Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Yes, indeed. Find the man who has the T-shaped patch on the rear wheel of his bicycle and you have the burglar.”

  Mollie stared at him in surprise.

  “There may be a good many T-shaped patches in use,” she suggested.

  “Yes; the rubber patch is a common mode of repairing a tire,” he acknowledged; “but this one has its peculiarities. It was not put on neatly. The long arm is bent into a half-circle, and the edge of one of the short arms is cut like a half moon. All of these details are impressed clearly upon the soil, and are reproduced in three separate places.”

  He took out his book again and made an accurate drawing of the patch.

  “There are a good many hundreds of bicycles in the city,” he said, with a smile; “and many of them doubtless wear patches upon the tires. But a less important clue than this has often proved successful.”

  Mrs. Loveridge could not help regarding the man with admiration. But probably Tom could find the burglar without resorting to such small details.

  Mr. Briggs went away promising to keep a sharp watch for the T-shaped patch, and that evening Mrs. Loveridge told Charlie that after all the fellow might prove to be a good detective, and perhaps would help Tom discover the thief.

  “These detectives are jealous of each other,” replied her husband, “and if Briggs gets the burglar it will be on his own hook. I’m sure I hope he won’t, for if he gets the thief before Tom does I shall lose another fifty.”

  When Mr. Loveridge was starting for town the next morning he was surprised to observe that the bicycle tracks had been obliterated during the night, all traces of them being trampled into the earth.

  It was two days afterward that Mr. Briggs, while crossing a boulevard, was almost run down by a bicycle. The rider, observing who he was, sprang from his wheel, with a laughing apology.

  “Good morning, Mr. Briggs; how goes the Loveridge case?”

  “Slowly, Mr. I Harkins,” returned the detective, “but I have hopes, nevertheless.”

  “What! Have you a clue?”

  “A small one, sir.”

  As he spoke, Mr. Briggs looked involuntarily toward Harkins’ bicycle. Then he put his hand on the rear wheel, stooped over and stared at the tire for several moments in silence. When he looked up he found Tom Harkins’ eyes fixed steadily upon him, and the two men remained gazing at each other a full minute.

  Suddenly Harkins sprang to the saddle, nodded to his companion, and sped swiftly down the boulevard.

  Mr. Briggs drew out his handkerchief, mopped the perspiration from his forehead, and walked away to the office.

  That afternoon Mr. Loveridge was seated in his friend Foreman’s office, engaged in disputing with that gentleman concerning the tariff, when Tom Harkins entered with a gloomy air, lit a cigar, and sinking into an arm-chair rested his feet upon the table.

  “What’s up, Torn?” asked Jinks, pausing in his argument.

  The great detective did not reply.

  “Sulky, hey? Well, suit yourself. As I said before, Charlie, nothing but a high tariff will ever — ”

  A soft rap sounded upon the door.

  “Come in!”

  Slowly the door opened and admitted Mr. Briggs. He took off his hat, nodded gravely to those present, and addressed himself timidly to Mr. Harkins.

  “Can I see you a moment in private, sir?”

  “No!” snapped Tom, “you can see me here.”

  “But, sir — ”

  “What do you want? Come — out with it!”

  “I have a warrant for your arrest!” said Briggs, desperately.

  “What for?”

  “The Loveridge burglary.”

  Charlie jumped to his feet with a cry of amazement, and stared at the detective in horror. But Jinks kept his seat and chuckled softly to himself.

  “This is an outrage!” exclaimed Mr. Loveridge; “what do you mean, sir?” he demanded, turning to Briggs.

  “Must do my duty, sir,” returned the man, doggedly; “my instructions were to find the criminal. Well, I have found him.”

  Mr. Loveridge looked at Tom Harkins. That gentleman sat smoking furiously and staring at the ceiling, but he said nothing. Jinks was rubbing his hands softly and chuckling in a diabolical fashion that greatly incensed Mr. Loveridge. He turned to Briggs again.

  “Do you mean to say you have any evidence against my friend, Mr. Harkins?”

  “The best of evidence, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “A T-shaped patch on his bicycle tire just fits the impression of a similar patch in the tracks left under your window.”

