The Methodist minister, an elderly person, looked a trifle dashed for a moment or two, and then heartily declared himself as with Father Maloney. Whereupon Mr. Maltby said he guessed it would be all right, provided Mr. Squires promised not to publish the names.
Harry Squires promptly announced that he intended to save labour and space by stating briefly and concisely that if any of his feminine readers cared to have a list of “those present,” she could get it very easily and alphabetically by consulting the telephone-book.
The outcome of the meeting may be recorded in a very few words, although a great many were required in its achievement. Virtually everybody, including the coloured gentry, had something to say on the subject, and most of them said it without reservations. After Mr. Squires had announced that any man who voted in the negative would automatically convict himself, there wasn’t a man present who failed to subscribe fifty cents toward the civic honour fund. It was found, on computation, that the total amount was one hundred nine dollars and fifty cents. Marshal Crow at once increased his contribution to one dollar, declaring it would be mortifying to offer a reward of less than one hundred and ten dollars to any decent, self-respecting detective.
Messrs. January and Smith insisted on their rights as citizens to join in the movement. Mr. January took the floor and vociferously harangued the assemblage at some length on certain provisions of the Proclamation of Emancipation, and Mr. Smith said that “this wasn’t no time to draw the colour-line.”
Mr. Crow consented to undertake the baffling case, and it was “so ordered.”
“Have you got a clue?” whispered Alf Reesling as he started homeward in the wake of the preoccupied sleuth.
“No, but I will have ‘fore mornin’,” replied Anderson.
And he never uttered truer words in all his life.
* * * *
Being a man of action, Mr. Crow began operations at once. He went home and for nearly an hour worked over the list of subscribers to the fund, aided by his wife and daughters. Among them they separated the wheat from the chaff. At least twenty per cent. of the contributors were set aside in a separate group and labelled “no good.” Ten per cent. were designated as “fairly good,” and the remainder as “good.” It must not be assumed that the division had anything to do with the Loop mystery. Mr. Crow was merely figuring out who would pay and who would not.
It was shortly after ten o’clock when he started, in a roundabout way, for the home of Eliphalet Loop. The more direct route would have been down the street from his own house to the Boggs City pike, first turn to the left, fifty paces straight ahead, and he would have found himself at Eliphalet’s front gate—in all, a matter of half a mile. But he preferred to descend upon the premises from an unexpected angle. So he approached by a far, circuitous way and arrived at the gate after traversing something like three miles of wood and pasture-land, stealthily following the stake-and-rider fences in order to screen his movements. He was well aware that Mr. Loop did not own a dog, on account of the expense.
The house was dark. Mr. Crow leaned against the hitching-post and mopped his brow. Then he blew his nose. It was his custom when he blew his nose, to blow it with tremendous force. Having performed these highly interesting feats he restored his handkerchief to his hip pocket. He remembered quite clearly doing all these things. Afterwards he claimed that he blew his nose as a signal. In any case, it proved to be a signal. A thinly pleated light appeared in one of the front windows of the house, narrow little streaks one above the other, shining through the window-slats.
The Marshal of Tinkletown stared. He craned his neck. A chill of excitement swept over him. Was he about to witness the surreptitious departure of the unwelcome guest? Had he arrived in the nick of time? And what in the world was he to do if the fellow had a revolver? Fascinated, he watched one of the blinds slowly swing outward. He held his breath.
Suddenly it dawned on him that the visitor was still expected, and not on the point of departing. In that case it behooved him to retire to a less exposed spot, where he could observe the fellow without being observed.
Stooping low, he stole across the road and wound his way through the scraggly hedgerow and into the brambles beyond. Just as he was settling himself down for his vigil, a most astonishing thing occurred.
A hand fell heavily upon his shoulder, and something cold punched him in the back of the neck—and remained fixed in that spot.
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your brains out,” whispered a voice in his ear. The grip on his shoulder tightened.
“Who—who—” he started to gasp.
“Shut up!” hissed the voice of the invisible one. “I’ve got you dead to rights. Get up! Put your hands up!”
