XV—A TIP FROM MR. DAWLIN
WHILE I blinked at Zebulon Kingsley through the gloom I remembered what “Cricket” Welch had once said to me, in one of those sessions where I lapped up information as greedily as a kitten laps milk. He had a flow of language, “Cricket” had, and I wish I could remember his words more accurately. But it was something like this:
“Why should any crook bring on brain-fag by thinking up new ones when the old ones, with gears smoothed by twenty-five centuries of steady operation, work so much better? As long ago as old Solomon was figuring on Temple estimates with the architects, and had quite a reputation in the country round about, a little chap dropped into a village outside of Babylon and gave out that he was The Old Boy’s son by Wife 411, and was interested in King Solomon’s mines along with his dad. Then he unloaded a gold brick on to a village sucker, first making the sucker believe that the latter was a buttonhole relation of the Solomon family.”
I was running that speech over in my mind while I looked at the judge, a little uncertain what to say to him under the circumstances.
“And yet, the fraud did not seem to be barefaced while they were at work on me,” lamented the old gentleman. “One of them, the one who came to town first, was the son of one of my old schoolmates who went West when he was young and has been settled there ever since. Young Blake was East on business and dropped into Levant to look the old town over; his father told him to make himself known to me, so that he could carry back news of the folks his father used to know here.”
And in my book of notes I had set down the detail of just such a scheme as that!
“They always have a skirmisher ahead of the main push,” I blurted. “He finds out about somebody who settled West—and then along comes the son.”
“What’s that?” demanded Kingsley. “What do you know about it?”
“Then, after the son is well settled, along comes one of father’s partners, East, to sell stock, and he has a sample of the clean-up—a big hunk of gold—and it’s always a real ingot, too.”
“It was real,” insisted the judge, passionately. “I went to the city and had it tested by a jeweler who is a friend of mine. They offered me a chance to make money on account of my old friendship. It did not seem like a gold-brick game. I could not believe it was. I did not dare to believe it was. I needed money so badly!”
“But it was, sir.”
“I mortgaged, I borrowed, I pawned! They offered me a chance to make money because I was a prominent man and could help them sell their stock. They wanted me to be sure that the proposition was a good one—that the gold was honest. They took my last five thousand dollars! My God! I bought a gold brick! I bought it like other fools have bought.”
“They always put new trimmings on the old game, Judge Kingsley, and make it look attractive.”
He looked at me strangely and did not answer.
“I suppose they worked it as usual,” I went on, feeling just a bit proud of my knowledge. I reflected that he might be more thankful for his volunteer if I showed him that I was no greenhorn. His mouth had been running away with him in his wild eagerness to unload the sorrows from his soul. All at once he was showing symptoms of stiffening a bit, as if he wondered why he had opened his heart to such a one as Ross Sidney.
I needed all his confidence—the flow was lessening—and so I “shot the well,” as the oil fellows say.
“After they had given you all kinds of nice entertainment in the city, you started for home and opened your package on the train and found a lead junk and a letter advising you to go home and keep still and never believe strangers again.”
“That letter—that insult!” he gasped.
“They told you they were starting straight for Europe, and they—”
“So that is what you were in the city for, eh? A blackleg—one of them! Your brazen cheek—your flashy clothes—”
“No, Judge Kingsley, I never tried to sell gold bricks. But it came my way to find out a lot about those fellows who do sell them.”
“Yes, you flashy cheat!” he snarled. “You are like that other one! Waistcoats like chromos! Tricked out with gewgaws—airs of a peacock!”
That last word sent a thrill through me, put an idea into my head.
“Was he a big man, Judge Kingsley? Was his name Pratt?”
“No.”
“But he brought the gold! He claimed to be the partner. He had a smear like grease across his cheek—a scar. He—”
“You seem to know your confederates very well, sir.”
“Judge Kingsley, you listen to me! I have never seen those men face to face, but I have heard of them. I have heard of their tricks. I know how they operate. I know a good many of their lurking-places. I have made it my business to know!” I noted that he was still suspicious, and I put my face close to his and lied with all the fervor that was in me. I needed his confidence, I say. “I did work as a detective until the dirty mess of crooks made me sick of the job. I can help you in this thing! Depend on me! I’m going to help!”
“I have about given up belief in everything!”