  Mr. Harkins here spoke for the first time, in a low, collected voice.

  “The tracks have been obliterated. You have no proof.”

  “Pardon me,” replied Briggs, “I have ample proof. I made a drawing of the patch in the presence of Mrs. Loveridge herself, and she saw the impression in the tracks. I call use the lady as a witness, if necessary.”

  “It will scarcely convict, however,” said Tom.

  “There is other proof,” continued Mr. Briggs. “The diamond used to cut the window pane became loosened from its setting in die operation. You afterward searched the house for it. I found it sticking to the putty, and have identified the stone as one belonging to you.”

  “Good!” cried Jinks. Then he stood up and regarded the company complacently. The equanimity of Mr. Harkins seemed undisturbed; Mr. Loveridge was scowling angrily at the detective; Mr. Briggs appeared uneasy, and a bit frightened.

  “Do you give up, Tom?” asked Mr. Foreman, in a tone of raillery.

  “Yes,” said Tom, with a drawl, “I suppose I must.”

  “What!” cried Mr. Loveridge, “do you acknowledge the crime?”

  Mr. Harkins nodded gravely and blew a great cloud of smoke from his mouth.

  “Sit down, Charlie,” commanded Jinks; “take this seat, Mr. Briggs,” he continued, placing a chair for the surprised detective.

  Then he walked over to his safe, unlocked it and taking out a tin box, corded and sealed, he came forward and placed it in Mr. Loveridge’s hands.

  “There, Charlie, are the jewels,” he said, cheerfully, “just as Tom gave them to me the morning after the burglary. I think you will find them all there, and the money as well. By the way, Tom, have you that hundred about you?”

  While Loveridge and the detective were endeavoring to comprehend the scene, Mr. Harkins took out his wallet and counted over a bundle of crisp notes, which he handed to Mr. Foreman.

  “Can you spare that fifty now?” continued Jinks, turning smilingly to the bewildered Loveridge.

  Charlie paid the bet without a word of protest.

  “Now,” said Mr. Foreman, pocketing the money, “I’ll endeavor to explain this little mystery. Tom and I were conversing here one day when I made the statement that no burglar was so clever but that he could be caught. Tom contradicted this. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘I could rob a house, say Loveridge’s, for instance, and not leave the slightest clue behind me.’

  ‘I’ll bet you a hundred you can’t,’ said I. ‘Done!’ said Tom. ‘I’ll burglarize Loveridge within a week, and if I am not discovered within three months you are to pay me the hundred, and return the plunder to Loveridge with an explanation and a supper at Kinsley’s. If I am caught, I’ll pay the hundred and stand the consequences.’ That was the agreement, wasn’t it, Tom?”

  Mr. Harkins nodded.

  “But you see,” continued Jinks, “no man is so smooth but there is some one smoother, and Tom is a better thief-catcher than thief. Mr. Briggs has the honor of having detected the great detective himself!”

  “And all,” added Tom, dolefully, “because of that confounded T-shaped patch!”

  “Gentlemen,” said Mr. Loveridge, lighting a fresh cigar complacently, “I invite you all to dine with jinks at Kinsley’s at six o’clock. He seems to be the only one who has come out of this transaction ahead, and I decree that he shall pay the bill. In the meant
ime I’ll send this jewelry up to Mollie, who will be delighted to recover her property; but I fear her confidence in Tom’s powers will be terribly shaken when she hears the story.”

  Tom arose with a bored expression upon his usually calm face.

  “I move we have a drink,” he said; “will you join us, Mr. Briggs?”

  The Bad Man

  It was a legal holiday, and the bank being closed I resolved to pass the after noon in my library at home re-reading Emerson.

  Thoughts of the quiet, delightful hours before me had brought me to a happy and contented frame of mind when, soon after luncheon, as I was about to settle myself with my book, Magdalen came to me and said:

  “I’m so glad, dear, you are going to be home this afternoon. Sarah is away and I’ve just remembered an appointment with the dressmaker. So you can keep an eye on the children while I’m gone; it will only be a short time, you know.”

  “But, my dear,” I answered, in a disappointed tone, “I was going to read Emerson, and the children — ”

  “Oh, they’ll be as good as gold,” she declared, interrupting my protest; “they really need no looking after at all, but I shall be easier to know you’re in the same room with them. They won’t interfere with your reading a particle.”

