of the New York Detective Association, which for obvious reasons,--it
being a very hot night,--was attached to his suspenders.
"She deduced it through a keyhole," replied Mr. Squires. "Angie was up
at the cottage last night to get something she had left in an upstairs
hall closet. She just happened to stoop over to pick up something on the
floor 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 she
tried to do it. Her left ear happened to stop not more than half an inch
from the keyhole. She just couldn't help hearing what Mrs. Smith said to
her maid. Angie says she said, plain as anything: 'You couldn't blame me
for sitting up all night, if you had to sleep in a thing like this.' She
didn't hear anything more, because she hates eavesdropping. Besides, she
thought she heard the maid walking toward the door. Now, what do you
make 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 that
remark significant?"
"I am a friend of Mrs. Nixon's, an' I must decline to criticize her
beds," 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 that
she was referring to something else? The veil, for instance?"
"Sounds reasonable," said Newt Spratt, and then, after due
reflection,--"mighty reasonable."
"I'd hate to sleep in a veil," said Alf Reesling. "It's bad enough to
try to sleep with a mustard poultice on your jaw, like I did last winter
when I had that bad toothache. Doc Ellis says he never pulled a bigger
er 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 if
she'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 of
these female spies, working tooth and nail for Germany. Suppose she
should turn out to be that society woman the New York papers say the
Secret Service men are chasing all over the country and can't find--the
Baroness von Slipernitz."
"What fer kind of a dog is that you got, Ed?" inquired Mr. Crow, calmly
ignoring the suggestion.
Mr. Higgins' new dog was enjoying a short nap in the middle of the
sidewalk, after an apparently fatiguing effort to dislodge something in
the neighbourhood of his left ear.
"Well," began Ed, eyeing the dog doubtfully, "all I know about him is
that 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 be
made to look as respectable as that dog of Mrs. Smith. Hetty Adams has
clipped that Newfoundland dog of hers. Changed him something terrible.
When I come across them on the street today, I declare I only recognized
half of him--an' I wouldn't have recognized that much if he hadn't
wagged it at me. It beats all what women will do to keep up with the
styles."
"I seen him today," said Mr. Spratt, "an' I never in all my life see a
dog 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 is
Edgar.' So I says to Shep: 'Come here, Edgar--that's a good dog.' An' he
never moved. Then I says: 'Hyah, Shep!' an' he almost jumped out of his
hide, 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 by
calling him Edgar?' An' Hetty says: 'Come here, Edgar! Come here, I
say!' But Edgar, he never paid any attention to her. He just kep' on
tryin' 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 a
gentleman!' 'There ain't no dog livin' that's goin' to behave like a
gentleman if you call him names like that,' says I. 'It ain't human
nature,' 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 old
dog 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's
just the kind of thing an Edgar sort of dog would do."
"I was just going to say," said Mr. Crow, twisting his whiskers
reflectively, "that maybe she does it because she's had smallpox, or
been terribly scalded, or is cross-eyed, or something like that."
Mr. Squires inwardly rejoiced. He knew that the seed had been planted in
the Marshal's fertile brain, that it would thrive in the night and
sprout on the morrow. He saw delectable operations ahead; he was fond of
the old man, but nothing afforded him greater entertainment than the
futile but vainglorious efforts of Anderson Crow to achieve renown as a
detective.
The reporter was a constant thorn in the side of Crow, who both loved
and feared him. The _Banner_ seldom appeared without some sarcastic
advice to the Marshal of Tinkletown, but an adjoining column invariably
contained something of a complimentary character, the one so adroitly
offsetting the other that Mr. Crow never knew whether he was "afoot or
horseback," 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 have
become a really brilliant career as a journalist. Lean, sick and
disheartened, he came to Bramble County to spend the winter with an old
aunt, who lived among the pine-covered hills above the village of
Tinkletown. That was twenty years ago. For nineteen years he had filled
the high-sounding post of city editor on the _Banner_. He always
maintained that the most excruciating thing he had ever written was the
line 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 everything
else in the paper except the poetry sent in by Miss Sue Becker. He even
wrote the cable and telegraph matter, always ascribing it to a "Special
Correspondent of the _Banner_." In addition to all this, he "made-up"
the forms, corrected proof, wrote "heads," stood over the boy who ran
the press and stood over him when he wasn't running the press, took all
the 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 an
honorarium.
Regarding himself as permanently buried in this out-of-the-way spot on
the 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 saying
that he was going to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth about the "deceased." He had written hundreds of obituaries during
his career as city editor, he said, and not once before had he been at
liberty to tell the truth. In view of the fact that he had no relations
to stop their subscriptions to the paper, he felt that for once in his
life he could take advantage of an opportunity to write exactly as he
felt about the deceased.
