“No, he didn’t.” Anderson started. This was an unexpected reply.
“Well,—er, what did he have around his neck?”
“A halter strap.”
“You—you’re sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“I see. So far your story jibes with the facts. Now, answer me this question. When and where did you help Jake Miller write that note of farewell?”
“What?” gasped Alf.
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t help him write any note.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nobody helped him write it.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
“Do you mean to tell me that Jake left a farewell note?”
“I’m not sayin’ whether he did or not. You don’t mean to claim that he didn’t leave one, do you?”
“If he did, nobody that I know of has laid eyes on it.”
Anderson smiled mysteriously. “Well, we’ll drop that feature of the case temporarily. You was quite a friend of Jake Miller’s, wasn’t you?”
“Off and on,” said Alf. “Same as you was,” he added, quickly.
“What reason did he ever give you for wantin’ to take his own life? Think carefully, now,—and nothing but the truth, mind you?”
“The only thing I ever heard him say that sounded suspicious was when he told a crowd of us at Lamson’s one night that if this here prohibition went into effect he’d like to have some one telegraph his sister in Buffalo, so’s she could come on and claim his remains.”
“But he wasn’t a drinkin’ man, Alf, and you know it.”
“I know, but he always said he was lookin’ forward to the day when he could afford to get as drunk as he sometimes thought he’d like to be. He was a droll sort of a cuss, Jake was. He claimed he’d been savin’ up his appetite and his money for nearly three years so’s he could see which would last the longest in a finish fight.”
“Was you present when he was cut down?”
“I was.”
“Aha! That’s what I’m tryin’ to get at. Who cut the rope?”
“It wasn’t a rope,—it was a hitchin’ strap. An’ nobody cut it, come to think of it. It was a perfectly good strap, so two or three of us held Jake’s body up so’s Ed Higgins could untie it from the rafter.”
“And then what?”
“Old man Hawkins and Doc Brown said he’d been dead five or six hours.”
“I see. What did Doc say he died of?”
Alf stared at him in amazement. “He died of being hung to a rafter.”
Marshal Crow cleared his throat, and was ominously silent for fifteen or twenty paces. When he next spoke it was with the deepest gravity. There was a dark significance in the look he fixed upon Alf.
“Is there any proof that Jake Miller wasn’t dead long before he was strung up to that rafter?”
“What’s that?” gasped Alf, once more coming to a sudden stop.
“It’s a matter I can’t discuss with anybody at present,” said Anderson, curtly.
“Have—have you deduced something important, Anderson?” implored Alf, eagerly. “Is there evidence of foul play?”
“That’s my business,” said Anderson. “Come on. Don’t stand there with your mouth open like that. He’s still over at Hawkins’s place, is he? I been workin’ on the quiet all by myself since early this morning, an’ I don’t know just what’s been happening around here for the last couple of hours.”
“He was there the last I heard of him,” said Alf.
“Well, you’ve given a purty good account of yourself, Alf, an’ unless something turns up to change my present opinion, you are free to come an’ go as you please.”
“See here, you blamed old hayseed, what do you mean by actin’ as if I had anything to do with Jake Mil—”
“You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re drunk, Alf Reesling.”
“But I ain’t been drunk for twenty-five years, you blamed old—”
“That remains to be seen,” interrupted Anderson sternly. “Now don’t talk any more. I want to think.”
Having obtained certain desirable facts in connection with the taking-off of Jacob Miller, Marshal Crow ventured boldly, confidently, into the business section of the town. He was now in a position to discuss the occurrence with equanimity,—in fact, with indifference. Moreover, he could account for his physical absence from the centre of the stage, so to speak, by reminding all would-be critics that he was mentally on the job long before Ed Higgins made the gruesome discovery. In other words, it served his purpose to “lie low” and observe from well-calculated obscurity the progress of events.
