Anderson Crow, Detective Part 25
"She certainly is. Come on. She wants to see you."
Harry Squires grasped his arm and led him toward the kitchen door. Mrs.
Fry herself admitted them. She looked most formidable.
"Did my daughter Elfaretta ask you to come here and interfere with my private affairs, Anderson Crow?" she demanded.
"I am not supposed to answer questions like that, Mrs. Fry," said Anderson with dignity. "I am pleased to inform you, however, that I have succeeded in arrestin' your husband, an' I intend to see to it that he is locked up fer--"
"Oh, my goodness!" groaned the gigantic lady, dropping suddenly into a chair and lowering her face into her ap.r.o.n.
The Marshal looked at her in astonishment.
"You have got to release Vicious Lucius at once," said Harry Squires sternly. "We can't afford to wreck this poor little woman's life."
"Little--what's that you said?" stammered the Marshal, still gazing at the ponderous bulk in the chair.
"You heard what I said--wreck this poor but proud lady's life. Speak up, Mrs. Fry. Tell the good Marshal all about it."
Whereupon the woebegone Mrs. Fry lifted her head and her voice in lamentation.
"I knew it couldn't last. I might 'a' knowed something would turn up to spoil it. It was too much to expect. Oh, if you only wouldn't lock him up, Mr. Crow! What will people say when they find out you was able to arrest him single-handed, without a gang o' men to help you? Oh, oh, oh!"
Mr. Squires interposed a suggestion just as she was on the verge of sobs.
"I dare say we could stage a perfectly realistic struggle between Mr.
Fry and Mr. Crow. Mr. Fry could trip Mr. Crow up--all in play, you know; and then I could rush in and grab Mr. Fry from behind while he was letting on as though he was kicking Mr. Crow in the face. The spectators would--"
"I won't be a party to any such monkey business!" exclaimed the Marshal in some heat. "What do you take me for? If I arrest Lucius Fry, I'll jest simply pick him up by the coat-collar and--"
"That's just it," cried Mrs. Fry. "He wouldn't fight back, and how would I feel if you carried him off to jail as if he was a lunch-basket? And I was beginning to feel so proud and happy. I was getting so I could look those cats in the face, all because my husband was the best little daredevil in the Gully. They used to pity me. Now they are so jealous of me they don't know what to do. They'd give anything if they had a husband like Lucius--little as he is. My, how they envy me, and how I have been looking down on all of 'em the last six months! And here you arrest him as easy as if he was a little girl, when I been telling everybody there wasn't anybody living that could take my man to jail.
Oh, I--I wish I'd never been born!"
Anderson Crow was puzzled. He pulled at his whiskers in the most helpless way, and stared wide-eyed.
"But--but ain't you afraid to live with him?" he mumbled. "Ain't you afraid he'll lick you to death sometime when he's in one of--"
"He couldn't lick me if I was chloroformed," blurted out Mrs. Fry, arising suddenly. She bared a huge right arm. "See that? Well, that's as big as his leg. Don't you ever get it in your head that I can't lick Lucius Fry. That ain't the point. I can do it, but I wouldn't do it for anything on earth. I want to be proud of him, and I want these other women to feel sorry for me because I've got a _man_ for a husband, and not a rabbit. Where is he, Mr. Crow?"
"He's out there waitin' fer me to take him to jail--that is, he _said_ he'd wait. Course, if you won't make any affidavit ag'inst him, I--I guess there's no sense in me lockin' him up. I was doin' it as a--er--as a sort of favour to him, anyhow. He seemed to be afraid he'd kill some of them women that hang around him."
"I just thought he'd act that way. I won't make any charge against him.
I want him to stay just the way he is--a fine, upstanding brutal sort of feller. You go out there an' tell him to come in here. I want to go down on my knees again and forgive him."
The Marshal hesitated. He was between two fires. He couldn't very well oblige _both_ of them. Lucius unquestionably was eager to go to jail for reasons of his own, and Mrs. Fry was just as eager that he should remain at large. The Marshal scratched his head.
"I feel kinder sorry fer him," he mused. "Like as not, one of them women will git so foolish over him that her husband will take it into his head to get a divorce, an'--" He paused in confusion.
"Go on--go on!" pleaded Mrs. Fry, her eyes sparkling.
