“You are not,” said Evan Pell to Carmel Lee, “familiar with laboratory
practice--er--with chemical analysis, for instance.”
“I know nothing about it?”
“I judged not,” he said, unwittingly reverting to his patronizing
manner. “However, it seems to me the individual who searches for
truth--in the happenings of the day--would be better fortified for his
labors if he applied the methods of the chemist.”
“As, for instance?”
“Let us suppose there has been a crime. The crime is a result. An
inevitable result of the combination of certain elements. Given the
crime, the chemist should be able to analyze it and to separate its
elements.”
“I believe that is the method of story-book detectives.”
“No.... No.... This is science, logic. A simple example. You hold a
substance in your hand. You moisten it with iodine. If the substance
turns purple you know starch is present. Do you see?”
“I’m sure I don’t see.”
“What do you think of Abner Fownes?” he asked, with uncharacteristic
swerving from the subject.
“I think he is abominable.”
“Possibly.... But impersonally, as an individual--what then?”
“He is a pompous, self-deceiving, hypocritical poseur.”
“Uh!... As to intelligence?”
“As your chemist would say--a trace.”
“I fear,” he said, “you have neglected to moisten him with iodine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, “that you have utterly failed to comprehend what you
are facing--what it is you have to do in this headstrong crusade of
yours against the liquor smugglers.”
“What has that to do with Abner Fownes?”
“That,” he said, “is the big question.”
“But why should he? That is absurd. Perhaps the smugglers are using him
as a cat’s-paw in some manner--but he’s rich. There’s no need. These
men take the risks they must for profit.”
“Miss Lee,” he said, “you--er--challenged me to investigate this
affair. I promised to do so.... I have set about it in an orderly
manner.”
“So I imagine,” she said, a trifle wearily.
“I have started with the compound itself--with the fact that we know
there exists a wholesale traffic in liquor, from which a huge profit
is derived. This is compounded of many small elements. I think we may
take it as fact that the hunchback, Peewee Bangs, is an element; that
his hotel is another element; that Deputy Jenney is a rather important
ingredient. For myself, I am satisfied numerous citizens of Gibeon
are involved--in the distribution and marketing of the liquor. I am
quite certain, for instance, that the business of taking photographs
is not the sole means of livelihood followed by Lancelot Bangs.... He
is, I believe, a cousin to the proprietor of the Lakeside Hotel....
These things are present in the compound, but they could not, joined
together, cause the result we see. The principal ingredient is missing.”
“And what is that?”
“A daring, ruthless intelligence. Able leadership. The brain capable of
conceiving of bootlegging as an industry, and not as a matter of petty
retailing.”
Carmel Lee was impressed. Evan Pell possessed the quality of holding
interest, of seeming to speak from sure knowledge.
“I think you are right so far. What we need is to find this
intelligence.”
“I rather fancy I have found him. In fact, I have had little doubt as
to his identity for a considerable time.”
“Abner Fownes?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I dislike him--he is
insufferable--but the idea is absurd. Bumptious little men like him,
secure in their wealth and position, do not jeopardize it.”
“That,” said Evan, “is dependent upon their security. What would
you say if I were to tell you Abner Fownes has been on the brink
of bankruptcy for months? What would you say if I told you this
rum running commenced only after his finances became tangled? What
would you say if I told you the major part of the profits from this
liquor business went to maintain Abner Fownes in the character he
has assumed, and keep his imperiled business out of the hands of his
creditors?”
“I would say,” she said, “that you are crazy.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “I am convinced of the fact.”
“But he has no brains. Look at him. Observe him.”
“Miss Lee, it takes a man of tremendous resolution and of very keen
intelligence to invent for himself a character such as he has exhibited
to Gibeon for years.... If the world supposes you are a nincompoop--a
vain figurehead--a puppet set up by other men--you are little in danger
of arousing suspicion as to yourself. When a man is commonly admitted
to be a fool, he is safe. Fownes has been at infinite pains to prove
himself a fool.”
