Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

Big Scar motioned to Spot; they went across the island, where Big Scar bailed out a boat, found the oars in the bushes, and shoved from shore. He glared over his shoulder, now and then, to see if Toledo Ed and Canada Red were obeying orders.

“I wouldn’t be seen in their company on a bet,” commented Big Scar Guffman. “They remind me of that kind of woman a self-respectin’ man just don’t dare walk th’ streets with.”

The yegg had a sense of social position. He hated a squealer; he could never turn informer, if he went to the electric chair for it. He took pride in his work and found joy in reading the small town papers after he had ripped a strong box open.

A sense of cover was in his tomato can vag disguise. He beached the boat on the bank of the Susquehanna, called to Spot, and, after a satisfactory scowl across the dark water toward Bedbug Island, he selected a course through paths and unfrequented country roads that would avoid Finchburg and bring him to the outskirts of Duffel City.

Spot followed his burly master, like a white shadow.

From Canada Red’s description Big Scar recognized the house of the miser. It was set back of an unkept hedge; maple trees shaded its front porch; unlighted windows, one or two of which were broken, stared at Big Scar with cold invitation. “We’ll mooch round to th’ back,” the Yegg mumbled to Spot. “Y’u go ahead an’ see if y’u can scare up any dogs. If y’u do — chase ’em away.”

Spot had helped Big Scar prowl more houses than one; he rounded the hedge and started nosing through a wilderness of chicken coops, tool houses, and glass frames.

Everything about the place reminded Big Scar of poverty and neglect. He began to doubt Canada Red’s glowing account of seven thousand in a keister. “I’m goin’ in through that side window an’ make sure,” he decided. “Maybe Canada dreamed of all that kale.”

He glanced around for Spot. The animal was not in sight. Big Scar listened intently. He worked his shaggy brows up and down. The dog had disappeared.

“He’s chasin’ some mutt,” decided Big Scar. “He’ll be back to stand guard — he always comes back.”

Selecting an unlocked window, Big Scar raised the sash, sniffed inside a room, strained his ears, and then climbed with a twisting motion that landed him, without sound, upon a rag carpet, between two curtains. Again he listened. No one was stirring. The scent of the room was of hair-stuffed chairs and chintz draperies.

Big Scar drew a cigar stump from a pocket: he had picked it up from the road. He lighted the charred end and dragged a spark to a large round circle. His unshaven cheeks worked in and out. He exhaled the smoke.

The glowing end of the cigar, shaded in a cupped palm, made a miniature lamp by which he could see some distance in front of him. Big Scar did not believe in flash lamps; they were dangerous things to have in one’s possession with so many hostile constables about.

The miser’s safe was in that room. Big Scar crawled to it and studied its construction. He redragged at the cigar, sending a halo of soft light over keyhole, hinges, and outside frame.

“This box,” he muttered, “is th’ softest pete I ever saw. It was made out of pig-iron by some blacksmith.”

A diversion came, unexpected and chilling. Big Scar’s jaw snapped shut. He got down on all fours and backed away from the safe, like a disturbed grizzly.

Framed in a doorway stood a gray-haired woman, holding a candle aloft in one skinny arm. Her eyes were fixed and staring.

“I smell cigar smoke,” she whispered. “Who would dare smoke a vile weed in my house?”

Big Scar, with one section of the can-opener clutched in his hand, cleared his lips. The cigar had been vile. It was a five-center, popular to that region.

He began to perceive, as the woman advanced step by step toward the center of the room, that she was blind. Her scrawny hair fell over sightless eyes. She did not brush it away.

“Some one is in this room,” she declared with intuition. “I hear some one breathing. Why should they come to my poor house and break in on me. I live alone. There is nothing here for any one to steal.”

Big Scar began to join a few details together. Canada Red and Toledo Ed, both somewhat yellow-hearted, had selected a job against an aged, sightless woman. They had informed him it was a man — a miser. The strong box, ancient as it was, might have been more than a match for their ability.

Their plan to burn the old woman’s feet, if she did not give them the key to the safe, was just their size. To further back up this plan, if the woman did not produce the key, the two yeggs had invited him along.

Getting on his feet. Big Scar lunged toward the woman. He had made a decision in a split second.

“Don’t scream,” he throated with a blood-curdling threat. “For if y’u do... if y’u do.” Big Scar lowered his voice, and changed it to a deep rasp. “If y’u do — I’ll fix y’u, lady. Come with me. I’m goin’ to lock y’u in another room. Gimme th’ candle.”