*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78545 ***

                          MORE THAN SKIN DEEP

                        By Erle Stanley Gardner




                CHAPTER I. THE CONSTABLE KEEPS COOL


Old Silas K. Mears dashed madly down the main street of the little
mountain town, his arms waving excitedly, whiskers blowing back about
his ears. “Robbery! Murder! Thieves!” He was shouting at the top of
his voice.

From stores and houses people poured forth into the early morning
sunlight, babbling questions, calling back and forth, mingling comment
with exclamation. Soon a ring of excited townsfolk barred the progress
of the excited man, and he slowed his gait to a walk and looked wildly
around him.

“Telephone the sheriff!” he said. “We gotta get him out here at once,
an’ we’d better get some man from the city that knows all about such
things. This here ain’t no ordinary job. This is a real crime.”

Pushed inward by the eager newcomers who gathered on the outside of the
noisy circle, those about Mears pressed forward until he was fairly
touching the ring on all sides. Then the men parted, as H. F. Horn,
local justice of the peace and oracle of the law, came waddling his way
through the men.

“Calm down, Mears, calm down an’ tell us about it in a connected way.
Mebbe I’d better have ye come down to the office an’ tell me in private,
because there might be some things that had better be kept secret, so’s
we won’t tip off the crooks.”

That suggestion was greeted by silent opposition on the part of the
crowd. The circle, having opened wide enough to allow the pompous
justice of the peace ingress, walled around him with unyielding
finality, standing on tiptoed hostility, refusing to be balked in its
desire to hear the news.

Judge Horn was not particularly popular, anyway. He had blossomed
out with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles after a trip to the city,
spectacles that he really didn’t need, since he had gone more than
sixty years without any aid to his vision, and there was more than a
suspicion on the part of the inhabitants of Mesa Flat that the judge
had been merely trying to “high-tone” the boys. Judge Horn waddled
not so much because of his excessive flesh as because of his
ponderous dignity. His face was never seen when it was not puckered
into a portentous and scholarly frown. He delighted to walk down the
main street of the town, a calfskin law book under his arm, a cigar
in his mouth, and his eyes fixed straight ahead in a determined
stare of studied preoccupation.

Silas Mears recognized the authority of the law, regained his breath,
and launched into a disjointed account of his troubles.

“The safe--they got everything--cleaned me out. This here nitroglycerin
stuff blew her all to smithereens and busted everything wide open; ten
thousand dollars an’ murder; yep, Ben Drake, my old clerk, the one that
does the sweepin’ out an’ all that stuff, is lyin’ there with his head
smashed in, an’ his eyes rolled up, and ten thousand dollars gone, an’
lots o’ papers blown here an’ there and everywhere.

“I’m tellin’ you fellows we gotta get busy. We gotta get the sheriff,
an’ I’m goin’ to get this here detective from the city that puts on the
radio talk about guardin’ against crime. I want a regular smart feller
to handle this here crime.”

There came the soft pad of a horse’s hoofs in the dust of the unpaved
street, and “Dad” Anderson drew rein on the outskirts of the milling
circle of humanity.

“Hi, there--you, Mears! What’s the trouble?”

Mears looked up at the sound of the voice, his eyes ranging over the
heads of the spectators to the grim, lined face of the man on horseback,
a face that was seamed with years, bronzed with the sun, and in which
there twinkled a pair of kindly gray eyes.

“Come on down to the store an’ see for yourself,” said Mears. “I ain’t
goin’ to tell this here story more than a dozen times. I’ve been
robbed of ten thousand dollars, and Ben Drake’s been murdered; that’s
all that’s happened. You’re a fine constable, bein’ home asleep, while
these here crooks was dynamitin’ my safe. Me bein’ robbed o’ ten
thousand dollars, an’ you comin’ down after it’s all over to ask what
it’s all about! That’s the trouble with this here town. We got a lot
o’ pensioners on the list o’ peace officers, an’ we ain’t got no real
police protection.”

Dad Anderson’s eyes retained their kindly twinkle. “All worked up, ain’t
yuh, Mears? Guess I’d better git on down there an’ take a look.”

