J. Fletcher - The Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 5, No. 1 — April 1922)

In an obscure drug store in another city he purchased a small bottle of nitric acid. Several weeks later he motored to the metropolis, a hundred miles distant, in order to secure fifteen cents’ worth of sulphuric acid. Laying both purchases aside, he waited several weeks, finally finding occasion to make a trip to a third town, where he bought a bottle of glycerin. He now had the ingredients to manufacture enough nitro-glycerin to blow up a regiment — all purchased in such a way that suspicion could never be traced to him.

But he was wary. The time was not yet ripe. There was always the chance that some over-alert clerk might, through some unforeseen circumstance, remember his face and connect him with the purchase of one of the chemicals. It was best to wait until the memory of his small purchases faded from their minds. It was lack of attention to such small details that had caused others to be caught. In his case nothing was too tiny to be overlooked. His was a brain that could foresee all contingencies.

Six weeks passed before he was ready to act. One day while visiting O’Hearn’s bachelor apartments he managed to pocket half a dozen shells such as his cousin used in his favorite gun. Again he waited for weeks to see if the theft was noticed. Finding that it was not, he proceeded to carefully draw the wads from three of the shells, uncrimping the edges in such a way that it would not be noticed. He even wore gloves to avoid tell-tale finger-prints.

Pouring out the charges of powder and shot, he poured into the empty shells enough nitro-glycerin — which he compounded from his chemicals — to make small bombs out of each, replaced the wads, and, turning back the edges carefully, he looked over his handiwork.

To all appearances the shells were identical with their mates. Yet when the hammer struck the cap it would create an explosion sufficient to tear the very head off of the unfortunate O’Hearn. The terrific jar would explode the other shells and the remaining evidence would be destroyed.

Naturally, as Hankenson knew, there would be an inquiry. But as a method of committing a murder it was so unique that it would never be suspected. Instead, the company which manufactured the cartridges would be blamed. Accidents are always likely to happen in powder factories. In the end the coroner’s jury would decide that something had gone wrong with the formula when the powder was made. He, as O’Hearn’s next of kin, would bring suit against the manufacturers and the latter, for their own protection, would settle as speedily as possible in order to avoid unnecessary publicity.

He next poured the acid and glycerin down the sewer. The bottles in which the chemicals came he broke into small pieces and buried in the ashes. Thus he covered his tracks as he went along.

The hunting season opened next day. He and O’Heam had made all arrangements to leave early in the morning for a forenoon’s sport among the ducks. A large party of friends was to accompany them. The friends were to be the necessary witnesses.

Waiting until late in the evening, he hastened to O’Hearn’s rooms. A matter of business would, he stated, keep him in town for an hour or two after the party had started. As soon as he could conveniently get away, he would motor out to the club grounds and join the others.

O’Hearn was examining his hunting gear and filling the pockets of his coat with cartridges as Hankenson knew he would be. Waiting until the other had left the room for a second, he removed three of the shells from the right-hand pocket, dropping into their place the three filled with the deadly nitroglycerin.

He knew O’Hearn’s habits. At the club grounds the sportsmen would divide into small parties, each picking out his individual “blind.” Most of them would go in parties of twos. With Hankenson absent, O’Hearn would occupy a blind alone until his partner’s arrival. With the ducks flying thick, one of the three “fixed” cartridges would surely be fired inside of the first half hour. By the time he arrived, the others would be on their way back, carrying with them the mangled remains of Chester O’Hearn.

Someone has remarked that it is the little things that effect human destinies. In this case it was a small leak in a rubber boot that saved Chester O’Hearn’s life and prevented Carl Hankenson from committing the perfect crime.

O’Hearn had been suffering from a slight cold. Arriving at the clubhouse, he no sooner set foot on the ground than he accidentally stepped into a tiny pool of water. An instant later he discovered the leak in his boot. There were no other boots available, and to enter the blind with those he wore meant to invite an illness. Never of a robust constitution, he feared to take a chance.

As a result he sat on a log along the bank of the river, his dog by his side, watching the others fill their bags.

The morning turned out warmer than usual. Finding his heavy canvas hunting coat, its pockets loaded down with shells, too heavy over his thick sweater, O’Hearn divested himself of it and laid it on the grass close by. Stretching out, he filled his pipe and took matters as philosophically as could be expected of an enthusiastic sportsman forced to keep out of the game at the opening of the hunting season with the ducks thicker than ever before in history.

Meanwhile Hankenson, driving slowly, reached the grounds. Looking around carefully, he was astonished to find no evidence of the tragedy. Where there should have been a white-faced little group of men standing around a blanket-covered form, all of the members of the party, as far as he could see, were busily engaged in banging away at the feathered game.

He hesitated an instant. It would never do to go back now that he had come this far. Someone might have seen him. The “accident” was certain to happen shortly. To turn back now would be equivalent to admitting a guilty knowledge. Nor would he dare enter the blind with O’Hearn. For when one of the “doctored” shells exploded, anyone within a radius of a dozen feet would be in danger.

Moving slowly, trying to think of some excuse to keep out of the other’s company, he rounded a curve in the pathway. He was almost upon O’Hearn before he noticed the other sprawled upon the river bank, half asleep.

Dogs are affectionate animals. The one owned by O’Hearn was no exception to the rule. Forced to remain with its master when the other canines of the party were enjoying a full day’s sport, it longed for a romp. Hankenson had often played with it in times gone past. Recognizing its friend, it leaped to its feet, and, tail waving, started toward him.

Hankenson’s gun was in his hand. It was this that probably caused a streak of peculiar dog reasoning to flash through the animal’s brain.

“Here,” he probably thought to himself, “is why my master has been waiting. Now that he’s arrived, let’s get started.”

Seizing O’Hearn’s hunting coat in his mouth, the animal leaped toward Hankenson, the heavily loaded pockets of the coat swinging wildly.

As it fawned upon the newcomer one of the loaded pockets struck the butt of Hankenson’s shotgun.

Nitro-glycerin explodes upon concussion!