“THE ROPE

It's Fiction, But It Could Happen—the Author Served in the British Columbia
Police for Many Years and Writes These ‘““Who-Dun-Its” As a Hobby—You'll

rO CORPORAL DUNN of the B.C.
Provincial Police, there was nothing in-
-ongruous about the tall, powerful figure
iressed in the garb of a logger bending
-titically over the crumpled body of Joe
Sales, for he had seen Detective-Sergeant
\Manfield in many such roles before.

The body was lying face downwards
ina big brownish pool trickling slowly
between the rough boards of the little
rrapper’s cabin, and after what seemed to
Dunn an unnecessarily long time his chief
rose to his feet, snapped shut a powerful
magnifying glass and asked laconically,
“Well, Dunn, what do you make of it?”

“Suicide, Chief. Plain as daylight. Joe
sat in that chair...” Dunn wagged a
stubby finger at the worn, crudely-made
armchair, shifted his wad of gum, and
continued: “He placed the gun between
his legs, leaned forward to place his head
on the barrel and pressed down on the
trigger with his big toe, taking off his
boots beforehand. Blew the top of his
head clean off, and pitted his face with
powder marks. Those shotguns sure make
a nasty mess,” he added mildly, surveying
the blood-spattered shack out of a pair
of deceptively innocent china-blue eyes.

“And the motive, Dunn?’ Manfield
shot the question casually as he rested his
weight carefully on the edge of the table
and stretched his long legs comfortably.

“An easy one, Chief: Joe couldn’t stand
the gaff. I’ve never seen a drug addict
who could. He promised to work for you
on this dope case after you went out of
your way to help him after doing that last
stretch, but the way I see it he got the
old craving, became depressed and took
this way out. Packing dope for Chinese
Charlie was too great a temptation. I
was scared he'd let you down from the
start, and right on the eve of us closing

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in.” Dunn pushed his stetson back on his
head and gazed reflectively out of the
tiny window across the cleared space to
the tall timberline beyond.

“T think you have read the signs that
were meant to be read, ” Manfield replied
quietly. “Joe was tied in that chair. There
are a few strands of a new hemp rope
adhering to his woollen Indian pullover
and on the back of the chair, and whoever
did the ghastly job tortured Joe first.
Cedar slivers were driven under two
fingernails and burnt. Then observe
where the floor is slightly splintered as
he wriggled in his agony.”

“Well, I'll be castor-oiled by Musso!”
ejaculated Dunn, “if that doesn’t beat
Hitler. But where does that leave you?
If this is Charlie’s work it means that he
is wise to your identity, and the show-
down with the dope ring is off.”

Murber AND Dorr

“Not necessarily, Dunn. Hate is a
powerful stimulant. Joe came of good
stock and when he came to realize what
drugs had done to him, he welcomed the
opportunity to take a deal in the game.
However, I must take that chance. Play
it as if I knew nothing of this,” he nodded
a rumpled head of brown, almost curly
hair soberly towards the quiet figure on
the floor. “Keep my date with Charlie.
We play for double stakes now.” The
words came out cold and crisp. “The mur-
derer and the head man of this notorious
drug ring.”

“And if you make a mistake you walk
right into a trap. It’s too big a chance to
take, Chief,’ Dunn said earnestly. “Let’s
investigate this along the usual lines, and
forget the dope.”

Manfield raised himself easily to his
feet and said evenly, “No, Dunn! I play
it as scheduled. I will rely upon this,” he
tapped a gun-holster concealed under the
left arm of his roomy checked shirt, as
he spoke, “and quick thinking, to pull me
out of difficulties. Now take charge here.
Pick up those fibres carefully, get the
coroner, secure pictures of the scene, and
’phone Const. Lampson to keep a sharp
lookout for Charlie’s car going through
his detachment. Tell him to tail it with-

out being recognized.

Now I must go,
but first I'll take two or three fibre speci-

men from this chair just in case.’ He
took out a pair of tweezers, carefully
deposited the samples in an envelope and
returned it to his pocket. “The rope these
fibres came from will lead us to the
killer,” he added with conviction.

“Good luck, Chief,’ said Dunn, as he
watched him stride through the door with
a steely glint in his gray eyes, which
usually betokened trouble for someone.

As Manfield strode with an _ easy,
ground-covering gait along a well-defined
trail, he reviewed the events leading up
to the tragic death of James Alvin Sales,
for that was the victim’s real name.

Joe’s name was curiously linked with
that of Clinton Spears, a smart Ameri-
can-born Canadian, who had gone wrong
and decamped with a considerable sum of
money in a case of fraudulent conversion,
two years ago. Joe, who had worked for
Spears, and had fallen under his influence
through the use of drugs with which his
employer dabbled, had given valuable in-
formation, but the slick Spears had slip-
ped through his dragnet, presumably gone
south and disappeared underground.
Later, Sales’ sister, a fine woman residing
back east, had contacted him in an en-
deavour to locate her brother.

Leak Lep To MurbrER

Manfield’s ruggedly handsome features
set more sternly as he thought of Joe.
He felt in some measure responsible for
his death. Following his efforts to help
him, Joe was struggling to restore him-
self as a decent citizen. He had insisted
that he render service for service. Man-
field smiled wryly as he remembered how

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