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:
“Dammit, W’itcher,” cut in his old crony testily, “y’ might not ’a’ said it ’n so many words, but y’ — aw, y’ sure more’n hinted it ’n that way y’ got o’ sayin’ things. Like… like askin’ their p’rmission t’ take some photys — ’n’ a tellin’ ’bout that caption under pictures o’ Here’s W’ere the Criminal Walked — ’n’—”
“Gosh… gosh!”
The sheriff of Noel’s Landing put so much vim into the words, so much utter surprise, that it caused the postmaster, it appeared, to almost feel that he was on the wrong track:
“W’y… w’y,” went on Bemis, looking like a hurt child, “y’ ain’t… y’ ain’t ’n-timatin’ I… I had me w’ot they term ulterior motives’n takin’ them pictures, are y’? I — lawsy, Del, cussed’f I ain’t the mos’ wrong on-derstood feller I ever knowed! Judas Priest, but can’t I snap me a couple o’ snapshots ’thout folks thinkin’ I got suthin’ up m’ sleeve?”
Mr. Noel, for an instant — oh, for the barest fraction of a second, explicitly — seemed as if he were practically convinced; immediately, however, the experience of many long years came along and got the better of him.
“No, sir. No, sirree, Bob,” he vigorously shook his head, “I ain’t aimin’ t’ be tricked this time, Mr. W’itcher Bemis. I know me’n’ Jeff’n’ Walt ’n’ some o’ the boys has stood with y’ f’r years, but cussed ’f y’ ain’t a mighty hard trial sometimes.
“Gittin’ harder ’n’ harder t’ git votes ag’in’ that dummed Ned Hutchins, it be, with all the fellers he’s got workin’ f’r him, ’n’ w’en y’ act this way like y’re a tryin’t’ find a crime w’ere no crime be, it — well, it sure don’t do y’ no good ’roun’ ’lection. ’F y’ can’t think o’ y’rself, y’ might try t’ think o’ the party!”
He paused and looked exceedingly righteous and loyal and dignified, did the honest Del — but Bemis shook his head and uttered a most lugubrious sigh.
“Trouble with bein’ a good dee-tective, that is. Every one allus thinks a body can’t do nuthin’ else but think o’ solvin’ crimes ’n’ all sech things.
“Lawsy, tried t’ git me some pictures, I was, t’ sell t’ them daily events sheets ’n the noospapers. Hankerin’ t’ pick me up ’nough money, I were, t’ buy me p’r-’aps mebbe that there early Bermuda stamp t’ c’mplete a’ issue, ’r else—”
“Dammit, W’itcher,” the other spat out in exasperation, “I won’t stand f’r none o’ this hedgin’ ’n’ hedgin’. I’m a sayin’ y’re hurtin’ y’rself ’n’ y’re hurtin’ the party. They wa’n’t no call f’r t’ act that funny way up there, jest t’ be smart.
“Poor Gus Borden may be a newcomer t’ these parts, managin’ t’ sort o’ struggle ’long — but folks don’t like t’ see a man hit w’en he’s down, ’specially w’en they ain’t no reason f’r t’ go ’n’—
“Who said they wa’n’t no reason?” asked Bemis quietly, rubbing at his lip as he gazed up at the ceiling with that aimless, wandering stare he so frequently assumed.
“Y’… y’ mean y’ know suthin’ ’bout that fire?” Del Noel got out hoarsely.
His old friend came down to earth, although a trifle slowly. His face clouded with annoyance, but then this expression was immediately followed by one of good-natured, beaming whimsicality.
“Sakes alive, Del, w’ot d’ y’ mean ’bout a fire?” he chuckled heartily. “Shucks, I meaned they was a reason f’r m’ takin’ them pictures, I did.
“You ’member that noospaper feller was here fr’m Boston f’r the salmon fishin’ last spring — God… Goddard, yeah, that were his name. Well, he tol’ me any time I seen anythin’ int’restin’ t’ snap it ’n’ let him have it. Well, strikes me that fire ’ud make a good ’un.
“Farmer’s Bam Striked by Lightnin’ Razed t’ the Groun’ — ’r suthin’ like that. Anyways, I’d be thankful t’ git me ’nough f’r that Bermuda stamp, ’r that Internal Revenue, p’r’aps mebbe a Turks Island I—”
“Aw, gosh, W’itcher, stop that nonsense ’n’—”
“Nonsense? Sh’u’d say it be nonsense — the way all you fellers a pester ’n’ a pester a body. Judas Priest, do I go me troutin’ some’un allus has t’ up ’n’ c’mplain, ’n’ w’en I traipse me out f’r birdin’, gosh knows, it’s even wuss, ’n’ now w’en I try t’ git me int’rested ’n pictures y—”
He hesitated for a moment, his round face with his big china blue eyes looking almost pathetic:
“Gosh, trout season’s over, ain’t it? Bird season ain’t here yet, be it? Damn this middle o’ September time, anyways — ain’t not a thing f’r a feller t’ do. ’N’ w’en I try t’ pick me up a new hobby — a hobby that might be w’ot they term lu — lucrative, too, y’ begin t’ pick ’n me ’n’—”
But what’s the use? When the sheriff of Noel’s Landing did not desire to lay bare his soul, as the phrase has it, no living human being could make him do it. He talked on about troutin’ ’n’ birdin’, ’n’ philat’ly ’n’ photography, until poor Del himself was forced to beat a retreat down to the store.
IV
If Whitcher Bemis occasionally drove his stanchest friends and firmest political adherents nearly mad, it is likewise true that he not infrequently exercised this same deplorable effect on various other people with whom he came in contact.
In this case, specifically, it seemed as if Myra and Augustus Borden were to be what is quite universally known as the goats.
He was back at their place, again surveying the ruins of the old barn, shortly after sunup the next morning — at just about the same hour, to be exact, when he had taken the pictures on the previous day.
He wanted, he rather sheepishly confessed, to see if in the excitement of the fire he had failed to take his snapshots from the best possible angles.
Mighty careful he intended to be, he confided to both Myra and Augustus Borden, about all little details — all minute details, p’r’aps mebbe he should say.
Yep, now that he was thinking of taking up this picture business for the papers he wasn’t going to let no mistake trip him up. Glad he’d come back, he was. See, he did, where he’d forgot a view he’d ought to of took yesterday.
There was, oddly and happily enough for all, a decided change in the attitude of the folks from Hallowell — or a decided change, it would be better to say, in Gus himself.
Myra seemed the same patient, tired-faced, hurt-eyed woman as always — more so, perhaps — who always looked to her husband for initiative; Borden, however, had lost some of his sullenness and belligerency, actually conveying the impression that he was glad to have Whitcher about.
Certainly, at least, he put himself out to be agreeable, even going to the trouble of insisting that the sheriff come inside and have some coffee when Bemis had merely gone to the kitchen door and asked for a tumbler of water. Yes, he positively smiled a few times, did Borden, and when Bemis left the property the two appeared to be quite friendly.
Mr. Bemis indeed, was so friendly that he dropped around to the Borden farm again the very next a.m. He did not, this time, come alone, but brought along a keen-faced, keen-eyed man whose city clothes stamped him as not being a native.
Gus, Mrs. Borden hastened to tell them, was not at home; he was, at the moment, off helping a neighbor mend some rail fence a few miles up the road.