THE FINAL TRAP:
The night smelled of wet earth and gunpowder as Sydney crouched in the shadows, his police dog a silent specter at his side. The straw dummy in the driver’s seat wore his hat at a careless angle—perfect bait for a killer.
Somewhere in the darkness, a rifle bolt clicked.
“Steady,” Sydney whispered, his fingers tightening in the dog’s fur. The animal’s muscles coiled like springs beneath his touch.
Then—
CRACK!
The first shot shattered the stillness. Glass exploded from the car window.
CRACK!
The second bullet punched through the straw man’s chest.
CRACK!
The third shot sent Sydney’s hat spinning into the night.
“Now.”
The dog launched like a black arrow, vanishing into the darkness. Sydney followed, his long legs eating up the ground as police sirens wailed in the distance.
A scream tore through the night—human, terrified.
Then the sickening thud of a body hitting dirt.
By the time the police car’s spotlight painted the scene, Charles Wettler lay sprawled in the mud, the dog standing sentinel over him. His rifle lay nearby, one final shot discharged into the earth.
Mahoney’s flashlight beam found Wettler’s ashen face. “Why, Wettler? The money?”
The dying man’s breath came in wet gasps. “The will… hated that arrogant girl… wax dummy was perfect… but the damn dog—” His body convulsed once, then stilled forever.
Sydney watched dispassionately as Mahoney straightened up. “Your phone call was bait,” the captain realized.
“The wax on his shoes betrayed him,” Sydney said, nudging the corpse with his boot. “When he saw those melted flakes under my microscope, he panicked. Thought I’d uncovered his macabre theater production.”
Sylvester shook his head. “No sympathy for the devil, eh, Sydney?”
Sydney’s face might have been carved from stone. “Should I weep for a man who framed an innocent girl? Who staged a wax puppet show instead of facing justice?” He turned toward the car, the dog falling into step beside him. “Mercy is for the innocent, Lieutenant.”
As dawn’s first light touched the garbage-strewn field, Sydney drove away, the dog’s tail wagging like a metronome keeping time for the dead.
EPILOGUE
Three days later, Catherine walked free. The Diamond of Death returned to its display case. And in the Stanwood mansion, servants polished the floors until not a trace of wax remained.
Only Sydney knew the truth—that true evil doesn’t melt under flame. It simply waits in the shadows for its next performance.
THE END
(Adapted from Earl Stanley Gardner’s “The Mystery of the Missing Body”)