Mears fought his way forward through the crowd. “Don’t go down there an’
start disturbin’ anything, Dad Anderson. I’m going to have a regular
detective from the city come up here an’ take charge o’ this here case,
an’ I don’t want none o’ you local fellers bunglin’ up the clews.”

Dad’s eyes hardened just the faintest bit of a glint. “Say, you’d better
wait with all that line o’ talk until yuh get yore feelin’s calmed down
a mite, Mears. Yuh might say somethin’ yuh didn’t mean.”

The words had no calming effect on the merchant. He flushed and pointed
a bony finger at the constable.

“I mean what I said, an’ I’m sayin’ what I mean. Yore just an old
has-been. What do you know about crime? Nothin’! What safe robber did
yuh ever arrest? Nary one. Yuh don’t know nothin’ more about safe
robberies than I do.”

Dad Anderson smiled, a slow, whimsical smile. “Waal, now, don’t start
gettin’ all het up about it. I aim to keep peace in the town, an’ the
only reason I ain’t arrested no safe robbers durin’ my term o’ office is
because there ain’t been no safe robberies. I’ve done kept peace in the
town by sorta lookin’ after things a bit. An’ as for safe robberies,
there ain’t nothin’ about ’em no different from anything else. Just use
your head a bit an’ keep cool, an’ you can find out all there is to find
out. It’s like trackin’ a steer or breakin’ a hoss. All yuh gotta do is
to keep cool and keep pluggin’.”

Mears sneered. “Oh, is that so? Well, if you had a radio like I have
and heard the way these here modern detectives talk about how safes
is blowed up an’ all about the classifications o’ finger prints an’
suchlike, yuh wouldn’t show yore ignorance in public. This here
business o’ detectin’ safe robbers is a regular business in itself.
I heard ‘Big Bill’ Poindexter himself say so over the radio the
other night. He said it took the best brains in the whole detective
profession--that safe-blowin’ business--an’ he went on an’ told
about how safes got dynamited, an’ how the automobile was makin’ it
possible for crooks to come into the small country towns, where the
authorities didn’t know what was goin’ on in the world. Oh, go ahead
on down there if you’ve got to, but don’t disturb none o’ the clews
none, because I’m goin’ to get Big Bill Poindexter to come up here
on this case. I’m goin’ to dig down an’ pay the money outa my own
pocket. I lost ten thousand dollars, an’ I can’t afford to lose that
outa my business. I’d go into the hands of the board o’ trade if I
couldn’t get that back. I can’t afford to monkey with none of you
fellows that don’t savvy this here safe-blowin’ game. I gotta get
that money back, and I’m goin’ to get the man that can get it back.”

Dad Anderson made no rejoinder, but swung slightly in the saddle. “Come
on, ‘Prince,’” he said softly to the high-strung horse.

The crowd shuffled along in the rear. Judge Horn, trying to maintain
his official dignity by keeping in the vanguard, and at the same time
maintain his strutting gait, found himself laboring under a handicap,
and he turned savagely upon the people who were pressing forward.

“Git back there!” he exclaimed. “You fellows can’t see anything until
after I’ve inspected the premises, anyway. Hold up there, constable. I
ain’t got any horse, and I’ve got first right to git in that place. The
court has got to view the premises before the officers. You’re just an
officer of the court.”

Patiently, deferentially Dad Anderson checked his horse. “I didn’t know
yuh was there, judge. Why didn’t yuh speak sooner? Slow down, boys!
Let’s let the judge get there the same time we do.”

Always patient, never known to lose his temper or to speak an unkind
word, Dad Anderson smiled out on life from his weather-beaten face and
let his gray eyes twinkle forth their friendly message. No amount of
officious authority on the part of Judge Horn could ever lead the
patient constable to expose the old fraud or to question the judicial
prerogatives which were so frequently assumed by the pompous justice.
Always riding his horse, always with a kind word for every one, knowing
the name of every dog and every child in the city, Dad Anderson looked
out upon the world, made due allowances for human weaknesses, and found
that the world was worth saving.




                      CHAPTER II. MODERN METHODS


At the store of Silas K. Mears, a store which was well isolated from
the more pretentious establishments farther up the street, there was
a scene of great confusion. The doors had been opened and were left
swinging wide on their hinges, presumably as Silas Mears had left
them when he had made the fateful discovery and dashed forth into the
street to apprise the town of Mesa Flat with his gruesome discovery.

