Anderson Crow, Detective

by George Barr McCutcheon

  THE VEILED LADY AND THE SHADOW

  A veiled lady is not, in ordinary circumstances, an object of concern toanybody. Circumstances, however, are sometimes so extraordinary that aveiled lady becomes an object of concern to everybody. If the old-timenovelists are to be credited, an abundantly veiled lady is more than asource of interest; she is the vital, central figure in a mystery thatcontinues from week to week, or month to month, as the case may be,until the last chapter is reached and she turns out to be the person youthought she was all the time.

  Now, the village of Tinkletown is a slow-going, somnolent sort of placein which veils are worn by old ladies who wish to enjoy a pleasantsnooze during the sermon without being caught in the act. That any oneshould wear a veil with the same regularity and the same purpose thatshe wears the dress which renders the remainder of her person invisibleis a circumstance calculated to excite the curiosity of even the mostindifferent observers in the village of Tinkletown.

  So when the news travelled up and down Main Street, and off into theside-streets, and far out beyond Three Oaks Cemetery to the new divisionknown as Oak Park, wherein reside four lonely pioneer families, thatthe lady who rented Mrs. Nixon's house for the month of September was ina "perpetual state of obscurity" (to quote Mr. Harry Squires, the_Banner_ reporter), the residents of Tinkletown admitted that theydidn't know what to make of it.

  The Nixon cottage was a quaint, old-fashioned place on the side ofBattle Hill, looking down upon the maples of Sickle Street. The groundswere rather spacious, and the house stood well back from the street,establishing an aloofness that had never been noticed before. A lowstone wall guarded the lawn and rose-garden, and there was an iron gateat the bottom of the slope. The front porch was partly screened by"Dutchman's Pipe" vines. With the advent of the tenant, smart Japanesesun-curtains made their appearance, and from that day on no prying eye,no matter how well-trained it may have been, could accomplish anythinglike a satisfactory visit to the regions beyond.

  Mrs. Nixon usually rented her house for the summer months. The summer of1918 had proved an unprofitable season for her. It was war-time, and thepeople who lived in the cities proved unduly reluctant to venture farfrom their bases of supplies. Consequently Mrs. Nixon and her daughterAngie remained in occupancy, more heartsick than ever over the horrorsof war. Just as they were about to give up hope, the unexpectedhappened. Joseph P. Singer, the real-estate agent, offices in theLamson Block, appeared bright and early one morning to inquire if thecottage could be had for the month of September and part of October.

  "You may ask any price you like, Abbie," he said. "The letter I receivedthis morning was written on the paper of the Plaza Hotel in New York.Anybody who can afford to put up at the Plaza, which is right on CentralPark,--and also on Fifth Avenue,--ain't going to haggle about prices.The party wants a bathroom with hot and cold water and electric lights.Well, you've got all these improvements, and--"

  "I've got to have references," said Mrs. Nixon firmly.

  "I guess if the Plaza is willing to rent a room to a party, thereoughtn't to be any question as to the respectability of the said party,"said Mr. Singer. "They're mighty particular in them New York hotels."

  "Well, you write and tell the party--"

  "I am requested to telegraph, Abbie," said he. "The party wants to knowright away."

  As the result of this conversation and a subsequent exchange oftelegrams, the "party" arrived in Tinkletown on the first day ofSeptember. Mr. Singer's contentions were justified by the manner inwhich the new tenant descended upon the village. She came in amaroon-and-black limousine with a smart-looking chauffeur, a Frenchmaid, a French poodle and what all of the up-to-date ladies inTinkletown unhesitatingly described as a French gown a la mode.

  Miss Angie Nixon, who had never been nearer to Paris than Brattleboro,Vermont, said to her customers that from what she had seen of the newtenant's outfit, she was undoubtedly from the Tooleries. Miss Angie wasthe leading dressmaker of Tinkletown. If she had said the lady was fromSomaliland, the statement would have gone unchallenged.

  The same day, a man cook and a "hired girl" arrived from Boggs City,having come up by rail from New York.

  The tenant was a tall, slender lady. There could be no division ofopinion as to that. As to whether she was young, middle-aged or onlywell-preserved, no one was in a position to asseverate. As a matter offact, observers would have been justified in wondering whether she wasblack or white. She was never abroad without the thick, voluminous veil,and her hands were never ungloved. Mrs. Nixon and Angie described hervoice as refined and elegant, and she spoke English as well as anybody,not excepting Professor Rank of the high school.

  By the end of her first week in the Nixon cottage, there wasn't a personin Tinkletown, exclusive of small babies, who had not advanced a theoryconcerning Mrs. Smith, the new tenant. On one point all agreed; she wasthe most "stuck-up" person ever seen in Tinkletown.

  She resolutely avoided all contact with her neighbours. On severaloccasions, polite and cordial citizens had bowed and mumbled "Howdy-do"to her as she passed in the automobile, but there is no record of asingle instance in which she paid the slightest heed to thesecivilities. All of her marketing was done by the man cook, and while hewas able to speak English quite fluently when objecting to the quality,the quantity and the price of everything, he was singularly unable tocarry on a conversation in that language when invited to do so byfriendly clerks or proprietors.

  As for the French chauffeur, his knowledge of English appeared to belimited to an explosive sort of profanity. Lum Gillespie declared on thethird day after Mrs. Smith's car first came to his garage for livestorage, that "that feller Francose" knew more English cuss-words thanall the Irishmen in the world.

