MYSTERIOUS STET
Main Street Block was the oldest business building in Pleasantville. It
was here, according to Stet’s brief report, that Dale Wacker had gone
into the mail order business.
Frank attended to some necessary writing at the office. Then he went to
Main Street Block. Downstairs the street floor of the building was
occupied by stores that did a good trade. The upper floors, however,
were only partly occupied.
Frank went up the dusty stairs to the second story. Here were a
photographer, a surveyor, and a tailor.
Frank ascended the last flight of stairs. When he arrived at their top
he found a small hallway ending at a door.
“Why,” he said, “this floor is not divided off into offices. Looks as if
it had been used for a lodge room. Yes, there is a peep-hole in that
door. I’ll knock, anyhow.”
Frank did knock. He heard some fumbling at a dirt-grimed window at one
side of the hall. It moved slightly in as if set on hinges.
Then there was dead silence. Again he hammered at the door. A slight
snap suddenly sounded. This was caused by the cover to the little
circular hole in being shot back.
“What do you want?” sharply demanded the voice of some one behind the
hole, invisible for the darkness of the closed in room or entry beyond.
“Is this the United States Mail Order House?” asked Frank.
“The what?”
Frank repeated the magnificent-sounding name.
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, then, is there a Mr. Wacker here?” persisted Frank.
“No. Nobody but a sick old man. Go away.”
“Hold on,” said Frank, but the wicket went shut with a sudden snap.
“Of course this is the place,” thought Frank. “That’s something to know.
Hello--”
Five steps down the stairs Frank started. Something had struck his
shoulder. As he turned he noticed the window being pulled to. Also at
his feet the object that had struck him.
It was a little piece of tin--around it was tied a fragment of coarse
manilla paper. Frank picked it up. He slipped it into his pocket and
descended to the street. Turning the corner he untied the paper. It was
scrawled over, and read:
“Keep cool. Be shady. Things working. Important. Midnight.”
Frank had to smile at all this serio-tragic phraseology.
“Stet wrote that,” he said. “Still the dark and mysterious detective!
Probably enjoying it. He usually means something though, for all his
extravagant ways of mystery. That means he has news to tell me. But
where does he expect to see me at midnight? And why midnight?
“Ah! Brr-rr-r! Hist! Good old Stet! He’ll probably do something
sensational soon, but meantime I must pursue my investigations.”
These did not result in much. Frank went to the post-office. The
postmaster told him that twice a day either Dale Wacker or an old man
who was evidently associated with him brought a great many letters to
mail. In return they received as many as forty letters a day. They
presented a good many money orders, always for the same amount--eleven
dollars.
The afternoon was nearly gone by this time. Frank called at the town
hall but found that the marshal had gone home to sleep until midnight.
“I will see him bright and early in the morning,” decided Frank. “He
can’t make any mistake by assuming that old lodge room to be the
headquarters of the United States Mail Order House Swindle. Those fellows
are taking some risks. They will be in for a sudden disappearance unless
the marshal nabs them soon.”
“Are you going to take a day or two looking up Markham?” his mother
asked at the tea table.
“I can’t to-morrow, mother,” continued Frank--“other important business.
I hope to get the day following, though.”
Frank put in an hour on a small set of books he kept at home covering
the mail order business. Then he went to bed.
Something disturbed him about two hours later, for, almost wide awake,
he counted the strokes of the town bell. It was just twelve o’clock.
“Midnight, eh?” mused Frank. “That was Stet’s dark and deadly hour. I
say--if it isn’t Stet on hand!”
Some pebbles struck the upper closed sash of the room in which Frank
slept. Beyond the wire screen covering the lower half of the window
Frank made out a form moving to and fro.
“Hist!” sounded out.
“Yes, Stet,” said Frank, slipping out of bed, “I hear you. Well?”
“It’s me,” said Stet. “Lift up the screen, will you?”
“Oh, want to come in!”
“I don’t, but I do want to give you something.”
“Why, what is this?” asked Frank, as lifting the screen Stet shoved a
round package into his hand.
“It’s your missing mailing lists.”
“And where did you get them?”
“Dale Wacker has been using them ever since he started in business,”
explained Stet. “Where he got them is easy to guess.”
“From Markham, of course.”
“That’s it. This was my first chance to get away from them. Say, there’s
Wacker and his partner. They’re up to the worst swindle you ever heard
of. They’ve taken in a big lot of money. They’re booked to leave
to-morrow, so I sneaked the lists out of the outfit. I’m not going back
to them.”
“Why, then--”
“I’m going down to Hazelhurst,” proceeded Stet.
Frank was surprised that Stet should mention the very place he had most
in his mind.
“To Hazelhurst?” he repeated curiously.
“Yes. From something I heard Wacker say to his partner, I am pretty sure
that Wacker has got Markham hidden away or a prisoner somewhere around
Hazelhurst.”
“Why, Stet,” said Frank, “I have thought that, too. I was going there
myself to-morrow, only some important business hinders me.”
“Tell you what I’ll do,” suggested Stet; “let me see what I can find
at Hazelhurst. There’s going to be a big blow-up with Wacker & Co.
to-morrow. As I have sort of been in with them, maybe it would be
best for me to keep out of the way so I won’t get hit with any of the
pieces.”
“What do you mean by a blow up, Stet?” inquired Frank.
“’Splosion.”
“Indeed?”
“Sure thing! Say about ten o’clock to-morrow morning you hang around
Main Street Block, and see what a telegram I sent to-day is going to
fetch the United States Mail Order House.”