There were scraps of paper, torn pieces of books, and bits of leather
bindings scattered all over the floor. The huge, old-fashioned, iron
safe stood in the corner, the outer door ripped clean from its hinges,
bulging and sagging. The inner door, ripped and torn open in one spot,
warped and twisted, lay on the floor. Within the open and gutted safe
all was confusion. There were scraps of blackened paper, great dents in
the sides of the safe walls, and long torn strips in the metal lining.

Upon the floor, lying in a tumbled mass of contorted arms and legs,
his head twisted, his eyes staring at the ceiling, was the body of
Ben Drake, a mild-mannered old bachelor who acted as clerk for Silas
Mears and opened the store mornings, sweeping out and taking care of
the early trade.

Upon the door of the safe appeared in gilt letters the words “S. K.
Mears, General Merchandise.” The safe had done duty in that corner
of the wooden building for countless years. S. K. Mears, sometimes
called “Skinflint” Mears, had carried on his business of selling
general merchandise for many years. Of late he had branched out with
new show cases, increased stocks, and so-called “sales,” going after
the trade of the community with “city methods.”

Some months before Silas Mears had purchased a radio, and the
inspiration he had derived from the business talks he heard nightly
had caused him to expand his business, to talk of modern methods of
merchandising, and to belittle the country methods of the town of
Mesa Flat, always referring to it as an old-fashioned, moss-covered
town, a town which supported pensioners in public office at the
expense of the taxpayers and stifled progressive business men with
its lazy indifference to good goods, properly merchandised.

Hat in hand, Dad Anderson looked over the scene and stood for several
long moments over the body of Ben Drake, his attitude more that of one
who pays silent reverence to a dead friend than of a peace officer
seeking clews with which to avenge the deed. Judge Horn puttered about,
ordering the crowd back from the doors, frowning learnedly about him at
the walls and show cases, and, at times, bending carefully to scrutinize
some microscopic piece of evidence which none but the judicial eye
behind its horn-rimmed spectacles could perceive.

After some minutes had elapsed, while the two officers inspected the
premises from the inside, and the crowd gathered at the doors and
windows craned their necks, there came the sound of running steps,
and Silas Mears rushed through the crowd, his arms waving, his eyes
cold and hostile.

“Git outa here, the whole darn lot of ye! I’ve got Bill Poindexter
on the telephone, an’ he’s jumped in his car an’ is coming up. He’s
on his way here now, Bill Poindexter himself. I’ve got him at my own
expense to solve this here mystery an’ get me back my money, an’ I
don’t want to have none o’ you local pensioners clutterin’ up the
premises an’ tramplin’ over the clews. Bill says to me, says he:
‘Keep all the hayseeds outa the place until I can get there;’ an’
that’s what I propose to do. It’s bad enough for a taxpayer to have
to dig down into his own pockets an’ pay the expenses of a regular
detective because there’s a bunch o’ old pensioners kept in office
by the chicken-hearted voters, without havin’ you come in here an’
mess up all the evidence.”

Judge Horn turned on the old merchant, his pudgy finger leveled and
raised, as if the judicial eye were squinting along a pistol barrel.
“Not another word o’ that kind, Silas Mears. You can say what yuh
want to about the constable, because he’s just an officer of the
law; but when yuh mention anything about the justice o’ the peace
yore violatin’ some o’ the penal codes an’ a coupla constitutional
amendments. You’re gettin’ mighty close to contempt o’ court, an’ if
this court has to stick you in jail to enforce respect for itself,
it’s mighty likely to do it.”

Silas Mears sputtered a bit after that, but his sputterings were
directed more at criminals and less at officers. He realized the
sanctity of Judge Horn’s ponderous dignity, and knew within his soul
that the old judge was perfectly capable of carrying out the threat
of imprisonment. Judge Horn’s stock in trade was his ability to pose
as a judicial oracle before the people, and the actual extent of his
powers were defined by his own mandate. As a result, any derogatory
comments were always made well out of earshot; and, such is the
weakness of human nature, a majority of the citizens had really
become convinced that, while Judge Horn was a bit stuck up and
probably didn’t know it all, he nevertheless knew a lot more than
most lawyers and was possessed of that mysterious something known as
a legal mind.




