The Last Word in Mysteries

Oh, yes, I’ve had my share of ‘amoorus’ adventures, too,” asserted the Captain:

Why, my own sweetheart was once kidnapped up in ‘Frisco, though she carried a gun; and I near went dotty till we traced her. We suspected old Tim Murgan’s wood shanty, that was built out on wooden piles, over the river, and searched it through and through—a matter of two or three separate times; but we couldn’t find her. Well, we watched the house day and night, and at last, one night, we saw three men with a big package enter the house. The police surrounded the house and entered it; but never a sign was there of the three big men and the big package. It was the last word in mysteries.

We had to give it up; but we still watched the house. And later, to crown the mystery, we saw the three men come out of that same house, that we had searched every nook of. It left us guessing. Only we did more. The police officer meant to take no chances this time, and, after having stationed his men, bid eight of the biggest pick up an old pile that lay along the side of the jetty. With this, they smashed in the door of the house, with a single quick run. Then, whilst two stood on guard in the doorway, the rest rushed inside. I heard the Officer order two of the men to “look after” Murgan, and they ran up the steep little stairway, and there was immediately a sound of pistol shots above.

But I was otherwise interested; for I had run into the kitchen; and there, in the middle of the floor, where the butt-ends of the floor-boards joined, the boards had been slid endwise apart, showing a small hole, just about big enough for a man to enter.

In the mouth of this hole, a small electric fan was whirling round silently. That was all; but it was the solution of the mystery. We lifted out the fan, and there below us went a deep, narrow shaft. At the bottom, there was a dim light.

“By George!” muttered the Officer, looking down. “It’s the inside of one of the piles. Don’t you see? It’s a big iron pipe, covered, I expect on the outside with wood, so as to look like the rest.”

And so it proved. When the men had lowered us down, I found that we had come into a long, round iron structure, lighted by a single small electric lamp.

“An old biler—sunk. Do you see?” said the Officer. “Lord! What a cute idea!”

One end of the sunk boiler was curtained off, and behind that curtain, there was a low camp-bed, and on the bed lay my sweetheart, sleeping quietly. Beside her, lying upon the floor, evidently her gaoler and attendant, and like her fast asleep, lay Mrs. Tim Murgan. That is about all.

There is little to explain. My sweetheart had been surprised by two men during a walk, and before she could get her gun free, they had a sponge of chloroform over her mouth and nostrils.

When she woke up, she found herself lying on a bed, in the big sunk boiler, with Mrs. Tim in attendance. She had been treated with a certain rough care and consideration; and had only been kept there, as was apparent to me, because her disappearance had created such a tremendous stir and commotion that they had been afraid to risk moving her, or even to attempt any overtures for a ransom.

The reason we did not discover her hiding place, is obvious; for it had never occurred to us that any of the piles supporting the house might be hollow, and the way the floor-boards met naturally and irregularly over the end of the hollow pile (there were really two of them, so as to have an up-draught and a down-draught), was so cunning that none of us had seen anything to make us suspicious.

There is one other thing. Down in the boiler was discovered an immense amount of stolen property, which helped to send Mr. and Mrs. Tim Murgan to the Penitentiary for quite a long period. And it was down there, with their big package of stolen goods, that the three strange men had hidden, whilst we searched so intently for some hidden compartment, big enough to hold them and the package they had carried.