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

She struggled vainly in his grasp. He urged her before him. “That way, lady,” he indicated by pressure with his fingers. “Right into this large closet. I see there’s a window in it — high up. Y’u’ll be comfortable on them rugs. Don’t call for help — for if y’u do, I’ll come back — I’ll come — back.”

Big Scar locked the door on the outside and slouched toward the safe. He set the woman’s candle on one corner of it. The face of the grandfather’s clock, overlooking the operation of opening a strong box with a can opener, would have shown astonishment if it had eyes instead of hands. Big Scar went at the keister like a famished man plucking a fowl.

He was forced to move the candle when the entire box seemed ready to fall apart. Out through the shattered door fell ancient heirlooms — a silk shawl, an album, a Bible, and a stocking, of another period, crammed with bank notes.

Big Scar’s eyes bulged when he ran his fingers into the stocking. The bills, mostly large ones, were crumpled with age. Some were torn, others pasted together.

“There’s five or six grand here,” Big Scar muttered. “Canada Red was right. An’ he won’t get a cent of it. I’m goin’ to double cross them two crooks; they got it comin’ to them, burnin’ an old woman’s feet—”

He took precautions before he left the safe and climbed out through the window. His tattered right sleeve served to wipe away any trace of finger prints. The candle, with its soft wax, had better be taken along. It would retain thumb marks.

The outer world was damp with mist when he started away from the woman’s house. Canada Red and Toledo Ed would be along any minute. They would break into the house, after a vain wait for him, and find the shattered safe. No use then torturing the woman. Big Scar had checkmated his unsavory pals. He looked around for the Spot; the dog was still missing. He whistled softly. Spot always answered that signal.

A sound of two men coming along the country road decided Big Scar. Spot was a sagacious animal; he would be sure to make his way toward Hobo Island. Often before, Big Scar had overheard the dog barking on the shore, and gone with a boat to bring it out to the hobo camp.

He avoided being seen by the two yeggs when he circled the house, stumbled over a pile of tin cans, and climbed a wire fence beyond which was a lane that led in the general direction of Finchburg and the river. His boat was drawn up as he left it. He looked back for Spot; again he whistled, this time shrilly.

“Th’ whole mob’s busted up!” he muttered. “Even Spot’s scattered. I’ll row out an’ see what happens when we get together.”

He rather thought much would happen when Canada Red and Toledo Ed found the crib cracked and came fuming toward camp. He reached Bedbug Island and entered the shack, where he lighted a fire and started cooking a Mulligan in a kerosene oil can.

While the stew boiled he sprawled across the soap box chair and waited for developments. A second stump of a cast off cigar filled the place with biting smoke.

“They’re long comin’,” concluded Big Scar, crossing his leg. He finished the cigar and spat it to the floor. Getting up with a sudden idea, he went outside and buried the sectional jimmy in a spot that he alone could find.

“No use havin’ evidence when you’re on a job with that yellow, feet-burnin’ bunch. They might get pinched an’ squeal on me.”

IV

He slouched back toward the shack. Parting underbrush, he was about to cross the clearing when his form grew rigid. Sounds came over the river of more than one pair of oars. A constable’s hard voice called a command:

“Get around on th’ other side of th’ island, you. We’ll give it a good frisk an’ see if any yeggs are there. If they aren’t here, they’ll be over by Hangman’s Ferry.”

Big Scar knew he was trapped; he believed that Canada Red and Toledo Ed had squealed on him. The chief of police from Duffel City found the yegg sitting in the hut, smoking a third cigar butt with the air of a nabob.

“Come along!” ordered the chief, while a rifle was thrust in through a broken window. “You’re wanted for a job — openin’ a safe. We’ve got your pals in th’ jail. One of them had a letter in his pocket, mentioning this island. That’s how we found you. We got a dog over at th’ lockup that ’ll be sure to recognize you. He did th’ other two — first crack.”

Big Scar did some rapid thinking.

“So,” he replied to the bristling chief, “so I got pals an’ there’s a dog. Gawan! An’ y’u said somethin’ about me openin’ a safe. I couldn’t do that — even if I had a combination. Me, a safe cracker? I’m a tourist, I am. I whitewashed one jail once, that was near Scranton, for stealin’ a ride on a freight train. That’s th’ only wrong I ever did, mister.”

“Come on!” snapped the rural chief. “We’ll see.”

Big Scar was searched. The chief found nothing more incriminating than cigar stumps, small change, matches, and candle grease. He overlooked the last clew. Big Scar had tossed the woman’s candle in the same hole that concealed the can opener.