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

No crocodile tears were shed for Amos Crocker — but a girl in danger is a girl in danger — and men, after all, are men.

I

“Like to see you a minute, Whitcher,” said Crocker ingratiatingly, stopping his car in front of the sheriff’s dwelling just as Bemis stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“Make it a short ’un, Amos,” Whitcher rather discourteously suggested. “ ’Most four now, ’n’ I aim t’ git me in a hour ’r so wadin’ the Stony ’fore dark comes!”

Pausing, he wheezed a bit petulantly and fumbled with the buckle that held the strap of his wicker creel over his shoulder. He began puffing, then, and had to lay down the aluminium case that protected his three-ounce split bamboo rod before he satisfactorily adjusted his trout basket. He seemed, suddenly, to have completely forgotten his broad if not bald hint of being in a hurry.

“Wisht I was ’s lean ’s you be, Amos,” he complained. “Judas Priest, I got me on the scales down t’ Del’s store, yes’d’y, ’n’ I dumb a heap sight nigher t’ the two seven’y mark ’n I did t’ the two sixty, I ain’t denyin’. Have t’ try me some o’ them reducin’ diets some o’ them tony lady summer campers uses, I reckon, do I hanker t’ slim me down m’ figger. Yessir, Amos, I’m giftin’ right — right obese, I cal-’late the word is, I be!”

He chuckled as he finished, his great china-blue eyes going very wide and the thumb and index finger of his right hand traveling to his huge nether lip with his characteristic gesture.

“I—”

“I just wanted to see you, Whitcher,” cut in Amos Crocker, rather nervously wetting his lips and blinking behind his silver-rimmed spectacles, “to ask if—”

“I know w’ot y’ want t’ ask me — want t’ ask me w’ere the best troutin’ is, now the end o’ the season’s comin’ ’long,” interrupted the sheriff with a genial grin. “Shucks, I ain’t one o’ them miserly fellers, neither,” he went on, pulling out his lip and letting it go back with a hearty plop.

“Don’t keep the good places f’r m’self, I don’t — like t’ share ’em. Yep, Amos; the Stony’s the stream this time o’ year, w’ere I’m a goin’ now. Lemme git y’ a rod ’n’ y’ c’n traipse up there with me now.”

He looked at the man behind the wheel eagerly, his eyes shining as they always did when the topic of conversation was troutin’ or birdin’ or else his stamp collection.

“W’ot say?” he cried jovially, as the other hesitated and fidgeted in a search for words.

“I... I didn’t want to see you about fishing, it so happens, although I certainly know you’d be the man to come to about it,” replied Crocker. “I wanted to see you about — well, about my Essie, to tell you the truth! I... she—”

Amos Crocker stumbled in his speech, bringing it to a mumbling end with a gulp. He looked appealingly at the sheriff, his eyes a trifle moist, and went on in a choked voice:

“Whitcher, my Essie’s a little gay, a little giddy, like a lot of these young ones are to-day. Oh, no harm in her, I guess, but just careless and all the time talking about wanting to have a good time. Brought her up myself, you know, seeing her mother died when Essie was born.

“I... well, I’ve done my best, and it’s been a hard job. Took to running up to the lake here, in that old flivver I gave her, this summer. Afraid — oh, I’m afraid she’s been meeting some of those college boys, at that camp up near the headwaters. She’s only seventeen, you know, Whitcher.”

He stopped rather pitifully, with a sigh, biting his thin lips that looked as if they had suffered much from this habit.

Whitcher Bemis nodded slowly — very slowly and solemnly — and muttered an “Uh-huh” that sounded sympathetic. It brought out, at least, further confidences:

“What I’m getting at, Whitcher,” he explained, “is that I’m darned worried, and that this private worry is mighty hard on a man who’s got plenty of it hanging over him in his business. Hardware ain’t what it was, in a one-man store, what with all this mail order business that’s sweeping the country.