He left out such phrases as "highly esteemed citizen," "nobility of
character," "loss to the community," "soul of integrity" and other stock
expressions. At the end he begged to inform his friends that flowers
might be deposited at the _Banner_ office or at his room in Mrs. Camp's
boarding-house, as he was buried in both places. Buttonhole bouquets
could be pinned upon him any day by simply stopping his customary
funeral procession about town. Such attentions should always be
accompanied by gentle words or exclamations of satisfaction, as for
example: "How natural you look!" or "You owed me ten dollars, but I
forgive you," or "It's a pity your friends allowed you to to be laid
away in a suit of clothes like that," or "I don't believe half the
things people said about you," or "It's a perfect shame you don't feel
like resting in peace," or "Did you leave anything worth mentioning?" He
also suggested that he would rest much easier in his grave if a slight
increase in salary attended the obsequies.
From this it may be gathered that Harry Squires was a man who made the
most 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 as
devilish as Delilah. I don't want to take any steps in the matter
without 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 the
Veiled Lady. If you persist in sitting around twiddling your thumbs and
looking like a primeval goat, I shall send to New York and engage a
detective to work on the case exclusively for the _Banner_. The _Banner_
is enterprising. We intend to give our subscribers the news, no matter
what it costs. If you--"
The Marshal swallowed the bait, hook and all. He arose from his chair
and faced Mr. Squires. "I'll thank you, Harry Squires, to keep out of
this. I didn't mean to say a word about it to you or anybody else until
I had gone a little further with my investigations, but now I've got to
let the cat out of the bag. I've been working day and night on her case
ever since she came to town. Never mind, Newt--don't ask me. I'll
announce the result of my investigations at the proper time an' not a
minute sooner. Now I guess I'll be moseyin' along. It's gettin' purty
late, an' I've got a lot of work to do before midnight."
He started down the steps. Harry Squires leaned back in his chair and
scratched a match on the leg of his trousers. By the time he raised the
lighted match to the bowl of his pipe, the smile had left his lips.
* * * * *
An uneventful week passed. The Veiled Lady made her daily excursions in
the big high-powered car, pursued her now well-known domestic habits,
retained her offensive aloofness, played games with the astounding
Snooks, suffered no ill effects whatsoever from the inimical glares of
the natives; and above all, she continued to set the fashions in
Tinkletown.
[Illustration: _The veiled lady made her daily excursions in the big
high-powered car_]
Mr. Crow stalked the streets early and late. He lurked behind the
corners of buildings; he peered sharply from the off-side of telephone
poles as the big limousine swept haughtily by. He patrolled the Nixon
neighbourhood by day and haunted it by night. On occasion he might have
been observed in the act of scrutinizing the tracks of the automobile
over recently sprinkled streets.
One evening, just after dusk,--after a sharp encounter with Harry
Squires, who bluntly accused him of loafing on the job,--he sauntered
past the Nixon cottage. His soul was full of bitterness. He was baffled.
Harry Squires was right; he had accomplished nothing--and what was
worse, he wasn't likely to accomplish anything. He sauntered back,
casting furtive glances into the spacious front-yard, and concluded to
ease his restless legs by leaning against a tree and crossing them in an
attitude of profound nonchalance. The tree happened to be almost
directly in front of the Nixon gate. Not to seem actually employed in
shadowing 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 right
and left, and finally in the direction of the cottage, out of the corner
of his eye, after a sudden twist of the neck that caused him to wonder
whether he had sprained it.
The Veiled Lady was standing at the gate. In the gathering darkness her
figure seemed abnormally tall.
The Marshal hastily faced about and stared hard at the mystery.
"Evening," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Then he lifted his hat a
couple 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 alone
was visible. This shift of the hat instantly transformed him into a
figure of speech; he became as "cunning as a fox." People in Tinkletown
had come to recognize this as an unfailing symptom of shrewdness on his
part. He always wore his hat like that when he was deep in the process
of "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 the
great detective?"
This was unexpected tribute. The only thing he could think up to say
was, "I'm him," and then, apologetically: "--unless some one's been
usin' my name without authority."
"Are you actually the great Anderson Crow? Do you know, I have always
thought of you as a fictitious character--like _Sherlock Holmes_. Are
you 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 not
half 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. He
thought of Willie Jones, the village idiot.
"'Simplicity, thou art a jewel,'" observed the Veiled Lady. "Will you
pardon 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 of
yours?"
"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'd
know 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 I
got to say."
"I see 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. "You
are mistaken. There ain't no one here, 'cept me."
"Is he one of your subordinates?" queried the woman, leaning forward in
the attitude of one peering intently.
"Must be a shadow you're seein', ma'am," he suggested, and suddenly was
conscious of the queer sensation that some one _was_ on the opposite
side of the tree.
"That's it!" she exclaimed eagerly. "A shadow! Aren't you detectives
always 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 you
possibly have, Mr. Crow, in lying to me about--"
"Lying?" gasped Anderson, after a swift, apprehensive glance over his
shoulder. "I'm tellin' you the gospel truth. Maybe that confounded
veil's botherin' your eyesight. Take it off, an' you'll see there ain't
no one--"
"Ah! What a remarkable leap! He must be possessed of wings."
Mr. Crow himself moved with such celerity that one might have described
the 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 he
had sprung.
"Good Lord! You--you'd think there _was_ some one there by the way you
talk."
"He leaped from behind that tree to this one over here. It must be
thirty feet. How perfectly amazing!"
By this time the good Marshal was noticeably impressed. There was no
denying the fact that his voice shook.
