of as if he'd eat something that didn't agree with him."
"I see. Well, go on."
"Go on what?"
"Tellin' me. Where did you next see him?"
"Oh, there was a lot of people saw him after I did. Why don't you ask
them?"
"Answer my question."
"I didn't see him again until about half past seven this morning. He was
hangin' from a rafter in Ed's stable. My God, it was awful! I know I'll
dream about Jake for the next hundred years."
"Did he have a rope around his neck?"
"No, he didn't." Anderson started. This was an unexpected reply.
"Well,--er, what _did_ he have around his neck?"
"A halter strap."
"You--you're sure about that?"
"Positive."
"I see. So far your story jibes with the facts. Now, answer me this
question. When and where did you help Jake Miller write that note of
farewell?"
"What?" gasped Alf.
"You heard me."
"I didn't help him write any note."
"You didn't?"
"Nobody helped him write it."
"How do you know that, sir?"
"Do you mean to tell me that Jake left a farewell note?"
"I'm not sayin' whether he did or not. You don't mean to claim that he
didn't leave one, do you?"
"If he did, nobody that I know of has laid eyes on it."
Anderson smiled mysteriously. "Well, we'll drop that feature of the case
temporarily. You was quite a friend of Jake Miller's, wasn't you?"
"Off and on," said Alf. "Same as you was," he added, quickly.
"What reason did he ever give you for wantin' to take his own life?
Think carefully, now,--and nothing but the truth, mind you?"
"The only thing I ever heard him say that sounded suspicious was when he
told a crowd of us at Lamson's one night that if this here prohibition
went into effect he'd like to have some one telegraph his sister in
Buffalo, so's she could come on and claim his remains."
"But he wasn't a drinkin' man, Alf, and you know it."
"I know, but he always said he was lookin' forward to the day when he
could afford to get as drunk as he sometimes thought he'd like to be. He
was a droll sort of a cuss, Jake was. He claimed he'd been savin' up his
appetite and his money for nearly three years so's he could see which
would last the longest in a finish fight."
"Was you present when he was cut down?"
"I was."
"Aha! That's what I'm tryin' to get at. Who cut the rope?"
"It wasn't a rope,--it was a hitchin' strap. An' nobody cut it, come to
think of it. It was a perfectly good strap, so two or three of us held
Jake's body up so's Ed Higgins could untie it from the rafter."
"And then what?"
"Old man Hawkins and Doc Brown said he'd been dead five or six hours."
"I see. What did Doc say he died of?"
Alf stared at him in amazement. "He died of being hung to a rafter."
Marshal Crow cleared his throat, and was ominously silent for fifteen or
twenty paces. When he next spoke it was with the deepest gravity. There
was a dark significance in the look he fixed upon Alf.
"Is there any proof that Jake Miller wasn't dead long before he was
strung up to that rafter?"
"What's that?" gasped Alf, once more coming to a sudden stop.
"It's a matter I can't discuss with anybody at present," said Anderson,
curtly.
"Have--have you deduced something important, Anderson?" implored Alf,
eagerly. "Is there evidence of foul play?"
"That's my business," said Anderson. "Come on. Don't stand there with
your mouth open like that. He's still over at Hawkins's place, is he? I
been workin' on the quiet all by myself since early this morning, an' I
don't know just what's been happening around here for the last couple of
hours."
"He was there the last I heard of him," said Alf.
"Well, you've given a purty good account of yourself, Alf, an' unless
something turns up to change my present opinion, you are free to come
an' go as you please."
"See here, you blamed old hayseed, what do you mean by actin' as if I
had anything to do with Jake Mil--"
"You don't know what you're doing when you're drunk, Alf Reesling."
"But I ain't been drunk for twenty-five years, you blamed old--"
"That remains to be seen," interrupted Anderson sternly. "Now don't talk
any more. I want to think."
Having obtained certain desirable facts in connection with the
taking-off of Jacob Miller, Marshal Crow ventured boldly, confidently,
into the business section of the town. He was now in a position to
discuss the occurrence with equanimity,--in fact, with indifference.
Moreover, he could account for his physical absence from the centre of
the stage, so to speak, by reminding all would-be critics that he was
mentally on the job long before Ed Higgins made the gruesome discovery.
In other words, it served his purpose to "lie low" and observe from
well-calculated obscurity the progress of events.