“Been in business close to forty years, there in East Chatham, and I — but there I go wandering off on my other troubles, don’t I?” he wanly smiled, brushing a hand over his forehead.

“I just wanted to ask you, Whitcher, to please maybe speak to Essie for me. Lots of times, when a girl won’t listen to her father, she’ll listen to some one that ain’t related. Tell her... well, tell her to watch her step, sort of. Those college boys wouldn’t be serious.

“I... I’m coming to you, Whitcher, because every kid in most of the whole county thinks such a heap of you. You... you seem to kind of have a knack of being chummy with ’em. Anyway, I know my Essie’s always said how much she likes you, Whitcher.”

He ended up with a quaver, this time, did Amos Crocker. He looked the picture of the usual despairing parent who is bewailing the actions of a recalcitrant offspring. A sad enough sight — and growing sadder and unquestionably more universal in this hectic era.

Yet Bemis, invariably so comforting to every one under stress, merely opened his eyes wider and stared vaguely at this disturbed father. He remained silent, nodding his head just once, as if intimating that he perfectly understood.

“You... you see, Whitcher, I’m more upset to-day than usual, I suppose,” Crocker went on with a rush. “I — Essie left early this morning, saying she was going to visit Joan Wells, down at the Landing. I called up there on the phone a couple of hours ago, to ask her to stop at Jim Trott’s farm on the way home and bring me some com. She... she hadn’t been to see Joan at all, Whitcher. She... she probably—”

He gripped the steering wheel, as his voice rose, and became almost hysterical.

“She’s probably gallivanting off with some of them damn city boys from the colleges, and that’s why I came out here to ask you to help a crazy father and try to talk reason into her, Whitcher. She... she’s always said how much she liked you, Whitcher,” he finished, with a choking gulp.

“Allus liked Essie, Amos,” said the sheriff of Noel’s Landing with one of his grave nods. “Have a talk with her, I will!”

II

Chet Thomas and Boyce Hutchins had always displayed an ingenuity that amounted to positive genius when it came to garnering information concerning Whitcher Bemis. This precious pair, anyway, drifted into Del’s store at the Landing not two hours after the sheriff and Crocker had met — and they were wearing the sleek and satisfied grins that unfailingly brought unrepose to Whitcher’s old cronies.

They were not kept long in suspense, either, were these adherents of the sheriff. Briefly, Chet and Boyce used their time-honored method of attack, the one maligning Bemis and the other defending him until his position was broken down by the laughter of the crowd and he grudgingly had to admit that he had been wrong.

There was a fair-sized gathering there, too, for it was the hour of the evening mail and mid-August summer residents were clustered profusely about the window. Anyway, the crux of the argument was to the effect that it was a downright shame for a feller like Amos Crocker to bother the sheriff.

Wasn’t he pestered enough, already, with having his official duties cut in on his troutin’ ’n’ birdin’ ’n’ philat’lin’ without being worried about looking after frisky young gals?

Del Noel and Walt Trowbridge and Jeff Moseby, after the pair had left and the last of the summer people had straggled out, looked at one another and demanded to know how in the name of sin Chet and Boyce were able to get hold of their gossip.

Whitcher, they concluded, must have been making a fool of himself again, somehow — and when he himself ambled in some twenty minutes later they instantly accused him of it.

“Sure, cal’late I was, boys,” he confessed somewhat wearily, his eyes rambling. “Seems t’ me I’m allus a makin’ a fool o’ m’self, lately. I — shucks, I dunno. P’rhaps mebbe I am gittin’ ol’! Sh’u’dn’ ’a’ tol’ Lem Sprague, I s’pose—”

“Tol’ Lem Sprague?”

In unison, literally, this trio of old moss-backs cried out the phrase — cried it out in hoarse and horrified accents.

“Uh-huh... uh-huh,” nodded the sheriff.

“Y’ tol’ Lem Sprague suthin’ ’at were s’posed t’ be private?” Del groaned.