Carmel was far from dull. Her mind flashed to the keystone of the arch
Pell was constructing. “Show me he is on the verge of bankruptcy and
maybe you can convince me of the rest.”
He told her. He itemized the contracts Fownes had made for the purchase
of lumber, and the prices at the time of sale. He showed how the market
had declined, and the total sum of Fownes’s losses. “These,” he said,
“are facts--not public, but easy to come by.... I first found the trail
of them when the cashier of the bank asked me to assist him in an audit
of the books. That was some months ago when I occupied my official
position.”
“But if you are right, then Abner Fownes is a murderer, or an
instigator of murder.... Nobody can look at him and credit that.”
“Abner Fownes,” said Pell, “is capable of any crime to preserve Abner
Fownes. I have watched him, studied him. I know.”
“I can’t believe.... It is incredible. No. You must be mistaken.”
“Miss Lee,” said Pell, solemnly, “if you wish to continue to exist,
if you hope to come through this affair with your bare life, you
must believe. If you cannot believe, pretend it is a fact and act
accordingly. Forget everything else and concentrate upon Abner
Fownes.... But take this warning: The moment he suspects you suspect
him--you will doubtless join Sheriff Churchill.... I believe Churchill
was on the road to the discovery. He would not have disappeared
otherwise.”
Carmel remained silent, considering. At length she spoke. “You are
right,” she said. “One does not insure his house because he believes
it will burn, but in case it shall burn. I shall make believe you are
right about Abner Fownes--as an insurance policy.... But where does
that lead us?”
“To the sheriff’s office,” said Pell.
“What?”
“If Jenney is appointed sheriff to succeed Churchill, where is the
machinery to fight Fownes? He could laugh at us. Therefore Jenney must
not be appointed.”
“But how can that be averted?”
“I think,” he said, “the sole hope lies in yourself.”
“In me!”
“You must find a man, a man of courage, of public spirit. You must find
a man who can be relied upon and whose name will carry weight with the
Governor.... When you find him, you must go to the Capitol and make the
Governor appoint him--and you must act at once.”
“I?... I go to the Governor?”
“You.... If you could carry a petition, signed by a number of citizens,
it would strengthen you, but I don’t see how that can be done.... And
yet--and yet----”
“It must be done.... Secretly.”
“To approach one man--who would talk, who was on the other side--would
be to ruin the whole project.”
“Nevertheless, it must be done.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “First find a man worthy to hold the
office,” he said.
“I shall find him.... I know Mrs. Churchill. She will know her
husband’s friends and supporters--the men who worked for his election
and whom he trusted.”
“The idea is good,” said Evan. “Suppose you act without delay.”
Carmel found Mrs. Churchill in the kitchen, giving a hearty welcome, in
spite of her baking, to the visitor.
“Set,” said Mrs. Churchill, “and lemme pour you a cup of tea. Always
keep it simmerin’ on the back of the stove in case of headache.” This
was a favorite fiction of Mrs. Churchill’s--that she suffered with her
head and that tea was the only remedy. It would appear, however, that
she used the beverage as a preventive instead of a cure.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t time to sit this morning. I’ve come to you
because you’re the only person in Gibeon who can help me--and because
you are the one most interested in helping me.... I want to know whom
to trust.”
“Eh?... Trust? Speakin’ of young men, be ye?”
“No.” Carmel smiled as she saw the fire of matchmaking light Mrs.
Churchill’s motherly eyes. “I want to know whom your husband trusted.
I’ve got to find a man.... Deputy Jenney is going to be appointed
sheriff,” she said.
Mrs. Churchill’s eyes flashed. “In my man’s place! That critter!”
“If,” said Carmel, “I can’t find an honest man--one like your
husband--and _get there first_.”
“Uh huh....” said Mrs. Churchill, ruminatively. “He wa’n’t much give’
to talkin’, but more’n once he says to me, says he, ‘The’ hain’t many
in this place I’d trust as fur’s I could throw ’em by the horns,’ he
says. But I call to mind that whenever he got kind of out of his depth
like, and had to talk things over with somebody, he allus went to spend
the evenin’ with Jared Whitefield. Him and Jared was close. I don’t
calc’late you’d make no mistake goin’ to Jared and statin’ your case.”