                 CHAPTER III. DAD ANDERSON CHUCKLES


So far as appearance was concerned, Big Bill Poindexter lived up to
his reputation. He came sliding into town that afternoon in a long
gray touring car and slipped up to the curb in front of the post
office, where a crowd had gathered, discussing the crime and making
various conjectures as to the probable capture of the criminals.

“Where can I find S. K. Mears?” he asked and instantly became the focal
point of every pair of eyes within earshot.

Big Bill Poindexter was a huge figure of a man, big of frame, rather
stout, heavily jowled, keen of eye, and determined of jaw. He emphasized
his size and general belligerency by holding a thick cigar thrust upward
at an aggressive angle.

A dozen eager tongues answered the question. Fully half of the number
gave direction by pointing their index fingers, and the other half
started for the running board of the big car, offering to point the
way.

Big Bill Poindexter, skillful advertiser that he was, basked in the
limelight, rolled the cigar in his massive jaw, and started for the
scene of the crime, followed by a large crowd, made up, for the most
part, of the men of Mesa Flat.

Silas Mears was overjoyed to see the big detective. “I’m mighty glad to
meetcha, Poindexter. This here is Sam Anderson, the constable; Harry
Dunton, the sheriff; and Don Finch, the district attorney. The boys from
the county seat just got here a bit ago, an’ they been mighty nice about
waitin’ for you. Ole Dad Anderson’s been messing around considerable
since mornin’, and I couldn’t get him to lay off.” Mears stroked his
whiskers and glared truculently at Dad Anderson.

Bill Poindexter removed his cigar, bit off a portion of the moist
butt, stuck the weed back in a corner of his mouth, and surveyed the
officials.

“How do, boys,” he said at length. “Glad t’meetcha. Now let’s get
down to business. Offhand, this looks like the work of the Pemberton
gang, papers all scattered around and the place wrecked that way; but
the first thing to do is to look for finger prints; that’s where the
country constables fall down nine times outa nine.”

With these words Big Bill extracted a leather case from the wide pocket
of his overcoat, took up a camel’s-hair brush, and began to dust over
the surface of the safe door with a white powder. The citizens of the
country town gathered around in breathless wonder, watching, wide-eyed
and silent. Even Don Finch leaned forward to get a close view of the
mysterious process.

Under the magic touch of the brush white blotches began to appear upon
the face of the door. Big Bill took a magnifying glass from his pocket
and examined these prints, then grunted, took an ink roller from the
leather case, and held out his hand toward Silas Mears.

“Better lemme see your finger prints, an’ then I’ll take those of the
bird that got croaked. Those prints’ll be on the safe in the ordinary
course o’ business, an’ there’s no need o’ me wastin’ my time on them.
It’s the strange finger prints that we want to watch.”

Within half an hour Big Bill had completed his investigations. He
pointed to a row of white blotches along the upper end of the door and
to another series some inches lower down on the door.

“There we are, boys. Them’s the finger prints that can’t be accounted
for. They’re prints that don’t belong to anybody that had any business
in the store or with that safe. Offhand, they don’t look so much like
the Pemberton gang, but maybe the boys have got a new box man since
the last run-in I had with ’em. I’ll just make a photo of them prints,
and then we’ll have the door put away where it’ll be safe. We’ll want
to use it at the trial.”

“What trial?” asked Dad Anderson innocently.

Big Bill Poindexter straightened and shifted his cigar a couple of
notches upward. “The trial of the men that did the job,” he declared.
“When I get after ’em I never give up. I’ll get ’em, an’ when I get
’em they have to have a trial. See?”

Dad Anderson nodded almost apologetically. “I see,” he said, his kindly
gray eyes appraising the stern ones which beat down from beneath the
shaggy brows of the big detective.

Presently Big Bill brought in a box equipped with tripod, electric
batteries, and lights. Carefully he placed the box against the door of
the safe and turned on a switch, while he stood by, watch in hand. At
length he turned off the switch, shifted the plates, and changed the
location of the camera. One by one he covered the finger prints which
he had pointed out upon the door of the safe.

