“It means that Ackroyd, being about to give up his rented house, intends to saddle it with a bad name. Probably he’s had a row with the agent or owner, and is getting even by making the place difficult to rent again. Nobody wants to take a house with the reputation of an entomological resort.”
“It would be just like Oily Ackroyd,” remarked Bertram. “He’s a vindictive scoundrel. Only a few days ago, he nearly killed a poor devil of a drug clerk, over some trifling dispute. He managed to keep it out of the newspapers but he had to pay a stiff fine.”
“That might be worth looking up, too,” ruminated Average Jones thoughtfully.
He turned to his telephone in answer to a ring. “All right, come, in, Simpson,” he said.
The confidential clerk appeared. “Ramson says that regular black beetles are out of season, sir,” he reported. “But he can send to the country and dig up plenty of red-and-black ones.”
“That will do,” returned the Ad-Visor. “Tell him to have two or three hundred here to-morrow morning.”
Bertram bent a severe gaze on his friend. “Meaning that you’re going to follow up this freak affair?” he inquired.
“Just that. I can’t explain why, but—well, Bert, I’ve a hunch. At the worst, Ackroyd’s face when he sees the beetles should be worth the money.”
“When you frivol, Average, I wash my hands of you. But I warn you, look out for Ackroyd. He’s as big as he is ugly; a tough customer.”
“All right. I’ll just put on some old clothes, to dress the part of a beetle-purveyor correctly, and also in case I get ’em torn in my meeting with judge ‘Oily.’ I’ll see you later—and report, if I survive his wrath.”