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.