Having secured his plates, Bill went into the dark room of the local
photographer and emerged after a while, looking very mysterious.

“Those ain’t the prints of any of the Pemberton gang. I’m beginning to
think that it was a local job. Mears, was the money in the safe in big
bills or small?”

Mears hung his head. “It was in gold. Somehow or other, I been savin’
every bit o’ gold I could lay my hands on. I really didn’t need that
much cash in the store, and I should have sent it down to the city
bank, but the vault in the bank here ain’t no better than my own
safe, and it was dangerous sendin’ it down to the county seat to be
deposited in the bank there, an’--well, I guess I’m a bit of a miser.
I had money comin’ over a period of years, and every time I could get
a bill changed I’d send over to the bank and make ’em give me gold.
The sack’s been there for a long time, and it’s grown up into a big
wad o’ money.”

“So that’s where all that gold was going,” exclaimed one of the
spectators, Dick Lamb, cashier of the local bank. “I know that what he
says is the truth, sir. He has come in every once in a while for quite
a spell and had bills changed into gold, or had checks cashed and
demanded gold. We don’t get very much of a supply of gold up here, so
we’ve drawn the line at giving out too much, but we’ve always passed
out small amounts to Mears, from time to time, and never thought much
about it.”

“He never deposited any gold?” asked the big man suddenly.

Lamb shook his head. “No, sir.”

“And you mean to stand there and tell me that you fellows in the bank
didn’t suspect what was going on--didn’t know that Mears had a little
hoard of money stuck away here in his safe?” The detective’s voice was
suddenly as thunderingly accusing as a trumpet of Fate.

Dick Lamb flushed at the tone, but stood his ground. “I don’t know as I
ever speculated very much about it, one way or the other,” he replied.
“The amounts were small, although there’s been a whole lot more taken
out recently than there was before. And you must have had some large
bills there in the safe, too, Mears. You’ve had a few hundred-dollar
bills that we’ve given you on cashed checks as well as gold.”

Mears nodded. “Maybe a thousand or so in bills,” he admitted. “The
bulk of what I had was in that stack of gold.” Poindexter stood with
his square-toed feet planted heavily on the floor, his eyes squinted,
and his cigar traveled from one side of his heavy mouth to the other.
“I guess I’d better run down this here bank end of things,” he said
at length. “It don’t just sorta look right to me.”

Dad Anderson snorted and walked out of the store at this last remark.
He picked up the bridle reins and swung into the saddle of his mount.
“Prince,” he remarked, as he gave a gentle pressure to the reins about
the horse’s neck, “let’s you and me get out of this before one of us
loses his temper.”

At the dry humor of his own remark Dad Anderson chuckled slightly, and
he rode down the street absorbed in his own thoughts.




                 CHAPTER IV. MORE THAN FINGER PRINTS


It was growing dark when there came a patter of steps upon the porch
of Dad Anderson’s bachelor establishment, and a timid knock resounded
through the little shack. The constable lowered his stockinged feet,
adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles, and opened the door.

“Well, well,” he remarked kindly, as he stood aside, “it’s little Margy
Lamb. What are you doing out here, Margy?”

The girl looked up at him pathetically. In one arm she held a rag doll,
clutched by a chubby hand, and there were the streaks of tears on her
rosy cheeks; her eyes were swollen and red.

“They’re taking my daddy away to a big stone house with bars, where
daddy can’t get out and come home to see us. My mummer is talking to
the men that came for daddy, and she said for me to come and get you,
and that you’d get my daddy away from them men.”

Dad Anderson made one bound for his shoes. Without a word he drew them
on, then bent his face to that of the little girl.

“You sit down here by the fire, Margy, and rock your doll to sleep,
while I get a saddle on Prince, and then we’ll go and see what all
this is about. They ain’t goin’ to take your daddy to jail if I’ve
got anything to say about it.”

Having soothed the girl and placed her in a comfortable chair, Dad
Anderson hurried to the stable. Here he threw a saddle on his horse
and then, returning to the house, stopped long enough to pick up the
little girl, rag doll and all, and place her on the saddle before
him. Presently they were making a wild dash to the store of Silas
Mears.

