CHAPTER IV.
THE INDEX FINGER POINTS.
John Davidson, the marshal, was officially supposed to be endowed with insight into the origin of fires. In fact, he drew a comfortable salary for pursuing no other occupation than this. A swift horse and a buggy enabled him to be among the first to arrive and a uniform of dark blue cloth, such as old sailors cling to, but with brass buttons for insignia in place of the little woven anchor that serves to remind the old salt of his element, entitled him to salutes from fire captains as well as from the rank and file. His written reports were read by insurance underwriters, and his wise shake of the head went a great way with those who knew little about fires and less about John Davidson.
For "old John Davidson," as he was generally known, had one failing which sadly impaired his official usefulness. He was an innate and inveterate optimist. The mild-blue eyes which beamed from behind his spectacles—old eyes, too, that no longer saw things as vividly as they used to—were meant to train fatherly glances on winsome children or dart gleams of approval at heroic hosemen whose sacrifices were rewarded by medal or purse. Indeed, he was very popular in both these functions, for old John Davidson had himself served his country and was comrade John of Sherman post, No. 5. But these kindly orbs were not those of the hawk, the lynx or the ferret, like Inspector McCausland's, of whose small gray pair, eyelets rather than eyes, rumor said that the off one contained a microscopic lens and its nigh fellow never went to sleep.
"John Davidson will never set the world on fire himself," Inspector McCausland had said when the veteran's nomination was first reported. Yet "old John" went his way cheerfully poohpoohing suspicion and really diffusing a globe of good feeling by his presence such as no fox in the police ranks could pretend to radiate.
However, the wisdom of the serpent is called for at times, as well as the meekness of the dove. When Marshal Davidson, against all proof and persuasion, gave out his intention to report the Arnold fire as accidental, originating in some unknown manner, or by spontaneous combustion, owing to the extreme heat of the day (the thermometer having registered 97), it was felt by his best friends that he allowed his optimism to blind him too far. He had made the same report in the Low street fire, the authors of which, an organized gang of blackmailers, trapped on another charge by McCausland, had just confessed their crime. Such laxity could only embolden the firebugs and encourage an epidemic of burnings. Something must be done, the police department thought, and when they selected Inspector McCausland to work up the case there was a general faith that something would be done.
By Sunday noon the inspector had gathered an array of data, sufficient to give a start to his active faculty of divination. Critics said that his one failing was a slight impatience in feeling his way to a conclusion, or, as his brother detectives expressed it, a tendency to "get away before the pistol shot."
"Going to hang some one, Dick?" asked Smith, whose specialty was counterfeiters.
"Well, we are sowing the hemp," answered McCausland, always ready with a jovial answer.