  The veiled lady did a good many surprising things. In the first place,she had been in the Nixon cottage not more than an hour when she orderedthe telephone taken out--not merely discontinued, but taken out. Shegave no reason, and satisfied the telephone-company by making the localmanager a present of ten dollars. She kept all of the greenwindow-shutters open during the day, letting the sunshine into the roomsto give the carpets the first surprise they had had in years, and atnight she sat out on the screened-in porch, with a reading-lamp, untilan hour when many of the residents of Tinkletown were looking out oftheir windows to see what sort of a day it was going to be. She paidcash for everything, and always with bright, crisp banknotes, "freshfrom the mint." She slept till noon. She went out every afternoon aboutfour, rain or shine, for long motor-rides in the country. The queerestthing about her was that she never went near the "movies."

  Nearly every afternoon, directly after luncheon--they called it dinnerin Tinkletown--she appeared in the back yard and put her extraordinarilybarbered dog through a raft of tricks. Passers-by always paused to watchthe performance. She had him walking first on his hind legs, then on hisfront legs; then he was catching a tennis-ball which she tossed everywhich way (just as a woman would, said Alf Reesling); and when he wasn'tcatching the ball, he was turning somersaults, or waltzing to the tuneshe whistled, or playing dead. The poodle's name was Snooks.

  * * * * *

  The venerable town marshal, Anderson Crow, sat in front of Lamson'sstore one hot evening about a week after the advent of the mystery. Hewas the center of a thoughtful, speculative group of gentlemenrepresenting the first families of Tinkletown. Among those present were:Alf Reesling, the town drunkard; Harry Squires, the reporter; EdHiggins, the feed-store man; Justice of the Peace Robb; Elmer K. Pratt,the photographer; Situate M. Jones; and two or three others of lessnote. The shades of night had just descended; some of the gentlemen hadalready yawned three or four times.

  "There ain't no law against wearin' a veil," said the Marshal, reachingout just in time to pluck a nice red apple before Lamson's clerk couldmake up his mind to do what he had come out of the store expressly todo--that is, to carry inside for the night the bushel basket containing,among other things, a plainly printed
placard informing the public that"No. 1 Winesaps" were "2 for 5c."

  Crow inspected the apple critically for a moment, looking for a suitableplace to begin; then, with his mouth full, he went on: "The only thing Igot ag'inst her is that she's settin' a new style in Tinkletown. In thelast two-three days I've seen more'n one of our fair sex lookin' atveils in the Five an' Ten Cent Store, and this afternoon I saw somebodyI was sure was Sue Becker walkin' up Maple Street with her head wrappedup in something as green as grass. Couldn't see her face to save mysoul, but I recognized her feet. My daughter Caroline was fixin' herselfup before the lookin'-glass last night, seein' how she'd look in a veil,she said. It won't be long before we won't any of us be able torecognize our own wives an' daughters when we meet 'em on the street."

  "My girl Queenie's got a new pink one," said Alf Reesling. "She made itout of some sort of stuff she wore over her graduatin' dress three yearsago."

  "Maybe she's got a bad complexion," ventured Mr. Jones.

  "Who? My girl Queenie? Not on your--" began Alf, bristling.

  "I mean the woman up at Mrs. Nixon's," explained Mr. Jones hastily.

  Harry Squires had taken no part in the conversation up to this juncture.He had been ruminating. His inevitable--you might almost say, hisindefatigable--pipe had gone out four or five times.

  "Say, Anderson," he broke in abruptly, "has it ever occurred to you thatthere might be something back of it that ought to be investigated?" Theflare of the match he was holding over the bowl of his pipe revealed aneager twinkle in his eyes.

  "There you go, talkin' foolishness again," said Anderson. "I guess thereain't anything back of it 'cept a face, an' she's got a right to have aface, ain't she?"

  "I mean the _reason_ for wearing a veil that completely obscures herface--_all the time_. They say she never takes it off, even in thehouse."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Angie Nixon. She says she believes she sleeps in it."

  "How does she deduce that?" demanded Anderson, idly fingering the badgeof the New York Detective Association, which for obvious reasons,--itbeing a very hot night,--was attached to his suspenders.

  "She deduced it through a keyhole," replied Mr. Squires. "Angie was upat the cottage last night to get something she had left in an upstairshall closet. She just happened to stoop over to pick up something on thefloor right in front of Mrs. Smith's door. The strangest thing occurred.She said it couldn't occur again in a thousand years, not even if shetried to do it. Her left ear happened to stop not more than half an inchfrom the keyhole. She just couldn't help hearing what Mrs. Smith said toher maid. Angie says she said, plain as anything: 'You couldn't blame mefor sitting up all night, if you had to sleep in a thing like this.' Shedidn't hear anything more, because she hates eavesdropping. Besides, shethought she heard the maid walking toward the door. Now, what do youmake of that, Mr. Hawkshaw?"

  "If you don't stop callin' me Hawkshaw, I'll--"

  "I apologize. An acute case of lapsus lingua, Mr. Crow. But wasn't thatremark significant?"

  "I am a friend of Mrs. Nixon's, an' I must decline to criticize herbeds," said Mr. Crow rather loftily. "I ain't ever slept in one of 'em,but I'd do it any time before I'd set up all night."