Here he found the sheriff and district attorney; here also was the
automobile of Big Bill Poindexter, and, milling about in the aimless
way of a crowd, were some fifty or more men, women, and children.

“Yuh heard the news, Dad?” called out a voice, as the shape of the horse
materialized from the gloom of the street. “They caught Dick Lamb, got
him dead to rights, finger prints, stained clothes, and----”

The voice died away, as the speaker caught sight of the little girl
whom Dad Anderson was holding before him on the saddle. Now the old man
swung from the horse, lifted the girl to his shoulder, and made his way
through the crowd which had suddenly become quiet. Within the store the
officials were gathered about one of the show cases, while pompous old
Judge Horn was gazing learnedly about from a chair behind the counter.

“We can hold the preliminary hearing right now,” the judge was saying,
his tortoise-shelled spectacles glinting in the light, “and bind the
defendant over.”

His words showed the extent to which his mind was made up, but there
was no one in the crowd who caught the unconscious humor of the
judicial announcement in advance of what his decision would be. Dick
Lamb was standing beside the sheriff, and his young wife clung to her
husband’s arm, her lips set, tears in her eyes. Big Bill Poindexter,
a cigar standing almost straight up from the angle of his heavy jaw,
was conferring earnestly with District Attorney Finch.

Dad Anderson addressed the official gathering, and for once there was
absent from those old eyes the kindly twinkle which had been one of his
identifying features for years.

“What’s all this foolishness? You fellows know that Dick Lamb never
harmed any one in his life. He wouldn’t steal a dollar or a million
dollars, and as for beatin’ in the head of poor Ben Drake, there ain’t
a chance in ten million that he’d ever even think of such a thing.”

Big Bill Poindexter swung slowly around and pointed to the safe door.
Then he extracted some photographs from his pocket.

“Finger prints don’t lie, constable. There’s the finger prints on
the safe door, right where a crook would plant the soap to hold the
‘soup’ he was pouring into the safe. Finger prints don’t ever make a
mistake, and they don’t lie. I’ve got no less than eighteen points
of identification between the finger prints of this prisoner and the
finger prints that are on the door of that safe. I’ve seen men hung
on less than six points of similarity.”

Dad Anderson snorted, and those about him noticed that his gray eyes
caught the light of the room and turned cold.

“Look here, yuh detective: finger prints may not lie, but there’s
something else that don’t lie, too. Human nature is human nature, and
character is character, and character don’t change overnight. I’ve
known Dick Lamb since he was a kid, and I knew his wife when she
wasn’t any bigger than this here little tot that I’m holdin’ on my
shoulder. When a man builds up a character by years of clean livin’
an’ being a decent citizen, it’s worth a heck of a sight more than a
finger print.”

The detective’s cigar drooped just a bit before the cold fire of the
old man’s indignation, but, after a second, he regained his assurance,
cocked up the cigar, and openly sneered at the prisoner.

“Law-abidin’ citizen, eh? There’s lots about this case you don’t know.
You’ve been away all afternoon, while I was gatherin’ evidence. Those
finger prints are just the things that cinch the case. There’s lots of
evidence that we’ve dug up. What’d yuh go away for if you wanted to be
so interested in the case?”

Dad Anderson glared coldly at the hulking man before him. “I went away
because I was plumb sick and tired of every one not usin’ their senses
and missing the obvious because of a lot of newfangled finger-print
ideas.”

The detective’s cigar shifted a bit, as his jaw clamped. He was now on
familiar ground.

“That’s what’s making it so easy for the criminal to-day. The
automobile affords him a means of transportation away from the
cities, and the local constabulary are ignorant of the scientific
method of crime detection.” Big Bill was working into the formula of
one of his weekly radio speeches, and he spoke with calm, sing-song
assurance. “The average country constable or sheriff is elected
because of political friendships rather than because of any ability
to cope with crooks. He is merely a figurehead, an animated title, a
name on the public pay roll.

“Why, look at this case! You have the finger prints to clinch things,
and there isn’t a jury on earth that wouldn’t hang this man now. But
would he have been arrested? Would he have been detected if I hadn’t
shown up and investigated this crime? He would not. The mystery of the
robbery and murder would have gone down in the annals of the community
as one of the unsolved crimes.