“Give me your hand, sir, and promise me you’ll offer a good front to the world. Nobody must guess that you’re in difficulties. As for the noises my uncle is making, he has never said anything definite; he is merely making threats. Everybody knows about his grudge and folks don’t take much stock in him. If you keep a stiff upper lip nobody will guess.”
“But they all will know on the fifteenth of April.”
“If we can grab in ten thousand dollars before then—”
“Do you stand there, young man, and tell me you have the crazy idea that you can pull any of my money back from those scoundrels?”
“Yes, and more with it,” I returned, much more bold in my tone than I was in my heart. But when I knew that I had the “Peacock” Pratt gang identified—and probably had located Jeff Dawlin’s brother as the man who planted the fraud, posing as the son, his usual rôle, certain wild hopes and dizzy schemes went to whirling in my head.
“We ought to have three thousand in cash in a short time to—”
“A client—a widow is pressing me for money. It amounts to about that sum,” he said, dolefully.
“Does she suspect—”
“No, no!” he snapped, irritably. “She is going to be married again, the fool, and wants to hand it to her new husband.” He showed a flicker of pride in the midst of his troubles. “There is nobody calling Zebulon Kingsley a thief as yet, except himself and your uncle. I know that I am and he suspects,” he added, bitterly.
“Then the woman must have her money, sir. We must keep everybody from even suspecting for a time.”
I took both his hands in mine. He did need comfort and sympathy, even such as I could offer him.
“I’m square with you, Judge Kingsley. I know how to find those men. I’ll go after them. And I know you’ll do your part to help me. I only ask you to buck up! Let nobody suspect!”
“I ought to doubt every man in the world after what I have been through! I ought to doubt you! Why are you doing all this for me, sir?” he demanded, and then I was glad it was dark there under the tree. I must have revealed confusion aplenty. “I have never shown you any favors, young man. It has been the other way. I never liked your breed.”
“I know that, Judge Kingsley, but—” I could not go any further at the moment.
“Well?”
“You see,” I gulped, “when I was a little shaver you gave me a quarter and I bought a catechism and studied it and—I guess—I’m quite sure—it made a better boy, and—”
It wasn’t convincing, that talk wasn’t! He caught me up sharply:
“The truth isn’t in you, young Sidney!”
“You told me that once before. And it has been my ambition to show you that you were wrong.”
“Bah! I know human nature too well to believe any such rot.”
“But you always stood up in Sunday-school, sir, and told us about Christian charity and meekness and forgiveness. You believe in all that, don’t you?”
“I have no confidence in you—not now!”
“Not when I’m trying to prove to you that I’m one of those practical Christians?”
“Do not insult me with any more of that balderdash, sir!”
I had just as much of nasty temper as he had, and mine began to flare up in me. I knew that my motives were all right, though I did not dare to reveal them to him—and my innocence made me the more angry.
“You would have made a big hit with the good Samaritan when he came along and offered his help after you had fallen among thieves,” I snapped. “I reckon you have never practised any of the charity you have preached. I have never preached, but I am practising! You don’t seem to recognize your own religion when you see it acted out instead of being merely printed in a book!”
“You’re a renegade, convicting yourself out of your own mouth!”
Oh, what was the use! I walked off a little way. Then I turned on him.
“I have my own reasons for wanting to help you, Judge Kingsley, no matter what you believe about me. But if you feel as you talk, you can go to blazes just as soon as you like. I’m not going to try to round up all the revolvers, ropes, and razors in this town. That rope you have there seems to be a good strong one. Go as far as you like! And I’ll keep on in my way and will turn the money over to your estate—to your wife and your daughter. You are not the first coward who has knocked out the last prop and sluiced all the mess on to his women folks! Go on! I’ll be furnishing your wife bread and butter while you’re having insomnia in hell!”
Then I went back to the tavern.
I knew well enough that Zebulon Kingsley would not kill himself that night. In the first place, he was too mad. He came behind me, chattering his teeth like an angry squirrel. Then, again, I had stirred his curiosity, even if I had not given him any special hope. And my threat about handling his money after he had gone was enough to keep Zebulon Kingsley hanging around on top of the earth for a time. I knew his nature mighty well. I would have taken those means with him at first, but I had been hoping that he would accept me on a friendlier basis where I might coddle my hopes; and here was I handling him by the scruff of the neck!
