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

“I can put the proposition up to you in a few words, Santelle,” I told him. “It isn’t mine, but I’m acting as agent in the matter. Did you ever hear anything about having an uncle in Australia?”

He raised his brows slightly in surprise, stared at me for a moment, then said:

“My father used to mention a brother who lived in Australia somewhere,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“He’s here, and looking for you,” I stated bluntly. “Rich as goose-gravy, convinced that you’re on the square and always have been, wants to weed you a big bunch of honest kale and stand by while you convince the world, and the police departments in it, that you are just a nice little woolly lamb upon whose snowy fleece some cruel persons have thrown a pot of crude oil. Fine old gentleman, is Uncle Cato, I’m thinking. Innocent as lemon pop, and effervescing with good intentions.

“Now, here’s the frame-up: Uncle Cato commissioned me to arrange a meeting in private between you and him. He’s genuine, and I’m genuine — in this matter at least. He produced documentary evidence enough to convince me. Do I return to Uncle Cato with glad tidings — and collect a fee? Or do I dash his hopes, and charge the work I’ve done so far in the matter to sweet charity?”

Santelle smiled, showing perfect teeth. His eyes twinkled, then his face crinkled, and he burst into beany laughter.

“You’re good, Norton!” he exclaimed, after the paroxysm was over, “Good — but not quite good enough. I’ve got an uncle in Australia, if he hasn’t passed on to his reward, and his name is Cato. But that old bird wouldn’t remain five minutes in the same town with me if he knew I was there. Why, man, he’s so Godly — if my old man told it right when he used to yarn about Cato — that he wouldn’t hesitate a minute to execute his own son, if he had one, if the said son went crooked. Give me money, and stand by me! Hell! That’s good!”

“Try something more plausible, Norton, old fellow,” he said good-humoredly, glancing significantly toward the door. “Glad to see you again some time — if you’ve got a real laugh for me, like the one you slipped me this time. I enjoy laughing, and there is seldom anything really amusing happening nowadays. You’ll excuse me?”

I didn’t argue with him. Just took myself off, but stopped and dropped a few words into the ear of Abe.

“Tell that fresh crook, Santelle,” I requested, “that I’m on the level, Abe. That when I put up a proposition to a man I mean it. Tell him I’ll be back to-morrow morning — with maybe another laugh for him. Will you get that to him?”

“Sure, Tug,” Abe agreed. “Anything you say.”

To make it short, it took me four days to earn that thousand dollar fee, and I earned it, too. Santelle was as shy as a quail in nesting time. He just naturally couldn’t bring himself to believe that I wasn’t spreading an elaborate snare for him, and it required the combined influence of Abe Hopkins and half a dozen others among my crook friends to finally convince him that I could be trusted.

I banked that thousand on the morning of my fifth day’s labor.

Chapter III Cletus Settles Down

They met in the privacy of Uncle Cato’s apartment at Kansas City’s classiest hotel. I don’t know what was said and done during that first contact, because I left them standing and staring at each other, after I had inducted Flash.

The following day the papers had something to tell the public. They did the telling in big head lines. Why not? Anything authentic concerning Flash Santelle was news in big, black letters. Also, Mr. Cato Santelle was undoubtedly a big card for the news-hounds. He furnished the human interest stuff in great gobs. His long hunt for his nephew, and his childlike faith in that nephew’s innocence — all that was played up with billowing frills. Also, it may be added, Uncle Cato’s reputed millions didn’t detract any from his news value.

On the whole, it was a pretty and romantic story. It had the ring of truth in it. Certainly Uncle Cato was a God-fearing, earnest and indefatigable champion of his young nephew, be that nephew sinner or sinned against. Cato made a distinct hit, as was quite natural.

As for Flash, many people believed that he had been a much abused person. Why shouldn’t they? Had the police ever convicted him of anything? Certainly not! And is there not a great and undying truth to the effect that murder will out? Nothing ever had “outed” on poor young Cletus Santelle, so far as the police records of the country could show. Cletus Santelle’s stock skyrocketed with some folks, believe me!

Uncle Cato’s joy knew no bounds. He could hardly bear Flash out of his sight. That made it necessary for him to remove from the classy hotel referred to, of course. No first-class hostelry could take a chance on harboring Flash Santelle. Uncle Cato was all right, but some other hotel could have the honor of entertaining Flash — and welcome.