Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Walt... Walt ’n’ Jeff, too,” gasped Del Noel after a moment, running a hand over his forehead. “Cripes... cripes!”

“But my Essie! These men certainly seem to mean—”

“Cal’late they do mean business, like pr’a’ps mebbe y’ was goin’ t’ say,” interrupted Bemis gravely. “ ’Nother P.S. t’ the letter, there be. Says, ‘Save me, father. Get the money somehow. They will kill me surely. Essie.’ Here. Better see if it’s her writin’, A—”

But the hardware man had already reached out a trembling hand and pulled the sheet of paper from Whitcher’s fingers. He stood there, his eyes protruding almost insanely as he stared at the writing. They began to roll, then, his eyes.

They looked so frightened, so puzzled, so filled with unknown terror, that it sent a chill along more than one man’s spine. He began to shake at the knees, presently — a shaking that turned into a convulsive shudder that racked his entire body. His voice, when he cried out, sounded like that of a person wakened from some ghastly nightmare in whose grip he still believes himself to be:

“Yes, it’s Essie’s writing, all right! What does it mean? How did they — how did she — I mean— Oh, my God, Bemis, can’t you do something?”

There was an acute silence as every man there followed Crocker’s pitifully appealing gaze at the sheriff of Noel’s Landing. The latter, however, was staring up at the ceiling. Into his eyes, too, there came doubt and puzzlement, and he shook his head and spoke dully:

“I... I dunno, Amos — I dunno, boys. I’m jest all up ’n the air, sort o’. Essie — ’n’ now Walt ’n’ Jeff. Fifteen thousan’ more — Ju... Judas Priest, I’m all up ’n the air, f’r sure. I... I think I’ll go ’n’ traipse me over home, I do. Use m’ brain better, I c’n, w’en I’m t’ home. More comf’table — more—”

He let his voice trail off, his face dejected and his shoulders sagging as he walked toward the door.

“Oh, God, Whitcher, don’t leave me — don’t leave me. I’m nearly crazy. I am. I... let me go with you, at least!”

Bemis, as the broken voice of Amos Crocker pleadingly followed him, silently nodded his head — and with a great sigh of relief the worried father hurried out after him.

VII

They sat about that same red and white checked cloth on the table in Whitcher’s kitchen. That is, Bemis did most of the sitting, leaning back in his chair and staring into space as he meditatively nursed his ponderous lip.

Amos Crocker, on the other hand, would seat himself, remain so for a moment, and bound to his feet to pace furiously up and down the floor. Over and over he did this, his face haggard, his fingers nervously plucking at his hair, while the sheriff stolidly stayed silent, looking as if he were miles away.

The hardware man, once or twice, was on the verge of speaking to him, but Whitcher appeared to have some telepathic sense that warned him of it, and he would slowly shake his head and tap his forehead with a finger in a manner that plainly said he was thinking and had no desire to be disturbed. At last, however, Crocker could stand it no longer.

“I... I can’t bear this awful suspense much longer, Bemis,” he quavered. “I tell you it’s serious this time — mighty serious. Why, it’s life or death. They’ll kill my Essie — sure. We’ve — why, we’ve just got to do something!”

“ ’Tis serious, at that,” agreed the sheriff, although his bearing and his voice were casual and he kept on gazing at the ceiling. “Got Walt ’n’ Jeff in it, I did, I guess, havin’ them help me. Ought t’ feel mean ’bout it, oughtn’ I?”

“Yes, yes — I suppose you should! Yes — certainly — they’ll meet with the same fate as my Essie, probably, if we don’t pay them! It... it’s sort of up to you to save them, too, Whitcher. You... I— Man, man, but it’s time to get busy!”

He spoke somewhat more hopefully, this time, did Amos Crocker, a slightly eager light coming into his pale, troubled eyes. Bemis, however, grimly shook his head:

“No, Amos, it won’t do no good, askin’ people f’r more money. Sort o’... well, sort o’ like what y’ call a’ anti-climax, I guess. Had ’em all pepped up once, we did, w’en we got that ten thousan’ this mornin’.

“Could ’a’ had the twen’y-five then, had we knowed, I reckon. No more, though — no more. That’s human nature. Couldn’ git the extry fifteen thousan’, I’ll bet, was the whul o’ Noel’s Landin’ kidnaped! Got t’—”

“But what—”

“On’y one thing t’ do, Amos,” went on Bemis quietly, “’n’ that’s t’ take the money we already got t’ Porc’pine Cave ’n’ see ’f it’ll mebbe sat’sfy ’em. ’F it does — good. ’F it don’t—”

Whitcher finished with a shrug — with a shrug and a sigh as he came forward and leaned his elbows on the table.

“These people are the real Black Hand, though,” wailed Amos. “They mean it when they say they’ll murder!”

“S’picioned that Avengin’ Society were a-bluffin’, Amos, ’n’ p’r’aps this here Black Han—”

“The Avenging Society was bluffing!”