“Thank you,” said Carmel. “There’s not a moment to be wasted. Good-by.”
She did not return to the office, but walked out the main street, past
the village cemetery, to the rambling, winged house from which Jared
Whitefield ruled his thousand-acre stock farm--a farm he had carved
himself out of the forest, cleared, stumped, and planted. She knew the
man by sight, but had never held conversation with him. He was not an
individual to her, but a name. She opened the gate with trepidation,
not because she feared the reception of herself, but because she was
apprehensive. Mr. Whitefield, when studied at close range, would not
measure up to the stature of the man she felt was needed.
A dog barked. A voice silenced the dog. Carmel noted how suddenly the
dog quieted when the voice spoke. Then a man appeared around the corner
of the house, an ax in his hand, and stood regarding her. He did not
bow, nor did he speak. He merely stood, immobile, as if some cataclysm
of nature had caused him to burst through the soil at that spot, and
as if there still remained embedded roots of him which anchored him
forever to the spot. He was big, straight, bearded. At first glance
she thought him grim, but instantly decided it was not grimness, but
granite immobility. She approached and greeted him.
“Good morning, Mr. Whitefield,” she said.
He inclined his head and waited.
“I am Miss Lee, proprietor of the _Free Press_,” she said.
“I know ye,” he said.
Surely he was difficult; but for all that, she felt herself drawn to
the man. There was a feeling that if she could scale his granite sides
and sit upon the shelf of his shoulder she would be safe--that nothing
could topple him from the spot where he had taken root.
“I want to talk to you, Mr. Whitefield. It is a matter of great
importance--almost of life and death,” she said.
“Say it,” said Jared Whitefield.
“They’re going to appoint Deputy Jenney sheriff,” she said.
“Know it.”
“It mustn’t be.”
“Why?”
“Is it safe to speak here. A word overhead----”
“This is my yard,” said Jared, and there was much, much more in the
words than the mere statement of the fact. It was a declaration of
independence. It was a guaranty. It lifted Jared out of the commonplace
and made a personage of him--the unquestioned ruler of a principality.
Where he was, he ruled.
“You know what my paper has done.”
“Lighted matches nigh a powder keg.”
“I believe, and I hope to prove, there is an organization here for
the purpose of wholesale dealing in smuggled liquor. I believe that
organization murdered Sheriff Churchill. I believe Jenney is a part of
it and that his appointment as sheriff is a move to give the criminals
safety in their work. I know there are huge profits. At the top is
some man of intelligence who directs. I want to get that man.”
“Who?”
“I think Sheriff Churchill knew--or guessed. That’s why he is dead.”
“Uh!... Wa-al?”
“Our only chance is to block Jenney’s appointment. To get first to the
Governor with the name of another man--a man whose name and personality
carry weight. If we can get the office of sheriff we are halfway to
success.”
“Will Abner Fownes back the man you pick? Go to the Governor fer ye?”
She looked at him briefly, moved a step closer, and lowered her voice.
“Abner Fownes,” she said, “is the man I believe to be the chief of the
rum runners. I believe he gave the word to kill Sheriff Churchill.”
Whitefield moved for the first time. He ran a hand through his beard
and drew a breath like a sigh.
“Life insured?” he asked.
“You will be my life insurance.”
She took him by surprise; his features actually changed for an instant.
“Me?” he said.
“When you are sheriff,” she said.
“I’m fifty. By mindin’ my business I got twenty-odd year to live.”
“He was your friend,” she said.
There was a long silence while she watched his face, and he, looking
over the top of her head, stared at the field and woodland stretching
to the horizon.
“He was my friend,” said Jared Whitefield.
“Then you will?”
“Can’t be done. Fownes has the say.”
“I think it can be done. Will you let me try?”
He considered in his ponderous way. Then he turned without a word and
walked away. He proceeded half a dozen steps and then halted. “Yes,” he
said, over his shoulder, and continued on his way.