Anderson Crow, Detective Part 39
Mr. Fox approached. He was now very polite and ingratiating.
"Permit me," he observed, "to offer a solution. If you will give me a bunch of keys, my friend, I will remove the case to my room and open it--if possible. No harm will come to anybody, and in one hour or so, my wife and I will be on our way. My automobile is in your local garage, Mr. Hawk, and we can be ready to start as soon as we have fed and aired the--er--shall we say contents?"
"You arrest him, Anderson," cried Mrs. Bloomer. "Hold him till I estimate the damage that's been done to my property. He's got to pay fer that before he can get out of this town."
"I guess you'd better step over to the calaboose with me, mister," said Anderson firmly. "And you too, ma'am. This here lady prefers charges against you, an' it's my duty to--"
"What is the charge, madam?" demanded Mr. Fox, lighting a cigarette.
"Never mind," said the Marshal; "we'll attend to that later."
Mr. Fryback put in a word at this point. "Yes, but who's going to take charge of this here box? It can't stay here in my place. First thing you know the derned things will gnaw a hole in the side and git out."
"If it is not too far, Mr. Officer, I should be happy to carry the box over to the lock-up--unless, of course, some one else will volunteer. I see quite a number of citizens looking in through the window. Doubtless some of them might--"
"How long after a man's been on a bad spree is he likely to think he sees snakes?" demanded Anderson, struck with an idea.
"The time varies," replied Mr. Fox, rather startled.
"Alf ain't been tight in a good many years," mused the Marshal. "I guess it would be safe to let him carry 'em. Don't you think so, Mort?"
"Him and Newt Spratt," said Mort. "Newt's always braggin' about not being afraid of anything."
"Well, perhaps it would be just as well not to tell 'em what's in this here box," said Anderson. He turned to the pair of strangers. "Only they ain't going to carry it to the calaboose. They're going to carry it to the crick, an' throw it in."
The young woman uttered a cry of dismay, and her husband uttered something distinctly out of place, for Mrs. Bloomer again told him he ought to be ashamed of himself.
After a few whispered words in the ear of the distracted young woman, Mr. Fox turned to the others.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, gentlemen," said he, and then added, with a polite bow to the corpulent Mrs. Bloomer, "and ladies. Mrs. Fox and I had planned giving a little exhibition at the hotel, but that now seems to be out of the question. Kindly bear in mind that we are not visiting your little city on pleasure bent. We are here strictly for business. As a rule we do not make one-night stands. But we have been attracted to your charming city almost against our will--although, I may add, it was at the earnest invitation of one of your most important denizens--I should say citizens. You will agree, I am sure, that it would hardly pay us to visit a place like this unless we were reasonably a.s.sured of something in the way of pecuniary benefits. You may not know it, gentlemen, but we have had a bona-fide offer of one hundred dollars--and that isn't to be sneezed at, is it? We--Please bear with me, Mr. Hawk. I shall not detain you--"
"My name is Mr. Crow," snapped Anderson.
"Sorry," apologized Fox. "I fear I confused you with the celebrated Hawkshaw, the detective."
Mr. Crow turned purple.
"That's what Harry Squires, the reporter on the _Banner_, calls him most of the time," volunteered Mort Fryback. "That, an' Sh.e.l.lback Holmes."
"Such is fame," said Mr. Fox agreeably. "Well, to get right down to cases, Mrs. Fox and I propose that you allow us to give our little exhibition in the Town Hall,--if you have one--and--"
"Not much!" roared Anderson. "I've had enough of this talk. I'm going to take action at once." He flung open the front door and addressed the group in front of the store, now increased to nearly a score, including several scattered women and children--and Ed Higgins' dog. "I call on all you men to a.s.sist me in surrounding the Grand View Hotel. There is dangerous work ahead, and I want only the bravest,--wait a second, Newt, don't go away,--and most determined men in town to volunteer. Here, Mort, you hand out some axes, an' pitchforks, an' crowbars, an'--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, George," cried Mrs. Fox frantically, "don't let them do it. Stop them!"
But the stranger motioned for her to be silent.
Some time was spent in explaining the situation to the posse, and in stationing a group of the hardiest men beneath certain windows of the second floor back. During this arrangement of forces, three of the bravest men in Tinkletown had to go to the post office for some very important letters, and two more rushed over to see that they came back.