“I—I got ’em up,” gulped Mr. Crow, in a strangled voice. “Don’t shoot, Mister! I—I promise to let you go, I swear I will. It’s—”
“By thunder!” fell from the lips of the captor. It was an exclamation of surprise, even dismay.
“Take it away, if it’s a revolver,” pleaded Anderson. “I withdraw from the case. You c’n go as fer as you like. Eliphalet—”
“Stand still. I can’t take a chance with you. You may be trying to fool me with this rube talk. Keep ’em up!”
Swiftly the stranger ran a hand over Mr. Crow’s person.
“You ought to have a gun,” he said in a puzzled voice.
“I loaned it last winter to Milt Cupples, an’ he—”
“Who the devil are you?”
“I’m the marshal of Tinkletown, an’ my name is Crow—A. Crow. I made a mistake, takin’ up this case. Go on in and see Mrs. Loop if you feel like it. I won’t say a word to anybody—”
“Get down on your knees, Mr. Crow, here beside me, an’—”
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy! You shorely ain’t going to shoot, Mister!”
“I don’t want you to pray. I want you to keep still. Don’t make a sound—do you hear?”
“I’ve got a wife an’ children—”
“Shut up! Look! She’s put out the light. Keep your eyes skinned, old man! He must be near. Don’t make a sound. My partner’s in that rain-barrel at the corner of the house. If we can get him between us, he won’t have any more chance than a snowball in—Look! There he is, sneaking across the yard! By golly, we’ve got him at last.”
What happened in the next fifteen seconds was a revelation to the most recent addition to the forces of the International Society of Sleuths. He witnessed the quick, businesslike methods of two of the craftiest men in the craftiest organization in the world—the United States Secret Service.
Two words were spoken. They came, loud and imperative, from a point near the house.
“Hands up!”
The skulking figure in the yard stopped short, but only for a fraction of a second. Then he made a wild spring toward the front gate.
A shot rang out.
The man at Anderson’s side leaped forward through the hedge. Mr. Crow was dimly conscious of a mishap to his erstwhile captor. He heard him curse as he went sprawling over a treacherous vine.
Mr. Crow did not waste a second’s time. He leaped to his feet and started pellmell for home. With rare sagacity he avoided the highway and laid his course well inside the hedgerow. He knew where he could strike an open stretch of meadowland, and he headed for it through the brambles.
He heard shouts behind him, and the rush of feet. If he could only get clear of the cussed bushes! That was his thought as he plunged along.
Down he went with a crash!
* * * *
As the marshal tried to rise, a huge object ploughed through the hedge beside him, and the next instant he was knocked flat and breathless by the impact of this hurtling body.
The next instant two swift, ruthless figures came plunging through the hedge, and he found himself embroiled in a seething mix-up of panting, struggling men.
Presently Crow sat up. The steady glare of a “dark-lantern” revealed a picture he was never to forget.
/> A single figure in a kneeling position, hands on high, was crying:
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
Over him stood two men with pistols levelled at the white, terrified face.
Anderson, to his dying day, was to remember those bulging eyes, the flabby and unshaven face, the mouth that appeared to be grinning—but never had he seen such an unnatural grin!
“Stand up!” commanded one of the men, and the victim struggled to his feet. In less time than it takes to tell it, the fellow was searched and hand-cuffed. “Run back there, Pyke, and see that the woman don’t take a crack at us with a shotgun. She’d do it in a minute.” As his companion darted back into the roadway, the speaker turned to his captive. “Where’s your gun?”
By this time Anderson Crow was on his feet. He was clutching something in his hand. He looked at it in stark astonishment. It was an automatic pistol. In raising himself from the ground his hand had fallen upon it.
“I don’t know,” said the captive sullenly. Then his gaze fell upon the gaunt figure of Anderson Crow. A frightful scowl transfigured his face. Mr. Crow involuntarily drew back a step and reversed the pistol in his hand, so that its muzzle was pointing at the enemy instead of at himself. Between imprecations the prisoner managed to convey the fact that he realized for the first time that it was a human being and not a log that had brought him to earth.
