So far as appearance was concerned, Big Bill Poindexter lived up to
his reputation. He came sliding into town that afternoon in a long
gray touring car and slipped up to the curb in front of the post
office, where a crowd had gathered, discussing the crime and making
various conjectures as to the probable capture of the criminals.
“Where can I find S. K. Mears?” he asked and instantly became the focal
point of every pair of eyes within earshot.
Big Bill Poindexter was a huge figure of a man, big of frame, rather
stout, heavily jowled, keen of eye, and determined of jaw. He emphasized
his size and general belligerency by holding a thick cigar thrust upward
at an aggressive angle.
A dozen eager tongues answered the question. Fully half of the number
gave direction by pointing their index fingers, and the other half
started for the running board of the big car, offering to point the
way.
Big Bill Poindexter, skillful advertiser that he was, basked in the
limelight, rolled the cigar in his massive jaw, and started for the
scene of the crime, followed by a large crowd, made up, for the most
part, of the men of Mesa Flat.
Silas Mears was overjoyed to see the big detective. “I’m mighty glad to
meetcha, Poindexter. This here is Sam Anderson, the constable; Harry
Dunton, the sheriff; and Don Finch, the district attorney. The boys from
the county seat just got here a bit ago, an’ they been mighty nice about
waitin’ for you. Ole Dad Anderson’s been messing around considerable
since mornin’, and I couldn’t get him to lay off.” Mears stroked his
whiskers and glared truculently at Dad Anderson.
Bill Poindexter removed his cigar, bit off a portion of the moist
butt, stuck the weed back in a corner of his mouth, and surveyed the
officials.
“How do, boys,” he said at length. “Glad t’meetcha. Now let’s get
down to business. Offhand, this looks like the work of the Pemberton
gang, papers all scattered around and the place wrecked that way; but
the first thing to do is to look for finger prints; that’s where the
country constables fall down nine times outa nine.”
With these words Big Bill extracted a leather case from the wide pocket
of his overcoat, took up a camel’s-hair brush, and began to dust over
the surface of the safe door with a white powder. The citizens of the
country town gathered around in breathless wonder, watching, wide-eyed
and silent. Even Don Finch leaned forward to get a close view of the
mysterious process.
Under the magic touch of the brush white blotches began to appear upon
the face of the door. Big Bill took a magnifying glass from his pocket
and examined these prints, then grunted, took an ink roller from the
leather case, and held out his hand toward Silas Mears.
“Better lemme see your finger prints, an’ then I’ll take those of the
bird that got croaked. Those prints’ll be on the safe in the ordinary
course o’ business, an’ there’s no need o’ me wastin’ my time on them.
It’s the strange finger prints that we want to watch.”
Within half an hour Big Bill had completed his investigations. He
pointed to a row of white blotches along the upper end of the door and
to another series some inches lower down on the door.
“There we are, boys. Them’s the finger prints that can’t be accounted
for. They’re prints that don’t belong to anybody that had any business
in the store or with that safe. Offhand, they don’t look so much like
the Pemberton gang, but maybe the boys have got a new box man since
the last run-in I had with ’em. I’ll just make a photo of them prints,
and then we’ll have the door put away where it’ll be safe. We’ll want
to use it at the trial.”
“What trial?” asked Dad Anderson innocently.
Big Bill Poindexter straightened and shifted his cigar a couple of
notches upward. “The trial of the men that did the job,” he declared.
“When I get after ’em I never give up. I’ll get ’em, an’ when I get
’em they have to have a trial. See?”
Dad Anderson nodded almost apologetically. “I see,” he said, his kindly
gray eyes appraising the stern ones which beat down from beneath the
shaggy brows of the big detective.
Presently Big Bill brought in a box equipped with tripod, electric
batteries, and lights. Carefully he placed the box against the door of
the safe and turned on a switch, while he stood by, watch in hand. At
length he turned off the switch, shifted the plates, and changed the
location of the camera. One by one he covered the finger prints which
he had pointed out upon the door of the safe.
Having secured his plates, Bill went into the dark room of the local
photographer and emerged after a while, looking very mysterious.
“Those ain’t the prints of any of the Pemberton gang. I’m beginning to
think that it was a local job. Mears, was the money in the safe in big
bills or small?”
Mears hung his head. “It was in gold. Somehow or other, I been savin’
every bit o’ gold I could lay my hands on. I really didn’t need that
much cash in the store, and I should have sent it down to the city
bank, but the vault in the bank here ain’t no better than my own
safe, and it was dangerous sendin’ it down to the county seat to be
deposited in the bank there, an’--well, I guess I’m a bit of a miser.
I had money comin’ over a period of years, and every time I could get
a bill changed I’d send over to the bank and make ’em give me gold.
The sack’s been there for a long time, and it’s grown up into a big
wad o’ money.”
“So that’s where all that gold was going,” exclaimed one of the
spectators, Dick Lamb, cashier of the local bank. “I know that what he
says is the truth, sir. He has come in every once in a while for quite
a spell and had bills changed into gold, or had checks cashed and
demanded gold. We don’t get very much of a supply of gold up here, so
we’ve drawn the line at giving out too much, but we’ve always passed
out small amounts to Mears, from time to time, and never thought much
about it.”
“He never deposited any gold?” asked the big man suddenly.
Lamb shook his head. “No, sir.”
“And you mean to stand there and tell me that you fellows in the bank
didn’t suspect what was going on--didn’t know that Mears had a little
hoard of money stuck away here in his safe?” The detective’s voice was
suddenly as thunderingly accusing as a trumpet of Fate.
Dick Lamb flushed at the tone, but stood his ground. “I don’t know as I
ever speculated very much about it, one way or the other,” he replied.
“The amounts were small, although there’s been a whole lot more taken
out recently than there was before. And you must have had some large
bills there in the safe, too, Mears. You’ve had a few hundred-dollar
bills that we’ve given you on cashed checks as well as gold.”
Mears nodded. “Maybe a thousand or so in bills,” he admitted. “The
bulk of what I had was in that stack of gold.” Poindexter stood with
his square-toed feet planted heavily on the floor, his eyes squinted,
and his cigar traveled from one side of his heavy mouth to the other.
“I guess I’d better run down this here bank end of things,” he said
at length. “It don’t just sorta look right to me.”
Dad Anderson snorted and walked out of the store at this last remark.
He picked up the bridle reins and swung into the saddle of his mount.
“Prince,” he remarked, as he gave a gentle pressure to the reins about
the horse’s neck, “let’s you and me get out of this before one of us
loses his temper.”
At the dry humor of his own remark Dad Anderson chuckled slightly, and
he rode down the street absorbed in his own thoughts.