“I first suspected the man when I heard his statement about the gold
withdrawals of Silas Mears. Here was a man who had opportunity to
know about the deposit in the safe, to realize that there must be
something in that safe worth getting. I asked him questions and saw
from his manner that he was concealing something, and then Mears
remembered that Lamb had been in the store on several occasions of
late, snooping around, looking at the safe, and always working over
toward this corner where the safe is.

“I didn’t say much, but I went over into the dark room of the
photographer to make some prints, and I took Mears with me. Mears
showed me the way out of the back of the photographer’s place and up to
the place where Lamb lives. We made a quiet little search around the
place, and out in the little garden in the back there were some signs
of digging, indications that the earth had been recently disturbed. We
got a shovel and dug down and found some overalls that had bloodstains
on ’em, and then we went from there and made a search of the woodshed
and found a canvas bag that had some gold pieces in the bottom of it, a
couple of fives that had stuck in the folds of the sack, when the gold
had been dumped out. Then I came back and made this here Lamb put his
finger prints on paper, and they checked up with the finger prints on
the safe.”




                 CHAPTER V. DAD TAKES A HAND


Slowly Dad Anderson looked around at the circle of wide-eyed, white
faces.

“And yuh fellows, who have known Dick Lamb for years and trusted him
with your money and all of that, let a smart guy from the city come
in and run a blazer on you like that!” he exclaimed.

Here and there a man squirmed uncomfortably and lowered his eyes.
“Yeah,” went on the old constable, “what’s more, yuh was gettin’ all
worked up and talkin’ about lynchin’ him and all that sort o’ stuff. I
heard yuh when I come ridin’ up. That’s the sort of neighbors yuh are.
Here yuh have been takin’ yourselves seriously and gettin’ set against
a man yuh’ve known for years, and gettin’ real hysterical about it.
Yuh wanted to do somethin’ to show how yuh felt an’ to give yourselves
a chance to share in the detectin’ of this here crime, an’ yuh was
goin’ to form a mob.

“Now, like I said before, there’s other things that don’t change besides
the skin on the tips of a man’s fingers. If a man’s finger tips stays
the same I guess his soul does, too. Does any of you people know whether
Ben Drake went to the picture show last night?”

There was a moment’s silence at this abrupt change in the constable’s
manner, and then one of the men on the outskirts of the crowd raised
his voice.

“Yes, he was at the show. He sat three rows in front of me.”

The old constable nodded. “That’s about the way I figured it. Now, Dick,
if you’ll think back you’ll remember that yesterday was a pretty warm
day. I’m wonderin’ if yuh didn’t happen to drop in here for a drink o’
sody water?”

The prisoner nodded, and, as he nodded, Mears spoke up in a thin, piping
voice, rasping with exasperation.

“Anderson, you’re an old fool! That’s what I been tellin’ yuh all the
time. He’s been hangin’ around here every day, watchin’ that safe like
a cat watches a mouse. I never thought of it until after this detective
here pointed things out to me the way he done.”

Dad Anderson held up his hand, while he addressed another question to
the prisoner. “Dick, I wonder if yuh happened to sit up on top o’ that
safe while yuh was in here. Maybe you dropped in after the bank closed
and had the sody water an’ a chat?”

Suddenly there came a voice from the crowd again. “Yes, he did, Dad. I
remember seeing him up there on the top of the safe. There’s nearly
always some one sits up there when we’re waitin’ for the mail, and I
remember Dick Lamb was sittin’ up there yesterday, drinkin’ his soda.”

“That’s the way I figured things,” modestly explained the constable,
edging his way, a bit at a time, around the show case, where the
principal figures in the drama were gathered. “That’s the way I
figgered those finger prints were made on the top o’ that safe door.
They looked just like some one had been sittin’ up there and took a
hold of the top of the safe when he jumped down. Yesterday was a
pretty warm day, and a man’s hands would be sweaty. Nobody seemed to
notice that them finger prints was upside down. I figgered that out
as soon as I seen them; but every one was so busy lookin’ at the
finger-print stuff and watchin’ this here city detective that they
didn’t take the time to use their heads, so I decided that I’d sort
of hold up, until things got quieted down a bit, before I started
out to find out about what happened. I liked Ben Drake, just the
same as yuh all did, and I wouldn’t lay down on investigatin’ his
death; but there’s times when there ain’t no use runnin’ around and
tryin’ to get any place, because yuh run in circles.