I caught a glimpse of Celene through the sitting-room window when I passed the house. The light was behind her and her hair was like an angel’s halo. Ah! there was the inspiration which was keeping me on the lunatic’s job I had picked out for myself! As for that old hornbeam father, I was in a state of fury which prompted me to go back, use his ears for handles, and kick him around his premises until he promised to behave himself—and give me his daughter when my task was finished. Well, at least I had reached one interesting stage in my development—I was acting as guardian of the high and mighty Zebulon Kingsley and was rather despising my ward!
That evening I sat till late and went through my notebook and studied the affiliations, the methods, the lurking-places and all other information I had recorded in regard to one “Peacock” Pratt and his associates.
It seemed to me that I had a pretty good start on the thing, even though the future was, as Jodrey Vose used to say of dock water, in a “nebulous and gummy condition.”
But I went to bed, nevertheless, in a considerably exalted state of mind. With every day that passed I was getting farther into the affairs of the Kingsley family—and getting into those affairs—
I dreamed of Celene that night, but that was not a matter for special record; I dreamed of her every night.
In the morning I put on a business suit I had bought “off the pile” in Mechanicsville. I had wanted to show Levant that I had more than one suit of clothes. I reckoned that I would feel more sane and solid in that suit. And I did feel that way when I went down to breakfast. If ever a man had business ahead of him I was that one!
But that sane and normal feeling did not sit well on my conscience. I found myself brooding and getting depressed. I wondered why I had felt so exalted and optimistic the night before. How could I have made such confident promises to Kingsley?
While I sawed at that prosaic hunk o’ ham the notion of chasing up those knaves and getting my clutch on that stolen money—or any other money—seemed just a hopeless dream. It was surely a crazy idea; I sat there and looked down into my plate and so decided. For all of a quarter-hour I mulled and gloomed there, wondering what had happened to make me so dull and disheartened and doped. I woke up to what the matter was—woke all of a sudden. It was that blamed ready-made suit of clothes!
I was simply plain Ross Sidney! I was right down on the plane of all the men around me. I looked like a tank-town commercial drummer and felt like one. I had no more imagination or horizon than a grocery clerk. All the fantastic spirit of adventure had gone out of me. Perhaps it may be thought that mere clothes cannot do all that to a man! Well, wear overalls to the next grand ball! I’m no psychologist and I have never read Carlyle’s essay on clothes, though I am told he describes about what I have felt. I’m merely saying this: when I realized what was the matter with me and felt certain that I needed to be comfortably crazy in order to keep up my dip—why, do you suppose I would ever have tried to bark in front of that show if I had been dressed in a sack-suit?
Yes, comfortably crazy!
I rushed, up-stairs and shifted to my knight-errant regalia. Then I went to my job on the run. I reckoned that I was going to be in a devil of a hurry for a while!
I galloped down to the wood-lot, my plug-hat riding tilted back like the funnel of a racing steamer. Those choppers were hearty and happy and were hustling for that bonus; if a few laggards needed pep I injected it. I made estimates, got every hitch in Levant which would cart wood and drag timber and started the cut for the railroad.
The freight-trains picked up the gondola cars as they were ready.
I rushed to the cities and arranged for deliveries, pulled down first payments in good season to settle wages for a week, as agreed with Henshaw Hook, and shuttled back and forth until all the cut was cleaned up on the lot. Gad! how I was counting days! I did not waste any time on Judge Kingsley. I realized that the more I kept away from him, the more I kept him guessing!
I grabbed my first opportunity to take a day off the job and run down to the big city; I made that jump from one of the towns where I was handling the last deliveries—for I could not make final collections until the railroad completed its haul, and so I had a little time to spare.
There was another barker at the door of Dawlin’s place, and I noted with gratification that he was a rather seedy chap. The blonde looked acutely surprised and showed apprehension when I walked right in past her. Plainly, her man had been making some promises as to what he would do to me if I ever showed up again.
And the first glance Dawlin gave me when he looked up from his gazara envelopes showed that he was quite ready to keep his promises.
I beckoned him to his office and walked in there and waited for him. He came on the jump. He was at me almost before I had time to place my plug-hat out of the way of possible damage.
When Mr. Dawlin would close a gazara game right at a moment when suckers were shoving money at him, it was proof that he was specially interested in something else which was almighty important. His language when he burst in on me made it plain that his interest in me was not flattering, though it was intense.