"_Now_ who's lying?" he cried out.
She took no offence. Instead she pointed down the dark sidewalk. It
seemed 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 great
agitation. "He is sitting on that big limb, looking at us--his eyes are
like 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 down
upon your head. Hurry! There! Didn't you feel that?"
Anderson Crow made a flying leap for safety. He had the uncanny feeling
that 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 foot
struck your head. Ah! There he goes again. See him? He is climbing over
my 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 eyes
bulging.
"Now he has disappeared behind the rosebushes down in the corner of the
lot. He must be the same man I have seen--always about this time in the
evening. If he isn't one of your men, Mr. Crow, who in Heaven's name is
he?"
"You--you have seen him before?" murmured the Marshal, reaching up to
make sure that his hat was still in place.
"Four or five times. Last night he climbed up and stood beside that big
chimney up there--silhouetted against the sky. He looked very tall--much
taller than any ordinary man. The night before, he was out here on the
lawn, 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, as
easily as you would spring--Where are you going, Mr. Crow?"
"I--I thought I saw him runnin' down the street just now," said Anderson
Crow, quickening his pace after a parting glance over his shoulder at
the tall lady in the gateway. "Maybe I can overtake him if I--if I--But
I 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 in
her 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 he
clattered past the lower end of the garden wall, a low, horrifying
chuckle fell upon his ears. It was not the laugh of a human being. He
afterwards described it as the chortle of a hyena--hoarse and wild and
full of ghoulish glee.
Alf Reesling's house was two blocks down the street. Mr. Reesling was
getting 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. Anderson
swept 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. At
the same time, it was equally impossible for him to increase it. Alf,
scenting excitement, set out at top speed behind him, shouting all the
time.
Pursued and pursuer held their relative positions until they rounded
into Main Street. Reaching the zone of light--and safety--produced by
show-windows and open doors, the Marshal put on the brakes and ventured
a glance over his shoulder. Alf, lacking the incentive that spurred
Anderson, lagged some distance behind. A second glance reassured the
Marshal. Alf was lumbering heavily past Brubaker's drugstore, fully
revealed.
Observing an empty chair on the sidewalk in front of Jackson's
cigar-store, Mr. Crow directed his slowing footsteps toward it. He
flopped down with an abruptness that almost dismembered it. He was
fanning himself with his hat when Alf came up.
Alf leaned against the wooden Indian that guarded the portals. Presently
he wheezed:
"Wha--what's--all--the--rumpus?"
Instead of replying, Mr. Crow pressed his hand to his heart and shook
his head.
"Take your time," advised Alf sympathetically; whereupon Anderson nodded
his head.
Sim Jackson ambled to the front door, and Mort Fryback hobbled across
the street from his hardware store. Lum Gillespie dropped the hose with
which he was sousing an automobile in front of his garage and approached
the group.
In less than three minutes all of the nighthawks of Main Street were
gathered about Anderson Crow, convinced that something unusual was in
the air despite his protests.
Suddenly the Marshal's manner changed. He swept the considerable group
with 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 capacity
as an official of the State and county, to close up your stores an'
consider yourselves organized into a posse. You will close up immejately
an' report to me here, ready for active work."
* * * * *
Shortly after ten o'clock a group of fifteen or eighteen men
moved silently away from Jackson's cigar-store, led by their
commander-in-chief. He was flanked on one side by Bill Kepsal, the
brawny blacksmith, and on the other by Sim Jackson, who happened to
possess 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 with
the statement that poor Mrs. Smith had been terribly frightened by the
mysterious prowler, and that it was their duty as citizens to put an end
to his activities if possible.
"Her description of him don't fit anybody livin' in this town," he had
said during the course of his narrative. "We ain't got anybody who c'n
jump thirty foot, or who c'n shin up a chimbly like a squirrel. You
never saw anybody as quick as he is, either. Supposin' you think you see
him standin' right beside you. Zip! Before you could blink an eye, he's
over 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."
"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 see
quicker'n I could, 'cause she saw nearly every move he made. My
eyesight ain't as good as it used to be, an' besides, she could see
plainer from where she stood. Come on now--no time to waste. We got to
post ourselves all around the place an'--an' nab him if he shows himself
again. All you fellers have got to do is to obey orders."
* * * * *
At the corner of Maple and Sickle streets, a few hundred feet from the
Nixon cottage, the cavalcade received a whispered order to halt. The
Marshal, enjoining the utmost stealth, instructed his men where to place
themselves about the grounds they were soon to invest from various
approaches. After stealing over the stone wall, they were to crawl
forward on hands and knees until each man found a hiding-place behind a
bush or flower-bed. There he was to wait and watch. The first glimpse of
the 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's
delay.
In course of time, the posse successfully debouched upon the lawn and
occupied crouching positions behind various objects of nature. The
minutes slowly consolidated themselves into half an hour; they were
pretty well started on the way toward the three-quarter mark, and still
no sign of the sprightly stranger. Lights were gleaming behind the
yellow shades of the downstairs window in the cottage; through the
Japanese curtains enveloping the veranda a dull, restricted glow forced
its way out upon the bordering flower-beds.