At the store of Silas K. Mears, a store which was well isolated from
the more pretentious establishments farther up the street, there was
a scene of great confusion. The doors had been opened and were left
swinging wide on their hinges, presumably as Silas Mears had left
them when he had made the fateful discovery and dashed forth into the
street to apprise the town of Mesa Flat with his gruesome discovery.
There were scraps of paper, torn pieces of books, and bits of leather
bindings scattered all over the floor. The huge, old-fashioned, iron
safe stood in the corner, the outer door ripped clean from its hinges,
bulging and sagging. The inner door, ripped and torn open in one spot,
warped and twisted, lay on the floor. Within the open and gutted safe
all was confusion. There were scraps of blackened paper, great dents in
the sides of the safe walls, and long torn strips in the metal lining.
Upon the floor, lying in a tumbled mass of contorted arms and legs,
his head twisted, his eyes staring at the ceiling, was the body of
Ben Drake, a mild-mannered old bachelor who acted as clerk for Silas
Mears and opened the store mornings, sweeping out and taking care of
the early trade.
Upon the door of the safe appeared in gilt letters the words “S. K.
Mears, General Merchandise.” The safe had done duty in that corner
of the wooden building for countless years. S. K. Mears, sometimes
called “Skinflint” Mears, had carried on his business of selling
general merchandise for many years. Of late he had branched out with
new show cases, increased stocks, and so-called “sales,” going after
the trade of the community with “city methods.”
Some months before Silas Mears had purchased a radio, and the
inspiration he had derived from the business talks he heard nightly
had caused him to expand his business, to talk of modern methods of
merchandising, and to belittle the country methods of the town of
Mesa Flat, always referring to it as an old-fashioned, moss-covered
town, a town which supported pensioners in public office at the
expense of the taxpayers and stifled progressive business men with
its lazy indifference to good goods, properly merchandised.
Hat in hand, Dad Anderson looked over the scene and stood for several
long moments over the body of Ben Drake, his attitude more that of one
who pays silent reverence to a dead friend than of a peace officer
seeking clews with which to avenge the deed. Judge Horn puttered about,
ordering the crowd back from the doors, frowning learnedly about him at
the walls and show cases, and, at times, bending carefully to scrutinize
some microscopic piece of evidence which none but the judicial eye
behind its horn-rimmed spectacles could perceive.
After some minutes had elapsed, while the two officers inspected the
premises from the inside, and the crowd gathered at the doors and
windows craned their necks, there came the sound of running steps,
and Silas Mears rushed through the crowd, his arms waving, his eyes
cold and hostile.
“Git outa here, the whole darn lot of ye! I’ve got Bill Poindexter
on the telephone, an’ he’s jumped in his car an’ is coming up. He’s
on his way here now, Bill Poindexter himself. I’ve got him at my own
expense to solve this here mystery an’ get me back my money, an’ I
don’t want to have none o’ you local pensioners clutterin’ up the
premises an’ tramplin’ over the clews. Bill says to me, says he:
‘Keep all the hayseeds outa the place until I can get there;’ an’
that’s what I propose to do. It’s bad enough for a taxpayer to have
to dig down into his own pockets an’ pay the expenses of a regular
detective because there’s a bunch o’ old pensioners kept in office
by the chicken-hearted voters, without havin’ you come in here an’
mess up all the evidence.”
Judge Horn turned on the old merchant, his pudgy finger leveled and
raised, as if the judicial eye were squinting along a pistol barrel.
“Not another word o’ that kind, Silas Mears. You can say what yuh
want to about the constable, because he’s just an officer of the
law; but when yuh mention anything about the justice o’ the peace
yore violatin’ some o’ the penal codes an’ a coupla constitutional
amendments. You’re gettin’ mighty close to contempt o’ court, an’ if
this court has to stick you in jail to enforce respect for itself,
it’s mighty likely to do it.”
Silas Mears sputtered a bit after that, but his sputterings were
directed more at criminals and less at officers. He realized the
sanctity of Judge Horn’s ponderous dignity, and knew within his soul
that the old judge was perfectly capable of carrying out the threat
of imprisonment. Judge Horn’s stock in trade was his ability to pose
as a judicial oracle before the people, and the actual extent of his
powers were defined by his own mandate. As a result, any derogatory
comments were always made well out of earshot; and, such is the
weakness of human nature, a majority of the citizens had really
become convinced that, while Judge Horn was a bit stuck up and
probably didn’t know it all, he nevertheless knew a lot more than
most lawyers and was possessed of that mysterious something known as
a legal mind.