Fly Paper and Other Stories by Dashiell Hammett Page B

soft earth had cleaned off most. There was no blood on the painted handle, and nothing like a fingerprint.
    There were no footprints in the soft ground near the knife. Apparently it had been tossed into the shrubbery.
    â€œI guess that’s all there is here for us,” the sheriff said. “There’s nothing much to show that anybody here had anything to do with it, or didn’t. Now we’ll look after this here Captain Sherry.
    I went down to the village with him. At the post office we learned that Sherry had left a forwarding address: General Delivery, St. Louis, Mo. The postmaster said Sherry had received no mail during his stay in Farewell.
    We went to the telegraph office, and were told that Sherry had neither received nor sent any telegrams. I sent one to the Agency’s St. Louis branch.
    The rest of our poking around in the village brought us nothing—except we learned that most of the idlers in Farewell had seen Sherry and Marcus board the southbound two-ten train.
    Before we returned to the Kavalov house a telegram came from the Los Angeles branch for me:
    Sherry’s trunks and bags in baggage room here not yet called for are keeping them under surveillance .
    When we got back to the house I met Ringgo in the hall, and asked him:
    â€œIs Sherry left-handed?”
    He thought, and then shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he said. “He might be. I’ll ask Miriam. Perhaps she’ll know—women remember things like that.”
    When he came downstairs again he was nodding:
    â€œHe’s very nearly ambidextrous, but uses his left hand more than his right. Why?”
    â€œThe doctor thinks it was done with a left hand. How is Mrs. Ringgo now?”
    â€œI think the worst of the shock is over, thanks.”
    VII
    Sherry’s baggage remained uncalled for in the Los Angeles passenger station all day Saturday. Late that afternoon the sheriff made public the news that Sherry and the black were wanted for murder, and that night the sheriff and I took a train south.
    Sunday morning, with a couple of men from the Los Angeles police department, we opened the baggage. We didn’t find anything except legitimate clothing and personal belongings that told us nothing.
    That trip paid no dividends.
    I returned to San Francisco and had bales of circulars printed and distributed.
    Two weeks went by, two weeks in which the circulars brought us nothing but the usual lot of false alarms.
    Then the Spokane police picked up Sherry and Marcus in a Stevens Street rooming house.
    Some unknown person had phoned the police that one Fred Williams living there had a mysterious black visitor nearly every day, and that their actions were very suspicious. The Spokane police had copies of our circular. They hardly needed the H. S. monograms on Fred Williams’ cuff links and handkerchiefs to assure them that he was our man.
    After a couple of hours of being grilled, Sherry admitted his identity, but denied having murdered Kavalov.
    Two of the sheriff’s men went north and brought the prisoners down to the county seat.
    Sherry had shaved off his mustache. There was nothing in his face or voice to show that he was the least bit worried.
    â€œI knew there was nothing more to wait for after my dream,” he drawled, “so I went away. Then, when I heard the dream had come true, I knew you johnnies would be hot after me—as if one can help his dreams—and I—ah—sought seclusion.”
    He solemnly repeated his orange-tree-voice story to the sheriff and district attorney. The newspapers liked it.
    He refused to map his route for us, to tell us how he had spent his time.
    â€œNo, no,” he said. “Sorry, but I shouldn’t do it. It may be I shall have to do it again some time, and it wouldn’t do to reveal my methods.”
    He wouldn’t tell us where he had spent the night of the murder. We were fairly certain that he had left the train