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

“There it is, Whitcher — there it is. Read that cruel message that was slipped under an aching father’s door, not two hours ago, in the dead of night!”

He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket at that, and savagely flung it on the table — a piece of ruled paper, such as might have been plucked from a school notebook. It bore large printing, in pencil, that might have been done by a child:

Amos Crocker:

You love your daughter, and we love money. We have kidnaped her and are holding her as collateral, for ransom. Unless ten thousand dollars in small bills is placed in Porcupine Cave on Creepy Hollow Mountain before Saturday morning, her fate will be worse than death.

There is a smart man managing this proposition, we think we should tell you, that is a good American business man.

Avenging Society.

“Gosh,” said Whitcher, when he had read it, “y’ sure do run into bum luck, eh, Amos? Run into it every w’ich way, seems like t’ me, ’f it’s true—”

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing stopped, abruptly, sheepishly. He flushed and coughed, looking as if he had caught hold of himself before saying something that might embarrass the other man. He fidgeted on his feet, growing more nervous.

“I... I—” he started — but the hardware man from East Chatham cut in anxiously:

“If what’s true, Whitcher?”

“Well, I mean — I shouldn’ ’a’ spoke ’bout it — but I’ve heered tell that — shucks, y’ know how gossip is, Amos — but I’ve heered tell business wa’n’t s’ good with y’ lately, neither! I... I didn’t like t’ mention it — slipped out — didn’—”

A strange expression that was akin to eager relief came to the pale eyes behind the thick lenses, and this was also evident from Crocker’s voice as he spoke:

“It is the truth. Whitcher. As I said in the afternoon, hardware ain’t what it was, what with this mail order stuff and all, chiefly. I have had hard sledding, these last couple of years mostly, and I— Great God, Whitcher,” he added in a wail, “that’s what’s worrying me so much. I can’t scare up any ten thousand dollars! I–Lord, I guess between two-three thousand is about my limit!”

Bemis said nothing. He merely stood there, gazing vacantly at his companion, and shaking his head in a saddened way as he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in that manner that seems to denote sympathy.

Crocker, after a moment, threw his arms wide, rising from his chair:

“Whitcher, I can’t pay that money... I... they might just as well ask me for a million. I’m putting myself in your hands. As a father — as a man — I ask you to try and save my little girl.

“Be... be careful, though, Whitcher. Don’t antagonize them so that they’ll go and do something terrible and desperate to her. I... oh, there’s no use giving you advice, though,” he finished with a wan yet admiring smile, “for I know you’re shrewd enough to unravel anything.”

Mr. Bemis accepted the compliment gravely. His thumb and index finger went to his lip, and as he stared dazedly about the room with his wide eyes he finally pulled it out and let it go back with a decidedly sharp plop.

“Reckon p’r’aps mebbe I will be able t’ on-ravel this here kidnap myst’ry,” he said slowly. “Work hard at it, leastways, I aim t’. Funny thing ’bout me, Amos,” he smiled whimsically. “Allus put up a tougher scrap, I do, w’en I’m fightin’ f’r a... well, w’ot y’ might call a polit’cal en’my.

“I mean, y’ know, a feller that’s c’n-sist’ntly gone ’n’ voted dead ag’in’ me! Like t’ win noo votes, I do,” he explained simply, “ ’r else put bad ’uns out o’ the runnin’!”

Amos Crocker looked so uncomfortable that it was really pathetic, but as the hardware merchant finally found his voice and started to explain Whitcher airily waved for silence:

“Shucks, that’s all right, Amos. Jest speakin’ ’bout it, I were, t’ impress y’ I’d natchrally be workin’ hard! ’N’ now ’bout them roadmen. Tell me, was Essie—”

For an hour — for a good two hours — Whitcher Bemis sat there hunched over the table, grilling Amos Crocker with such a mess of stupid, aimless questions that the man from East Chatham was pretty close to a nervous wreck when the thing was over.

IV

It made quite a stir, did this first kidnaping case for ransom that the region had ever known. The news, too, was scattered far and wide quite early that first morning, for Whitcher seemed to have deviated from his usual policy of keeping things dark.