  "Granting that the bed was all right, then isn't it pretty clear thatshe was referring to something else? The veil, for instance?"

  "Sounds reasonable," said Newt Spratt, and then, after duereflection,--"mighty reasonable."

  "I'd hate to sleep in a veil," said Alf Reesling. "It's bad enough totry to sleep with a mustard poultice on your jaw, like I did last winterwhen I had that bad toothache. Doc Ellis says he never pulled a biggerer a stubborner tooth in all his experience than--"

  "I think you ought to investigate the Veiled Lady of Nixon Cottage,"said Harry Squires, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder."You can't tell what she's up to, Anderson. It wouldn't surprise me ifshe's a woman with a past. She may be using that veil as a disguise.What's more, there may be a price on her head. The country is full ofthese female spies, working tooth and nail for Germany. Suppose sheshould turn out to be that society woman the New York papers say theSecret Service men are chasing all over the country and can't find--theBaroness von Slipernitz."

  "What fer kind of a dog is that you got, Ed?" inquired Mr. Crow, calmlyignoring the suggestion.

  Mr. Higgins' new dog was enjoying a short nap in the middle of thesidewalk, after an apparently fatiguing effort to dislodge something inthe neighbourhood of his left ear.

  "Well," began Ed, eyeing the dog doubtfully, "all I know about him isthat he's a black dog. My wife has been sizin' him up for a day or two,figgerin' on having him clipped here and there to see if he can't bemade to look as respectable as that dog of Mrs. Smith. Hetty Adams hasclipped that Newfoundland dog of hers. Changed him something terrible.When I come across them on the street today, I declare I only recognizedhalf of him--an' I wouldn't have recognized that much if he hadn'twagged it at me. It beats all what women will do to keep up with thestyles."

  "I seen him today," said Mr. Spratt, "an' I never in all my life see adog that looked so mortified. I says to Hetty, says I: 'In the name o'Heaven, Hetty,' says I, 'what you been doin' to Shep?' An' she says:'I'd thank you, Newt Spratt, not to call my dog Shep. His name isEdgar.' So I says to Shep: 'Come here, Edgar--that's a good dog.' An' henever moved. Then I says: 'Hyah, Shep!' an' he almost jumped out of hishide, he was so happy to find somebody that knowed who he was. '_Edgar_,your granny!' says I to Hetty. 'What's the use of ruinin' a good dog bycalling him Edgar?' An' Hetty says: 'Come here, Edgar! Come here, Isay!' But Edgar, he never paid any attention to her. He just kep' ontryin' to lick my hand, an' so she hit him a clip with her parysol an'says: 'Edgar, must I speak to you again? Come here, I say! Behave like agentleman!' 'There ain't no dog livin' that's goin' to behave like agentleman if you call him names like that,' says I. 'It ain't humannature,' says I. An' just to prove it to her, I turned an' says to Shep:'Ain't that so, Shep, old sport?' An' what do you think that poor olddog done? He got right up on his hind legs and tried to kiss me."

  "No wonder she wants to call him Edgar," said Harry Squires. "That'sjust the kind of thing an Edgar sort of dog would do."

  "I was just going to say," said Mr. Crow, twisting his whiskersreflectively, "that maybe she does it because she's had smallpox, orbeen terribly scalded, or is cross-eyed, or something like that."

  Mr. Squires inwardly rejoiced. He knew that the seed had been planted inthe Marshal's fertile brain, that it would thrive in the night andsprout on the morrow. He saw delectable operations ahead; he was fond ofthe old man, but nothing afforded him greater entertainment than thefutile but vainglorious efforts of Anderson Crow to achieve renown as adetective.

  The reporter was a constant thorn in the side of Crow, who both lovedand feared him. The _Banner_ seldom appeared without some sarcasticadvice to the Marshal of Tinkletown, but an adjoining column invariablycontained something of a complimentary character, the one so adroitlyoffsetting the other that Mr. Crow never knew whether he was "afoot orhorseback," to quote him in his perplexity.

  Harry Squires had worked on a New York morning paper in his early days.His health failing him, he was compelled to abandon what might havebecome a really brilliant career as a journalist. Lean, sick anddisheartened, he came to Bramble County to spend the winter with an oldaunt, who lived among the pine-covered hills above the village ofTinkletown. That was twenty years ago. For nineteen years he had filledthe high-sounding post of city editor on the _Banner_. He alwaysmaintained that the most excruciating thing he had ever written was theline at the top of the first column of the so-called editorial page,which said: "City Editor--Harry Sylvester Squires." Nothing, he claimed,could be more provocative of hilarity than that.

  In his capacity as city editor, he wrote advertisements, personals,editorials, news-items, death-notices, locals and practically everythingelse in the paper except the poetry sent in by Miss Sue Becker. He evenwrote the cable and telegra
ph matter, always ascribing it to a "SpecialCorrespondent of the _Banner_." In addition to all this, he "made-up"the forms, corrected proof, wrote "heads," stood over the boy who ranthe press and stood over him when he wasn't running the press, took allthe blame and none of the credit for things that appeared in the paper,and once a week accepted currency to the amount of fifteen dollars as anhonorarium.

  Regarding himself as permanently buried in this out-of-the-way spot onthe earth's surface, he had the grim humour to write his own "obituary"and publish it in the columns of the _Banner_. He began it by sayingthat he was going to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but thetruth about the "deceased." He had written hundreds of obituaries duringhis career as city editor, he said, and not once before had he been atliberty to tell the truth. In view of the fact that he had no relationsto stop their subscriptions to the paper, he felt that for once in hislife he could take advantage of an opportunity to write exactly as hefelt about the deceased.