Now, Tinkletown had not experienced the shock and thrill of suicide in a
great many years. Sundry citizens had met death in an accidental way,
and others had suddenly died of old age, but no one had intentionally
shuffled off since Jasper Wiggins succeeded in completing a hitherto
unsuccessful life by pulling the trigger of a single-barrelled shotgun
with his big toe, back in the fall of '83.
The horrendous act of Jacob Miller, therefore, created a sensation.
Tinkletown was agog with excitement and awe. Everybody was talking about
Jake. He was, by all odds, the most important man in town. Alive, he
had been perhaps the least important.
He was the sort of citizen you always think of last when trying to take
a mental census of the people you know by sight.
Once, and only once, had Jake seen his name in the columns of the
_Weekly Banner_, and he was so impressed that he cut the article out of
the paper and pasted it under the sweat-band of his best hat. It
happened to be the obituary notice of a farmer bearing the same name,
but that made no difference to Jake; he was vicariously honoured by
having his name in print,--and in rather large type at that.
And now he was to have at least half a page in the _Banner_, with his
name in huge black letters, double column, something like this:
JAKE MILLER HANGS HIMSELF!!!
Column after column of Jake Miller and he not there to rejoice!
Jake Miller on the front page, crowding out the news from Paris and
Washington, displacing local Society "items," shoving the ordinary
"obituaries" out of their hallowed corners, confiscating space that
belonged to the Lady Maccabees and other lodges, supplanting
thoughtfully prepared matter in the editorial column,--why, the next
issue of the _Banner_ would be a Jake Miller number from beginning to
end. And Jake not there to enjoy it all!
Jake had been a more or less stationary inhabitant of Tinkletown for
about three years. He had taken up his residence there without really
having had the slightest intention or desire to do so. In fact, he would
have been safely out of the village in another ten minutes if Mrs. Abbie
Nixon hadn't missed the blackberry pie from the kitchen window sill,
where she had set it out to cool,--and even then he might have got away
if he had had a handkerchief or something with which to remove the
damning stains from his lips and chin. But, in his haste, he used the
back of his hand, and--well, Justice of the Peace Robb sent him to the
calaboose for thirty days,--and that's how Jake became a resident of
Tinkletown.
At the trial he was so shamelessly complimentary about Mrs. Nixon's pie
that the prosecuting witness came very near to perjuring herself in
order to show her appreciation. The dignity of the law was preserved
only by Jake's unshaken resolution to plead guilty to the charge of
feloniously eating one blackberry pie with never-to-be-forgotten relish.
Mrs. Nixon was so impressed by Jake's honesty that she made a practice
of sending a pie to him every baking-day during the period of his
incarceration. But when approached by two or three citizens with the
proposal that she join with them in providing the fellow with work as a
sort of community "handy-man," she refused to consider the matter at all
because most of her silver had come down from her grandmother and she
wouldn't part with it for anything in the world.
[Illustration: _At the trial he was shamelessly complimentary about Mrs.
Nixon's pie_]
For one who had never laid eyes on the village of Tinkletown up to the
day of his arrival, Jake Miller revealed the most astonishing sense of
civic pride. The first thing he did after being safely locked up was to
whitewash the interior of his residence. (The town board furnished a
rather thin mixture of slaked lime and water, borrowed a whitewash brush
from Ebenezer January, and got off with a total cost of about
eighty-five cents.) He also repaired several windows in the calaboose by
stuffing newspapers into the broken panes, remodeled the entire heating
system with a little stove polish, put two or three locks in order, and
once, on finding that it was possible to remove a grating from one of
the windows, crawled out of his place of confinement and mowed the grass
plot in front of the jail.
It was then that the people of Tinkletown began to take notice of him. A
few of the more enterprising citizens went so far as to consult Justice
Robb about extending Jake's sentence indefinitely, claiming that it
wasn't at all likely the town would ever see another prisoner who took
as much interest in keeping the jail in order as he.
And when he was finally released, he obtained a job with Ed Higgins at a
slight increase in wages over what he had been receiving while in
durance vile.
He was a middle-aged man with a large Adam's apple and a retreating
chin; his legs were so warped that a good ten inches of space separated
the knees. Whence he came and why he was content to abide in Tinkletown
were questions he always answered, but never in a satisfactory manner.
