Erle Gardner - The Case of the Empty Tin

The flashlight in her hand, she descended the cellar stairs. The big gas furnace with its automatic controls had been on earlier in the morning, heating the house. Mrs. Gentrie had cut it off as soon as the family had got out of the way, but the cellar was still slightly warm from the heat which had been given off. She noticed cobwebs on the pipes in the back. Hester would have to get down here for a little cleaning. There was a neat array of canned goods and glass jars on the long shelves which stretched across the full length of the cellar. Mrs. Gentrie gave only a casual glance to the section near the window which marked this year’s canning. She passed up the first part of last year’s canning, and back in the dark corner used Junior’s flashlight to inspect the remnants.

She knew at once Hester had been neglecting this corner. There were cobwebs which showed as much, and the beam of Junior’s flashlight picked up two cans of 1939 pears almost at once. There were some jars of strawberry jam, cans of homemade apple butter — 1939...

Mrs. Gentrie stood perfectly still in puzzled perplexity. The white circle of illumination thrown by the flashlight was centered upon the glistening sides of an unlabeled tin which certainly looked as though it was fresh from the store.

Mrs. Gentrie couldn’t understand how an unlabeled tin could possibly have intruded itself upon her systematic classification of preserves. She used adhesive tape for labels so there would be no trouble with them dropping off. There was, moreover, something about the appearance of the tin itself which made it seem an intruder. The sides were so new and shiny. Not even a cobweb or a smudge on it.

Mrs. Gentrie reached out with her left hand. Unconsciously she measured the muscular effort in terms of a full quart, and, as a result, the light tin seemed to fairly jump off the shelf before she realized that it weighed no more than an empty can.

She looked at it with the frowning displeasure of a systematic individual finding something definitely at variance with an established system.

Holding the tin in her hand, she turned it around, looking at it from all angles. The top was crimped on, sealed carefully in place as though it had been filled with fruit and syrup. But the smooth glistening, somewhat oily surface of the tin indicated that it was just as it had come from the store — except that it had been so carefully sealed.

Mrs. Gentrie frowned at the offending object as she would have regarded evidences that a mouse had been in the shelf which held the spare bedding. She walked back to the cellar stairs, raised her voice, and called, “Hester! Oh, Hester!”

After a few moments she heard the heavy thud of Hester’s steps across the kitchen floor, then the stolid, “Yes, ma’am.”

“How did this tin get here?”

Hester advanced a tentative step or two down the cellar stairs, looked at the can in Mrs. Gentrie’s hand. The vacancy of her expression was sufficient answer to the question.

Mrs. Gentrie said, “It was right over in that corner. And I notice, Hester, you haven’t been cleaning up the 1939 preserves. We had 1940 pears last night, but there are still several cans of ’39 pears.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hester said.

“And this tin,” Mrs. Gentrie observed, “was in with the ’39 preserves.”

Hester shook her head. Long experience as a domestic had taught her that nothing was ever gained by argument. When the lady of the house took a notion to blame you for some slip, you stood there, let her speak her piece, and then went back to work. As it was, Hester was losing just this much time from the mangle, and her mind was half occupied with the unfinished ironing which remained in the kitchen.

There was a big wooden box over by the furnace where Arthur threw odds and ends of scraps, bits of old tin, pieces of wood, and an occasional can. Mrs. Gentrie tossed the offending can into this box.

“It doesn’t seem,” she said as she started upstairs, “that it would have been possible for anyone to have put an empty can on that shelf. I can’t imagine you doing anything like that, Hester.”

Hester walked back up the three or four stairs she had descended, and returned to the mangle without a word.

Rebecca looked up from her crossword puzzle. “What is it?” she asked. “... No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m timing myself on this puzzle. The newspaper gives the time it should take a person of average intelligence. What in the world, Florence, could be the name of a young salmon with only four letters and the last three a-r-r?”

Mrs. Gentrie shook her head. “Too deep for me,” she said, her manner indicating that she was interested only in dismissing the question. She went over to the basket of mending.

The shaft of sunlight which had been falling on Mephisto had moved over to the edge of the chair. The cat stretched, yawned, moved over a few inches, and squirmed over half on its back.

Rebecca frowningly studied the crossword puzzle.

Mrs. Gentrie said to Hester, “I can’t understand why anyone would seal up an empty can in the first place.”

“No, ma’am.”

Rebecca said, “If I could get the five-letter word meaning the side of a ditch next the parapet, I’d have the first letter of that word for the young salmon.”

“Why not look up parapet?”

“I have. It says, ‘a wall, rampart, or elevation to protect soldiers; a breastwork.’ ”

“Perhaps that dictionary isn’t complete enough to give it”

“Oh, but it is. It’s the Fifth Edition of Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. It’s got everything in it you need for these newspaper puzzles.”

Rebecca once more regarded the crossword puzzle, then looked at her watch. The exclamation which left her lips was one of definite annoyance.

She put down the pencil. “It’s no use. I just can’t keep my mind on it, and I’m running behind. What is all this talk about a can?”

“Nothing,” Mrs. Gentrie said, “except that I found a new empty can had been put in with the preserves over in the 1939 corner. I notice that when Junior put the new preserves up on the shelf, he shoved the old ones back over into that dark corner. Next year I’m going to have him do it just the opposite so that we naturally have to use up the old stuff first.”

“But why would anyone put an empty tin in with the full ones?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know. That’s what bothers me.”

“Wasn’t there any label on it?”

“No.”

“Where is it?”

“I threw it in the scrap box down in the cellar.”

Rebecca frowned and said, “I wish you hadn’t told me about it.”

Mrs. Gentrie laughed. “You asked me. Haven’t you any of the letters in your parapet word?”

Rebecca said, “The second two are c-a.”

Mrs. Gentrie held up her fingers. “Five letters?”

“Five letters.”

She checked off letters on her fingers, suddenly said, “I have it, Rebecca. It’s...”

“No, no, don’t help me! I want to get it by myself. I want to see if I can’t beat this ‘average intelligence’ time. Don’t interrupt me, Florence.”

Mrs. Gentrie smiled, picked up the box of mending, carried it over to the breakfast nook, picked out one of Junior’s socks, thrust the darning egg in it, and picked up her needle.

Rebecca said sharply, “Well, I don’t know how you could have found any five-letter word so soon.”

Mrs. Gentrie said soothingly, “Isn’t there a clue in the fact that the second two letters are c-a, Rebecca? Not many letters would go with c-a. You have some of the vowels which would hardly fit. Then in the consonants, I would say that s is about the only one that would go with c. That gives you s-c-a.”