A FAINT CLEW
"What's the trouble, Stirling?" inquired Silas Green, as Bart stood
silently thinking out the problem set before him. "You seem sort of
disappointed to find Wacker here. If you didn't think he was here, why
did you come inquiring for him?"
"I knew he came here last night," said Bart. "Mrs. Wacker told me so."
"Do you want to see him?"
"No, I think not," answered Bart after a moment's reflection.
"Then is there anything else I can do for you, or tell you? You seem
troubled. They say I'm a crabbed, treacherous old fellow. All the same,
I would do a good turn for Robert Stirling's son!"
"Thank you," said Bart, feeling easier. "If you will, you might tell me
who was with Lem Wacker last night."
"Two men--don't know them from Adam, never saw them before. Lem drove
up with them in his rig about ten o'clock. They took the horse and wagon
around to the side shed and came in, drank and talked a lot among
themselves, and finally started playing cards in the little room
yonder."
"By themselves?"
"Yes. Once, when I went in with refreshments, Wacker was in a terrible
temper. It seemed he had lost all his money, and he had staked his rig
and lost that, too. One of the two men laughed at him, and rallied him,
remarking he would have 'his share,' whatever that meant, in a day or
two, and then they would meet again and give him his revenge. By the
way, I'm off in my story--Wacker did leave here, about eleven o'clock."
"Alone?"
"Yes. He was gone half an hour, came back looking wise and excited,
joined his cronies again, and at midnight was helpless. My man and I
carried him upstairs to bed."
"What became of the two men?"
"They sat watching the clock till closing time, one o'clock, went out,
unhitched the horse, and drove off."
"I wish I knew who they were," murmured Bart.
"I suppose I might worry it out of Wacker, when he gets his head clear,"
suggested Green.
"I don't believe he would tell you the truth--and he might suspect."
"Suspect what?" demanded Green keenly.
"Never mind, Mr. Green. Can I take a look into the room where they spent
the evening?"
"Certainly--go right in."
Bart held his breath, nearly suffocated by the mixed liquor and tobacco
taint in the close, disorderly looking apartment.
His eye passed over the stained table, the broken glasses and litter of
cigar stubs. Then he came nearer to the table. One corner was covered
with chalk marks.
They apparently represented the score of the games the trio had played.
There were three columns.
At the head of one was scrawled the name "Wacker," at the second "Buck,"
at the third "Hank."
Bart wondered if he had better try to interview Lem Wacker. He decided
in the negative.
In the first place, Wacker would not be likely to talk with him--if he
did, he would be on his guard and prevaricate; and, lastly, as long as
he was asleep he was out of mischief, and helpless to interfere with
Bart.
The young express agent left the Sharp Corner without saying anything
further to Silas Green.
He had his theory, and his plan. His theory was that Lem Wacker, with a
perfect knowledge of the express office situation, had "fixed" the night
watchman's lunch, and employed two accomplices to do the rest of the
work.
When Wacker woke up, he would simply say he had sold his rig to two
strangers, and, so far as the actual burglary was concerned, would be
able to prove a conclusive _alibi_.
The men who had committed the deed had driven off with the wagon and
trunk, and by this time were undoubtedly at a safe distance in hiding.
Bart went home, got his breakfast, told his mother a trunk had got lost
and he might have to go down the road to look it up, returned to the
express office, found Darry Haven and McCarthy on duty, gave them some
routine directions, and left the place.
Darry Haven followed him outside with a rather serious face.
"Bart," he said anxiously, "Mrs. Colonel Harrington drove down here a
few minutes ago."
"About the trunk, I suppose."
"Yes, and she was wild over it. Said you had got rid of the trunk to
spite her, because she had had some trouble with your mother."
"Nonsense! Anything else?"
"If the trunk don't show up to-day, she says she will have you
arrested."
Bart shrugged his shoulders, but he was consciously uneasy.
"What did you tell her, Darry?" he inquired.
"I put on all the official dignity I could assume, but was very polite
all the time, informed her that mislaid, delayed and irregular express
matter were common occurrences, that the company was responsible for its
contracts, counted you one of its most reliable agents, and assured her
that very possibly within twenty-four hours she would find her trunk
delivered safe and sound at its destination."
"Good for you!" laughed Bart. "Keep an eye on things. I'll show up, or
wire, by night."
"Any clew, Bart?"
"I think so."
Bart went straight to the home of Professor Abner Cunningham.
That venerable gentleman--antiquarian, scientist and profound
scholar--had a queer little place at the edge of the town where he
raised wonderful bees, and grew freak squashes inside glass molds in
every grotesque shape imaginable.
He was a friend to all the boys in town, and Bart joined him without
ceremony as he found him out on the lawn in his skull cap and dressing
gown, studying a hornets' nest with a magnifying glass.
"Ah, young Bartley--or Bartholomew, is it?" smiled the innocent-faced
old scientist jovially. "I have a new volume on nomenclature that gives
quite an interesting chapter on the Bartholomew subject. It takes you
back to the eleventh century, in France--"
"Professor, excuse me," interrupted Bart gracefully, "but something very
vital to the twentieth century is calling for urgent attention, and I
wanted to ask you a question or two."
"Surely. Glad to tell you anything," assured the professor, happiest
always when he was talking, and willing to talk for hours with anyone
who would listen to him. "Come into the library."
"I really haven't the time, Professor," said Bart. "Please let me ask if
you had charge of getting up that directory of the county that a city
firm published?"
"Two years ago? yes," nodded the professor assentingly. "It was quite a
pleasant and profitable task. I believe I saw about every resident in
the county in preparing that directory."
"I am going to ask you a foolish question, perhaps, Professor,"
continued Bart, "for an accurate person like you of course took down
only correct names, and not nicknames. Here is the gist of it, then. I
am looking for two men, and I know only that they live outside of
Pleasantville, and call themselves Buck and Hank."
"Well! well! well!" muttered Professor Cunningham in a musing tone.
"Hank, proper name Henry; Buck, proper name Buckingham--hold on, I've
got it! Come in!" insisted the professor animatedly. "Oh, you haven't
time? Buckingham? Sure thing! Wait here, just a minute."
The professor rushed into the house, and in about two minutes came
rushing out again.
He had an open book in his hand, and stumbled over flower beds and walks
recklessly as he consulted it on the run, spilling out some loose papers
it contained, and leaving a white trail behind him.
"You see here the value of keeping notes of everything," he panted, on
reaching Bart--"nothing is lost in this world, however small. Here we
are: 'County at large.' Now then, in my private notes: 'Allessandro'
uncommon name--'look up--probably Greek.' 'Alaric, Altemus, Artemas,
Benno, Borl, Bud--derived from Budlongor, Budmeister--Buck'--I've got
it: 'Buckingham, last name Tolliver, residence: Millville, occupation
none.' Hold on. We've got the clew--now for the town record."
The Professor again flitted away to the house, and darted back again
with a new volume in his hand.
"Here you are!" he cried, selecting a printed page. "'Millville,
population two hundred and sixty, not on railroad. R.S.T. Tappan,
Tevens, Tolliver'--Ah, 'Buckingham Tolliver, Henry Tolliver,' must be
brothers, I fancy. That's all I've got on record. Information any use to
you?"
"Is it?" cried Bart, in profound admiration of the old bookworm's
system. "Professor, you are the wisest man and one of the best men I
ever met!"