Even the hardiest citizens soon came to the conclusion that there wasn't
much use in asking questions that Jake could answer with a slow and
baffling wink. He became a fixture in Tinkletown, doing odd jobs for
nearly everybody in town, and still finding ample time to attend to his
duties at the feed yard. Whenever any one had a job to be done that he
particularly disliked doing himself, he always appealed to Jake, and
Jake did it.
When not otherwise employed, he slept in the box-stall once inhabited by
the prize stallion, Caleb the Second, now deceased, and you would have
been surprised to see what a tidy place he made of it by tacking up two
or three anatomical pictures from the _Police Gazette_, and putting in a
folding bed,--or, more strictly speaking, a bed that could be folded. It
consisted of three discarded horse blankets. Quite a snug little
bed-chamber, you would say, and, as Jake himself frequently remarked, a
very handy stall to have a nightmare in.
Twice a day, regularly, day in and day out, Jake inquired at the post
office for mail, and invariably Postmaster Lamson, without looking,
replied: "Nothing today, Jake."
A singular thing happened the afternoon before Jake hung himself. He
received a letter,--a rather fat one,--postmarked Sandusky, Ohio. Mr.
Lamson and the loafers at the store were still talking about the
extraordinary event when the former closed up for the night, a little
later than usual. And while they were talking about it, Jake was getting
ready to hang himself.
Marshal Crow headed straight for the _Banner_ office, Mr. Reesling
trailing a few steps behind like a dog at heel. Quite a crowd had
gathered in front of Hawkins's Undertaking Emporium across the street
from the newspaper office.
"Don't foller me in here," ordered the marshal, as Alf started to enter
the _Banner_ office with him. "This is private. Move on, now."
"But what'll I tell the gang over there if they ask me what you're doin'
about the case?" argued Alf.
"You tell 'em I'll soon have the mystery solved."
"What mystery? There ain't any mystery about it. He done it as publicly
as he could."
"Well, you just tell 'em I've got a clue, and I'm follerin' it up."
With that, he disappeared through the door, closing it with some
violence in Alf's face.
Harry Squires was putting the finishing touches to a long and graphic
account of the suicide. He looked up as Anderson sauntered into the back
office.
"I'm glad you came in, Marshal," he said. "I hated to finish this story
without mentioning you, one way or another. Now I can add right here at
the end: 'Our worthy Town Marshal, A. Crow, was also present.'"
Anderson sat down. He pulled at his sparse chin whiskers for a moment or
two, evidently trying to release something verbal. Failing in this, he
sank back in the chair and fixed Mr. Squires with a pathetic look.
"Where have you been?" demanded Harry.
"Oh,--rooting around," said Anderson.
"Well, I'll tell you something that no one else in this town knows,"
said the other, pitying his old friend. "Are you listening?"
Anderson shook his head drearily. "I'll never be able to live this down,
Harry."
"Brace up. All is not lost. Will you do exactly what I tell you to do?"
"I hope you ain't going to tell me to go down and jump in the
mill-race."
"Nothing of the sort. That wouldn't help matters. You could swim out.
Now, listen. I know why Jake hung himself; and I am the only one who
does know. The whole story is told here in this article I have just
written. We've been friends and foes for a great many years, Mr.
Hawkshaw, and I want to show my appreciation. I don't know how many
times you have saved my life. I sha'n't tell you in just what way you
have saved it; I can only say that I should have died long ago of sheer
ennui,--if you know what that is,--if it hadn't been for you, old
friend. You have been a life-saver, over and over again. And in spite of
the many times you have saved my life, I don't seem to have put on any
flesh. I remain as skinny as I was when I first met you. I ought to be
so fat that I'd have to waddle. But, that's neither here nor there. I'm
going to save _your_ life now, Sherlock. I'm going to fix it so that
when you _do_ die, the people of this burg will erect a monument to you
that will make the one in Trafalgar Square,--if you know where that
is,--look like a hitching post. Lend me your ear, Mr. Pinkerton. That's
right. Take off your hat. You can hear better.
