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 ES