“ ’N y’ f’rgot the fu’st thing he allus does ’s t’ whisper a secret t’ Chet ’n’ Boyce?” chimed in Jeff.

“Fool ’s right ’n’ old ’s right, the Lord knows I’ll say,” was Walt’s contribution.

“I... I did kind o’ think Lem might go ’n’ talk t’ Chet ’n’ Boyce, as a matter o’ fac’,” Whitcher sadly soliloquized, his hand instinctively going to his lip.

“Then... then—”

The postmaster couldn’t put it into words, though — not for a moment or so, at least. Finally, after he and Jeff and Walt had exchanged more helpless glances, Del managed to find speech:

“W’itcher, don’t y’ know y’ jest keep a playin’ ’n’ a playin’ into the han’s o’ Chet ’n’ Boyce. Got a great laugh here, this aft’noon, they did — ’n’ they got a laugh fr’m some o’ them summer people that’s li’ble t’ be voters, w’ot with more New York folk claimin’ res’dence on account o’ Maine havin’ no State income tax.

“Said, Boyce did, ’at w’en his brother Ned licked y’ f’r the office o’ sheriff they was another oc’pation y’ c’d take up t’ make a livin’ at. That same oc’pation, W’itcher, he opined ’ud be actin’ nursemaid t’ flighty flappers, like he put it. He — damn ’em both, they sure got the laughs, the dum young squirts!”

“Yes, sirree, Bob, W’itcher,” added Walt Trowbridge, “they was no cause t’ give ’em that openin’ ’n’—”

But Whitcher Bemis, his hands on his sides, had thrown back his head and was chuckling — a free and hearty chuckle that graduated into a gale of joyous laughter:

“Ju... Judas Priest, boys,” he got out, “but didn’ Chet ’n’ Boyce go ’n’ earn a laugh? Lawsy, tickles me, it does, thinkin’ o’ me playin’ nursemaid! Shucks, fellers, ain’t you ol’-timers got no sense o’ humor?”

They didn’t seem to have — they most assuredly and decidedly didn’t give any evidence of it. With their jaws dropping and their eyes plumb and plain disgusted, the worthy and loyal trio gazed at the man they had championed for years as if nothing could be said or done.

Lugubriously, they shook their heads — until Jeff, always the most inquisitive, thought to get some sort of reward:

“W’ot is all this trouble ’bout Amos Crocker ’n’ his gal Essie, anyways, W’itcher?” he asked. “Couldn’ learn no real noos fr’m Chet ’n’ Boyce!”

Mr. Bemis laughed again, although this time there was a certain slyness in the sound of it:

“Shucks, no, fellers,” he stated, “y’ don’t ’xpec’ me t’ make the same mistake twice, do y’? Made a fool o’ m’self talkin’ t’ Chet ’n’ Boyce, didn’ I? Yeah, Del, gimme m’ mail ’n’ lemme traipse ’long home!”

Del complied grimly, for he and the others knew from long experience that when Whitcher Bemis elected to withhold information nothing in the world could possibly pry it loose from him.

III

Whitcher himself, however, surely received further information anent Essie Crocker. He received it, indeed, at an exceedingly early hour the next day — at, to be precise, somewhere pretty close to three o’clock in the morning.

Amos, at that time, drove up to the sheriff’s house and began wildly to honk his horn. After Bemis had responded, opening the door in his voluminous nightgown, the hardware man from East Chatham unbridled his woe:

“It wasn’t them damn college boys, after all, Whitcher,” he excitedly wailed. “It... it was them damn road workers! Probably some of that crew that’s fixing the road down to Gorham. Always said they looked suspicious, with their black eyes and polite smiles. Always thought this foreign labor—”

He broadened out into a rather plausible New England attack on the Latin, then, reverting in his nervous condition to the idiom of the backwoods:

“Cuss ’em, Whitcher, a bad lot, they be. An’... an’ here I been blamin’ my dear little Essie f’r... f’r—”

He blubbered, then — positively blubbered — and before he could at all master himself the sheriff had to repeat several times in his soothing voice:

“Shucks, Amos — shucks! Git holt o’ y’rself, ’n’ come on ’nside ’n’ tell a body ’bout it all!”

