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

“Hell!” Patterson exploded. “I thought you were a man of good sense! You are talking just like dad — and as for him, well, it’s a good thing for sis and mother and me that he made his money in a day when it didn’t require much besides brawn and a little cow-sense to do it! A passing fancy, eh?” he mimicked. “Tell me this, how long does it take for these so-called fancies to pass? And what about the bird that is waiting for the passing? Flow about his feelings?”

“Go on,” I urged. “You interest me, Tommy. I’ll admit everything you say, and imply. Spill yourself.”

“I mean to,” he snapped, his face flushing. “I love Marthe. Mr. Norton — and I’m willing to tell the world I do! She seemed to care a lot about me, too, until here lately. Enough to wear my ring and set the date for next June. That much, anyhow. Now she has returned the ring, and the only especial interest I now have in the coming of June is the fun I may get out of watching the June bugs. So, you see, I happen to be the ‘passing’ fancy in the case. What do you say to that?”

“I say that you have some cause for complaint,” I acknowledged. “Still, it could be worse. The girl isn’t Mrs. Cletus Santelle yet — and not likely to be. Have you any reason to think that he has serious intentions in regard to her?”

“He’d better have!” Tommy blazed. “If he’s got any other kind of ideas, and I find it out, I’ll drill him with about a ton of hot lead! Taking my girl away from me and making her Mrs. Santelle would be bad enough, but the other—”

“You don’t get me,” I interrupted soothingly. “I mean do you not think it quite possible that Santelle is merely humoring the young lady’s infatuation, if it has gone that far, with no intention of using it in any way? Couldn’t that be possible? Must there be—”

“Have you ever spent a few minutes even in company with a girl like Marthe Bailey?” he demanded. “I guess not, or you wouldn’t make such damned fool cracks. She’s the kind men take to — young or old. And she’s wild about this redeemed crook. Talk sense!”

“Well,” I conceded, “we’ll grant that she is wild about him, and that he couldn’t resist her if he wanted to. What then? What can be done about it? Got anything to suggest?”

“That’s the undiluted hell of it!” he groaned. “I haven’t!”

I felt sorry for Tommy. At the age of twenty-five they take such things hard. I did, I distinctly remember. The perfume of June roses, mingled with the smell of raindrops in the dust of a country road—

I came back with a jerk, and considered Tommy. June roses and raindrops in the dust were playing hell with him just then, and he needed help.

“Look here, young fellow.” I told him, “I’m with you in this. Not just in the role of a sympathetic watcher, understand, but in that of a willing helper. I haven’t got much stomach for such as Santelle, crook or redeemed lamb, hooking up in any way with a nice girl like Marthe. What do you suggest?”

Tommy Patterson raised his face from his hands, and his fine eyes flashed. “Thank you, Mr. Norton,” He said gratefully. “I need help. As for a suggestion, what about this: Prove that Flash Santelle is still a crook, and that all this rubbish about reformation is part of a well laid scheme — and do it before the affair between him and Marthe results in something that can’t ever be remedied. That’s what I suggest.”

As a suggester, that boy was something of a whang! But I offered no change or amendment.

“That’s a large order, Tommy,” I said quietly. “But maybe it can be filled. Here comes Santelle and Miss Bailey now,” I broke off to inform him, as the pair came into view up the path leading from the house to our bench. “Talk about dogs, or horses, or something.”

I thought for a minute that I’d have to throw Tommy and hogtie him, but by the time the strolling pair were within hearing of us we were discussing the chances of the Blues for a pennant that season. They bowed to us and went on down the path.

“Now beat it,” I ordered the young man, “and we’ll talk again to-morrow. Don’t commit suicide, except as a last resort, and maybe you’ll be glad you didn’t. Give old man Norton a chance to straighten things out. That’s all he asks.”

Tommy, somewhat more cheerful, departed — and I sat down to do some sure enough thinking.

Chapter IX A Trifle Odd

A million dollars for each letter in his name — and “Anderson Bailey” employs quite a number of alphabetical characters, to say nothing of the Mr.

That was the thought about which my mental tendrils clung when I finally left the bench and set out for the house. But the idea that Flash Santelle had framed such a thing wouldn’t exactly wash. If he was in bad faith about this redemption business, then it was reasonable to think that he had designs on Uncle Cato’s millions, rather than the strong-box belonging to Bailey. As for being in love with the young woman — well, I couldn’t picture Flash in love with anybody to the extent of giving himself in marriage to her.