Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

When Fate Wants a Man by Edward Parrish Ware

Gangdom’s guns spit death when Tug Norton undertakes to guard Flash Santelle, the million dollar crook.

Chapter I In Search of a Nephew

The freckled youth who may be found on duty in the reception room of the Kaw Valley offices, when not more agreeably engaged, ambled into my private room one morning and dropped a card on my desk.

“Old gent,” he remarked. “White hair; blue eyes. Looks like a million smackers. Better see him, boss. He’s meat-on-the-table.”

I glanced at the card:

MR. CATO SANTELLE

Memory clicked to the surname, Santelle, but Cato didn’t register. The Santelle whom every cop in the town was worrying over, regulars and privates, bore the given name of Cletus. Of course there might easily be other Santelles around, though the name was not by any means a common one.

“Dish the meat up, Spec,” I ordered. “And don’t spill the gravy.”

Spec gave me a wise look, and vanished. A moment later Mr. Cato Santelle came in. Amplifying Spec’s description, I’ll say that he was a benevolent looking old gentleman who bore many marks of prosperity prominently exposed, among them being a diamond stud of three-carat proportions, a platinum watch chain, and a gold-headed stick.

His clothing was above reproach, and his demeanor was pleasing. At my invitation he sat down.

“How can I serve you, Mr. Santelle?” I inquired.

“I want to find my nephew,” the old gentleman stated. “I have reason to believe that he is at present in Kansas City, but have no idea where.”

“And your nephew’s name?”

He gave me a steady look — a sort of challenging look, I would call it — when he answered:

“His name is Cletus Santelle.”

“That name is rather well known here and elsewhere, Mr. Santelle,” I commented, concealing my surprise. “Am I to understand that it is the nationally known Cletus, or Flash, whom you seek?”

The old man bowed. “It is,” he said, a note of sorrow in his voice. “Cletus Santelle, my dead brother’s only child, is a victim of untoward circumstances. He is no more a criminal than I am — and my life has always been free from guilty conduct of any sort.”

“He has, I’ll say, made something of a name for himself, whether he’s enjoyed the game or not,” was my comment. “Just what is your reason for seeking him now? Have you tried to locate him before?”

“I have,” was the reply. “I came from my home in Australia, two years ago, and for the purpose of finding my brother, Cletus, or his heirs if he had died since emigrating here. Imagine my surprise and horror when I learned that the only representative of the Santelle family in America was my nephew, an infamous lawbreaker!

“That was a cruel blow, Mr. Norton. In fact, I couldn’t believe that Cletus, my dead brother’s son, could have fallen so low as the New York authorities pictured him. It could not be the same Cletus.

“Yet I had finally to admit that it could be no other. His pictures are simply replicas of what his father appeared when at his age, and his accounts of his parentage, given to the police of New York, identified him beyond doubt.

“I began searching for him, and under a tremendous handicap. I dared not advertise, since I knew it to be likely that my movements would be watched by the police, and that advertising might lead to unfortunate results.

“From time to time I heard of him in certain places, and I always hastened to whatever city it was at the moment, and endeavored to get track of him by employing the services of private detectives. A week ago, while in Birmingham, I heard that he was in this city, and I hastened here. That is my story, Mr. Norton.”

“And when you locate him, if you do — what?” I asked.

“I am wealthy,” Mr. Santelle replied, “and I shall provide him with everything his heart desires — make up to him in good deeds the fearful tricks Fate seems to have played him. Cletus Santelle,” he said impressively, “is my only living relative, and heir to my fortune, which is in excess of two million dollars. That is why I wish to find him.”

I gasped mentally, but only mentally. The prospect might dazzle even Flash Santelle, and cause him thenceforward to tread the straight and narrow — fairly straight and fairly narrow, I mean.

“What makes you believe him innocent of all the charges against him?” I asked.

“If guilty, why have the officers not succeeded in convicting him? Even one conviction would be convincing. But they have never done so. Is it reasonable to think that a man could be guilty of so many crimes, in so many different places, and never leave positive proof behind him?