Anderson Crow marshalled a dozen or more able-bodied conscripts in Main Street, preparatory to a frontal attack on the suite at the head of the stairway. He had commandeered a double-barreled shotgun belonging to Bill Kepsal, and with this he proposed to "shoot the daylights" out of the serpent through the transom if it hadn't crawled under the bed where he couldn't "get a bead on it."
In the meantime, Mr. Fox had carried the big black box out of Fryback's store, and his wife was now standing guard over it on the porch of the Grand View Hotel.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _His wife was now standing guard over it on the porch of the Grand View Hotel_]
Marshal Crow was issuing commands right and left, and the squad, augmented by a step-ladder from the hardware shop, was about to enter the hotel, when Mrs. Fox uttered an excited little shriek, and then these desolating words:
"Oh, George, I've found it! I've got the key. It was away down in my m.u.f.f."
Before any action could be taken to restrain the impetuous young woman, she was inserting the key in the lock!
Those nearest her collided violently with those farther away, and in less time than it takes to mention it, there was no one within a radius of fifty feet--except a new arrival on the scene.
To the intense horror of Mort Fryback, his wife emerged from the Grand View Hotel and entered the danger zone.
"Hey, Maude!" he bellowed. "Keep away from that! For the love of--" He clapped his hand over his eyes. Mrs. Fryback had reached the side of the eager Mrs. Fox just as that lady lifted the lid of the box.
Now, Mrs. Fryback was Mort's third wife; according to longevity statistics, she was much too young to die. As a matter of fact, she was little more than a bride. That probably accounts for the brand-new mink coat and m.u.f.f she was sporting. Moreover, it accounts for Mort's surprising mendacity and even more amazing humility in relation to the taking-off of Mike. No doubt in similar circ.u.mstances, he would have told his second wife, who died when she was pretty well along in years, that he'd show her who was boss in his home, and if she didn't like what he did to Mike, she could lump it. But, alas, between a vacillating young wife who has you under her thumb and a constant old one who has been thoroughly squashed under yours for a great many years, there is a world of difference.
Others who stared in horror at the picture on the porch, groaned audibly as young Mrs. Fox looked up into the face of the unsuspecting victim and smiled. Thus encouraged, young Mrs. Fryback, disdaining death, smiled in return and stooped over to look into the depths of that unspeakable box.
Instead of starting back in alarm, she uttered a shrill little cry of delight, and dropping to her knees plunged both hands into the nest of wriggling horrors!
Lucius Fry, who had hastily set up the step-ladder, and was now balancing himself somewhat precariously at the top of it, let out a lugubrious howl.
"She's a goner!" he announced.
The two young women had their heads close together and were conversing.
Marshal Crow, armed with the double barreled shotgun, began a cautious circuitous advance, his finger on the trigger.
He stopped short when about twenty feet from the women, and spasmodically pulled the trigger. There is no telling what might have happened if the gun had been loaded.
Mr. Fox had deliberately overturned the box and--out scampered three sprightly Boston terrier puppies!
Ten minutes later all but one of Mort Fryback's farming utensils were back in stock. The missing implement, a hatchet, was furtively on its way to the barber-shop of one Ebenezer January, coloured.
Mr. and Mrs. Fryback, Marshal Crow and the amiable Foxes discussed the "points" of the frolicsome puppies in the rear of the hardware store.
"I just adore this one, Mrs. Fox," said Mrs. Fryback, pointing to a rugged little rascal who was patiently gnawing at Mr. Fryback's peg-leg.
"Do you really recommend him as the best of the lot, Mr. Fox?" she inquired, turning her shining eyes upon the gentleman.
"Absolutely," said Mr. Fox. "Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Crow?"
"Ab-so-lutely," said Anderson.
"Then I'll take him," said Mort's wife, and Mort not only sighed but wiped a fine coat of moisture from his brow. "One hundred dollars is the very least you will take?"
"The very least, Mrs. Fryback. He is a thoroughbred, you know. My kennels are famous, as you doubtless noted in my advertis.e.m.e.nt in _Town and Country_--and I can personally guarantee every pup that comes out of them. In your letter to me, Mrs. Fryback, you stated that only the best I had on hand would be considered. The mother of these puppies has a pedigree a yard long, and the father, as I mentioned before, is Stubbs the Twelfth. Nothing more need be said. The mother, Bonnie Bridget, you have just seen. Stubbs the Twelfth belongs to a millionaire in Albany.