  “Send them here, then,” said I, resignedly; and presently they came — Kitty, Maebelle and Charlieboy — as lovely a trio as ever delighted a proud father’s heart. But Emerson —

  “Good-bye, dear,” cried Magdalen, appearing in hat and jacket, and kissing us all briskly in turn. “The children won’t bother you — will you, darlings? — and you can have a lovely, quiet time in their company. It’s so seldom you can enjoy them, you know.”

  “Yes,” said I, but doubtfully, “they can play about the library without annoying me at all. And if one of them breaks a leg I’ll send for the doctor. So don’t worry, dear.”

  She laughed at the idea of accidents and bustled away, saying she would not be long. The little ones were examining my collection of shells, so I lighted my pipe, leaned back in my lounging chair, and began reading.

  Suddenly there was a gasp, a shrill cry of alarm from Kitty, and I sprang to my feet to find Charlieboy choking desperately and quite black in the face. I slapped him on the back, held his head downward by the heels, and use other vigorous measures, with the satisfactory result of seeing him again breathe freely.

  “What was it?” I asked, trembling slightly from nervous excitement at the narrowness of the escape.

  “He swallowed a shell,” said Kitty. “One of those teenty pointed ones.”

  “Didn’t ‘wallow it!” exclaimed Charlie, indignantly; “I coughed it up.”

  I closed the cabinet and locked it. Then I glanced around, and seeing nothing else that seemed liable to be swallowed, I returned to my book.

  Presently I noticed Kitty, my demure little woman, standing by my chair. For a man whose time is almost constantly occupied by business cares I believe myself to be an especially fond and considerate father. But then I have a family of remarkably bright and attractive children.

  “Won’t you read to us, papa?” asked Kitty, as I looked up.

  “You wouldn’t care for Emerson,” I answered.

  “But I’ve a new fairy book,” said she, “that Uncle Harry gave me on my birthday.”

  “He will probably want to read it to you himself, dear,” I replied. Then, as she still lingered, I added: “I’m very much engaged just now, little one.”

  She went back to the others, and I had a few moments of peace.

  Then Maebelle sprang into my lap, her yellow curls sweeping my face and her chubby arm knocking the book from my grasp.

  “Oh, papa!” she cried, with enthusiasm, “let’s play dames!”

  “I don’t know any games, chick.”

  “Kitty knows,” answered the elf, clapping her hands; “we’ll play ‘ring-a-round-a-rosy’.”

  “Can’t you play it without me?” I inquired, somewhat brusquely.

  “When you’s away we has to,” said she. “But it’ll be such fun to play wiz a big man. Come on, pop! I dess we won’t play ‘ring-a-round-a-rosy’. I dess we’ll play ‘London Bridge’!”

  “I guess you’ll run away, chick, and not bother papa,” I returned, as gently as I could. “I want to be quiet and read my book.”

  She slid from my lap pouting and stamped her foot. Macbelle really has something of a temper.

  “You ain’t a bit o’ fun,” she declared. “I wis’ mamma was here. She’s fun.”

  I did not answer. Certainly I was not in a mood to be “fun” at that moment. There was a short period of quiet before some one nudged my elbow. Charlieboy was standing beside me. He stared into my face with his big blue eyes in a rather embarrassing fashion but did not speak.

  After awhile I was nudged again. This is annoying when one is reading. I looked down.

  “I want to ‘moke a pipe,” said Charlieboy, in a sweet and subdued voice.

  “You are too young, my son.”

  He eyed my pipe and the curling smoke thoughtfully.

  “My mouf’s big ‘nough,” he said.

  “Certainly,” I answered. “But children never smoke. Only big grown-up men smoke.”

  He seemed to be considering this clear and positive statement with much earnestness; so I raised my book again.

  “I want to’ moke a pipe,” said Charlieboy.

  I paid no attention.

  “I want to ‘moke a pipe!” more loudly.

  “Charlieboy!” said I, sternly, “if you don’t let me alone I’ll spank you. You can’t smoke a pipe!”