  He left out such phrases as "highly esteemed citizen," "nobility ofcharacter," "loss to the community," "soul of integrity" and other stockexpressions. At the end he begged to inform his friends that flowersmight be deposited at the _Banner_ office or at his room in Mrs. Camp'sboarding-house, as he was buried in both places. Buttonhole bouquetscould be pinned upon him any day by simply stopping his customaryfuneral procession about town. Such attentions should always beaccompanied by gentle words or exclamations of satisfaction, as forexample: "How natural you look!" or "You owed me ten dollars, but Iforgive you," or "It's a pity your friends allowed you to to be laidaway in a suit of clothes like that," or "I don't believe half thethings people said about you," or "It's a perfect shame you don't feellike resting in peace," or "Did you leave anything worth mentioning?" Healso suggested that he would rest much easier in his grave if a slightincrease in salary attended the obsequies.

  From this it may be gathered that Harry Squires was a man who made themost out of a very ordinary situation.

  * * * * *

  Marshal Crow's suggestion met with instant response. "On the other hand,Anderson, the lady may be as beautiful as the fabulous houri and asdevilish as Delilah. I don't want to take any steps in the matterwithout giving you your chance." He spoke darkly.

  Mr. Crow pricked up his ears. "What do you mean by that?"

  "As a newspaper man, I am determined to clear up the mystery of theVeiled Lady. If you persist in sitting around twiddling your thumbs andlooking like a primeval goat, I shall send to New York and engage adetective to work on the case exclusively for the _Banner_. The _Banner_is enterprising. We intend to give our subscribers the news, no matterwhat it costs. If you--"

  The Marshal swallowed the bait, hook and all. He arose from his chairand faced Mr. Squires. "I'll thank you, Harry Squires, to keep out ofthis. I didn't mean to say a word about it to you or anybody else untilI had gone a little further with my investigations, but now I've got tolet the cat out of the bag. I've been working day and night on her caseever since she came to town. Never mind, Newt--don't ask me. I'llannounce the result of my investigations at the proper time an' not aminute sooner. Now I guess I'll be moseyin' along. It's gettin' purtylate, an' I've got a lot of work to do before midnight."

  He started down the steps. Harry Squires leaned back in his chair andscratched a match on the leg of his trousers. By the time he raised thelighted match to the bowl of his pipe, the smile had left his lips.

  * * * * *

  An uneventful week passed. The Veiled Lady made her daily excursions inthe big high-powered car, pursued her now well-known domestic habits,retained her offensive aloofness, played games with the astoundingSnooks, suffered no ill effects whatsoever from the inimical glares ofthe natives; and above all, she continued to set the fashions inTinkletown.

  _The veiled lady made her daily excursions in the bighigh-powered car_]

  Mr. Crow stalked the streets early and late. He lurked behind thecorners of buildings; he peered sharply from the off-side of telephonepoles as the big limousine swept haughtily by. He patrolled the Nixonneighbourhood by day and haunted it by night. On occasion he might havebeen observed in the act of scrutinizing the tracks of the automobileover recently sprinkled streets.

  One evening, just after dusk,--after a sharp encounter with HarrySquires, who bluntly accused him of loafing on the job,--he saunteredpast the Nixon cottage. His soul was full of bitterness. He was baffled.Harry Squires was right; he had accomplished nothing--and what wasworse, he wasn't likely to accomplish anything. He sauntered back,casting furtive glances into the spacious front-yard, and concluded toease his restless legs by leaning against a tree and crossing them in anattitude of profound nonchalance. The tree happened to be almostdirectly in front of the Nixon gate. Not to seem actually employed inshadowing the house, he decided to pose with his back to the premises,facing down the street, twisting his whiskers in a most pensive manner.

  Suddenly a low, musical voice said:

  "Good evening!"

  Mr. Crow looked up into the thick foliage of the elm, then to the rightand left, and finally in the direction of the cottage, out of the cornerof his eye, after a sudden twist of the neck that caused him to wonderwhether he had sprained it.

  The Veiled Lady was standing at the gate. In the gathering darkness herfigure seemed abnormally tall.

  The Marshal hastily faced about and stared hard at the mystery.

  "Evening," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Then he lifted his hat acouple of inches from his head and replaced it at an entirely new angle,pulling the rim down so far over the left eye that the right eye alonewas visible. This shift of the hat instantly transformed him into afigure of speech; he became as "cunning as a fox." People in Tinkletownhad come to recognize this as an unfailing symptom of shrewdness on hispart. He always wore his hat like that when he was deep in the processof "ferreting something out."

  "Have I the honour of addressing Mr. Anderson Crow?" inquired the lady.

  "You have," said he succinctly.

  "Field Marshal Crow?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "Or is it Town Marshal? I am quite ignorant about titles."

  "That's the name I go by, ma'am."

  "Your name is very familiar to me. Are you in any way related to thegreat detective?"

  This was unexpected tribute. The only thing he could think up to saywas, "I'm him," and then, apologetically: "--unless some one's beenusin' my name without authority."

  "Are you actually the great Anderson Crow? Do you know, I have alwaysthought of you as a fictitious character--like _Sherlock Holmes_. Areyou really _real_? Do I look upon you in the flesh?"