“Oh, if it’s that little, foolish, petty matter of the few dollars you handed back to those yaps,” I broke in, after I had pushed him back with a swoop of my arm—and, as I have stated, it was a hard arm—“here’s your small change.”
In my wood business I had promptly changed checks into cash. I pulled out before the lustful eyes of Mr. Dawlin a roll of bills big enough to make a pillow for his Mormon Giant, and I carelessly flipped the edges to show him they were yellowbacks.
“What did the little matter amount to?” I asked, airily.
“Six and twenty-two fifty—and I tossed ’em a five,” he said, trying to make a quick shift from passion to pacification.
“And I guess the drinks are on me this time, Jeff,” I said, adding a ten-dollar bill to the amount. “Go buy the kind you like.”
“But what in—”
“This tells all the story,” I said, tapping the roll and stuffing it back.
“But your partners—leaving me in the lurch—not inviting me in for a drag—”
“It had to be a lone play, Jeff—just had to be! But don’t think I have all the money in the world cornered in my pocket, even if it looks like it. And I’m not back here simply to give you a treat by letting you look at it. I have located a bigger bundle—but it can’t be coopered by a lone play.”
“Job for the gang, hey?” he asked, almost drooling.
“Well, for the right operators if they’re the real goods. But no amateurs, you know!”
“Condemn it! I have told you about my brother. He’s one of the best in the country! Has just pulled off a killing—not very big, but easy and profitable.”
“Where?”
“Nothing doing on the where!” replied Mr. Dawlin, warily. “That’s all done and the money counted. We always forget where as soon as the money is counted.” He fingered his nose. “Where is—” he started.
“Same tag,” I said, smartly. “You forget and I don’t remember. All is, it’s there waiting. Can we all get together?”
“When?”
“To-day.”
“Blast it all! you ought to know that we can’t all get together to-day—nor a week from to-day!” He showed some suspicion.
“Why should I know that?” I looked him in the eye. “When a job is done East, why, you know yourself they all shoot West—clear to the—”
“You didn’t tell me the last job was done East,” I said, coolly.
“Well, it was. I can say that much. And they’re on their way West—they’re going over the Rockies.”
“Then I guess I’ll declare them out on the job, Jeff. I’m in with some of the other—”
“But that’s no way to use a friend like I’ve been to you! This thing ought to be put up to Ike and ‘Peacock.’ You must remember that I offered you a lay with them! I tried to use you right. You ought to show some gratitude.”
He was fairly whining in his anxiety, but I was mighty careful about showing any eagerness of my own. I scratched my ear and looked rather doubtful and displayed indifference.
“Of course I can’t write to ’em—we never write, especially soon after a job. But I have their bearings, Ross. I can put you right on to their trail. They have a job on below the Potlatch country in Idaho. First East and then West—get the idea? It’s something about land—this operation. You’re bound to bump into ’em; there are not so many men out there as there are here.”
“Still, it looks to me like a wild-goose chase,” I demurred, hoping to be assured that it was no such thing.
“‘Peacock’ isn’t going to change his style! He’s too far away to be obliged to bother—and he sure does like his togs! You can’t hide ‘Peacock’ Pratt if you surround him with a whole county. You’ll find him easy, and my brother will be right on the wheel. Wait! If you don’t know that country I’ll jot down directions and names for you—names of men to ask. I’ll give you a word or two for a passport!” He grabbed paper and pen and began to scribble. “What extra the trip costs will be added to your lay. You’ll find them square if you get in with them,” he assured me while he wrote. “You don’t have to discuss any lay for me. My brother always sees to it that I get my pickings from any job I help him to.”
He fairly thrust the paper into my hands when he had finished. Really, I was more grateful inside than I allowed to appear in my thanks. I could hardly ask Mr. Dawlin to do more in setting me on the trail of the men I was after. The humor of the thing certainly did appeal to me—and I needed a little something for cheer just then.
Whether I would try to pick their pockets when I arrived up with them, or knock them down with a dub, or what I would do I left to the future. I had enough to think of just then—that wood business to wind up and the matter of the future handling of Zebulon Kingsley to attend to—and a crazy chase across the continent ahead of me!
I tucked the paper deep, slapped Mr. Dawlin on the back, and hustled for up-country.