Now, Tinkletown had not experienced the shock and thrill of suicide in a great many years. Sundry citizens had met death in an accidental way, and others had suddenly died of old age, but no one had intentionally shuffled off since Jasper Wiggins succeeded in completing a hitherto unsuccessful life by pulling the trigger of a single-barrelled shotgun with his big toe, back in the fall of ’83.
The horrendous act of Jacob Miller, therefore, created a sensation.
Tinkletown was agog with excitement and awe. Everybody was talking about Jake. He was, by all odds, the most important man in town. Alive, he had been perhaps the least important.
He was the sort of citizen you always think of last when trying to take a mental census of the people you know by sight.
Once, and only once, had Jake seen his name in the columns of the Weekly Banner, and he was so impressed that he cut the article out of the paper and pasted it under the sweat-band of his best hat. It happened to be the obituary notice of a farmer bearing the same name, but that made no difference to Jake; he was vicariously honoured by having his name in print,—and in rather large type at that.
And now he was to have at least half a page in the Banner, with his name in huge black letters, double column, something like this:
JAKE MILLER HANGS HIMSELF!!!
Column after column of Jake Miller and he not there to rejoice!
Jake Miller on the front page, crowding out the news from Paris and Washington, displacing local Society “items,” shoving the ordinary “obituaries” out of their hallowed corners, confiscating space that belonged to the Lady Maccabees and other lodges, supplanting thoughtfully prepared matter in the editorial column,—why, the next issue of the Banner would be a Jake Miller number from beginning to end. And Jake not there to enjoy it all!
Jake had been a more or less stationary inhabitant of Tinkletown for about three years. He had taken up his residence there without really having had the slightest intention or desire to do so. In fact, he would have been safely out of the village in another ten minutes if Mrs. Abbie Nixon hadn’t missed the blackberry pie from the kitchen window sill, where she had set it out to cool,—and even then he might have got away if he had had a handkerchief or something with which to remove the damning stains from his lips and chin. But, in his haste, he used the back of his hand, and—well, Justice of the Peace Robb sent him to the calaboose for thirty days,—and that’s how Jake became a resident of Tinkletown.
At the trial he was so shamelessly complimentary about Mrs. Nixon’s pie that the prosecuting witness came very near to perjuring herself in order to show her appreciation. The dignity of the law was preserved only by Jake’s unshaken resolution to plead guilty to the charge of feloniously eating one blackberry pie with never-to-be-forgotten relish. Mrs. Nixon was so impressed by Jake’s honesty that she made a practice of sending a pie to him every baking-day during the period of his incarceration. But when approached by two or three citizens with the proposal that she join with them in providing the fellow with work as a sort of community “handy-man,” she refused to consider the matter at all because most of her silver had come down from her grandmother and she wouldn’t part with it for anything in the world.
For one who had never laid eyes on the village of Tinkletown up to the day of his arrival, Jake Miller revealed the most astonishing se
nse of civic pride. The first thing he did after being safely locked up was to whitewash the interior of his residence. (The town board furnished a rather thin mixture of slaked lime and water, borrowed a whitewash brush from Ebenezer January, and got off with a total cost of about eighty-five cents.) He also repaired several windows in the calaboose by stuffing newspapers into the broken panes, remodeled the entire heating system with a little stove polish, put two or three locks in order, and once, on finding that it was possible to remove a grating from one of the windows, crawled out of his place of confinement and mowed the grass plot in front of the jail.
It was then that the people of Tinkletown began to take notice of him. A few of the more enterprising citizens went so far as to consult Justice Robb about extending Jake’s sentence indefinitely, claiming that it wasn’t at all likely the town would ever see another prisoner who took as much interest in keeping the jail in order as he.
And when he was finally released, he obtained a job with Ed Higgins at a slight increase in wages over what he had been receiving while in durance vile.
He was a middle-aged man with a large Adam’s apple and a retreating chin; his legs were so warped that a good ten inches of space separated the knees. Whence he came and why he was content to abide in Tinkletown were questions he always answered, but never in a satisfactory manner. Even the hardiest citizens soon came to the conclusion that there wasn’t much use in asking questions that Jake could answer with a slow and baffling wink. He became a fixture in Tinkletown, doing odd jobs for nearly everybody in town, and still finding ample time to attend to his duties at the feed yard. Whenever any one had a job to be done that he particularly disliked doing himself, he always appealed to Jake, and Jake did it.