  Mr. Crow was momentarily overwhelmed.

  "Oh, I--I guess I'm not much different from other men, ma'am. I'm nothalf as important as folks make me out to be."

  "How nice and modest you are! That is the true sign of greatness, Mr.Crow. I might have known that you would be simple."

  "Simple?" murmured Anderson, to whom the word had but one meaning. Hethought of Willie Jones, the village idiot.

  "'Simplicity, thou art a jewel,'" observed the Veiled Lady. "Will youpardon a somewhat leading question, Mr. Crow?"

  "Lead on," said he, still a trifle uncertain of himself.

  "Who is that man standing against the tree beside you? Is he a friend ofyours?"

  "Who is--is my what?"

  "Your companion. Now he has moved over behind the tree."

  Anderson shot a startled look over his shoulder.

  "There ain't any man behind the tree. I'm all alone."

  "Are you trying to make sport of me, Mr. Crow?"

  "I should say not. I been standin' here fer some time, an' I guess I'dknow if anybody was--"

  "Do you think I am blind?" demanded the lady quite sharply.

  "Not if you c'n see a man behind this tree," said he, with conviction."You got the best eyesight of anybody I ever come across--that's all Igot to say."

  "I s
ee him very distinctly."

  Anderson obligingly circled the tree.

  "Do you see him now?" he inquired in an amused tone.

  "Certainly. He walked around the tree just ahead of you."

  "What the--" began Anderson angrily, but checked the words in time. "Youare mistaken. There ain't no one here, 'cept me."

  "Is he one of your subordinates?" queried the woman, leaning forward inthe attitude of one peering intently.

  "Must be a shadow you're seein', ma'am," he suggested, and suddenly wasconscious of the queer sensation that some one _was_ on the oppositeside of the tree.

  "That's it!" she exclaimed eagerly. "A shadow! Aren't you detectivesalways shadowing some one?"

  "Yes, but we don't turn into shadows to do it, ma'am. We just--"

  "There he is! Standing directly behind you. What object can youpossibly have, Mr. Crow, in lying to me about--"

  "Lying?" gasped Anderson, after a swift, apprehensive glance over hisshoulder. "I'm tellin' you the gospel truth. Maybe that confoundedveil's botherin' your eyesight. Take it off, an' you'll see there ain'tno one--"

  "Ah! What a remarkable leap! He must be possessed of wings."

  Mr. Crow himself moved with such celerity that one might have describedthe movement as a leap. He was within a yard of her when he next spoke;his back was toward her, his eyes searching the darkness from which hehad sprung.

  "Good Lord! You--you'd think there _was_ some one there by the way youtalk."

  "He leaped from behind that tree to this one over here. It must bethirty feet. How perfectly amazing!"

  By this time the good Marshal was noticeably impressed. There was nodenying the fact that his voice shook.

  "_Now_ who's lying?" he cried out.

  She took no offence. Instead she pointed down the dark sidewalk. Itseemed to him that her arm was six feet long. He was fascinated by it.

  "Now he is climbing up the tree--just like a squirrel. Look!"

  Anderson felt the cold perspiration starting out all over his body.

  "I--I swear I can't see anybody at all," the Marshal croaked weakly.

  "Run over to that tree and look up, Mr. Crow," she whispered in greatagitation. "He is sitting on that big limb, looking at us--his eyes arelike little balls of fire. Send him away, please."

  Haltingly the Marshal edged his way toward the tree. Coming to its base,he peered upward. He saw nothing that resembled a human figure.

  "Be careful!" called out the Veiled Lady. "He is about to swing downupon your head. Hurry! There! Didn't you feel that?"

  Anderson Crow made a flying leap for safety. He had the uncanny feelingthat his hair was slowly lifting the hat from his head.

  "Feel--feel what?" he gasped.

  "He swung down by his hands and kicked at you. I was sure his footstruck your head. Ah! There he goes again. See him? He is climbing overmy wall--no, he is running along the top of it. Like the wind! And he--"

  "Good heavens! Am I--am I goin' blind?" groaned Mr. Crow, his eyesbulging.

  "Now he has disappeared behind the rosebushes down in the corner of thelot. He must be the same man I have seen--always about this time in theevening. If he isn't one of your men, Mr. Crow, who in Heaven's name ishe?"

  "You--you have seen him before?" murmured the Marshal, reaching up tomake sure that his hat was still in place.

  "Four or five times. Last night he climbed up and stood beside that bigchimney up there--silhouetted against the sky. He looked very tall--muchtaller than any ordinary man. The night before, he was out here on thelawn, jumping from bush to bush, for all the world like a harlequin.Once he actually leaped from the ground up to the roof of the porch, aseasily as you would spring--Where are you going, Mr. Crow?"

  "I--I thought I saw him runnin' down the street just now," said AndersonCrow, quickening his pace after a parting glance over his shoulder atthe tall lady in the gateway. "Maybe I can overtake him if I--if I--ButI guess I'd better hurry. He seems to be runnin' mighty fast."

  He was twenty feet away when she called after him, a note of warning inher voice:

  "You are mistaken! He is following you--he is right at your heels, Mr.Crow."