  The blue eyes never flinched, but regarded me intently.

  “I want to ‘moke — ”

  “Charlieboy!”

  Here Kitty came up and seized his hand.

  “Come, Charlieboy,” she said, gently, “we’re going to play doll by the window. Papa isn’t — isn’t comf’table to-day.”

  “He’s cross,” declared my son, frankly; but he let Kitty lead him to the window, where with the aid of two mussed and much bedraggled dolls they seemed able to amuse themselves perfectly.

  Somehow the various interruptions had rendered me nervous and destroyed my desire to read. I leaned back in my chair and dreamily regarded the three blessed infants their mother had declared would cause me “no trouble at all.”

  I think I must have sunk into a doze when my attention was aroused by hearing Kitty say:

  “Well, then, I’ll tell you a story.”

  Charlieboy clapped his hands and climbed to the arm of the little woman’s chair, while Maebelle curled up on the window seat and prepared to listen earnestly.

  “Once on a time,” began Kitty, “there was a Bad Man.”

  “Ah-h-h!” exclaimed Charlieboy, gleefully, and I felt his big eyes were turned my way.

  “He didn’t like to do anything that anybody wanted him to,” continued Kitty, “but he liked to sit in a big chair and read a book that wouldn’t int’rest anybody else.”

  “An”moke a pipe!” added Charlieboy.

  “Yes. When anyone asked him to join in a game, so he wouldn’t get dull and stupid, he told ‘em to run away.”

  “An’ not bother him!” said Maebelle, sitting up and shaking her curls indignantly.

  “Yes. He didn’t want to be happy. He just wanted to he bad, an’ an’ — ”

  “An”moke a pipe,” said Charlieboy, “Well,” resumed Kitty’, “this Bad Man by-an’-by got to be so dis’greeable that folks didn’t want him ‘round. So what do you s’pose they did?”

  “Tanked him!” said Charlieboy.

  “Took away his horrid book,” said Maebelle.

  “No; they put him in a big cage, where he could stay all by himself, an’ not be bothered.”

  “An’ where there was no little girl to love him,” said Maebelle.

  “An’ they ‘mashed his nasty pipe!” added Charlieboy, with intense delight.

  “Of cou
rse,” continued Kitty, demurely, “he couldn’t bother anyone else while he was in the cage, an’ he had time to think how bad he was to his children, which their own mother said was as good as gold an’ perfec’ treasures.”

  “Serve him right!” cried Maebelle, emphatically.

  “An’ there he stayed ‘til — ’til he was sorry,” concluded the story teller.

  I wondered, as I sat there listening, if I ought not to get up and redeem myself by playing and romping with those youngsters to their hearts’ content. But, I reflected, they were a mischievous lot, and their precious story was not only unfilial but of a blackmailing character. I resolved, therefore, not to be influenced by their slanderous insinuations.

  “Ah-h-h!” gasped Charlieboy, in a hushed but tragic tone.

  His sisters looked at him inquiringly.

  “Let’s build the cage,” he whispered.

  I closed my eyes lest the conspirators should learn I had overheard them, and soon I detected a soft, scraping sound as a chair was slowly pushed over the floor toward the place where I sat. There were subdued giggles and an occasional bang as the furniture struck together, but I gave no evidence of being awake.

  Finally I heard Maebelle whisper, hoarsely:

  “He’s caged! The Bad Man can’t get out ‘til he’s sorry.”

  Then I unclosed my lids just far enough to peek between them, and found myself surrounded by a circle of chairs, stools and settees — fairly hemming me in.

  Suddenly I heard a crash, a chorus of horrified exclamations, and I knew my writing-table had gone over and its contents scattered far and wide. Still I did not move a hair’s breadth, but sat quietly and reflected that the table had contained my tobacco-jar, several bottles of ink and a student lamp; all of which must make a rather pretty muss on the rug.

  The children at last were quiet, and peeping at them again I saw them in a huddled and frightened group by the window. I knew they were being more punished by my inaction than had I scolded them severely; so I maintained my pretended composure, while they looked at me and each other in dismay.

  The ominous silence was broken by Magdalen’s fresh, brisk voice, and I gave a sigh of relief as my wife appeared in the doorway.