After they were in the house, and the gasoline lamp was lighted on the kitchen table with a red and white checked cloth, Amos was prevailed upon to explain more fully:

“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:

“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.

Indeed, he was willing to talk about the affair to any chance gossip who happened to come along and ask for information. By doing this, he told every one, he would have more people on the lookout for that poor, dear, innocent little Essie Crocker, who was likely to meet a fate that was worse than death.

But no clews seemed to turn up, during the next exceedingly hectic forty-eight hours, for either the sheriff or the dozens of other folk, who had busied themselves with the affair.

Essie had left home, in the flivver, at about eight o’clock on Monday morning, and the last any one had seen of her was when she had passed a house a few miles out of East Chatham, presumably headed for the Cranberry Lake section.

If the car had left the road at any spot there was no way of telling it by the time that the thoroughfare had been examined, for a heavy rain early Tuesday morning would have wiped out all traces of tracks.

Bemis, at the insistent instigation of Amos as well as several others, had investigated the gang of foreign laborers down at Gorham. But from them, he reported, nothing was to be gained; that is, none of their number was missing, none of them had been away from work on Monday, none of them had seemed at all worthy of suspicion under shrewd cross-examination.

Still... still — and Whitcher had slowly cocked an eye in a sinister manner when he had drawled this out — them fellers was a funny breed, all right, all right, and p’r’aps mebbe they was one or two things a backwoods hick had noticed that he meant t’ foller up.

Porcupine Cave on Creepy Hollow Mountain, needless to state, was also thoroughly looked into. That is, Whitcher and several of the best deer men in the region — noted for their woodlore — explored the immediate vicinity with scrupulous care.

They fine tooth combed it, in other words, so exhaustively that they were able to assure themselves that no human foot had been about the place since that downpour of Tuesday morning. Of this they were certain, although Whitcher admitted that there were mighty few tilings about which one could feel that way in what the poets termed this vale of tears.

But on Wednesday or Thursday — whichever it was — it appeared as if some person affiliated with the so-styled Avenging Society had been somewhere in the proximity of Porcupine Cave. At least, late Thursday night Amos Crocker paid another of his visits to the sheriff of Noel’s Landing. On this occasion — to do away with possibly bothersome details concerning his actions — the hardware man showed Bemis the following message:

As Whitcher perused the communication, written in the same printed form on the same ruled paper, he... well, he actually seemed to pale. He shook his head glumly:

“By... by Judas Priest, Amos,” he breathed hoarsely, “but it sure do look ’s if these fellers mean w’ot they say!”

“Mean what they say?”

Crocker almost shrieked out the words, and his hands went to the lapels of the sheriff’s worn canvas jacket. He gripped them convulsively and began trying to shake that massive figure in a manner that would have been ludicrous had the situation not been so tragic.

“Why, Whitcher, they’re probably one of the most desperate bands of criminals that’s ever been let loose on the world. Some branch, it sort of strikes me, of that famous Black Hand, maybe.

“Why, they’ed as soon cut your throat as look at you, from all I hear and read about their kind. Why... why — can’t you do something, Whitcher? I haven’t got any ten thousand — I can’t even dig up much more than two, say — and God only knows what those brutes will do to my little Essie, outside of murdering—”

He shook the lapels in a frenzy, as his voice broke off in a choking gasp, and he ended up his plea in a mad cry:

“Oh, God — save my Essie!”

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, with a great sigh, put out his arms and rested his hands on the shoulders of Amos Crocker. He did it gently, as if he, were babying a troubled child.