  * * * * *

  This was quite enough for Anderson Crow. He broke into a run. As heclattered past the lower end of the garden wall, a low, horrifyingchuckle fell upon his ears. It was not the laugh of a human being. Heafterwards described it as the chortle of a hyena--hoarse and wild andfull of ghoulish glee.

  Alf Reesling's house was two blocks down the street. Mr. Reesling wasgetting a bit of fresh air in his front yard. The picket gate was open,probably to let in the air, and he was leaning upon one of the posts.His attention was attracted by the sound of approaching footsteps.Almost before he knew what had happened, they were receding. Andersonswept past; his chin up, his legs working like piston-rods.

  The astonished Alf recognized his friend and adviser.

  "Hey!" he shouted.

  It was a physical impossibility for Anderson to slacken his speed. Atthe same time, it was equally impossible for him to increase it. Alf,scenting excitement, set out at top speed behind him, shouting all thetime.

  Pursued and pursuer held their relative positions until they roundedinto Main Street. Reaching the zone of light--and safety--produced byshow-windows and open doors, the Marshal put on the brakes and ventureda glance over his shoulder. Alf, lacking the incentive that spurredAnderson, lagged some distance behind. A second glance reassured theMarshal. Alf was lumbering heavily past Brubaker's drugstore, fullyrevealed.

  Observing an empty chair on the sidewalk in front of Jackson'scigar-store, Mr. Crow directed his slowing footsteps toward it. Heflopped down with an abruptness that almost dismembered it. He wasfanning himself with his hat when Alf came up.

  Alf leaned against the wooden Indian that guarded the portals. Presentlyhe wheezed:

  "Wha--what's--all--the--rumpus?"

  Instead of replying, Mr. Crow pressed his hand to his heart and shookhis head.

  "Take your time," advised Alf sympathetically; whereupon Anderson noddedhis head.

  Sim Jackson ambled to the front door, and Mort Fryback hobbled acrossthe street from his hardware store. Lum Gillespie dropped the hose withwhich he was sousing an automobile in front of his garage and approachedthe group.

  In less than three minutes all of the nighthawks of Main Street weregathered about Anderson Crow, convinced that something unusual was inthe air despite his protests.

  Suddenly the Marshal's manner changed. He swept the considerable groupwith an appraising eye, and then in a tone of authority said:

  "Now that I've got you all together, I hereby order you in my capacityas an official of the State and county, to close up your stores an'consider yourselves organized into a posse. You will close up immejatelyan' report to me here, ready for active work."

  * * * * *

  Shortly after ten o'clock a group of fifteen or eighteen menmoved silently away from Jackson's cigar-store, led by theircommander-in-chief. He was flanked on one side by Bill Kepsal, thebrawny blacksmith, and on the other by Sim Jackson, who happened topossess a revolver.

  After the posse had turned into the unrelieved shades of Maple Street,Mr. Crow halted every few yards and said: "Sh!"

  He had related a portion but not all of his experiences, winding up withthe statement that poor Mrs. Smith had been terribly frightened by themysterious prowler, and that it was their duty as citizens to put an endto his activities if possible.

  "Her description of him don't fit anybody livin' in this town," he hadsaid during the course of his narrative. "We ain't got anybody who c'njump thirty foot, or who c'n shin up a chimbly like a squirrel. Younever saw anybody as quick as he is, either. Supposin' you think you seehim standin' right beside you. Zip! Before you could blink an eye, he'sover there in front of Mort's store--just like that. Or up a tree!Spryest cuss I ever laid eyes on. Made me think of a ghost."

&nb
sp; "Ghost?" said Newt Spratt, pausing in the act of rolling up his sleeves.

  "You say you saw him, Anderson?" inquired Alf Reesling.

  "Course I did. Tall feller with--"

  "And the lady saw him too?"

  "She saw him first, I been tellin' you. She seemed to be able to seequicker'n I could, 'cause she saw nearly every move he made. Myeyesight ain't as good as it used to be, an' besides, she could seeplainer from where she stood. Come on now--no time to waste. We got topost ourselves all around the place an'--an' nab him if he shows himselfagain. All you fellers have got to do is to obey orders."

  * * * * *

  At the corner of Maple and Sickle streets, a few hundred feet from theNixon cottage, the cavalcade received a whispered order to halt. TheMarshal, enjoining the utmost stealth, instructed his men where to placethemselves about the grounds they were soon to invest from variousapproaches. After stealing over the stone wall, they were to crawlforward on hands and knees until each man found a hiding-place behind abush or flower-bed. There he was to wait and watch. The first glimpse ofthe mysterious intruder was to be the signal for a shout of alarm;whereupon the whole posse was to close in upon him without an instant'sdelay.

  In course of time, the posse successfully debouched upon the lawn andoccupied crouching positions behind various objects of nature. Theminutes slowly consolidated themselves into half an hour; they werepretty well started on the way toward the three-quarter mark, and stillno sign of the sprightly stranger. Lights were gleaming behind theyellow shades of the downstairs window in the cottage; through theJapanese curtains enveloping the veranda a dull, restricted glow forcedits way out upon the bordering flower-beds.

  Suddenly out of what had become an almost sepulchral silence, came thesound of a woman's voice. The words she uttered were so startling thatthe listeners felt the flesh on their bones creep.

  "But wouldn't poisoning be the surer and quicker way? Slip a few dropsof prussic acid into his food, and death would be instantaneous."

  Marshal Crow clutched Bill Kepsal's arm. "Did you hear that?" hewhispered. She had spoken in hushed, quavering tones.

