The Mystery Megapack

see, it is always hard for us to believe that anybody we have known well and for a long time, is an actual criminal. We may detest him, admit that he is mean, selfish, unpopular, a tax evader, even a chicken thief, but a murderer? No! Because the very instinct of self-preservation keeps us from admitting that we could possibly live within sight of the home of a murderer!”
    “You mean,” Weston asked, “that this bandit actually lives within sight of where we are?”
    “Not quite that; but I do feel that the perfectly natural instinct of attributing any atrocious crime to a stranger, somebody from far away, is not to be trusted too far. Without hampering myself by any preconceived ideas, I shall, among other things, scrutinize our neighbors pretty closely. Who had the best opportunity to terrorize the Bronson woman, and old Tucker? Who knew that the summer cottage down the shore was unoccupied? Who knows the wilderness about here well enough to so far evade trained guides? Who is able to hide out and obtain food without being detected? Certainly, no stranger, who would be lost within half an hour of the time he entered the great cedar swamp! And more certainly yet, no city-bred man. No, I shall make it one of my first duties to look over the local peasantry! Some queer characters live in lonesome little hamlets like this. The very isolation preys on their minds; they become abnormal. And everything indicates that the man I am after is not normal; he is the victim of some overwhelming homicidal mania. I hope I am wrong; but I never allow sentiment to interfere with my professional duty.”
    Nothing of further interest occurred that day, save a brief visit from Sheriff Joe Thomas, who alighted from his car and came to the door for a brief word. He looked worn and drawn, and as if he had sacrificed a lot of sleep.
    “Heard or seen anything, Mr. Weston? No? Well, I don’t expect you will. Did you happen to hear a gunshot last night? Doubt if it would carry this far; wind was in wrong direction. One of my men thought he saw something moving about the Barnard cottage; the one that was broken into. He was taking no chances, so he let a charge of double-b’s at it. Heard nothing, and didn’t see anything more. But this morning I found some broken twigs and the faintest impression of foot tracks around the cottage. Ground is hard there, and I couldn’t get any impressions. Reckon it might have been some curiosity seeker. Don’t think the bandit would be fool enough to return, especially since he had time enough to take anything he wanted the first trip. Must be on my way, now. Sorry your vacation is being knocked galley west this way!”
    Sanford Teller had listened to the sheriff with quiet amusement. When he had gone, he emerged from the parlor and spoke.
    “Your sheriff would be surprised to learn that the man his deputy tried to pot, is about to sit down to dinner with you and your wife, wouldn’t he?”
    “He’d be more than surprised,” Weston mumbled. “He’d certainly give me a fine bawling-out for not telling him!”
    “You’ll never be really popular with Thomas,” Teller decided. “When I nail my man—if I do—the sheriff will be sore as a pup to think that it was done over his head. But such are the dark and devious ways of the Wallis Agency!”
    There followed two highly exciting days for the Westons and indeed for the entire countryside. On two successive nights, fresh outrages occurred. Fortunately, there were no deaths; but this was not owing to any clemency on the part of the marauder. In one case, the chance arrival of a visitor interrupted him as he was tying up a crippled fisherman and his wife, after laying the former low with a stout chair swung about his head; in the other instance, he waylaid a motorist who had got lost, and run out of gas in an abandoned wood road. This man, who was young and vigorous though unarmed, did not suspect the friendly-appearing stranger who appeared afoot, and paused to inquire if he could be of assistance. However, the stranger without warning struck him a terrible blow on the head with a stout cudgel he was using as a walking stick. Dazed, and unable to put up a fight, the man’s pockets were rifled, and when some time toward dawn one of the sheriff’s men found him, these were all the details he was able to give. Yes, the man wore a handkerchief about his neck, but it was not used as a mask. And the sudden blow, which had just failed to cause a