fraser River gold rush. Now the farmer
had displaced the miner, and the Sumas-
Huntington district was being settled by
home seekers.

It was just after seven in the morning,
when a stocky figure carrying a pail of milk
swung into view on Harrison Street. It was
David B. Lucas, Sumas’ town Marshal,
boarding house keeper and milkman, about
to deliver the morning milk to his best
customer—Mrs. Margaret Bartlett, propri-
etress of another boarding house.

Mrs. Bartlett and her husband Charlie,
had come from Chilliwack about twelve
years before. There were two daughters and
a son in the family, Elizabeth a good looking
girl of 19, Mary, 17, and young Johnny,
fourteen. Mrs Bartlett’s husband was one
of those individuals who consistently failed
to find the “pot of gold at the foot of the
rainbow,” and in an aimless sort of way he
did the chores around the Bartlett’s ramb-
ling two-storey establishment.

The Bartlett’s kitchen door was half open

“when the marshal-milkman knocked and

entered. Elizabeth was in the kitchen and
greeted him with a smile as he swung the
heavy pail on to a nearby table.

“Good morning, Elizabeth” said Lucas
cheerily.

“Too bad it’s so wet” said the girl, as
she busied herself, pouring the milk into a
couple of large jugs.

While they talked of the weather, Lucas
could glimpse the dining room where other
members of the family were finishing break-
fast.

He saw Mrs. Bartlett and her husband,
Mary and Johnnie, and another figure—
young Albert Stroebel, a 20-year old lame
youth who boarded with the Bartlett’s.

WINTER EDITION

Other boarders had breakfasted and gone
to work. Stroebel had no regular employ-
ment, which explained his presence.

As the Town Marshal took in the scene
through the open door, he recalled bits of
local gossip which linked the names of
Elizabeth Bartlett and Al Stroebel. Nothing
harmful of course, merely that they were
sweethearts. Stroebel was rather popular,
especially with the young people. He had

eal

ESN

Albert J. Stroebel.

one distinguishing accomplishment, he play-
ed the mouth organ with more than ordinary
skill. As these thoughts ran through Lucas’
mind, he saw Stroebel get up from the table
and limp toward the kitchen. The young
fellow leaned nonchalantly against the door
post, and his hand slid to his pocket. His
gray eyes had a calm, even look as he viewed

the Marshal.

MurbDER AcROSS THE LINE

“Heard the news, Mr. Lucas?” he inter-
jected, as the Marshal waited for the milk
bucket.

“Haven't heard any news this morning,
Al” replied Lucas, as he took the empty
bucket from Elizabeth Bartlett.

“Old man Marshall’s been murdered,”
said the youth, drawing a mouth organ
from his pocket, and tapping it against his
thumb nail.

“Who’s old man Marshall?” asked Lucas,
his attention aroused.

“Why, you know old Portugee John,”
broke in Elizabeth Bartlett, “he lives over
in Huntingdon, across the line.”

“Oh, now I know him,” said Lucas, “I'd
forgotten his name was Marshall. When
did this happen?”

“Someone said it happened this morning,”
said Stroebel, “they said he had been shot.”
He drew the mouth organ across his lips
and a rippling scale resulted.

Johnnie Bartlett had joined the group in
the kitchen.

“Gee, Mr. Lucas,” cried the boy excitedly,
are you gonna find the murderer?”

The Marshal smiled at the lad.

“If it’s across the line, Iohnnie,” he said,
“it’s out of my jurisdiction. It’s up-to the
Provincial Police to solve this one.”

As he took his leave, and retraced his
steps down Harrison Street, Lucas turned
the news over in his mind. Of course the
crime didn’t concern him—if it was a crime
—for it was across the border. Still, he
was Town Marshal of Sumas City, and
Huntingdon practically adjoined it. Per-
haps he might be able to collect some in-
formation of use to the Canadian police
officers, for the Bartlett’s had mentioned
that the New Westminster office of the
B. C. Police had been notified by wire.

Lucas had visited New Westminster once
or twice and he knew Chief Constable Billy
Moresby and a number of his men. Fine
fellows they were, with fine courts to back
them up. “Pity we couldn't have some of
that type of law enforcement down here
now and again,” thought Lucas, as he
skirted the muddier portions of the street.

VISITS THE SCENE OF MURDER

Lucas took his duties seriously, and mur-
der was a serious matter. Perhaps it would
be as well, he thought, if he visited the
scene of the crime; he might prevent loiter-
ers from destroying some valuable piece of
evidence. The Marshal acted promptly, and
leaving his empty milk pail in a nearby
store, he headed for the other side of town
and crossed the border into British Colum-

ta. Twenty minutes walk over a marshy
trail, and he found himself in front of what
he imagined was Portugee John’s cabin. It
was a neat little building at the edge of a
clearing, but it’s atmosphere was marred—

by death.

Page Twenty-seven

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