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

I named it, and he paid it. That was satisfactory. Jim Steel and Art Garrett would deliver what had been bought, and no mistake about it. Reliable, efficient, I could always trust that pair.

“By the way,” I was reminded as Flash arose to depart, “the letter from your old acquaintance, the three-fingered party — got it with you?”

“Yes,” he answered, taking out a note-case. “Clear forgot to submit it. A sort of exhibit to prove my case eh?” he finished good-naturedly.

“Do you blame me?” I came back.

“Not in the least. You will discover, let me earnestly assure you, that I’m genuine in the matter. There is no hug under a chip, and so far as I’m informed, nothing dead and unburied in Denmark. I’m on the level when I tell you I need help.”

The letter bore him out. It exhibited a St. Louis postmark, had been laboriously picked out on a typewriter, and its contents jibed with what Flash had told me, even to the sketch at the bottom of the page.

“I’ll have my men on the job early Monday morning. Anything else?” I queried, returning the letter.

“That about covers everything,” he replied. “Thank you. Glad to be able to do business with you, I’m sure.”

I didn’t miss the emphasis he put on the “with,” and the grin he gave me at departing left me chuckling in real enjoyment. Whatever else Flash might be, he certainly was a pleasant, understanding chap.

I often wonder, as I review the case of Flash Santelle, what the outcome of the next week would have been had my plans gone according to schedule. They did not, however. Art Garrett, cast for the role of mixer, got into an unfortunate argument, in the course of duty, with a proprietor of a night club — and the proprietor beaned him with it. That put Art in a hospital, and me in a hole. But not in the hole for long.

There simply had to be a mingler present at Willow Bend, in order to carry out my contract, so, lacking a better one, I attired myself in a dress suit and a pair of forty-five’s, and decided to mingle.

Chapter VI The Cast Assembles

Jim Steel indulged a hot line of entertaining comment while I arrayed myself that Monday night at Willow Bend — entertaining to him, I mean. I could have managed without it.

What Jim didn’t know was that I’d had a fling at a manner of living outside his ken, long before I ever saw him, and the claw-hammer duds were not exactly being introduced into my career for the first time that night. I’d performed in ’em before, and nobody had ever called for the hook. Nobody would have occasion to on this appearance, either. But Jim didn’t know that.

“Talk about things you know something about,” I told him, beginning the process of spoiling my fourth tie. “For; instance, what did you learn while strolling over the fields, among the daisies and the daffodils, to-day?”

Jim had reached Willow Bend early that morning, I joining him in the afternoon. It had been up to him to get the lie of the land and then report to me.

“For one thing,” he began, “this is about the loneliest location I ever happened on. A mile from the highway, and in the middle of about six hundred and forty acres of land. Not a neighboring chalet to be seen. River makes a bend and skirts the north side of the tract, but where the willows are I haven’t been able to determine.

“Back of the house, clear to the western limits, lies a good deal of cultivable land. All the rest — about one-fourth of the whole — is trees, hills and hollows.

“A path, pretty well grown up in weeds after it leaves the lawn, leads from the front door down through the hollows to the boathouse. Lot of boats there, including a couple of high-powered launches. So much for the topographical survey.

“We now pass to the domestic observations. Uncle Cato’s butler is a reformer crook — and, if I’m any judge of such matters, he was badly in need of reformation when he took down with it. Hard-looking customer, but appears to know bulling clear down to the grass roots.

“There are two chauffeurs, a boatman, two gardeners, a footman, two maids, a cook, and a party that calls himself a farmer. He looks the part. That is about all I have learned, and observed, up to date.

“But that ain’t saying I haven’t got a few ideas about this business that can stand airing,” he went on. “Take it from me, this Flash is framing something. He’s a crook, from the cradle to the grave. Smooth, I’ll admit, but that’s what has kept him alive and out of jail — smoothness.

“I saw him perform when the Baileys arrived — and on the path to the boathouse afterward, when there was only one of the Baileys visible. I mean the daughter and sole heir. It’s been a long time since I made any love to anybody, but I’m still able to recognize signs when I see ’em.