“Amos,” he said very softly. “I’ve did m’ best. I... I’m right sorry I’ve gone ’n’ failed, I am, but them dummed kidnapers seem t’ be — well, a mite too slick f’r me. I got t’ admit defeat, it looks like, no matter how it’ll hurt me in the vote. I... well, Amos, they’s on’y one thing I c’n think of, t’... t’ save y’r Essie!”

Whitcher stopped, his eyes going very wide as he stared solemnly at the other.

“What... what’s that, Bemis?” the hardware merchant wanted to know, after the sheriff had kept on gazing at him without uttering a word.

“Tell y’ w’ot it is, Amos,” elucidated Whitcher. “We got t’ give in t’ them devils, I guess. Well, you ain’t got the ten thousan’, like y’ say, so I cal’late we’ll have t’ make it a sort o’ fam’ly party all ’roun’.

“I... I mean, Amos, we’ll see ’f the boys ’n East Chat’am ’n’ Noel’s Landin’ ’n’ Gor-’am can’t go ’n’ c’n — c’ntribute a measly ten thousan’ t’ rescue the daughter o’ a worthy cit’zen!”

Crocker’s eyes lit up, behind his glasses, almost avidly. Then, literally, he fell on Whitcher’s neck. He blabbered out his gratitude excitedly, and it was a full five minutes before the sheriff could sufficiently calm him down and make him understand that he would take over the task of collecting the ransom.

V

The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, back in the war days, had proved himself a canny individual when it came to making tightwads shell out for the Liberty Loan. He had, probably, hung up the best records of any one in the county, and he had done it from friend and enemy alike.

He showed, on Friday morning, that his gift for talking currency away from people had not deserted him. Explicitly, he had got together the ten thousand dollars shortly before the one o’clock whistle blew at the East Chatham sawmill.

Men had come down what is known as handsomely, and even Ira Colton of the First National Bank — who had, incidentally, a daughter of Essie’s age — was reputed to have disgorged precisely five hundred.

And, it might be mentioned, Amos Crocker had not been the worthy and beloved citizen that Whitcher had told him he was; indeed, he had always been a distressingly unpopular one. But a girl in danger is a girl in danger — and men, after all, are men.

Whitcher, naturally, was subjected to numerous caustic comments, in most cases started by Chet Thomas and Boyce Hutchins. A fine sheriff he was, all right, all right, to let a bunch of Wops come up into his bailiwick and kidnap a person and hide her so well that a man who called himself a born woodsman couldn’t find her.

They quizzed him, though, good-naturedly, for there was clean sporting blood in these men of the remote Maine logging country. They gave their money and they called it a day, that was all.

One or two of them — Ira Colton the banker, primarily — of course, suggested that Porcupine Cave be watched while the cash was being deposited — but Bemis as well as Amos Crocker hastily warned them that any such move might have dire results. Why, they might cut Essie’s throat, right then and there. Hot-blooded, them foreign fellows — hot-blooded and crazy-brained.

It was agreed, anyway, that the best might as well be made of a bad bargain. The money was given to Whitcher, and he placed it in the bank for safe keeping. In the morning, he said, he would roll up in his flivver and procure it, as the cashier had consented to be on the job before eight.

After that, the sheriff said, he could drive to the trail that would lead to the stipulated place of deposit on Creepy Hollow Mountain. He would be there, he assured Amos and every one else, long ahead of the hour set by the kidnapers for payment.

Everything, he positively informed the hardware man, was what the younger generation termed hunkydory — so much so, in fact, that he absolutely and well-nigh forcefully insisted that the father who was about to regain his daughter go out and celebrate the lucky occasion with him. And, with Whitcher, what did celebrating mean, at this season of the year, but traipsing off to the Stony after trout?

VI

There was one remarkable thing about that fishing journey — a thing that had never happened before and that most indubitably would never happen again. It was the first time that

Whitcher had ever returned from a troutin’ trip, to be exact, when the idlers about Del’s store had not crowded close to him to view the luscious catch that he was known to invariably bring back.

