Quinn turned on the radio. At the stroke of the gong it was five thirty-one and one quarter, Eastern Standard Time. Nora told Quinn, “Play bar-tender: you know where the stuff is,” and followed me into the bathroom. “Where’d you find her?”

“In a speak. What’s Gilbert doing here?”

“He came over to see her, so he said. She didn’t go home last night and he thought she was still here.” She laughed. “He wasn’t surprised at not finding her, though. He said she was always wandering off somewhere, she has dromomania, which comes from a mother fixation and is very interesting. He said Stekel claims people who have it usually show kleptomaniac impulses too, and he’s left things around to see if she’d steal them, but she never has yet that he knows of.”

“He’s quite a lad. Did he say anything about his father?”

“No.”

“Maybe he hadn’t heard. Wynant tried to commit suicide down in Allentown. Guild and Macaulay have gone down to see him. I don’t know whether to tell the youngsters or not. I wonder if Mimi had a hand in his coming over here.”

“I wouldn’t think so, but if you do—”

“I’m just wondering,” I said. “Has he been here long?”

“About an hour. He’s a funny kid. He’s studying Chinese and writing a book on Knowledge and Belief—not in Chinese—and thinks Jack Oakie’s very good.”

“So do I. Are you tight?”

“Not very.”

When we returned to the living-room, Dorothy and Quinn were dancing to “Eadie Was a Lady.” Gilbert put down the magazine he was looking at and politely said he hoped I was recovering from my injury. I said I was.

“I’ve never been hurt, really hurt,” he went on, “that I can remember. I’ve tried hurting myself, of course, but that’s not the same thing. It just made me uncomfortable and irritable and sweat a lot.”

“That’s pretty much the same thing,” I said.

“Really? I thought there’d be more—well, more to it.” He moved a little closer to me. “It’s things like that I don’t know. I’m so horribly young I haven’t had a chance to— Mr. Charles, if you’re too busy or don’t want to, I hope you’ll say so, but I’d appreciate it very much if you’d let me talk to you some time when there aren’t a lot of people around to interrupt us. There are so many things I’d like to ask you, things I don’t know anybody else could tell me and—”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I said, “but I’ll be glad to try any time you want.”

“You really don’t mind? You’re not just being polite?”

“No, I mean it, only I’m not sure you’ll get as much help as you expect. It depends on what you want to know.”

“Well, things like cannibalism,” he said. “I don’t mean in places like Africa and New Guinea—in the United States, say. Is there much of it?”

“Not nowadays. Not that I know of.”

“Then there was once?”

“I don’t know how much, but it happened now and then before the country was completely settled. Wait a minute: I’ll give you a sample.” I went over to the bookcase and got the copy of Duke’s Celebrated Criminal Cases of America that Nora had picked up in a second-hand book store, found the place I wanted, and gave it to him. “It’s only three or four pages.”

ALFRED G. PACKER, THE “MANEATER,” WHO

MURDERED HIS FIVE COMPANIONS IN THE MOUNTAINS

OF COLORADO, ATE THEIR BODIES AND

STOLE THEIR MONEY.

In the fall of 1873 a party of twenty daring men left Salt Lake City, Utah, to prospect in the San Juan country. Having heard glowing accounts of the fortunes to be made, they were light-hearted and full of hope as they started on their journey, but as the weeks rolled by and they beheld nothing but barren wastes and snowy mountains, they grew despondent. The further they proceeded, the less inviting appeared the country, and they finally became desperate when it appeared that their only reward would be starvation and death. Just as the prospectors were about to give up in despair, they saw an Indian camp in the distance, and while they had no assurance as to what treatment they would receive at the hands of the “Reds,” they decided that any death was preferable to starvation, so they agreed to take a chance.

When they approached the camp they were met by an Indian who appeared to be friendly and escorted them to Chief Ouray. To their great surprise, the Indians treated them with every consideration and insisted upon their remaining in the camp until they had fully recuperated from their hardships. Finally the party decided to make another start, with the Los Pinos Agency as their goal. Ouray attempted to dissuade them from continuing the journey, and did succeed in influencing ten of the party to abandon the trip and return to Salt Lake. The other ten determined to continue, so Ouray supplied them with provisions and admonished them to follow the Gunnison River, which was named after Lieutenant Gunnison, who was murdered in 1852. (See life of Joe Smith, the Mormon.)

Alfred G. Packer, who appeared as the leader of the party which continued the journey, boasted of his knowledge of the topography of the country and expressed confidence in his ability to find his way without difficulty. When his party had traveled a short distance, Packer told them that rich mines had recently been discovered near the headwaters of the Rio Grande River, and he offered to guide the party to the mines. Four of the party insisted that they follow Ouray’s instructions, but Packer persuaded five men, named Swan, Miller, Noon, Bell and Humphrey, to accompany him to the mines, while the other four proceeded along the river.

Of the party of four, two died from starvation and exposure, but the other two finally reached the Los Pinos Agency in February, 1874, after enduring indescribable hardships. General Adams was in command of this Agency, and the unfortunate men were treated with every consideration. When they regained their strength they started back to civilization.

In March, 1874, General Adams was called to Denver on business, and one cold, blizzardly morning, while he was still away, the employees of the Agency, who were seated at the breakfast table, were startled by the appearance at the door of a wild-looking man who begged piteously for food and shelter. His face was frightfully bloated but otherwise he appeared to be in fairly good condition, although his stomach would not retain the food given him. He stated that his name was Packer and claimed that his five companions had deserted him while he was ill, but had left a rifle with him which he brought into the Agency.

After partaking of the hospitality of the employees at the Agency for ten days, Packer proceeded to a place called Saquache, claiming that he intended to work his way to Pennsylvania, where he had a brother. At Saquache, Packer drank heavily and appeared to be well supplied with money. While intoxicated, he told many conflicting stories regarding the fate of his companions, and it was suspected that he had disposed of his erstwhile associates by foul means.

At this time General Adams stopped at Saquache on his return from Denver to the Agency, and while at the home of Otto Mears he was advised to arrest Packer and investigate his movements. The General decided to take him back to the Agency, and while en route they stopped at the cabin of Major Downey, where they met the ten men who listened to the Indian chief and abandoned the trip. It was then proven that a great part of Packer’s statement was false, so the General decided that the matter required a complete investigation, and Packer was bound and taken to the Agency, where he was held in close confinement.

On April 2, 1874, two wildly excited Indians ran into the Agency, holding strips of flesh in their hands which they called “white man’s meat,” and which they stated they found just outside the Agency. As it had been lying on the snow and the weather had been extremely cold, it was still in good condition. When Packer caught sight of the exhibits, his face became livid, and with a low moan he sank to the floor. Restoratives were administered and after pleading for mercy, he made a statement substantially as follows: