FOILED!
Whether Fudge really believed all he professed to regarding the
mysterious occupant of Room 12 in the brick building on G Street is
a question. Fudge, being an author of highly sensational romances,
doubtless possessed a little more imagination than common and liked to
give it free rein. Probably it is safe to say that he believed about
half. Perry, less imaginative and far more practical, had been at first
taken in by Fudge and had really credited most if not quite all that
Fudge had asserted. When, however, another week passed and nothing
startling happened, he began to lose faith. Almost every morning the
supposed desperado ate his breakfast in full view of Perry very much
as anyone else would have eaten it, rationally clothed and exhibiting
absolutely none of the tricks or manners popularly associated with
criminals. He did not, for instance, suddenly pause to glance furtively
from the window. Nor did he ever, when Perry was looking, shrug his
shoulders as villains always did on the screen at the theater. In
short, as a criminal he was decidedly disappointing!
One morning he actually laughed. Perry couldn’t hear the laugh, but
he could see it, and there was nothing sardonic about it. It was just
a jolly, chuckling sort of laugh, apparently inspired by something in
the morning paper. Perry’s own features creased in sympathy. After that
Perry found it very difficult to place credence in the “safe-breaker”
theory. Then, too, Fudge failed to develop any new evidence. In fact,
to all appearances, Fudge had gone to sleep on his job. When Perry
mentioned the matter to him Fudge would frown portentously and intimate
that affairs had reached a point where mental rather than physical
exertion counted most. Perry, though, was no longer deceived.
“Huh,” he said one day, “there was nothing in that yarn of yours and
you’ve found it out. What’s the good of pretending any more?”
Fudge looked sarcastic and mysterious but refused to bandy words. His
“If-you-knew-all-I-know” air slightly impressed the other, and Perry
begged to be taken into the secret. But Fudge showed that he felt
wounded by his friend’s defection and took himself off in dignified
silence. When he had reached home and had settled himself on the
platform in the apple tree, however, Fudge realized that his reputation
and standing as an authority on crime and its detection was in danger.
Something, consequently, must be done to restore Perry’s confidence.
But what? He thought hard and long, so long that twilight grew to
darkness before he left his retreat and hurried to the house for
supper. He had, though, solved his problem.
The next day, which was Saturday, he presented himself at Perry’s at
a little after nine o’clock. Perry, who had been practicing starts on
the weed-grown path at the side of the house, joined him on the front
porch somewhat out of breath and with his thoughts far from the subject
of crime and criminals, clews and detectives. One glance at Fudge’s
countenance, however, told him that matters of importance were about
to be divulged. He pocketed his grips and prepared to listen and be
impressed. Briefly, what Fudge had to say was this:
He had, he found, been slightly mistaken regarding Mr. Myron Addicks.
The mistake was a natural one. It consisted of classifying Mr.
Addicks as a safe-breaker instead of a train-robber. Fudge did not
explain clearly by what marvelous mental processes he had arrived
at a knowledge of his error, or perhaps the fault was with Perry’s
understanding. At all events, the result was there and already his new
theory had been proven correct. He had that very morning, not more than
twenty minutes ago, read, in the local office of the American Express
Company, a description of one “Edward Hurley, alias John Crowell, alias
John Fenney,” wanted by the company for the robbery of an express
car at Cartwright, Utah, on February seventeenth last, which exactly
tallied with the appearance of Mr. Myron Addicks, allowing, of course,
for certain efforts at disguise. Fudge had copied the salient points of
the placard in the express office and referred now to his memorandum,
written on the back of a money order blank: “Age, about 28. Height, 5
feet, 10 inches. Weight, about 170 pounds. Dark brown hair, blue eyes,
complexion dark. Was clean-shaven when last seen, but has probably
grown beard or mustache. Carries himself erect. Has white scar about
two inches in length on back of left forearm.”
“There was a picture of him, too,” said Fudge, “but I guess it wasn’t
a very good one, because he had his head thrown back and his eyes half
closed and was scowling like anything. It must have been taken by the
police.”
“What is the reward?” asked Perry breathlessly.
“Five hundred dollars, it said. Maybe they’d pay more, though.”
“That would be two hundred and fifty apiece,” reflected the other.
“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? But――but it doesn’t seem to me that
the description is much like this fellow. Did the picture look like
him?”
“Well,” replied Fudge judicially, “it did and then again it didn’t.
You see, the fellow’s face was all screwed up, and he didn’t have any
mustache. A mustache makes a lot of difference in your looks, you know.
But the description fits him to a T. ‘Dark brown hair, blue eyes――――’”
“I don’t think this chap’s eyes are blue, though.”
“I’ll bet you anything they are! What color are they then?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Perry.
“No, and there you are! He’s about five feet, ten inches high, isn’t
he?” Perry nodded doubtfully. “And he weighs about a hundred and
seventy pounds, doesn’t he? And his complexion’s dark and he carries
himself erect! And he has a false mustache, and the notice said he
would probably have one. Oh, it’s our man all right! Don’t you worry!
Besides, don’t you see this explains his wearing that cowboy get-up you
saw him in? That’s probably what he was. Lots of train-robbers were
cowboys first-off.”
