“Your guess is a shrewd one, young man,” Mr. Fenmore replied grimly. “For the past three months, an outfit which operates under the name of the North Brandale Insurance Company has been shaking down a group of honest business men. Those who refuse to take out fire insurance at ridiculous rates, wake up to find their property damaged—fires, explosions, goods ruined by stench bombs.”
“I take it you’ve been threatened, Mr. Fenmore.”
“I have. But we’ll fight!”
“What can you tell me about the company?”
“Almost nothing. They have no offices or address. The collector who came to see me called himself J. W. Hawkins, but that means nothing. The ring is a large one.”
“Can you describe the agent?”
“A little better than average height I would say. Blue suit. Dark hair. A rather pleasant talking fellow.”
Flash realized that the description was worthless for it would fit a hundred men he knew. He talked with Mr. Fenmore a few minutes longer, and then, aware he was keeping him from his dinner, left the warehouse.
“I learned nothing new,” he reflected, “but at least I’ve found a man who won’t be afraid to testify if ever the police round up the arson gang.”
Flash made no progress with the investigation during the next few days. Two small downtown fires occurred, admittedly of questionable origin, but there was no evidence to attribute them to the work of an arson ring. Flash tried in his spare moments to gather facts about the North Brandale Insurance Company. He could learn nothing. Save for the fact that a policeman had been assigned to watch the Fenmore warehouse, there were no new developments.