* * * *
Mr. Crow found his voice and some of his wits at the same time.
“I’ll learn you not to go rampagin’ around these parts carryin’ concealed weapons, you good-fer-nothin’ scamp! I’ve got your gun, blast ye!” He turned triumphantly to the surprised secret-service man. “I took it away from him soon as I had him down, an’—”
“Holy mackerel!” gasped the operative. “Did—did you head him off and—and down him? You? Well, I’ll be hanged!”
“I sorter knowed he’d strike about here, tryin’ to make the woods up yonder, so I hustled down here to head him off while you fellers—”
“Never mind now,” broke in the other. “Tell it to me later. Come on, both of you. We’re not through yet.” He urged the burly captive through the hedge. Marshal Crow followed very close behind.
They found a terrified, excited group on the front porch—three sturdy females in nightgowns, all with their hands up! Below, revealed by the light streaming through the open door, stood a man covering them with a revolver. Fifteen or twenty minutes later Mr. Crow dug the shivering Eliphalet Loop out of the hay-mow and ordered him forthwith to join his family in the kitchen, where he would hear something to his advantage.
The happiest man in Bramble County was Eliphalet Loop when he finally grasped the truth. The prisoner turned out to be his wife’s first husband—he grasped that fact some little time before he realized that he wasn’t even her second husband, owing to certain fundamental principles in law—and a fugitive from justice. The man was an escaped convict, the leader of a gang of counterfeiters, and he was serving a term in one of the federal prisons when he succeeded in his break for liberty. For many months the United States Secret Service operatives had been combing the country for him, hot and cold on his trail, but always, until now, finding themselves baffled by the crafty rogue, who, according to the records, was one of the most dangerous, desperate criminals alive. Finally they got track of his wife, who had lived for a time in Hoboken, but it was only within the week that they succeeded in locating her as the wife of Eliphalet Loop. The remainder of the story is too simple to bother about.
“Of course, Mr. Loop,” said one of the secret-service men, “you can prosecute this woman for bigamy.”
Mr. Loop shook his head. “Not much! I won’t take no chance. She might prove that she wasn’t ever married to this feller, an’ then where would I be? No, sirree! You take her along an’ lock her up. She’s a dangerous character. An’ say, don’t make any mistake an’ fergit to take her mother an’ sister, too.”
* * * *
The next evening Mr. Crow sat on the porch in front of Lamson’s store. His fellow-townsmen were paying up more promptly than he had expected. Practically three-fourths of the reward was in his coat pockets—all silver, but as heavy as lead.
“Yes, sir,” he was saying in a rather far-reaching voice, for the outer rim of the crowd was some distance away, “as I said before several times, I figgered he would do just what he did. I figgered that I’d have to outfigger him. He is one of the slickest individuals I have ever had anything to do with—an’ one of the most desperit. I—er—where was I at, Alf?… Oh, yes, I recollect. He was a powerful feller. Fer a second or two I thought maybe he’d get the best of me, being so much younger an’ havin’ a revolver besides. But I hung on like grim death, an’ finally—Thanks, Jim; I wasn’t expectin’ you to pay ‘fore the end of the month. Finally I got my favourite holt on him, an’ down he went. All this time I was tryin’ to git his revolver away from him. Just as I got it, the secret-service men came dashin’ up an’—What say, Deacon? Well, if the rest of the crowd ain’t tired o’ hearin’ the story, I don’t mind tellin’ it all over.”
Harry Squires, perched on the railing, assured him that the crowd wouldn’t mind in the least.
“The real beauty of the story Anderson,” he added dryly, “is that it has so much of the spice of life in it.”
“What’s that?”
“I mean variety.”
NO QUESTIONS ANSWERED
REWARD!!!
$25.00 For the Apprehension or Capture of Person or Persons Who Successfully Stole the Fashionable Bulldog Belonging to Mrs. M. Fryback on or About Friday of Last Week!
N. B.—Said dog occasionally answers to the name of Marmaduke, but mostly to Mike.
An Additional Reward of Three Dollars Cash will be paid for the return of said dog, with or without said Criminals. No Questions asked.