“Maybe,” said Perry thoughtfully. “But――but supposing we proved it on
him.”
“Well?”
“Would you want to――to give him away?”
Fudge hesitated. “I wouldn’t _want_ to,” he said at last, “but it’s the
duty of a good citizen to aid in the apprehension of lawbreakers, isn’t
it? And, besides, someone would get that five hundred sooner or later,
wouldn’t they? Bound to! You bet! Well, there you are!”
But Perry looked unconvinced. “I don’t think I’d like to,” he murmured
presently. “Anyhow, maybe we’re mistaken. Maybe his eyes aren’t blue.
If we could get a look at his arm――――”
“That’s just what we’ve got to do,” replied Fudge. “That’s what will
tell.”
“But how?”
“I haven’t decided that yet. There are ways. You leave it to me. I
guess he’s just hiding out here, Perry. I mean I don’t believe he is
thinking of doing another job just yet. He’s probably waiting for this
to blow over. I told you he was a slick one!”
“But if he really was wanted for robbing that train,” objected Perry,
“it doesn’t seem to me he’d show himself around the way he’s doing.
He’d hide, wouldn’t he, Fudge?”
“Where? He is hiding. He wears that mustache and he’s trusting to that,
you see. Why, if he went sneaking around the police would notice him
at once, Perry. So he comes right out in public; makes believe he’s a
civil engineer and plays the piano in a theater. You don’t suppose, do
you, that the police would ever think of looking in a moving picture
house for an escaped train-robber? Say, he must sort of laugh to
himself when he sees those train-robbery films, eh?”
“But if he wears that mustache when he goes out, Fudge, why does he
take it off when he’s in his room?”
“Maybe it isn’t comfortable. I should think it mightn’t be.”
“Yes, but he must know that most anyone can see him when he sits at his
window like that in the morning.”
Fudge was silent for a moment. Then: “Perhaps he doesn’t think of
that,” he suggested weakly. “Anyhow, what we’ve got to do is see first
if his eyes are blue, and after that whether he has a scar on his arm.
We might wait in front of the theater this afternoon, only there’s the
ball game and we don’t want to miss that.”
“That isn’t until three, and the theater begins at two.”
“That’s so! We’ll do it, then! I’ll be around right after dinner, and
we’ll watch for him. Say, what would you do with two hundred and fifty
dollars, Perry?”
Perry shook his head. “I don’t know. Guess I’d give it to dad, all but
twenty-five dollars, maybe. What would you?”
Fudge shook his head also. “Search me! Well, we haven’t got it yet.
I guess I could find things to do with it all right. Say, you don’t
suppose he’s at his window now, do you?”
They ascended to Perry’s room and looked across, but the opposite
casement was vacant. Nor, although they kept watch for a good ten
minutes, did they catch sight of the suspect. They returned to the
porch. “What we might do,” said Fudge reflectively, “is go and see him
and make believe we wanted some civil engineering done.”
“We’d look fine doing that!” scoffed Perry. “He’d know right away we
were faking.”
“I guess so,” Fudge acknowledged. “We might get someone else to do it,
though.”
“Who?”
“Well, you might ask your father.”
“I might, but I’m not likely to,” was the derisive response. “Besides,
all we’ve got to do is to get a good look at him to see whether his
eyes are blue or not.”
“You don’t suppose folks can change the color of their eyes, do you?”
“Of course not! How could they?”
Fudge shook his head. “Criminals know lots of tricks we don’t,” he
replied. “But we’ll soon see.”
Whereupon Perry went back to practicing starts in the side yard and
Fudge, finding a rock, gave an interesting imitation of putting the
shot.
They reached the theater at twenty-five minutes before two. Fudge
apologized for being a trifle late, explaining that his mother had
sent him on an errand directly after dinner in spite of his plea of an
important engagement. Still, there was no doubt but that they were in
plenty of time, for the orchestra did not assemble until a few minutes
before two. As there was already quite a throng awaiting the opening
of the doors, they decided to separate and take opposite sides of the
entrance. This they did, Fudge assuming an expression and demeanor
so purposeless that Perry feared he would be arrested as an escaped
lunatic by the policeman on duty there. Several hundreds of persons
passed into the theater, but neither of the boys caught sight of their
quarry, and when, at two o’clock, the strains of the orchestra reached
them, they had to confess themselves defeated. By that time the crowd
had thinned out to a mere dribble of late arrivals and the officer was,
or seemed to them to be, eyeing them with growing suspicion. They were
glad when they had escaped from his chilly stare.
“I don’t see――――” began Perry.
“I do!” Fudge interrupted bitterly. “We’re a couple of chumps! Why, the
orchestra chaps go in the stage entrance, of course! And that’s around
in the alley off Pine Street! Gee, we’re a fine pair of dummies, aren’t
we?”
There was no denying it and so Perry mutely consented with a sorrowful
nod.
“Well, we’ll know better next time,” said Fudge more cheerfully. “Come
on into Castle’s and have a soda. Only it’ll have to be a five-center,
because I’m pretty nearly strapped. Sleuthing makes a fellow thirsty.”
Ten minutes later the amateur detectives, forgetting their defeat and
cheered by two glasses of cherry phosphate, started for the field.