Whether Fudge really believed all he professed to regarding the mysterious occupant of Room 12 in the brick building on G Street is a question. Fudge, being an author of highly sensational romances, doubtless possessed a little more imagination than common and liked to give it free rein. Probably it is safe to say that he believed about half. Perry, less imaginative and far more practical, had been at first taken in by Fudge and had really credited most if not quite all that Fudge had asserted. When, however, another week passed and nothing startling happened, he began to lose faith. Almost every morning the supposed desperado ate his breakfast in full view of Perry very much as anyone else would have eaten it, rationally clothed and exhibiting absolutely none of the tricks or manners popularly associated with criminals. He did not, for instance, suddenly pause to glance furtively from the window. Nor did he ever, when Perry was looking, shrug his shoulders as villains always did on the screen at the theater. In short, as a criminal he was decidedly disappointing!
One morning he actually laughed. Perry couldn’t hear the laugh, but he could see it, and there was nothing sardonic about it. It was just a jolly, chuckling sort of laugh, apparently inspired by something in the morning paper. Perry’s own features creased in sympathy. After that Perry found it very difficult to place credence in the “safe-breaker” theory. Then, too, Fudge failed to develop any new evidence. In fact, to all appearances, Fudge had gone to sleep on his job. When Perry mentioned the matter to him Fudge would frown portentously and intimate that affairs had reached a point where mental rather than physical exertion counted most. Perry, though, was no longer deceived.
“Huh,” he said one day, “there was nothing in that yarn of yours and you’ve found it out. What’s the good of pretending any more?”
Fudge looked sarcastic and mysterious but refused to bandy words. His “If-you-knew-all-I-know” air slightly impressed the other, and Perry begged to be taken into the secret. But Fudge showed that he felt wounded by his friend’s defection and took himself off in dignified silence. When he had reached home and had settled himself on the platform in the apple tree, however, Fudge realized that his reputation and standing as an authority on crime and its detection was in danger. Something, consequently, must be done to restore Perry’s confidence. But what? He thought hard and long, so long that twilight grew to darkness before he left his retreat and hurried to the house for supper. He had, though, solved his problem.
The next day, which was Saturday, he presented himself at Perry’s at a little after nine o’clock. Perry, who had been practicing starts on the weed-grown path at the side of the house, joined him on the front porch somewhat out of breath and with his thoughts far from the subject of crime and criminals, clews and detectives. One glance at Fudge’s countenance, however, told him that matters of importance were about to be divulged. He pocketed his grips and prepared to listen and be impressed. Briefly, what Fudge had to say was this:
He had, he found, been slightly mistaken regarding Mr. Myron Addicks. The mistake was a natural one. It consisted of classifying Mr. Addicks as a safe-breaker instead of a train-robber. Fudge did not explain clearly by what marvelous mental processes he had arrived at a knowledge of his error, or perhaps the fault was with Perry’s understanding. At all events, the result was there and already his new theory had been proven correct. He had that very morning, not more than twenty minutes ago, read, in the local office of the American Express Company, a description of one “Edward Hurley, alias John Crowell, alias John Fenney,” wanted by the company for the robbery of an express car at Cartwright, Utah, on February seventeenth last, which exactly tallied with the appearance of Mr. Myron Addicks, allowing, of course, for certain efforts at disguise. Fudge had copied the salient points of the placard in the express office and referred now to his memorandum, written on the back of a money order blank: “Age, about 28. Height, 5 feet, 10 inches. Weight, about 170 pounds. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, complexion dark. Was clean-shaven when last seen, but has probably grown beard or mustache. Carries himself erect. Has white scar about two inches in length on back of left forearm.”
“There was a picture of him, too,” said Fudge, “but I guess it wasn’t a very good one, because he had his head thrown back and his eyes half closed and was scowling like anything. It must have been taken by the police.”
“What is the reward?” asked Perry breathlessly.
“Five hundred dollars, it said. Maybe they’d pay more, though.”