"I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case of our late
lamented friend, Jake Miller. I have in my possession the letter he
received yesterday afternoon. It is under lock and key, and no one else
has seen it. While everybody else was gazing at Jake and wondering how
long he'd been hanging there, I--with my nose for news,--went off in
search of that letter. I might have spared myself the trouble, for the
last thing Jake did before ending his life, was to put it in an envelope
and mail it to me. He also enclosed a short note in which he implored me
to do the right thing by him and put his name in the biggest type we
have on hand. That's just what I intend to do. Now, I'm going to turn
that letter over to you. Instead of me being the one to tell _you_
about it, you are going to be allowed to tell _me_ about it. See? That's
what you are here for now,--to show me this letter with all its
harrowing details. Later on, when the coroner comes over from Boggs
City, you can deliver it to him. Now listen!"
[Illustration: _"I am going to reveal to you the true facts in the case
of our late lamented friend, Jake Miller"_]
Ten minutes later, Marshal Crow strode solemnly out of the _Banner_
office, and debouched upon the crowd in front of Hawkins's. Several
erstwhile admirers snickered. He paid not the slightest attention to
them. Instead he inquired in a loud, authoritative voice if any one had
seen Alf Reesling.
"I'm standin' right in front of you," said Alf.
"I deputize you to act as guard during the day over the remains of
Orlando Camp. You are to see to it that no one trespasses within fifty
feet of it without an order from me,--or the Governor of New York. You
will--"
"What the devil are you talkin' about?" demanded Alf. "There ain't no
remains around here named Camp."
The marshal smiled, but there was more pity than mirth in the effort.
"All you got to do is to do what I deputize you to do," he said quietly.
"Is Bill Kepsal here?"
"Present," said the iron-armed blacksmith, with a series of winks that
almost sufficed to take in the whole assemblage.
"I deputize you, William Kepsal, and--" (he craned his neck
slightly)--"and you, Newton Spratt, out there on the edge of the crowd,
to act as guards durin' the night, until relieved by Deputy Reesling at
seven A. M. tomorrow mornin'. You will permit no one to approach or
remove the body of Moses Briscoe from its present place of confinement
until further orders. And now, feller citizens, I must request you one
and all to disperse and not to congregate again in this locality, under
penalty of the law. Disperse at once, move on, everybody."
The crowd didn't move an inch.
"He's gone plumb crazy," said Rush Applegate to Uncle Dad Simms, and he
made such a special effort that Uncle Dad heard him quite distinctly.
"He always _wuz_," agreed Uncle Dad. "What's he crazy about this time?"
"Come on home, Anderson," said Alf Reesling, gently. "Maybe if you took
a dose of--"
"Lemme talk to him," interrupted Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer. "I
had an uncle once that _died_ in an asylum, and I used to keep him quiet
before he got hopeless by lettin' on that he really _was_ George
Washington. Now, look here, Anderson,--"
Marshal Crow held up his hand. There was no sign of resentment in his
voice or manner as he addressed the grinning crowd.
"I don't blame you for thinkin' that man in there is Jake Miller. I
thought so myself until a couple o' days ago. That's when I first begin
to suspect that he was the very man he now turns out to be. Gentlemen,
if the individual that you knew as Jake Miller hadn't took his own life
last night, I would have had him behind the bars today, sure as all get
out. He wasn't no more Jake Miller than I am. Jake Miller was one of his
alibis. He had--"
"You mean aliases," interrupted Professor Rank, of the high school.
"Or nom de plumes," added Willie Spence, the chief clerk at the Grand
View Hotel, one of the most inveterate readers in town. To Willie the
name of any author was a nom de plume; it didn't make any difference
whether it was his real name or not.
"He had a lot of names besides Jake Miller," explained Anderson loftily.
"And he didn't have to go to high school to get 'em," he added as an
afterthought, favouring Professor Rank with a withering look. "Now,
disperse,--all of you. Go on now, Willie,--disperse. Everybody disperse
except Alf Reesling. You stay here an' keep watch till I come back."
With that, he took the easiest and most expeditious way of dispersing
the crowd by walking briskly off in the direction of Main Street. The
crowd followed,--or more strictly speaking, accompanied him. He was the
centre of a drove of eager inquirers. Having successfully dispersed the
crowd in front of Hawkins's Emporium, he stopped in front of the post
office and addressed it once more.