They had no time to get to him, on this occasion, before the postmaster himself came up to Bemis and Crocker with palpably wild excitement in his eye. He was holding out an envelope, and his lips were actually quivering so badly that he found it impossible to fashion words.

“Judas Priest, Del,” drawled the sheriff quizzically, “w’ot ’n all sin’s the matter? Win a prize ’n one o’ them puzzles y’re allus writin’ answers t’?”

But even this ancient and well-known slam at Del’s major hobby failed to elicit any responsive laughs from the native audience. They, as well, were looking quite as tense as the storekeeper. Their eyes, indeed, were glued to that stamped envelope that was being thrust at Bemis with a trembling hand.

“Stuck ’n the mail slot, this was, W’itcher,” Del finally managed to get out. “Come acrost it ’bout two ’clock, after y’d gone t’ the Stony with Crocker. Reckon — reckon it’s some more t’ do with Essie’s kidnapin’, by the looks o’ that there hand that’s drawed ’n the back!”

Whitcher, for a moment, did not accept the proffered letter. Instead, he put his arms akimbo and stood there gazing amusedly at his old crony. He was, unquestionably, the only calm man there.

If that were so, assuredly Amos Crocker suddenly became the most nervous one. As he edged his head around Whitcher’s shoulder, and craned his neck forward, he exhibited the most bewildered face it would have been possible to find.

He gazed, with terror rapidly taking the place of astonishment, at the large and crudely executed black hand that was inked on the back of the envelope Del was holding.

“What... what’s it mean?” he gasped, his skin literally turning to that sickly putty color.

“Means y’ sh’u’d ought’ve saw me alone ’bout this, Del, I reckon,” replied Bemis somewhat sternly, ignoring Crocker.

“I... I know, W’itcher,” admitted his friend, “but I been so dammed upset V worried ’bout this here kidnap — I... well, t’ tell the truth,” he finished with a gulp, “I had me a peculiar feelin’, I did, that even with the ten thousan’ the thing wouldn’ go through. Just one o’ my hunches, like, that—”

The sheriff, however, stopped him with a frown — a frown that plainly said. Del shouldn’t rightly go on with any such glum talk in the presence of an aching-hearted father. Then, almost brusquely, he reached out and took the letter.

“Open it — for God’s sake, Bemis, open it!” cried out Amos Crocker, his voice a wild shriek and his face livid.

“Aim t’, Amos,” explained Whitcher patiently, “after I do m’ ’xaminin’ like a good dee-tective sh’u’d ought t’!”

If the merits of a sleuth depended upon the time he took to scrutinize any suspicious object, Mr. Bemis must indeed have been an admirable one. While Del and the rest clustered about him with bated breaths — and the hardware man fidgeted agonizingly — the sheriff did his stuff.

He turned that envelope over and over — over and over — dozens of times. He held it up to the light and squinted solemnly at it, his great, china-blue eyes drawn down to mere slits.

He surveyed it, in short, from every humanly possible angle, it seemed — and then, just as he was about to slit the letter open, he raised his head and eyed his audience in a sheepish manner.

“Shucks — shucks,” he said hesitantly. “Pity this ain’t right fr’m It’ly herself, huh, w’ere them Black Handers ’rig’nally growed. Might ’a’ got me a Eye-talian stamp f’r m’ album. Short on—”

“God, Bemis — open it!”

The man who now appeared to be all philatelist, however, looked at Amos Crocker with vacant eyes that seemed to intimate his mind was far away.

A little crease came to his forehead, as if he were very gravely thinking, and his thumb and index finger strayed to his huge lip, He nursed it quite tenderly, and after quite as tenderly stretching it out he let it go back with a soft plop:

“Yep, mighty short on It’ly, I be, worse luck. Got t’ r’member t’ look up them stamps, nex’ time I buy me any, ’nstead o’ concentratin’ so heavy on them early United Sta—”

But he broke off suddenly, again flashing a grin on the circle of tautened faces.

