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

But Uncle Cato and Flash didn’t have to seek quarters at the Croydon, or any other place where the young man would be thrown again into the evil atmosphere from which he had so recently been rescued. There was, in Kansas City, one man at least with a heart in him. That man came forward.

The following day the papers announced that Mr. Cato Santelle and nephew, Cletus Santelle, were house guests of Mr. Anderson Bailey, president and general manager of the Bailey Importing Company, at his home in the Country Club section of the city.

Mr. Anderson Bailey was an important person in Kansas City. He was known to possess a million dollars for each letter in his name, including the Mr. He opened his huge mausoleum to the Santelles and furnished them with an asylum.

It is a mere waste of words to tell you that the women of the town, young, not so young, middle-aged, and plain old, fell for Flash. I’ll dismiss the subject by saying that they toppled over like so man dominoes in a row. No blame to them. These birds with a past are certainly the honey-coated flypaper.

Then, a week later, came the announcement that Uncle Cato had purchased a residence in the vicinity — and it was none other than the Willow Bend property up on the Kaw. To call it a residence certainly betokened modesty on the part of somebody. Willow Bend was not a residence at all. It was an estate.

“I have decided that it is best for the present that my nephew shall live in something approaching complete retirement. Deep wounds require time for healing — if they ever are healed. Fortunately, it is not necessary for Cletus to exercise the fine talents he unquestionably possesses in a business way. I have settled an adequate income upon him, and Willow Bend will shortly become his property. In the meantime, we shall go into seclusion.” That was the way Cato put it.

“Yeah,” Chief Enger, of the local police, commented bitingly when he scanned that statement. “Yeah, and Uncle Cato will be damned lucky if this seclusion stuff doesn’t turn out to be oblivion for him. Financial oblivion, at least. Why, confound it all, he’ll be lucky if within the next six months he ain’t drawing on charity for the necessary coffee — and!”

I had my own opinion, of course, but didn’t express it. Whichever way the cat jumped, Tug Norton was in the money.

I dismissed Cletus Santelle from my mind, having other things to think about. But the police didn’t dismiss him — not at all!

Queer, isn’t it, how obstinately skeptical the police are about a crook reforming?

Chapter IV Dog Eat Dog

Affairs at Willow Bend seemed to go forward nicely indeed. Cletus was seldom visible off the grounds, but Cato proved to be a good mixer. One had only to look once at his smiling, happy countenance to know that everything was lovely with him. The inference was that everything was also lovely with Flash, too, because Flash was the biggest interest Cato had in life. People came, in time, to take the Santelles as a matter of course, which was to be expected.

Cops from all directions slipped in and out of Kansas City, each and every one of them having a pronounced interest in Flash Santelle. But, since not one of them had anything on him that they could make stick, the Santelles were undisturbed.

Then came a day, about three months after I’d forgotten about the Santelles, when I happened to be alone.

Cletus Santelle lapped on my door — tapped, and entered directly afterward.

“Pardon me,” he apologized smilingly, “but there was no one to announce me, so I took a chance and came right in. Is it all right? Can you spare me a few minutes?”

“Take a chair, park your hat and stick,” I invited.

“I’m aware, Norton,” he began, “that you’re not buying any Cletus Santelle stock, looking for a rising market, but I take it that you are too fair-minded to let personal prejudices interfere with business. Am I right?”

I nodded. “Got a job for me?”

“Yes.”

“So long as your proposition is on the square, Santelle, I’ll take your money. Unbosom yourself,” I invited.

“I’m being blackmailed,” he said, after a bit, looking at me with a seriocomic expression in his keen eyes. “Funny, isn’t it? But it is a fact. Before my uncle and I were brought together through your kind offices, I lived rather a haphazard sort of life. Perhaps you’ve heard rumors, now and then, about the sort of existence I mean?”

“Yes,” I said gravely.

“Well, as you must know, a chap meets a lot of queer customers, first and last, when dwelling in that vast estate commonly termed the underworld,” he continued. “One is forced at times to become very familiar with persons one would shun most willfully if it were a matter of choice.

“Naturally, I made acquaintances. Then came my uncle; good fortune, so long a stranger, tapped me familiarly on the shoulder — and I promptly became a shining mark for blackmailers.”

He ceased there, and his handsome features hardened. Then he was all smiles again.