When not otherwise employed, he slept in the box-stall once inhabited by the prize stallion, Caleb the Second, now deceased, and you would have been surprised to see what a tidy place he made of it by tacking up two or three anatomical pictures from the Police Gazette, and putting in a folding bed,—or, more strictly speaking, a bed that could be folded. It consisted of three discarded horse blankets. Quite a snug little bed-chamber, you would say, and, as Jake himself frequently remarked, a very handy stall to have a nightmare in.
Twice a day, regularly, day in and day out, Jake inquired at the post office for mail, and invariably Postmaster Lamson, without looking, replied: “Nothing today, Jake.”
A singular thing happened the afternoon before Jake hung himself. He received a letter,—a rather fat one,—postmarked Sandusky, Ohio. Mr. Lamson and the loafers at the store were still talking about the extraordinary event when the former closed up for the night, a little later than usual. And while they were talking about it, Jake was getting ready to hang himself.
Marshal Crow headed straight for the Banner office, Mr. Reesling trailing a few steps behind like a dog at heel. Quite a crowd had gathered in front of Hawkins’s Undertaking Emporium across the street from the newspaper office.
“Don’t foller me in here,” ordered the marshal, as Alf started to enter the Banner office with him. “This is private. Move on, now.”
“But what’ll I tell the gang over there if they ask me what you’re doin’ about the case?” argued Alf.
“You tell ’em I’ll soon have the mystery solved.”
“What mystery? There ain’t any mystery about it. He done it as publicly as he could.”
“Well, you just tell ’em I’ve got a clue, and I’m follerin’ it up.”
With that, he disappeared through the door, closing it with some violence in Alf’s face.
Harry Squires was putting the finishing touches to a long and graphic account of the suicide. He looked up as Anderson sauntered into the back office.
“I’m glad you came in, Marshal,” he said. “I hated to finish this story without mentioning you, one way or another. Now I can add right here at the end: ‘Our worthy Town Marshal, A. Crow, was also present.’”
Anderson sat down. He pulled at his sparse chin whiskers for a moment or two, evidently trying to release something verbal. Failing in this, he sank back in the chair and fixed Mr. Squires with a pathetic look.
“Where have you been?” demanded Harry.
“Oh,—rooting around,” said Anderson.
“Well, I’ll tell you something that no one else in this town knows,” said the other, pitying his old friend. “Are you listening?”
Anderson shook his head drearily. “I’ll never be able to live this down, Harry.”
“Brace up. All is not lost. Will you do exactly what I tell you to do?”
“I hope you ain’t going to tell me to go down and jump in the mill-race.”
“Nothing of the sort. That wouldn’t help matters. You could swim out. Now, listen. I know why Jake hung himself; and I am the only one who does know. The whole story is told here in this article I have just written. We’ve been friends and foes for a great many years, Mr. Hawkshaw, and I want to show my appreciation. I don’t know how many times you have saved my life. I sha’n’t tell you in just what way you have saved it; I can only say that I should have died long ago of sheer ennui,—if you know what that is,—if it hadn’t been for you, old friend. You have been a life-saver, over and over again. And in spite of the many times you have saved my life, I don’t seem to have put on any flesh. I remain as skinny as I was when I first met you. I ought to be so fat that I’d have to waddle. But, that’s neither here nor there. I’m going to save your life now, Sherlock. I’m going to fix it so that when you do die, the people of this burg will erect a monument to you that will make the one in Trafalgar Square,—if you know where that is,—look like a hitching post. Lend me your ear, Mr. Pinkerton. That’s right. Take off your hat. You can hear better.