“Speakin’ o’ the United States, though,” he chuckled, “let’s open us up this here stamped envelope o’ that same country. Hey, fellers?”

He did so, and he proved that he could be generous to the curious by reading the epistle aloud:

“Oh, God! Oh, dear God, help—”

Amos Crocker had yelled this out, as Whitcher finished, while the others looked on wide-eyed.

“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!”

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.

“Couldn’ find no track o’ the flivver. Right simple, y’ see, t’ run one into any o’ them ol’ loggin’ trails. Then that rain comin’ — well, no chance t’ go ’n’ discover the car, y’ might say. But w’ere was Essie hidin’? W’ere would she hide?”

He looked almost comical, now, as he asked the question with a whimsical grin-looked, indeed, as if he were giving a burlesque of a college professor quizzing his class.

“Well,” he explained, “I got me a sort o’ ment’l card index, ’way ’n the back o’ m’ brain, ’n’ I went ’n’ mulled over it. Dummed ’f I were able t’ drag anything out, at fu’st — ’n’ then spang-bang it hit me hard.

“See Crocker ’n’ his gal, two week ago Sund’y, out ridin’ ’n his car. Passed ’em ’n the road, t’ be truthful. Allus got m’ eye out f’r that minute regard f’r detail stuff o’ grammy’s, don’t f’rget, ’n’ I remember he’d said they was goin’ ’n a all-day picnic.

“Seems I also remember, w’en I got to fu’ther fussin’ with m’ ment’l card index, that suthin’ had struck me funny that day — struck me funny, it did, t’ see the mess o’ food they had with ’em. Beans, f’r ’nstance — w’y, they must ’a’ had eight-ten cans. Yep, even though Essie allus had liked ’em, I remember I won’ered w’y they was luggin’ sech a lot!”

He smiled a bit slyly, this time, as he paused — smiled so slyly, so expertly, that he had his audience where he wanted them. They were tense and silent, waiting.

“Plannin’ the kidnapin’, then, he were, ’n’ stockin’ the place up with food. W’ere was the place, hows’ever? Wa’n’t s’ hard t’ figger out — ’r t’ make a good stab at, leastways. Ought t’ ’a’ hit on it the fu’st day, ’f I’d been right keen.

“He’d be li’ble t’ go t’ the spot where he thought they was the least chance o’ other people goin’ t’ — ’n’ ’f that ol’ hut up ’n Mountain Trout Pond wa’n’t the best bet may I never cast me another fly! Eh, folks?”

He chuckled heartily at that — and then his face became grave as if he had suddenly recollected something.

“Got t’ tell some o’ you more recent summer people that Mountain Trout Pond, up t’ five-six year ago, come t’ be about the best trout water of its kind in the whul’ State o’ Maine. Too good, it were — so good that she was fished out. Yessir, so fished out that I’ll bet a man ain’t been up there with a rod f’r the last five year.

“Private place t’ hide, all right, all right — ’n’ w’en I got Jeff ’n’ Walt t’ go up there, yest’d’y, m’ hunch that Crocker h’d chose it went ’n’ proved good deducin’, like the dee-tectives ’ud put it!”

Whitcher Bemis yawned — yawned and stretched. He spoke casually now, waving a hand:

“Had t’ prove he’d went ’n’ done this thing, o’ course, f’r them letters he’d writ’ hisself was no real ev’dence ag’in’ him. Thought me, then, t’ w’y not use his own weapon — kidnapin’?

“Anyways, I had Walt ’n’ Jeff take Essie down t’ Walt’s place, ’n’ then I manufactured me that Black Hand business ’n’ — well, ’n’ y’ all know the rest! Me? I’m right tired, I be, w’ot with traipsin’ all over the country t’-day returnin’ that ten thousan’ — ’night, folks!”