A. Crow, Marshal of Tinkletown.
The foregoing poster, fresh from the press of the Banner printing office, made itself conspicuous at no less than a dozen points in the village of Tinkletown on a blustery February morning. Early visitors to the post office in Lamson’s store were the first to discover it, tacked neatly on the bulletin board. Others saw it in front of the Town Hall, while others, who rarely took the trouble to look at a telephone pole before leaning against it, found themselves gazing with interest at the notice that covered the customary admonition:
“POST NO BILLS.”
Of course every one in Tinkletown knew, and had known for the matter of a week or more, that Mort Fryback’s bulldog was “lost, strayed or stolen,” but this was the first glaring intimation that Mort had also lost his mind. In the first place, Mike—as he was familiarly known to every inhabitant—wasn’t worth more than a dollar and a half when he was in his prime, and that, according to recollection, must have been at least twelve or fifteen years prior to his unexplained disappearance. In the second place, it was pretty generally understood that Mike—recently Marmaduke—had surreptitiously taken a dose of prussic acid in a shed back of Kepsal’s blacksmith shop and was now enjoying a state of perfect rejuvenation in the happy hunting ground.
Mr. Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, after having scanned four of the notices on his way to the post office, informed a group of citizens in front of Brubaker’s drugstore that Anderson Crow would do almost anything to get his name into print. Alf and the town marshal had had one of their periodical “fallings out,” and, for the moment at least, the former was inclined to bitterness.
“To begin with,” explained Alf, “there ain’t a dog in this town that’s worth stealin’, to say nothin’ of three dollars. You can’t tell me that Mort Fryback would give three dollars to get that dog back, not even if he was alive—which he ain’t, if you c’n believe Bill Kepsal. No, sir; it’s just because Anderson wants to see his name in print, that’s what it is. I bet if you was to ask Mort if he has agreed to pay—how much is it all told?—twenty-eight dollars—if he has agreed to pay all that money for nothin’
, he’d order you out of his store.”
“Mrs. Fryback told my wife a couple of weeks ago that Marmaduke was a prize bull, and she wouldn’t take a hundred dollars for him,” said Newt Spratt. “Seems that she had somebody look up his pedigree, and he turns out to be a stepson or something like that of a dog that won first prize at a bench show—whatever that is—in New York City.”
“Ever since that actress woman was here last fall,—that friend of Harry Squires, I mean,—every derned dog in town has turned out to be related some way or other to a thoroughbred animal in some other city,” said Alf. “Why, even that mangy shepherd dog of Deacon Rank’s—accordin’ to Mrs. Rank—is a direct descendant of two of the finest Boston terriers that ever came out of Boston. She told me so herself, but, of course, I couldn’t ask how he happened to look so much like a shepherd dog and so little like his parents, ’cause there’s no use makin’ poor Mrs. Rank any more miserable than she already is—she certainly don’t get any fun out of life, livin’ with the deacon from one year’s end to the other. Yes, sir; just because that actress woman paraded around here for a month or so last fall with a French poodle, is no reason, far as I can see, why all the women in town should begin puttin’ leashes on their dogs and washin’ ’em and trimmin’ ’em and tying red ribbons around their necks—yes, and around some of their tails, too. I’ll never forget that stub-tail dog of Angie Nixon’s going around with a blue bow stickin’ straight up behind him, and lookin’ as though he’d lost something and got dizzy looking for it. And Mort’s dog, Mike—poor old Mike,—why, he got so he’d go down to Hawkins’ undertakin’ shop every time he could get a minute off and bark till Lem would let him in, and then he’d lay down in a corner and go to sleep, and Lem always swore the poor dog was as mad as a hornet when he woke up and found he was still alive.”
“What puzzles me is why Mort Fryback’s offerin’ this reward, and all that, if he knows the dog is dead. It costs money to have bills like this printed at the Banner office.” So spoke Elmer Pratt, the photographer. “Wasn’t he present at the obsequies?”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 277