“I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case of our late lamented friend, Jake Miller. I have in my possession the letter he received yesterday afternoon. It is under lock and key, and no one else has seen it. While everybody else was gazing at Jake and wondering how long he’d been hanging there, I—with my nose for news,—went off in search of that letter. I might have spared myself the trouble, for the last thing Jake did before ending his life, was to put it in an envelope and mail it to me. He also enclosed a short note in which he implored me to do the right thing by him and put his name in the biggest type we have on hand. That’s just what I intend to do. Now, I’m going to turn that letter over to you. Instead of me being the one to tell you about it, you are going to be allowed to tell me about it. See? That’s what you are here for now,—to show me this letter with all its harrowing details. Later on, when the coroner comes over from Boggs City, you can deliver it to him. Now listen!”
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Marshal Crow strode solemnly out of the Banner office, and debouched upon the crowd in front of Hawkins’s. Several erstwhile admirers snickered. He paid not the slightest attention to them. Instead he inquired in a loud, authoritative voice if any one had seen Alf Reesling.
“I’m standin’ right in front of you,” said Alf.
“I deputize you to act as guard during the day over the remains of Orlando Camp. You are to see to it that no one trespasses within fifty feet of it without an order from me,—or the Governor of New York. You will—”
“What the devil are you talkin’ about?” demanded Alf. “There ain’t no remains around here named Camp.”
The marshal smiled, but there was more pity than mirth in the effort.
“All you got to do is to do what I deputize you to do,” he said quietly. “Is Bill Kepsal here?”
“Present,” said the iron-armed blacksmith, with a series of winks that almost sufficed to take in the whole assemblage.
“I deputize you, William Kepsal, and—” (he craned his neck slightly)—”and you, Newton Spratt, out there on the edge of the crowd, to act as guards durin’ the night, until relieved by Deputy Reesling at seven A. M. tomorrow mornin’. You will permit no one to approach or remove the body of Moses Briscoe from its
present place of confinement until further orders. And now, feller citizens, I must request you one and all to disperse and not to congregate again in this locality, under penalty of the law. Disperse at once, move on, everybody.”
The crowd didn’t move an inch.
“He’s gone plumb crazy,” said Rush Applegate to Uncle Dad Simms, and he made such a special effort that Uncle Dad heard him quite distinctly.
“He always wuz,” agreed Uncle Dad. “What’s he crazy about this time?”
“Come on home, Anderson,” said Alf Reesling, gently. “Maybe if you took a dose of—”
“Lemme talk to him,” interrupted Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer. “I had an uncle once that died in an asylum, and I used to keep him quiet before he got hopeless by lettin’ on that he really was George Washington. Now, look here, Anderson,—”
Marshal Crow held up his hand. There was no sign of resentment in his voice or manner as he addressed the grinning crowd.
“I don’t blame you for thinkin’ that man in there is Jake Miller. I thought so myself until a couple o’ days ago. That’s when I first begin to suspect that he was the very man he now turns out to be. Gentlemen, if the individual that you knew as Jake Miller hadn’t took his own life last night, I would have had him behind the bars today, sure as all get out. He wasn’t no more Jake Miller than I am. Jake Miller was one of his alibis. He had—”
“You mean aliases,” interrupted Professor Rank, of the high school.
“Or nom de plumes,” added Willie Spence, the chief clerk at the Grand View Hotel, one of the most inveterate readers in town. To Willie the name of any author was a nom de plume; it didn’t make any difference whether it was his real name or not.
“He had a lot of names besides Jake Miller,” explained Anderson loftily. “And he didn’t have to go to high school to get ’em,” he added as an afterthought, favouring Professor Rank with a withering look. “Now, disperse,—all of you. Go on now, Willie,—disperse. Everybody disperse except Alf Reesling. You stay here an’ keep watch till I come back.”
With that, he took the easiest and most expeditious way of dispersing the crowd by walking briskly off in the direction of Main Street. The crowd followed,—or more strictly speaking, accompanied him. He was the centre of a drove of eager inquirers. Having successfully dispersed the crowd in front of Hawkins’s Emporium, he stopped in front of the post office and addressed it once more.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 283