Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927
- Автор: Alexander R. W., Ames John
- Год: 1927
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927». Краткое содержание книги:
“Say, Jeff. Help a toiler out, will y’? ’Fraid ’f I leave here, m’self, I’ll… well, I’ll f’rgit me jest how these pictures sh’u’d ought t’ be took. I… shucks, Jeff, hop ’n m’ flivver ’n’ chug her down t’m’ house ’n’ git me m’ camery, will y’? Top o’ m’ desk, it be. Right here’s the keys!”
Yes, he was a good friend, was Jeff Moseby — one of the rare type who do a favor without asking why or wherefore or trying to tell of a better way in which it might be accomplished.
This being so, he took the keys without a word, and in another moment he had cranked up the flivver and departed.
“Gosh… gosh,” mused Bemis, blinking after the car, “dunno’s I sh’u’d ’a’ ’lowed Jeff t’ git me that picture-box, at that. Noo-fangled one, she be. Takes more things — more objec’s, I mean — th’n any other camerys. Noo invention, sort o’. Neg’tive ’n’ lens’s—”
The sheriff of Noel’s Landing, however, broke off. He seemed to be flushing — flushing as a man does who is angry because he has realized he has possibly spoken too much about private matters. And again, rather odd to relate, he took out his anger — or his spleen, at least — on Augustus Borden.
“Ain’t got no objections t’ m’ takin’ a few pictures, I s’pose, have y’?” he asked. He did not, however, put the query in a natural and pleasant tone; his voice, instead, was decidedly belligerent, and so was the glare in his eyes.
The farmer originally from down Hallowell way seemed puzzled — very much puzzled. The little frown on his brow and the slightly worried look in his eyes plainly told that he didn’t know what it was all about, just as the sudden grim set of his lips explained that he had made his decision not to be angered into a fuss. His words came with restraint:
“Reckon I can’t stop y’ takin’ pictures, sheriff; reckon I don’t care if y’ do or not!”
“Hmmm… hmmm. Sure o’ that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, all right,” replied Borden, looking tired of the whole business.
“Hmmm… hmmm!”
Bemis, this time, got that far-away expression in his eyes, after grunting, and allowed the thumb and index finger of his right hand to go to his huge lip with his characteristic gesture. Fondling it, he turned and faced the wan-featured Myra Borden, and when he yanked it out and let it go hurriedly back with a sharp report he snapped out an equally sharp question at the woman:
“You got any objections t’ havin’ me take pictures?”
She seemed frightened at that, and jumped back with a little gasp, her eyes turning to her husband. He, his sullen face further darkening, again looked as if he might try to attack the sheriff.
This time, however, he regained control of himself without any outside aid, and he spoke with what was close to a petulant whine:
“Aw… aw, cripes, sheriff, what is this durned fool picture thing? I mean… I mean ain’t I said I ain’t got no objections?”
“ ’Gustus Borden,” replied Whitcher, using his most official and pompous tone, “I got t’ remin’ y’ I wa’n’t speakin’ t’ you — speakin’ t’ y’r wife, I were! Got t’ remin’ y’, too, that I got me a ’ficial priv’lege, do I hanker t’ use it, t’ ask any question o’ any one!”
Finishing, he turned his back on the farmer from Hallowell and again faced the woman. His voice was quite stern:
“You got any objections, m’am?”
“I… I… ho, Mr. Sheriff, I… I guess I ain’t, just like Gus says,” she managed to get out, her hurt eyes looking more hurt as she clutched her shabby wrap more tightly about her throat.
“Hmmm… hmmm! Well—”
“Great Scott, W’itcher, what’s all this a pesterin’ a woman about takin’ a fool picture mean, anyways?” cut in one of the younger element who had probably had a sudden touch of chivalry.
But before Bemis could answer — or before Chet and Boyce could get going on some bright repartee it was apparent they had been on the verge of commencing — Jeff Moseby clattered noisily up in the flivver and came to a grinding halt.
III
The folk of Noel’s Landing still talk — oh, and they undoubtedly will for a long time — about that hectic photographic spree on which Bemis went.
They say that he used up precisely four packs of film, again having to call on Jeff Moseby to take the flivver and go down to Del’s store at the Landing.
He took numerous views, from every possible angle, of the one remaining wall of the barn, although nobody could fathom what sort of news value this jagged, charred thing could have; he insisted, too, on getting various exposures of the house itself, always snapping them from the ruins of the fire.
Indeed, he even went to the length of carefully procuring a negative of the trodden path that led from the dwelling to the barn — and when twitted about the why of this it was the only question he deigned to answer:
“Shucks, boys,” he said aggrievedly, “ain’t y’ seen in them picture pages ’n the papers, sometimes, a’ arrow pointin’ down mebbe t’ a path, ’n’ havin’ ’xplainin’ words like — aw, like: ‘This Here Path ’S the One Took by the Crim’nal W’en He—’ ”
The sheriff, however, broke off — broke off and looked apologetically at Augustus Borden.
“I… I mean, Borden, I — shucks, you know w’ot I mean, I guess, Borden. Heap livelier place, Hallowell were. Seen more papers w’en y’ was there, I cal’late. You know how they put them… them — I guess w’ot y’ call them captions under noos pictures. I… yessir, I got t’ git me every pos’ble view them fellers might want!”
Without waiting for an answer, he had gone back to more clicking of the camera, nor did he leave the premises until he had used up the very last exposure on his very last roll of film.
He refused to pay any more attention whatsoever to the quizzing his audience gave him — refused, even; to defend himself against the jibes of Chet and Boyce — but when he drove up to Del Noel’s general store and post office at the Landing he found it impossible to escape.
Del, being his oldest and best friend in the world, simply insisted on getting the sheriff up to the living quarters above the store and putting matters plainly to him.
“Lookit here, W’itcher — lookit here. I been gittin’ the durndest talk ’bout y’r actions ’n’ words, up t’ the Borden fire, I ever heered tell.
“W’ot ’n tarnation y’ tryin’t’ do, anyways? I don’t mean this comes fr’m jest Chet ’n’ Boyce, neither — I mean Jeff ’n’ Walt ’n’ a couple other o’ the boys has went ’n’ mentioned it.
“Say y’ hinted like y’ thought they were suthin’ queer ’bout that fire; says y’ achally went ’n’ dumned near accused Gus Borden o’ havin’ committed ar… ar — what they call arson, ain’t it, a settin’ his own place up ’n flames? I… Judas Priest, W’itcher, that’s cussed serious business!”
Mr. Bemis looked solemn. He blinked, and then his eyes went very wide as he nursed his nether lip.
“Blamed right it’s serious business t’ go ’n’ accuse a man o’ arson, Del. But, shucks… shuckes, Del — w’ot y’ talkin’ ’bout. I didn’ say nuthin’ like that; I didn’—”