  Then came a man's voice from the porch above, low and suppressed.

  "Why not wait till he is asleep and let me sneak up to him and put therevolver to his head--"

  "But--but suppose he should awake and--"

  "He'll never open his eyes again, believe me. Poison isn't always sureto work quickly or thoroughly. We don't want a struggle."

  "You may be right. I--I leave it to you."

  "Good! The sooner the better, then. If we do it at once, Francois andHenry can bury him before morning. I think--"

  "I cannot bear to talk about it. Creep in and see if he is asleep. Don'tmake the slightest noise. He--he must never know!"

  Stealthy footsteps, as of one tiptoeing, were heard by the listenersbelow the porch. Then, a moment later, the sound of a woman sobbing.

  The foregoing conversation was distinctly heard by at least half ofMarshal Crow's posse. Three of the watchers, crouching not far fromAnderson Crow and his two supporters, abruptly left their hiding-placesand started swiftly toward the front gate. The Marshal intercepted them.

  "Where are you going?" he whispered, grabbing the foremost, who happenedto be Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer.

  "I was sure I saw that feller you were telling about skipping downtoward the street," whispered Mr. Pratt, his voice shaking. "I'm goingafter him. I--"

  "Keep still! Stay where you are. Alf, you round up the boys--collect 'emup here, quiet as possible. We got to prevent this terrible murder. Youheard what they were plottin' to do. Surround the house. Close everyavenue of escape. Three or four of us will bust in through the porchan'--You stay with me, Sim, an' you too, Bill. Get your pistol ready,Sim. When I give the word--foller me! Where's Alf? Is he surrounding thehouse? Sh! Don't speak!"

  * * * * *

  Shadowy figures began scuttling about the lawn, darting from bush tobush, advancing upon the house.

  "Now--get ready, Sim," whispered Anderson.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when a dull, smothered report,as of one striking the side of a barrel, reached the ears of theassembling forces. Then a sharp, agonized cry from the lady in theveranda.

  "Too late!" cried the Marshal, and dashed clumsily up the front steps,followed by four or five of his henchmen.

  Yanking open the screen-door, he plunged headlong into the softlylighted veranda. Behind him came Sim Jackson, brandishing a revolver,and Bill Kepsal, clutching the hammer he had brought from his forge.

  _Yanking open the screen-door, he plunged headlong intothe softly lighted veranda_]

  They stopped short. A woman in a filmy white gown, cut extremely low inthe neck, confronted them, an expression of alarm in her wide dark eyes.She was very beautiful. They had never seen any one so beautiful, sostriking, or so startlingly dressed. She had just arisen from thecomfortable wicker chair beside the table, the surface of which waslittered with magazines, papers and documents in all sorts of disorder.

  "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she demanded, recovering hercomposure after the first instant of alarm.

  Mr. Crow found his voice. "Surrender peaceable," he said. "I've got youcompletely surrounded. Won't do any good to resist. My men areeverywhere. Your partner will be shot down if he--"

  "Why, you--you old goose!" cried out the lady, and forthwith burst intoa merry peal of laughter.

  The Marshal stiffened.

  "That kind of talk won't--" he began, and then broke off to roar: "Quityour laughin'! You won't be gigglin' like that when you're settin' inthe 'lectric chair. Hustle inside there, men! Take her paramour, dead oralive!"

  "Oh, what a stupendous situation!" cried the beautiful lady, her eyesdancing. "You really are a darling, Mr. Crow--a perfect, old dear.You--"

  "None o' that now--none o' that!" Mr. Crow warned, taking a stepbackward. "Won't do you any good to talk sweet to me. I've got the goodson you. A dozen witnesses have heard you plottin' to murder. Throw upyour hands! Up with 'em! Now, keep 'em up! _An' stop laughin'!_ You'llsoon find out you can't murder a man in cold blood, even if he is atrespasser on your property. You can't go around killin'--Say, where isMrs. Smith? Where's the lady of the house?"

  "I am the lady of the house, Mr. Crow," said the lady, performing agraceful Delsartian movement with her long bare arms. Mr. Crow and hiscompanions stared upward at her arms as if fascinated. "I am Mrs.Smith--Mrs. John Smith."

  "I guess not," said Anderson sharply. "She wears a veil, asleep an'awake. Hold on! Put your hands down! She's signalin' somebody, sure asyou're alive," he burst out, turning to the group of mouth-sagging,eye-roving gentlemen who followed every graceful curve and twist ofthose ivory arms. "What's the matter with you, Sim? Didn't I order youto go in there an' grab that bloody assassin? What--"

  "Not on your life! He's got a gun," exclaimed Sim Jackson. "S'pose I'mgoin' in there, an'--Oh, fer gosh sake!"

  A man appeared in the door leading to the interior of the house.

  "For the love o' Mike!" issued from the lips of the newcomer. "What inthunder--what's all this?"

  It was Harry Squires.

  He gazed open-mouthed, first at the beautiful, convulsed lady, and thenat the huddled group of men.

  "We are caught red-handed, Mr. Squires," said the beautiful lady. "Shallwe go to the electric chair hand in hand?"

  A slow grin began to reach out from the corners of Harry's mouth as ifits intention was to connect with his ears.

  "My God, Harry--you ain't mixed up in this murder?" bleated Anderson.

