Corporal Rand paused to fill his pipe.
“Nichols is shrewd and clever,” he went on. “He’s amiable and well-liked. He has many friends in every part of the country. Notwithstanding, there’s a deep, treacherous side to his nature, a diabolical cleverness that can find its outlet only through criminal channels. Your friend, Sergeant Richardson, believes firmly he’s a master crook, a sort of genius at crime, and that he contrives to distract attention from himself by assuming this role of genial, lazy, ignorant prospector.”
Dick laughed outright.
“Sergeant Richardson has a vivid imagination,” he declared, “but very often in cases of this kind his deductions prove correct.”
“True enough!” Constable Rand puffed reflectively. “He’s worked out a very unusual theory in regard to Nichols. It was shortly after the finding of old Daddy McInnes’ body that he told me about it. The whole thing is so extraordinary, so wild, and yet so convincing that we’ve decided to look into it. It’s this theory that we’re working on now.”
“Won’t you tell me about it?” pleaded Dick.
“Certainly. There’s no harm done, that I can see. Besides the sergeant informed me that I could trust you implicitly. He even hinted that you contemplated joining the force. What about that?”
“It’s true,” Dick was forced to admit, his face red with embarrassment. “I’ve made application to the commissioner at Ottawa, but I’m not sure that anything will ever come of it.”
“I’m not so certain,” Rand shook his head. “We need more men, especially here in the North. You’d have to spend a period of training at Regina though.
“But to go on with Richardson’s theory,” resumed the corporal. “Incredible as it may at first appear, it’s logical enough. I’ll give you its substance briefly: Nichols is the leader of a small band of crooks. Hart and O’Connell are his accomplices, or, what I should say his accessories—they’re both honest. Nichols never actually commits any crime himself. He purchases fur, which he knows is stolen and disposes of it.”