"Well, from all Lucius says, he despises the whole lot of 'em. Still, that ain't goin' to help _him_ any if Jim Banks er one of them other idiots gits all het up an' jealous an' goes and sues fer a divorce, namin' Lucius Fry as--"
Mrs. Fry slapped him violently on the back.
"That's just what I want!" she cried eagerly. "I'd be the proudest woman in Tinkletown."
The Marshal stared. Harry Squires covered his mouth with his hand.
"Well, of all the gosh--"
His e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n was cut short by the opening of the kitchen door. Lucius stood outlined in the aperture. He was clapping his arms about his body, and his teeth were chattering. The voluminous sleeves flapped like great limp wings.
"Say," he whined, "I can't wait out there all night in this kinder weather. If I got to go to jail, I want to do it right away. It's cruelty to animals to leave me standin' out there with nothing on my feet but carpet-slippers. Come on an'--"
"Come in to the fire an' get warm, Lucius dear," called out his wife, as shrinking and as timid as a whipped child. "I forgive you. Julie!
Jul-ie! Come down here an' help me get some hot coffee an' something to eat fer your Pa."
"I--I guess we'd better be goin', Harry," said Marshall Crow uncomfortably. "I got to disperse that crowd o' women out there in the street. Good night, Lucius. Night, Mrs. Fry. If you ever need me, all yer got to do is just send word."
Lucius followed him to the door, and would have gone out into the night with him if the Marshal had not deliberately pushed him back.
"You--you ain't goin' to desert me, are you?" whispered Lucius fiercely.
The Marshal leaned over and whispered to Lucius.
"If all the other men in this here town had as soft a snap as you've got, Lucius Fry, they'd hate to die worse'n ever, because they'd know they'd never git back into heaven ag'in."
THE VEILED LADY AND THE SHADOW
A veiled lady is not, in ordinary circ.u.mstances, an object of concern to anybody. Circ.u.mstances, however, are sometimes so extraordinary that a veiled lady becomes an object of concern to everybody. If the old-time novelists are to be credited, an abundantly veiled lady is more than a source of interest; she is the vital, central figure in a mystery that continues from week to week, or month to month, as the case may be, until the last chapter is reached and she turns out to be the person you thought she was all the time.
Now, the village of Tinkletown is a slow-going, somnolent sort of place in which veils are worn by old ladies who wish to enjoy a pleasant snooze during the sermon without being caught in the act. That any one should wear a veil with the same regularity and the same purpose that she wears the dress which renders the remainder of her person invisible is a circ.u.mstance calculated to excite the curiosity of even the most indifferent observers in the village of Tinkletown.
So when the news travelled up and down Main Street, and off into the side-streets, and far out beyond Three Oaks Cemetery to the new division known as Oak Park, wherein reside four lonely pioneer families, that the lady who rented Mrs. Nixon's house for the month of September was in a "perpetual state of obscurity" (to quote Mr. Harry Squires, the _Banner_ reporter), the residents of Tinkletown admitted that they didn't know what to make of it.
The Nixon cottage was a quaint, old-fashioned place on the side of Battle Hill, looking down upon the maples of Sickle Street. The grounds were rather s.p.a.cious, and the house stood well back from the street, establishing an aloofness that had never been noticed before. A low stone wall guarded the lawn and rose-garden, and there was an iron gate at the bottom of the slope. The front porch was partly screened by "Dutchman's Pipe" vines. With the advent of the tenant, smart j.a.panese sun-curtains made their appearance, and from that day on no prying eye, no matter how well-trained it may have been, could accomplish anything like a satisfactory visit to the regions beyond.
Mrs. Nixon usually rented her house for the summer months. The summer of 1918 had proved an unprofitable season for her. It was war-time, and the people who lived in the cities proved unduly reluctant to venture far from their bases of supplies. Consequently Mrs. Nixon and her daughter Angie remained in occupancy, more heartsick than ever over the horrors of war. Just as they were about to give up hope, the unexpected happened. Joseph P. Singer, the real-estate agent, offices in the Lamson Block, appeared bright and early one morning to inquire if the cottage could be had for the month of September and part of October.
"You may ask any price you like, Abbie," he said. "The letter I received this morning was written on the paper of the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Anybody who can afford to put up at the Plaza, which is right on Central Park,--and also on Fifth Avenue,--ain't going to haggle about prices.