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

Amos Crocker, shaking and livid, leaped over to Whitcher. He got his hands on his shoulders, and again he tried to move that great torso back and forth as he poured out his words:

“I was the Avenging Society! I was the one who kidnaped my Essie in the first place! I must have been crazy, that was all — crazy! I was up against the wall, with all my creditors after me, and... and that damn bucket shop down in Boston had stripped me!

“I knew I couldn’t borrow any money, locally or any other place — I knew I wasn’t ’a popular and worthy citizen,’ as they call it, damn ’em! I thought it was the only way to get some cash to pull myself together with.

“But that real Black Hand came in, curse ’em, and I love my girl! She’s all I’ve got, Whitcher, and... and— Oh, God, man — use your friendship and influence!”

Whitcher Bemis, very gently yet firmly, put up his hands and took hold of Crocker’s wrists, quietly shoving him into a chair. His voice soothed:

“Sot down, Amos!”

As the other did so, dazed and trembling, the sheriff reached into a pocket of his worn hunting coat and pulled out a paper.

“Know all ’bout it, Amos. Got a paper here, I have, I drawed up, a day ago. Tells all the story, more ’lab’rately, o’ y’r fake kidnapin’, ’cause it’s got Essie’s side ’n it, too. Like t’ have y’ sign it, ’n front o’ witnesses — oh, ’n front o’ Jeff ’n’ Walt, let’s say. Have y’r Essie back, then, y’ c’n. Might’s well start t’—”

He held up a warning hand, though, as Crocker started to excitedly interrupt, and shook his head fairly sternly.

“Ain’t aimin’ t’ use this c’nfession ag’in’ y’, Crocker — meanin’ I ain’t aimin’ t’ prosecute y’ f’r endeavorin’ t’ c’nspire t’ procure money under false pr’tenses. Jest askin’ y’ t’ wind up y’r business, I be, ’n’ traipse out o’ East Chat’am — traipse clean out o’ the county, ’s well. Ain’t never been ’xac’ly a’ ornament t’ the community, ’n’ I cal’late f’r all c’ncerned it ’ll be the best.

“Plenty o’ jobs, down Boston way, f’r a man ’at knows hardware like y’ seem t’ does he want t’ play straight, so—”

“Yes... yes, Bemis — fine. But Essie? You’re sure she’s safe? You’re sure you’re telling the truth? I... I never knew how I loved her until... until—”

“Let’s go,” said Whitcher. “She’s down t’ Walt’s with him ’n’ Jeff!”

VIII

If it were true that Chet Thomas and Boyce Hutchins were geniuses at ferreting out information concerning Whitcher Bemis, it was likewise true that of late they had developed much efficiency in keeping out of his way after he had handled a case successfully.

As the next night was Saturday, and Del’s store and post office would be crowded with both natives and summer visitors, the sheriff did not bother to wait until he had his pair of young enemies in the audience.

“Usta have a grammy, I did, w’en I were a little shaver, I’ll say f’r the ben’fit o’ some o’ the city folk ’at ain’t heered it,” he was drawling out quizzically.

“She had one o’ these here axioms — one o’ them proverbs — she usta keep a sayin’ t’ me: ‘W’itcher,’ she’d say, ’allus remember t’ give a minute regard t’ detail with a’ apparent absence o’ zeal!’ ”

He had to pause for a moment, for he always seemed to find it necessary to chuckle when he told about his relative. He pulled at his lip, before going on, and allowed it to go back with a quiet plop that brought a friendly laugh from the summer people.

“Never f’rgot me that there advice, I ain’t, so the very fu’st time Amos Crocker come up t’ me — back ’n Monday, it were — I got me mighty ’spicious. Called me ‘W’itcher,’ he did, w’en f’r all the years I’d knowed him we’d been ‘Bemis’ ’n’ ‘Crocker’ t’ one ’nother!

“Yep, that got me ’spicious, though I couldn’ say o’ w’ot. Sec it right soon, I did, w’en he brought me that fu’st letter!”

Whitcher was forced to hesitate and smile, then, and rub his hand ruminatively over the fringe of ash-gray hair that circled his otherwise bald pate.

“One word ’n that letter was a dead give’way. Noo Englan’ word it is, mostly, I reckon — ’n’ a Maine word p’tic’ly. Word, anyways, that Crocker’s allus used some generous. Word ’s ‘collateral.’

“Right pos’tive, I were, no Eye-talian avengin’ outfit ’ud write it! Yep, I guess that there false word, like y’ might call it, come t’ be ’bout the wuss mistake Amos Crocker went ’n’ made — eh, folks?”

He winked an eye in an intimate manner, then, and scratched his head. It would be his last chance with most of this city crowd before they left around Labor Day, and it was candidly the business of Mr. Bemis to pull for votes.

Certainly, at least, he was getting good will and admiration — getting it audibly, too, and even slightly vociferously from the younger element.

“O’ course,” he continued, “I had t’ find me out the main tiling, then — ’n’ that was w’ere was Essie? Sort o’ like that lookin’ f’r the needle ’n a haystack, ’f y’ ask me. Big country, ’roun’ here, like y’ all know — almighty big. Pretty easy f’r a lone gal t’ hide herself off f’r a spell o’ four-five days ’r so.