A Visitor
Hubert answered the telephone, and called to Sam. I followed him into
the living-room to hear what was to be heard. I think that John and
Mrs. Ricker followed for the same reason.
When Sam said, “Read it, please,” I knew that it was another telegram.
They telephone all of our telegrams to us from Rattail, and mail them
later, when they get around to it, if they don’t forget.
We had been pestered nearly crazy with telegrams, on account of all
the ruckus Sam had stirred up about Canneziano, on the night of the
murder. I supposed this would be another one of them, about some poor
Indian or other who had been found at a desert water-hole. But, almost
right away, I could tell from Sam’s answers that this was about
something different. He kept writing things on the telephone pad, and
asking central to repeat, and to repeat again, and to spell that,
please. Lands, but I got nervous, before he finally hung up the
receiver, and turned to us, and asked:
“Any of you ever hear of a fellow named Lynn MacDonald?”
None of us, of course, ever had.
“Seems he is a kind of detective,” Sam explained. “He calls himself a
crime analyst, and he specializes in murder cases. Works on his own
hook, kind of like Sherlock Holmes did, I guess. He had a list of
references, and past cases, long as your arm. They sounded fine. I
forget them now. Anyway, he made a straight proposition. He wants to
come here and take the case. He wants his expenses, and nothing else,
if he fails. If he succeeds, he wants ten thousand, cash. Poor fish,
I’d have paid twenty thousand just as quick. Anyway, that’s a fair
proposition. It is the way I am used to trading; money down if I
deliver, nothing if I don’t. I’m going to wire him to come.”
“Dad,” John objected, “you don’t know a thing about this guy, except
what he tells you. If you have to drag a detective into this, now,
after what Mrs. Ricker has told us, why don’t you wire to a reputable
agency, and have it send someone?”
“I like the tune this fellow sings. I like the straight way he made
his proposition. When I wanted the best doctors for Martha, I always
got specialists, didn’t I? Well, this fellow’s a specialist. His
references were damn good. I like his name. An honest Scotchman comes
pretty close to being the noblest work of God.
“Let’s see—Danny is coming up on Friday afternoon, isn’t she? I’ll
wire MacDonald to take the same train. That will save us two trips to
Rattail in the heat.”
“Listen, dad—sleep over it,” John urged.
I hated the quick, sharp way both Sam and Hubert Hand looked at him. I
hated him noticing it, and jumping right into an explanation.
“If Mrs. Ricker is right about all this,” he said, “and I swear that I
think she is, isn’t it enough for us to know about it, dad? If you get
a detective here, and he comes to the same conclusion, we can’t keep
it a secret, then.”
Sam said, “He won’t. And we aren’t wanting, nor needing any secrets on
the Desert Moon, just now.”
He sat down and began to write the telegram. Five minutes, and he was
reading it to the operator at Rattail. He had just hung up the
telephone receiver when the doorbell rang, a long, impudent ring.
Nobody, I thought as I went to the door, with any sense of decency
would ring our bell, like that, on this evening.
I was right. For a minute I did not recognize the man standing there
on the porch. In the next minute I did recognize him. My heart stood
stock still. He was Daniel Canneziano.