More Than Skin Deep

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”