“Yuh was all so busy lookin’ around at these here finger prints that
there was a lot o’ things about the blowin’ up o’ that safe that yuh
didn’t notice. Take the books, for instance. Yuh notice they was all
blown to bits, and that there was scraps o’ paper all around the
office, and then that inner door. Yuh folks didn’t notice that inner
door very much. If yuh will notice where the hinges were on that
inside door, yuh will see that the inside door was blown out instead
o’ in. I ain’t never had very much experience with safe crackers,
but I’ve read a bit about how they work, and how it’s done; and it
stands to reason that when a man pours soup down inside of a little
hole in the top of the door and lets it run around the edges of the
safe, and then sets it off, that the inner door will be left just
about as it was or else blown in. Bein’ away from the center of
town, there wasn’t much chance of an explosion bein’ heard way down
here, but it wasn’t such an awful heavy explosion.

“If yuh folks will just take a look at that safe and use your heads a
little bit, you’ll see that the safe was opened and then a stick o’
dynamite put inside, and then the safe was closed after the fuse was
lit. At that, old Silas Mears ain’t as mean as lots o’ people think. He
just played in hard luck. He’d been saltin’ away cash, and lots o’
people knew about it, and his books showed it. Then he got to listenin’
to these here radio talks and got infected with the city bug, and he
started in to make his store a big thing, and he got indebted for lots
o’ merchandise and fixtures, and it occurred to him it might be better
to salt away all the cash he could and then, just before his creditors
grabbed holt, to dynamite his own safe, after he’d taken all the money
outa it, and let the creditors hold the sack.

“He’d been hearin’ over the radio all this talk about finger prints from
this here city detective, and he figgered that, if he could get that
bird on the job, none o’ the rest of us would have any chance of gettin’
a look-in, and that the city chap would be busy with the finger prints.
He waited until the time was about ripe, and then he saw that Dick Lamb
had planted a good set of finger prints on the safe, so he decided to
stage the robbery that night, figgerin’ that Lamb would come in for some
suspicion, and that he could plant a little gold out in Lamb’s barn and
cinch a case on him.

“It just happens that sometimes, when Ben Drake’s been out at the
picture show, he drops in here to clean up the place on his way home,
instead of gettin’ down so early in the mornin’, and he dropped in
that night and caught old Silas Mears at work, and the thing gone so
far that Mears couldn’t back out. Yuh see, Ben Drake is pretty big and
powerful, and he hadn’t been in no scrap. He was just struck down, and
there ain’t any evidence that he done any strugglin’. That shows that
when he dropped in here and found some one workin’ over the safe, it
wasn’t any one that made him raise a holler or start a fight. He just
walked over to see what Mears was findin’ wrong with the safe, and
then’s when Mears got frightened an’ acted on impulse an’ banged him
over the head.”

Dad Anderson interrupted himself to stretch forth a long arm and grab
the frightened Silas Mears by the collar, as that merchant started for
the door.

“No, ye don’t, Silas, no, ye don’t! I know how yuh feel, and I’m sorry
for yuh, but I ain’t as sorry as I would have been if yuh hadn’t set
back and fixed things so Dick Lamb here would have been tried in your
place.”

Over the face of Big Bill Poindexter had come a flush. His jaw sagged,
and his cigar drooped to a point where it was pointed toward the floor.
Somehow, the big frame of the man seemed to deflate, and he listened to
Dad Anderson and saw the cringing attitude of Silas Mears.

“I’m tellin’ yuh,” continued old Dad Anderson, turning to the detective
from the city, “by the time yuh get as old as I am and have seen as much
of the world as I have, yuh’ll learn that there’s other things than
finger prints and these here newfangled contraptions. Finger prints is
only skin deep, but a man’s character is a whole lot deeper than the
skin on the tips of his fingers.

“Come on, Dick, let’s take the missus and little Margy home. The kid’s
been without her supper so long she’s gettin’ faint, poor little cuss.”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 15, 1926 issue
of Top-Notch Magazine.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78545 ***