"All you got to do," he announced, taking a seat on the porch, "is to
wait till the _Banner_ comes out, and then you'll get all the news. I
just been in there to tell Harry Squires about my discoveries, and he is
workin' his head off now gettin' it all in shape for the subscribers to
the paper. And that reminds me. He asked me to do him a favour. He says
there are quite a number of cheap skates in this town that ain't regular
subscribers to the _Banner_. That's why Ebenezer January's barber shop
is so crowded on Thursday mornings that Ebenezer is threatenin' to stop
_his_ subscription. Ebenezer says there's so many customers in his place
waitin' to be next with the paper that he ain't hardly got room to hone
up his razors after Wednesday's work. I promised Harry I'd suggest that
you all go around and subscribe today, because he says he's engaged
Ebenezer to whitewash the press-room tomorrow and the barber shop won't
be open at all. He says it's an outrage that--"
He stopped short to glare in speechless amazement at a familiar figure
almost under his nose.
"I thought I told you to stand guard back there, Alf Reesling," he
roared.
"Aw, thunder, he can't run away," protested Alf. "An' nobody's goin' to
_steal_ him, so what's the sense--"
"I'll give you just fifteen minutes to get back there to Hawkins's,"
declared the marshal firmly. "If you're not back there by that time,
I'll arrest you for contempt."
"That suits me," said Alf promptly.
"Yes, sir," said Anderson, addressing the crowd, "I would have nabbed
him today if he hadn't gone an' hung himself like this. He must have got
onto the fact that I had him dead to rights. He knowed there wasn't any
escape for him,--no chance in the world. Wait a second! Don't all talk
at once,--and don't ask questions! An' say, Abner, it won't do you any
good to go round to the _Banner_ office, because I swore Harry Squires
to secrecy. So stay where you are. Harry won't tell you a thing, even if
your father-in-law is a regular subscriber. What time is it, Lum?"
On being informed by Lum Gillespie that it was later than he thought,
Marshal Crow looked at his own watch and arose in some haste.
"By ginger, I got to get busy. I still got to see if I can find that
letter Jake received yesterday afternoon. I wouldn't be surprised if the
contents of that letter had a good deal to do with his hurryin' up this
hangin' business. Like as not it was a warnin' from some confederate of
his'n, lettin' him know I was gettin' purty hot on his trail. It's
mighty hard to keep these things from leakin' out, 'specially when
you're workin' at long range as I've been fer some time. My
investigations have been carried on from one end of the country to the
other. I finally got 'em narrowed down to a place out west called
Sandusky, Ohio, an' I was just on the point of telegraphin' to the
police out there that I had their man when this thing happens."
He was assisted in his search for the letter by a volunteer organization
of about one hundred men and boys. The search was a most diligent one.
Much to the disgust of Ed Higgins, the floor of Jake's sleeping
apartment was yanked up by willing, excited citizens; the hay-mow was
ransacked from one end to the other; the grain bins were turned inside
out, and there was some talk of ripping off a section of the roof. At
half past twelve o'clock, the marshal went home to his midday meal,
leaving the work in charge of Lum Gillespie, the garage owner, whose
love for Mr. Higgins was governed entirely by the fact that the
liveryman's business interfered considerably with his own prosperity.
Secure in the seclusion of his own woodshed, Marshal Crow slyly withdrew
Jake's letter from an inside pocket and reread it with great care. Later
on, having fortified himself with a substantial dinner, he returned to
the hunt. Advising the toilers that he was going to do a little private
searching, based on a "deduction" that had come to him while he was at
home, he ambled off in the direction of Power House Gulley. Half an hour
later he reappeared and instructed the crowd to knock off work. He had
found the letter just where he figured he would find it!
"I don't see why in thunder you didn't figure it out at breakfast
instead of at dinner," growled Ed Higgins, moodily surveying the
wreckage. "I've a notion to sue you for damages. Look at that box-stall!
Look at that--"
"Never mind, Ed; I'll have Lum an' the rest of 'em put everything back
in order, jest as they found it. Now, you fellers get to work and put
things in shape around here. I'm goin' to take this letter over an' show
it to Harry Squires. It proves everything,--absolutely everything. See
here, Alf,--what in thunder are you doin' here? Why ain't you guardin'
them remains as I told you to do?"
"I _am_ guardin' 'em," said Alf. "I c'n guard 'em just as well from a
distance as I can close up, an' you know it. All I got to do is to walk
to the corner there an' I c'n see Hawkins's place as plain as anything.
I could see it from right here if it wasn't fer Lamson's store an' the
Grand View Hotel."