  The old man's dismay was so genuine, his distress so pitiful, that theheart of Harry Squires was touched. His face sobered at once. Steppingforward, he held out his hand to the Marshal.

  "Good old Anderson! It's all right. Buck up, old top! I'm sorry to saythat blood has been shed here tonight. Come with me; I'll show you thecorpse."


  Mr. Crow was not to be caught napping. "Some of you fellers stay herean' guard this woman. Don't let her get away."

  * * * * *

  A few minutes later he stood beside Harry Squires in the cellar belowthe kitchen. There was a smell of gunpowder on the close, still air.They looked down upon the black, inanimate form of the French poodle.

  "There, Mr. Hawkshaw," said Harry, "there lies all that is mortal of thefinest little gentleman that ever wore a collar. Take off your hat,Sim--and you too, Bill--all of you. You are standing in the presence ofdeath. Behold in me the assassin. I am the slayer of yon grisly corpse.Shackle me, Mr. Marshal. Lead me to the gallows. I am the guilty party."

  Marshal Crow took off his hat with the rest--but he did it the better tomop his forehead.

  "Do you mean to tell me there ain't been any man slew in this house?" heinquired slowly.

  "Up to the hour of going to press," said the city editor of the_Banner_, "no human remains have been unearthed."

  "Then, where in thunder is the feller who's been foolin' around Mrs.Smith's front yard, the--"

  "Last I saw of him he was beating it down the street about two hoursago, and you were giving him the run of his life. I don't believe therascal will ever dare come around here again. The chances are he's stillrunning."

  The Marshal muttered something under his breath, and shot a pleadinglook at Harry.

  "Yes, sir," continued Harry solemnly, "I'll bet my head he'll never beseen in these parts again."

  "If he hadn't got such a start of me," said Anderson, regaining much ofhis aplomb, "I'd 'a nabbed him, sure as you're alive. He could run likea whitehead. I never seen such--"

  "Shall we go upstairs, gentlemen, and relieve the pressure on MissHildebrand? She is, I may say, the principal mourner, poor lady."

  "Miss Who?"

  "Gentlemen, the lady up there is no other than the celebrated actress,Juliet Hildebrand. The Veiled Lady and she are one and the same. Beforewe retire from this spot, let me explain that Mr. Snooks, the deceased,was run over by her automobile an hour or so ago. His back was broken. Imerely put an end to his suffering. Now come--"

  "Mister Snooks?" inquired Anderson quickly. "Well, that solves one ofthe mysteries that's been botherin' me. An'--an' you say she's the bigactress whose picture we see in the papers every now an' again?"

  "The same, Mr. Crow. She has done me the honour to accept a play that Ihave been guilty of writing. She came up here to go over it with mebefore putting it into rehearsal, and incidentally to enjoy a month'svacation after a long and prosperous season in New York."

  "Do you mean to say you've knowed all along who she was?" demandedAnderson. "Been comin' up here to see her every night or so, I suppose."

  "More or less."

  "That settles it!" said the Marshal sternly. "You are under arrest, sir.Have you got anybody to bail you out, er are you goin' to spend thenight in the lock-up?"

  "What's the charge, Mr. Hawkshaw?" inquired Harry, amiably.

  "Practisin' without a dicense."

  "Practising what?" asked Harry.

  "Jokes!" roared Anderson gleefully, and slapped him on the back.

  * * * * *

  Again the Marshal slapped the culprit's back. "Yes, sir, the joke's onme. I admit it. I'll set up the seegars for everybody here. Sim, send abox of them 'Uncle Tom' specials round to my office first thing in themornin'. Yes, sir, Harry, my boy, you certainly caught me nappin' goodand plenty. Tain't often I git--"

  "If you don't mind, Anderson," interrupted Elmer K. Pratt, "I'll take anickel's worth of chewin'-tobacco. My wife don't like me to smoke aroundthe house."

  "Gentlemen," said Harry Squires, "there are a few bottles of beer in theicebox, and the cook will make all the cheese and ham sandwiches we caneat. I am sure Miss Hildebrand will be happy to have you partake ofher--"

  "Hold on a minute, Harry," broke in the Marshal hastily. His face was astudy. The painfully created joviality came to a swift and uncomfortableend, and in its place flashed a look of embarrassment. He simplycouldn't face the smiling Miss Hildebrand.

  "If it's all the same to you," he went on, lowering his voice andglancing furtively over his shoulder at the departing members of hisposse, "I guess I'll go out the back way." Seeing the surprised look-onHarry's face, he floundered badly for a moment or two, and thenconcluded with the perfectly good excuse that it was his duty to leadAlf Reesling, the one-time town drunkard, away from temptation. Insupport of this resolve, he called out to Alf: "Come here, Alf. None o'that, now! You come along with me."

  "I ain't goin' to touch anything but a ham sandwich," protested Alf withconsiderable asperity.

  "Never mind! You do what I tell you, or I'll run you in. Remember, yougot a wife an' daughter, an'--"

  "Inasmuch as Alf has been on the water-wagon for twenty-seven years, Mr.Marshal, I think you can trust him--" began Harry, but Anderson checkedhim with a resolute gesture.

  "Can't take any chances with him. He's got to come with me."

  "Nonsense!" exclaimed Harry.

  "An' besides," said Anderson, "a man in my position can't afford to beseen associatin' with actresses--an' you know it, Harry Squires. Comeon, Alf!"