Murder Will Out

by James Dabney

“Yes, sir,” said the policeman, “we officers of the law see many strange sights, and have many strange adventures in the discharge of our duty.”

A parcel of us was sitting around the stove at the Railroad depot, waiting for the down train, and had gotten into conversation with the policeman on duty at the station. He was a good-natured, frank sort of fellow, and did not seem unwilling to make himself agreeable.

“Well,” said I, “I’ll warrant me; you have some good story just on the end of your tongue. So come, now, and let us have it.”

He laughed, and replied, good-humoredly:

“Yes, sir, you are right. I was thinking when you spoke of an occurrence that came under my observation only a few days ago, and which seemed to me one of the strangest things I ever knew.”

“Let us hear it,” chorused the group, and the officer, nothing to relate the story, at once began:

“Well, I am afraid, gentlemen,” he said, “it will be rather a dry story to you, as you don’t, of course, take as much interest in these matters as a man of my profession would. Indeed, it’s not to be expected of you, who only hear of a case of crime one day to forget it the next. We, however, study these things closely, and try to draw from them ideas and experience which will enable us to detect or prevent similar occurrences.

“Sixteen years ago there was a kind of rough tavern down in the lower part of the city, which was intended for sailors and steerage passengers. No respectable person ever thought of stopping there, and the house had scarcely custom enough to keep it going. The tavern was built just on the edge of the water, and its place is now occupied by a warehouse. Its back windows opened right on the harbor, so that anything dropped from them would fall into the water.

“The man who kept this tavern was a rough, fierce-looking fellow of… Read More