The smear

THE SMEAR

                           By John Beames


In the Malamute Saloon in Dawson the lights blazed. There was noisy
music, whisky and gambling--all the sourdoughs’ dearest joys.

Outside it was dark, with the first breath of the Yukon winter in
the north wind.

“Finn Charley” lugged out a heavy poke and poured a couple of ounces of
gold dust into the pan of the scales on the bar. He had become suddenly
prosperous and he intended to celebrate.

Two members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police entered. The constable
took his post at the door, but the corporal walked forward until he
stood under the first of the hanging lights, and his keen eyes searched
the company, missing no man.

Finn Charley flinched, the broad nostrils of his flat nose twitched, and
his lashless yellow eyes flickered uneasily. Then he gulped down a glass
of raw whisky, coughed, and straightened. He knew the man was dead.
Nobody had seen him. He was safe if he did not betray himself.

When all eyes were upon him, the corporal spoke in a clear voice. “Boys,
a man was robbed and murdered on the Klondike Trail tonight, a mile out
of town.”

Again Finn Charley felt a wild impulse to escape. But the eyes of the
corporal held the room. He must do as the others did. With an unmeaning
grin upon his face, Finn Charley swaggered up to join the half-circle
collecting around the policeman.

The light illumined all their faces, while the corporal, under the lamp,
was in shadow. His steady glance rested upon each in turn. The grin
remained upon Finn Charley’s face, but under it his jaws were tight.

“The man was not quite dead when we found him,” said the corporal
slowly, and paused.

Finn Charley’s broken finger nails were pressing into the palms of his
hands, but he did not feel them. He was wishing the man would go on
talking.

“He said a few words before he died,” said the corporal, and paused
again.

                 *       *       *       *       *

In the tense half-circle, nobody breathed. Finn Charley felt himself
choking. Sweat started out on his forehead. The cold penetrating glance
of the corporal passed from face to face and back again.

“He had been shot from behind,” he went on. “But the man who fired the
shot turned him over on his face to frisk him. He pretended he was dead,
but he saw----”

Finn Charley shot a lightning glance over his shoulder. There were men
on each side of him. Immediately in his rear two men had climbed on
chairs for a better view. He must stand still or arouse suspicion.

“The light was not very good, but he saw one thing clear,” went on the
slow, steady voice, each word like a hammer blow.

“He said to me, and they were the last words he spoke”--the restless
eyes flickered upon Finn Charley’s face, passed on and returned--“he
said to me, ‘Find the man with a big black smear on his left cheek.’”

All unconsciously, Finn Charley’s hand shot up to his cheek.

“In the King’s name!” cried the corporal, and leaped upon him.

The constable at the door flung forward. The handcuffs clicked. Fighting
like a maniac and yelling hoarsely, Finn Charley was dragged away.

At the Mounted Police post, they found upon him the old silver
monogrammed watch of the dead man.

“But,” said the constable later, “I don’t understand yet how you did it.
When we reached the poor devil he was stone dead. He never said a word.
How did you know the murderer had a smear on his face?”

“I didn’t,” said the corporal. “And besides, the murderer had no smear
on his face.”


[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the April 15, 1929 issue of
_Top Notch Magazine_.]